Bossy Brothers: Johnny

by JA Huss

  Died. That’s a nice way to put it. Proof that I had the filing system down. I never thought about it again until my father… died… eight years later.

  And by the time I was thirty, there was no other way to operate. Just stuff that shit into a folder with a neat little label and file it away. Just one more thing for my brain to forget about.

  It’s served me well over the years but I’m not sure that makes me well-adjusted, or hell, even normal. I don’t think about the weird shit show my life has become anymore. I’m pretty sure there’s a term for that.

  Detachment syndrome?

  Disassociation?

  Sociopath?

  Take your pick. I’m pretty sure there’s a folder in other people’s brains called Johnny Boston and they’ve tagged it with labels like that.

  It’s just how I cope. How I get through the fuckin’ day. How I start out in the city, end up on a newly abandoned tropical island with several smoldering buildings, find a girl chained to a wall in a dungeon, take her to my boat, pump her full of drugs for an impromptu interrogation, and not have any feelings about it.

  That’s just… not normal. I understand that. But it’s my process and it helps.

  I feel weird sleeping in the stateroom. Not sure why, I’ve claimed it as my own. But I wanted to sleep up top tonight so I could know if she came upstairs and… I don’t know. Tried to leave, or whatever.

  Not that she’s got anywhere to go. This yacht has a little tender. But the lifeboat is just a motorized inflatable. And I’d bet a million dollars she wouldn’t even be able to find it, since it’s stored inside the crew quarters and the hatch for that is hidden in the back of the transom. Besides, we’re nowhere close to land, so she’s not going anywhere on that thing.

  We’re outside Bahamian international waters just to make sure we don’t run into some overzealous coastguard team. So there’s no need to guard her.

  And I’m not. But for some reason I want to.

  Weird.

  Time for a new folder called Megan, I guess.

  I wonder how thick this folder will get? Maybe I’ll just drop her off somewhere tomorrow and it’ll get recycled into the trash?

  Or maybe I’ll keep her forever and that folder will end up with dozens of subfolders?

  Could go either way, I guess. Depends on how much useful information I can get out of her.

  When I wake in the morning the sun is blaring through the port-side window, a blazing blob of near-fluorescent orange. And the moment I realize I’m awake, I’m on my feet, crossing the room, and pulling the door open.

  I stare at her closed bedroom door. Wondering if I should go check to make sure she’s still there.

  I don’t. Instead I jog up the stairs that lead to the galley, then cross the salon, open the patio doors, and step outside. The air is cool and still filled with the leftover mist of a long night of rain.

  I’m barefoot and the deck is cold. A breeze flits past my chest and makes me shiver. There’s a freight ship off in the distance, slowly moving across the horizon on its way to Miami, or Nassau, or maybe Havana.

  I still need to find Charlotte.

  Joey doesn’t know this, but I’ve known Charlotte a long time. Hell, we used to hang out in our twenties. Early twenties. Before the business side of my life took over.

  Back then we were sure this whole Way thing was just another weird part of growing up rich. Convinced it was nothing more than some lesser-known version of the Freemasons, maybe? Slightly more Skull and Bones than the Masons. Definitely no one was making documentaries on our family secret society.

  But it hadn’t touched us yet so we didn’t think about it too much.

  By the time she fell in with Joey we’d gone our separate ways. I didn’t have any feelings about that. I didn’t have any feelings for her and I’m like ninety-nine percent sure she had no feelings for me, either.

  Charlotte is a woman who knows how to make a new folder, that’s for sure.

  But I was surprised that she and Joey had a thing for a while.

  And the baby? That threw me. It sorta made sense, but it was also confusing.

  Maisy Kane.

  I knew about her. It’s my job to know things like that. In fact, Maisy was probably the very first new folder I made after my father was killed and I took over. She popped up right around then.

  But her folder stayed very thin and empty over the years. I knew where she was, I knew who she was with, and that was good enough for me.

