By the time he dropped his pants and put it into her dry, fucking her hard against her wounds, it wasn’t even adding insult to injury to Denise. That point of pride left her years ago. She was too far gone into his madness to be insulted by it any longer.
No insult.
It was all just injury to her now.
The limo drove up and stopped at the curb. Walter Pierce tossed his cigarette into the gutter and got into the backseat. He sat on one end of the elongated seat, and his employer sat on the opposite end. But even though they were side by side, Walter had yet to see his face. Just barely a side view, but never a frontal. Because the man never showed his face. He always looked away from Walter, and kept that same pose, whenever they met. That was why Walter called him, behind his back, Mister Hide. There was something weasel-like about him too, despite his wealth and position. The name fit. But Walter never took a man like him lightly. He knew it could be coming out of his own hide if he didn’t start showing better results.
“That didn’t go according to plan,” Hide said, in his soft, almost purposely broken English.
“I don’t know what happened. I told him what to do. I showed him what we had. But . . . I don’t know what happened.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” Hide said. “Or you won’t know what happened when it happens to you.”
“It wasn’t my fault.” Walter looked at him. “It wasn’t. I did everything you instructed me to do. It wasn’t my fault. If you would make it a straight kill, it’ll be a piece of cake. Right up my alley.”
“It’s not your alley I wish to go up. It’s Brent Sinatra’s alley. And you will follow my instructions and follow them to the letter. I am not interested in any straight kill. It will never be that easy. I am interested in crooked, confused, earth shattering devastation.”
He quickly placed something to his mouth, an inhaler if Walter had to guess, then he continued. “Follow my instructions and you will be a very rich, very alive man. Detour from my instructions and you will be a very poor, very dead man. Now get out and get to work.”
He pressed some button and the backdoor opened. Walter Pierce, private eye extraordinaire, got out. And was left in the middle of a side street like a discarded piece of trash. Which was what he was going to be, he knew, if he didn’t start racking up victories in the Brent Sinatra game of life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brent woke up early Friday morning, phoned to make sure Makayla was still doing okay, and then put on clothes, drank his juice blend, and went running. He was no jogger. Joggers to him moved as if they were running in slow motion, and always looked at him as if he was doing something amazing; as if they couldn’t believe he could run that fast for that long. They knew he had been a track star in high school and had been captain of the football team. He still had that tanned, rock-hard body to prove it. But even a man like him should have been tired by now.
But he wasn’t. He was still running like the wind. Some of the women tried to run with him: that was why they came to the new track in Ethan Park. It was Friday morning. They either didn’t work or didn’t have to go to work. Why not? Most of them came to run, but some of them were there for the men. Especially for Brent. They wanted that superfine man’s man Brent Sinatra to finally pay them some attention too.
But after one lap, some could even hang for two, they were done. He ran too fast for too long for them to keep up. They were all younger than he was, but their fast running had turned to barely-able-to-move jogging before he was even slowing down.
Most of the female joggers left, mainly because they weren’t a part of the catch-a-man crowd to begin with and didn’t find Brent Sinatra any more attractive than anybody else. And even most of the man-hunters, after seeing the turnout, left too. Men were in short supply in a town like Jericho, which made men like Brent that much more premium, but they left anyway. They had too much pride in themselves to go after a man that boldly. But Imogene “Emmy” Price, who had been vying for Brent’s affections for years, and two of her friends, stayed. They arrived together. They stayed together.
“Will he ever stop?” asked one of Emmy’s friends. They stood on the side of the track where some teenagers were handing out bottled water, curtesy of the mayor and his reelection bid, and continued to watch him run.
“He’ll stop,” Emmy assured her. “He has to. Not even Olympic athletes can run like that for much longer. And once he sees us standing here, he’ll do more than stop.”
“I don’t know if we’re his type,” the third friend said. “I’ve seen that lady he dates. She has more curves than all three of us combined. And she’s African-American. Maybe that’s what he’s in to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emmy replied dismissively. “She’s just a onetime thing.”
“One time? He’s been dating that lady for years, Em!”
Emmy became defensive. “And he dated other women before she came along,” she said. “So what? He dated Kiersten for longer than anybody else, and she’s as blonde and blue-eyed as I am. And where’s her curves? She has none and neither do I. So, yes, I am his type. I’m beautiful. I’m petite. I have natural blonde hair and natural blue eyes. I’m every man’s type.”
The other two, who were not blonde and blue-eyed, and not all that petite either, looked at each other and rolled their eyes. But Emmy didn’t see it. She was too busy smiling and sipping water, and watching Brent’s masculine pecs bounce up and down through the sleeveless shirt he wore, and those tanned legs shake his hard muscle, as he ran.
Emmy heard from more than a few ladies that he was great in bed and knew how to treat you afterwards. He was very discreet. She had been fooling around with various local boys for as long as she could remember. She was tired of boys. She wanted to know what it felt like to be with a real man for a change. To feel his rock hard cock inside of her. To feel his arms around her. And the fact that he wasn’t just good looking, but was rich too, placed him at the top of her Man list. She wanted him.