  But I’m an uncle.

  I guess I never really thought about that before. I’m an uncle to Charlotte’s kid.

  I laugh out loud in the chilly morning breeze. Nope. Didn’t see that coming.

  “Hello?”

  I turn around and find Megan walking through the open doors and out into the cockpit. Her fingers trace the marble countertop of the small grilling station as she passes it. Her hair is a long mess of loose blonde waves that frame her face and fall over her shoulders. I don’t know how long she was down in that dungeon, and there’s no real way to tell because a stressful situation like she was in drains a lot out of a person, but she’s pale all over. The gray smudges of fatigue under her eyes are lighter than they were yesterday, but the evidence of her recent experiences still lingers.

  “Morning,” I say. “Did you sleep OK?”

  She shrugs. “Define OK.”

  I smile at her. Not a big grin or anything. There’s no cause for that. Just a small one. “Did you close your eyes?”

  She nods. “Yup. I did.”

  “Drift off?”

  “I think so.”

  “Dream?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Well, that’s good enough, I guess. Want some coffee? It’s not good coffee, just one of those capsule things. Space saver kind of shit, you know?”

  The wind blows her hair across her face and her hand comes up, haphazardly pushing it out of her eyes. “Sure.”

  I study her for a moment. She’s a little too skinny but that’s probably due to her recent situation and not her natural shape. Her tits are nice. I can’t see much of them now, but she was naked for almost a whole day while I had her drugged so I can use my imagination. Her nipples push against the thin t-shirt and catch my eye for a moment.

  She crosses her arms. Maybe thinking about how she woke up naked last night.

  I had to do that. She smelled like a prisoner in a dungeon, covered in filth. I put her in the shower and sprayed her down. Washed her hair. Even conditioned it and combed it out.

  She wasn’t drugged for that, obviously. But she was pretty out of it from exhaustion and starvation.

  It was creepy. Even for me. Because at one point her hand rested on my leg—I wasn’t naked. I was in board shorts. But I was wet and her inadvertent touching made my cock jump.

  And even I know that was all kinds of wrong.

  But she looks a million times better than she did when she got here, so… fuck it. Filed away in folder: Megan. Subfolder: Required assistance. Sub-subfolder: I’m not a sexual predator, I saved her ass and that’s why she was naked.

  “Where are you going today?” she asks.

  I look around, like maybe the answer to that question is out there in the shipping lanes. I walk towards her, letting her slip to the side to allow me to pass, and then cross the salon and climb the stairs to the galley. “Depends, I guess. On what you decide to tell me.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you much.”

  I pull open a drawer and find a bunch of coffee capsules scattered inside. Blue, and green, and gold. Not the fat kind you see in American grocery stores. The tiny ones you only see in hotels.

  I hold up a blue capsule in one hand and a green one in the other. “Regular? Or decaf? And if you say decaf I’m gonna throw you overboard. Because there’s no room for pussies on my yacht.”

  She smiles. Quite nice smile, too. “Regular, please.”

  “Good choice,” I mumble, bumping the drawer cl
osed with my hip.

  This whole encounter is weird though. That’s the only way to process this morning as I push the first blue capsule into the compact coffee machine and press start. “So what’s your last name? You never did tell me.”

  There’s a few moments of silence and when I look over my shoulder again, she’s scooting into the booth of the dining table a few feet to my right. Still looking around the yacht.

  It’s a nice yacht. Not super big, but not small either. It’s probably about ten feet too long to be out here alone—hence the hidden crew quarters down below. But I’ve been on boats this size alone more times than I can count, so not a super big risk.

  Besides. I’m not alone anymore, am I?

  “Not gonna say? Is there really any point keeping secrets anymore? I mean, they left you there to die, Megan. You’ve got no one. Just me.”

  She smiles as she folds her hands on the top of the granite table. “Machette. My name is Megan Machette.”

  “Fuck. In. A,” I mutter.

  “Do you know me?”

  “No,” I say, running fingers through my hair. “Not you. But I knew your father.”

  “Knew him?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I knew him. Met him a few times back in my city.”

  She pauses to think about that. Puzzled look on her face. “Did you know he’s… missing.”

  “I think I heard some buzz about that before I left on my little mission here. Sorry about that.”

  “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “Me?” I laugh, pushing another capsule of coffee into the machine and pressing start. “I’m a banker.”

  She snickers as she looks me up and down. “You don’t really fit the profile. I haven’t met many bankers with full-sleeve tattoos.”

  “Way banker,” I say. “They don’t care what I look like. Just as long as I collect those checks.”

  “We pay a banker too. Never seen you there, though.”

  “No. I work up north. I don’t even know who the banker is down here anymore. The last one was… reassigned a couple years back, I heard.”

  “Yeah. But right now it’s a woman called Marguerite.”

  “Well, good for her.”

  “She’s…” Megan does one of those fluttering blink thinks. Then finishes her sentence with, “Crazy.”

  “Not surprised,” I say, bending over to open the small stainless-steel fridge and take out a bottle of creamer. “You like cinnamon?”

  “What?”

  I shake the bottle a little. “No sugar on this boat. Just this. You want some or not?”

  She huffs. “I feel like I fell down a rabbit hole and came out in some alternate reality. One where tattooed bankers rescue you from a dungeon, interrogate you under the influence of drugs, and then offer you International Delight in your coffee as a consolation prize.”

  I smile. Then laugh. “Fuck it. It’s here. And I like it. You can’t shame me into giving up my flavored creamer.”

  “Sure.” She smiles again. Little bit bigger this time. “I’ll take some cinnamon creamer.” Then she takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you. For getting me out of there. I really thought I was gonna die in that place.”

  I pour some creamer into her coffee and then walk over to the dining table, take a seat opposite her, and slide her cup over.

  I study her for a moment as she takes it. “You’re adjusting well. Not sure I’d be smiling the day after waking up in your situation. You must have a pretty solid filing system up in that head of yours.”

  She’s in the middle of taking a sip when I say this and she almost chokes on her laugh. “What?”

  “Nothin’,” I say. “Just… nothing. Forget I said that. I’m maybe not adjusting as well as you are.”

  “Not likely. I get the feeling you’re the gold medal champion of attitude adjustments.”

  “I can be,” I mumble, still thinking about my own filing system.

  Because I’ve started wondering if you can have too many files in your system.

  What if I run out of folders? What happens then? Things just get all cluttered? I end up even crazier? Unable to process shit?

  Or maybe I turn into one of those hoarder people? Just start piling up folders in the corners of my brain. And when I run out of corners I line the perimeter. The way my dad did with his real-life files in his office before he died.

  Shit, is that why all that crap was lying everywhere?

  Did his internal filing system break down from too many folders?

  Is that what ultimately drove him mad?

  CHAPTER SIX - MEGAN

  I can be a champion adjuster too, Johnny Boston. I can separate the weird, the ugly, and the evil if I have to. But that doesn’t mean I’m OK.

  That’s how I wanted to answer his question. But I’m getting the feeling he’s not handling things as well as he could.

  “Why are you here? Why do you care about Charlotte Kane?”

  Johnny lifts his coffee and takes a sip. “She’s… she’s the mother of my niece.” Then he pauses. “Jesus. I’ve never said that out loud before. Sounds kinda weird.”

  “Which part? The sister-in-law or the niece?”

  “Both,” he says, smiling as he takes another sip. “But she’s not my sister-in-law. Just… the mother of my niece.” He gets up from the table and leans back against the counter, studying me.

  I reflexively fold my arms across my chest in a protective gesture.