That was why she and her friends stayed. They felt they deserved the best. That was why they stood like shameless Barbie dolls on the side of the track, all three wearing their cute and colorful Nike tennis shoes and short-shorts, and waited. And eventually Brent did stop, and accepted a bottled water from one of the teenage volunteers.
Emmy and her girls quickly gathered around him like swarming flies, unable to take their eyes off of his sweaty body. From his huge biceps, to his flat stomach and hard abs, to his remarkable grass-green eyes and shiny black hair, he was exactly what they wanted. Emmy knew he was fooling around with Makayla Ross, and she’d also heard that Makayla was moving to Jericho. It felt now or never to Emmy. She’d been making moves on Brent for a long time, but now there was a sense of urgency about her actions. Because she wanted next. He was fair game, as far as she was concerned.
That was why she moved to the front of the pack as soon as Brent stopped. “Hey, Brent,” she said with the biggest smile she could muster.
Brent gulped water and looked down at her pink shoes, her pink short shorts, her pink t-shirt with her braless pink nipples pinching against the fabric. Matchy-matchy kid stuff, he thought. “Hey.”
The other two young ladies spoke as well, and Brent spoke back. They, too, were dressed in various shades of pink as if their leader’s style was now their style. Both were plain Janes compared to Emmy, but that, he knew, was by Emmy’s design. They were her counterpoints. They didn’t know it, but they were shields for her to get what she wanted. Brent knew the type. He’d been dealing with them all his life. They would bring their friends along, not because they enjoyed their company, but because they wanted the man to realize just how much more attractive they were compared to the competition. That was why Brent missed Makayla. He couldn’t imagine a serious person like her thinking about playing these kind of silly-ass games. This would be child’s play to her. He chose her for that very reason. Mal was young too, but she was a woman among girls. His woman.
“Running again I see,” Emmy said, when it was clear he was more interested in drinking his water than talking to them.
But she was right: he wasn’t interested. “Yup,” he said.
“You run almost every morning, don’t you?”
“Almost.”
“And you’re at it again I see.”
Since it was obvious that he was running again, and she had already made that point, he didn’t bother to respond.
But his silence didn’t deter Emmy. “I was just telling my friends how you’re always on the run. Every morning like clockwork, unless there’s some big case in town you have to solve. But you’re always on the go. And you have the body to prove it.” She laughed. Her friends laughed. Brent gulped down more water.
The girls looked at each other. He wasn’t thinking about them. But Emmy kept smiling and kept on trying. “I like to run too. We all do. But you put us all to shame, Chief Sinatra. You shame us all. You run with a purpose, and all alone. You probably could use some company sometime.”
Brent gulped down the last of his water, tossed the empty bottle into the recycle bin, and already felt his second wind. “Have a nice day, ladies,” he said, and took off running again.
Emmy couldn’t believe it. “You saw that?” she asked. “What an a-hole!”
“He didn’t give us the time of day!”
Emmy shook her head in disgust, and then started walking fast and angrily toward her car. Her two friends hurried behind her.
“Is that it?” one of them asked. “Is this all? We got out of our beds and came all this way, to this sweaty track, for this?”
But Emmy was too embarrassed and upset to respond. She knew it was a waste too. She didn’t look back.
And neither did Brent. He kept running the track as they loaded into Emmy’s car and drove off. He kept running if he was running for his life. Until he ran off track to the road less traveled: the backroads.
He ran along the quiet wooded trail that used to be overrun with young, hotshot joggers who thought it was cool to put on their tight shorts and fancy wristbands and brag about those miles they ran before work. Now it was the sanctuary of the very few: the real runners. The men and women who could take the pounding of the rough terrain and not curse their beaten bodies for even attempting. The Ethan Park track was a far more desirable jog path, and most joggers thought old school men like Brent were out of their mind to run along such a hard road when the city had built a better place.
But Brent loved this place. He loved the seclusion of it. He loved the sound of the loblolly trees rustling in the wind as he ran beneath their massive trunks. He loved the streaming water in the homemade koi ponds that were illegal in the state but were hidden so far off the beaten path that even he, the police chief, didn’t bother to destroy. He loved the wondrously flowing creeks where the water splashed over the irregular rocks and created small waterfalls along the trail. He loved this place. His body was aching, his arms felt like lead, but it was the only place in town where he could have a relaxing run without distraction.
Until he ran full circle and jogged his way back to the secluded Oakley Street, and his land by the lake. His father Charles Sinatra, the man everybody in town jeeringly called Big Daddy Sinatra because of his enormous power and property throughout the county, was sitting on his front porch.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Charles Sinatra was dressed to the nines in yet another one of his imported suits, this one was a dark blue Italian silk suit, as he sat on his son’s front porch. Brent smiled as he made his way up the steps. He looked like shit after running even longer than he usually ran, and his old man looked as if he’d just stepped off of a magazine cover. From his father’s thick black hair and sharp green eyes, to a body almost as muscular as Brent’s, Charles Sinatra painted the picture of a man half his age. Some people, newbies in town who didn’t know better, thought they were brothers. But once they began to spent time around the twosome, they quickly realized the truth. They were hardly brothers. Charles Sinatra was the boss of Brent and everybody else in the Sinatra clan, and all it took was a few minutes around him to realize it.