  He’s… hot. OK. There. I said it. Johnny Boston is hot as fuck. There is no way to not notice him. He’s got one of those hard jaws. Edged and dangerous. Blue eyes. And his hair, when the sun hits it just right, is blond. But then in the shadows it’s dark. A trick of the light, maybe? Or maybe he’s just complicated that way?

  There’s just a hint of stubble on his face. No messy patches under his jaw or behind his neck. Very neat, very specific lines have been drawn in stubble on his face. Like he took a class in it or some beard professional grooms him that way.

  And he’s shirtless, just like he was last night. Tanned chest. Like maybe he’s been out on this boat for a little while before he found me.

  He presses the palms of his hands on the counter as he leans back, emphasizing the muscles of his upper arms, though I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. It’s a reflex. Like the way I’m practically hugging myself right now.

  We lock eyes and neither of us looks away.

  “I have to find her,” he finally says. “And I need to get back to my family. So if you’ve got any clues, anything that can help me do that—” He takes his hands off the counter so he can use them to shrug. “I’ll take anything, Megan. Even if you don’t think it’s important.”

  I nod. Bite my lip. And think. But I’m distracted by his purpose. “Did she take the girl?” I ask. “Your niece?”

  “No. My niece is fine.”

  “Your brother wants to… reconcile? With her?”

  Johnny laughs. A genuine outburst. “No,” he says. “I’m pretty sure he’s got enough going on in the relationship department at the moment. We just need her back. She has a family and…”

  “Right,” I say. “They’re contributors.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “So… they didn’t pay you?”

  “No. It’s got nothing to do with that. I just… we need to find her. Maisy, my niece. She’s worried about her mother. We’re all just worried about her.”

  I nod my head. I find Johnny Boston’s interest in Charlotte Kane to go a little beyond just worry, but say, “OK. But I don’t know where she is. I have never met her. Her family and mine, we don’t run in the same circle.”

  “But she disappeared down here about ten months ago. She was in the Straits of Florida. It’s not a coincidence. The authorities found her boat. So they took her. I know they took her. She did something, or said something, or… whatever. She didn’t just leave. Because if she were gonna just run—”

  “Run? Did she run?”<
br />
  “I’m telling you she didn’t. If she were gonna run she sure as fuck wouldn’t be in the Caribbean. You know?”

  “Yeah,” I concur. “That makes no sense. This is practically the Way headquarters.”

  “Right. So they have her. Somewhere down here. Some island. I need to know where these islands are. Can you help me with that?”

  I hesitate for a moment, mostly out of instinct. Generally my answer would be no. I owe no one favors, not even Johnny Boston here, regardless of what he thinks right now.

  But everything has changed in the past few weeks and right now I don’t have a lot of options. So I say, “Can I look at your GPS?” And nod my chin towards the helm behind him, where all the fancy electronic equipment is.

  “Sure,” he says, letting out a long breath. Like he was holding it in while I mulled over my answer. “Whatever you need. I don’t want to be down here any longer than I have to. I left my brother in charge and… he’s not really cut out for the job. You know? So I need to get back before something happens.”

  “I’m not going to be much help,” I say, squeezing past him as I slide into the helm and take a seat in the captain’s chair. “I only know of one other island. And it might be hit and miss finding it, because it’s very small. But I can try.”

  He places a hand on my shoulder and I startle for a moment. Then look at his hand, and up at him.

  He removes his hand and we lock eyes. “Thank you,” he says.

  I nod. Uncomfortable with his sincere appreciation. “No problem.”

  My knowledge of Johnny Boston—the whole Boston family, actually—is just some vague background stuff. I have heard of them. I know they’re dangerous. I know they’re not well liked in the Way. But if he hadn’t told me his name I’d have never pegged him to be a banker. It’s not really a leadership position in the Way and they’re definitely not inner circle. But there’s a lot worse ways to fulfill your obligations.

  I would’ve assumed he was muscle. A hit man. Or one of those guys in charge of money after it’s collected. Looking at his body right now, it’s an easy assumption to jump to. It certainly suits him.