“What’s up?” Brent leaned against his porch rail, facing his father, his legs outstretched. “Isn’t this early for you?”
“Hell yeah it’s early.” Charles’ handsome face appeared weary. “But you wouldn’t answer your damn cell phone.”
Brent smiled and wiped the dripping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Maybe because I didn’t want to hear your mouth. You could be nicer, you know.”
“I don’t do nice in the mornings.”
“You don’t do nice in the evenings, either. I don’t know how Ma puts up with your ornery ass.”
Since Charles didn’t know either, he didn’t respond to that.
“Want something to drink?”
Charles shook his head. “I had a cup of coffee,” he said.
It was only then did Brent realize his locked front door was wide open. Only five people had keys to his home: his father, his stepmother Jenay, his adopted kid sister Carly, his brother Tony, and of course Makayla. And everybody used that privilege liberally.
Brent went inside, grabbed a bottled water out of his frig, and headed back outside. He sat in the chair beside his father and leaned it back until it was on two legs and against the wall. “So what brings you out here?” he asked.
“The race for mayor.”
“What about it?”
“He’s losing. A poll this morning showed him down by nearly ten points.”
“He’ll make a comeback. He always does.”
“Don’t be so sure, Brent. It’s not just token opponents this time. The president of the city council is running this time. He has a lot of support. And Porter’s just finishing his first four-year term. He isn’t a popular mayor and he hasn’t done anything tangible for the people. He could lose. And if that happens, if Porter loses, the next mayor may select his own man to run the police department.”
Brent considered his father. He was a hard-facts man, regardless of where those facts led him. “Your point?” he asked.
“A man like you, a man whose dream has always been to be in charge of the Jericho County Police Department is not going to be happy as the number two. Even when you were a kid you couldn’t stand for me to give you orders. You have to be your own man. Come to work for me and you will be.”
Brent drank more water. A week ago he would not have even considered the thought of leaving the Force. Now, after proposing to Mal, after too many bad dreams about that awesome leadership burden he bore, he knew he couldn’t dismiss it outright.
“My businesses in Jericho are expanding, not contracting,” Charles continued. “Including a nightclub I just acquired.”
Brent couldn’t believe it. “A nightclub? Which one?”
“The Roulette.”
“Are you serious? The Roulette is the most popular nightclub in this county. That’s insane, Dad. It’s been in the Albright family for generations!”
“And now it’s in my family. They had a second mortgage on it. Hell, a third mortgage too. They couldn’t pay. Went into Receivership. It’s over. It’s mine now. But I want you at the helm.”
“You want me to run a nightclub? What do I know about running a nightclub?”
“You know how to lead, Brent. You’re a natural leader just like I am. You’re exactly what that club will need. The employees are already in place. Nobody will have to lose their jobs unless they deserve to. But I need you to bust heads and take names the way I would do it. There’s nobody else I know who can do it better than you because I will get resistance up and down, you know I will.”
“These good citizens of Jericho are already convinced you’re trying to own the whole town as it is.”
Charles nodded his agreement. “And this won’t help that perception, I know that going in. That’s why I’m going to need you. They fear you, Brent, and they respect you. And actually like you.
They fear me and hate my guts. I need you onboard.”
But Brent was conflicted. He’d been a cop for a long time. It was all he knew. The idea that he would give up his profession to take on a business his father could just as easily sale, didn’t make sense on any level. But now that Makayla was coming to town, and was soon to be his wife, he knew he had to consider it.
“You’re tired, Brent,” his father answered for him. “You’re constantly seeing all of the evil that men do, day in and day out. It has to be getting to you. Some of your cops are crooked. Others are incompetent. I heard about a couple of them hospitalizing a suspect the other day. All of that crap is now on you. This town expects you to clean that shit up.”
“Your point?” Brent asked.
“You need to start thinking ahead. If Porter Keith loses this upcoming election, you won’t be chief anymore, just another cop on the Force. The new mayor is going to want to appoint his own man as chief. But if you come onboard with me, you’ll always be employed.”
Brent laughed.
“I’ll give you top rank.”
Brent looked at his father. That was a first.
“You’ll be CEO of my East Coast operations,” Charles continued. “I’ll remain Chairman of the Board and handle all out-of-state acquisitions and businesses, but you’ll run Jericho. You’ll be in charge of all of my local operations, except for the Jericho Inn, which Jenay runs and will continue to run. But my Jericho investments are the second largest chunk of my business. And just as I gave Jenay veto power over anything that goes on at the Inn, I’ll give you veto power over anything that goes on in Jericho. Including that nightclub.”
Brent Sinatra: All of Me Page 6
