Possession: The Perversion Trilogy, Book Two

by Frazier, T. M.

  Three

  Emma Jean

  Nine Years Old

  I slide my shoebox of magic tricks from its special hiding space underneath the tattered couch. I search the contents, singing mindlessly under my breath.

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Hush now, don't you cry

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  “Why are you always singing that song? What is it anyway?” Gabby asks.

  I hand her a long piece of white rope.“Not sure. But it’s always in my head. Don’t know if I made it up, or if I heard it somewhere.” I stand before her. “You ready?”

  “You sure about this?” Gabby stars down at the rope in her hands.

  I hold out my arms, wrists together. “Very sure. It’s going to be amazing. I’ve been practicing. It’ll be my best one yet. You’ll see.”

  “Okay, you asked for it.” Gabby ties knot after knot in the rope, binding my arms together. She bites her tongue in concentration. It takes her a good few minutes before she takes a step back and looks approvingly over her over her work. “There’s no way you’re getting out of that.”

  I smirk. Not three minutes later, I’m free of the rope. I hold it up and dangle my victory over Gabby’s head.

  “How the hell did you do that?” She snatches the rope from my hands. She runs her fingers from end to end, inspecting it for something she might have missed.

  “You’re not going to find anything,” I assure her. “It’s just regular rope.”

  “It can’t be. I mean, seriously, EJ, tell me how did you did that!” Her mouth is agape. Her eyes still on the rope.

  I wink. “A true magician never reveals her secrets.”

  Gabby’s shoulders fall. She flashes me one of her famous fake pouts. If she sticks her bottom lip out any further, she’ll be dragging it on the ground. “She does to her assistant,” she whines.

  Damn, she’s right.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but there’s a strict pact between magicians and assistants. You’re sworn to the highest level of secrecy.”

  Gabby claps her hands and bounces on her feet. “I won’t tell a soul!”

  “It’s all about watching the knots,” I explain. “If you see the way someone ties something, it’s easier to untie it. AND,” I say, wagging my thumb. “Thumb placement. A thumb in the right place between knots can give you just enough space to undo the entire thing.” I tuck my thumb against my palm and place the rope around my hand, winding it over and over again. “See?” I flip my hand back over and release my thumb, showing her the space I’ve created on what originally looked like a tight hold. “That’s all it takes.”

  Gabby scratches her head. “How did I not see that the first time?”

  “It’s all about distraction, making you look away without you realizing. Remember how I wiggled my fingers when you were tying the rope?”

  Gabby applauds wildly. “That’s genius, EJ! Bravo!”

  I bend into a deep dramatic bow. “Why thank you. You make a lovely assistant.”

  Gabby helps me wind up the rope then I tuck it back into the shoe box. “Another useless skill on lock,” I say, echoing Aunt Ruby’s comments from yesterday when she’d walked in on me practicing my rope trick.

  Gabby waves her hand in the air and roll her eyes. “Don’t pay attention to what that old bag has to say. This could totally come in handy one day.”

  We both look from the rope to each other, and at the same time we say, “Naaahhh!” Convulsing into a fit of laughter, we roll around on the carpet, clutching our stomachs, wiping tears from our eyes.

  “What a waste of time,” a voice says.

  Gabby and I look up to find Mona glaring down at us. “Magic is not a waste of time,” I argue, standing off the floor. I hold out my hand and help Gabby do the same.

  Mona rolls her eyes. “You think you’re going to be a famous magician someday?”

  “She might,” Gabby says.

  Mona glares at us both. There’s more in her eyes than disdain. There’s sadness, too. We’ve always tried to include her in our activities and adventures, but after a while, we gave up. Her glass-is-never-full attitude never meshed with the way Gabby and I can find joy in the smallest things, during the darkest of times. I feel sorry for her, but not enough to let her walk all over me.

  “Magic makes me happy,” I say. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Well, at least it’s a practical trick. You never know when you’re going to need to get out of a bind with a magic rope,” she says sarcastically, picking the rope up off the floor.

  “It’s not a magic rope,” Gabby tells her. “It’s a regular one. She’s a magician and an escape artist. A talented one, too.” She sticks out her tongue.

  Mona begins to walk away with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “I can show you if you want,” I call out to her.

  Gabby jabs me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

  Mona turns around, looking from the rope back up to me like she’s considering the idea. She huffs and straightens her shoulders. “What’s the point?” she mutters from halfway down the hall.

  “Talk about a fun-sucker,” Gabby says once Mona is out of earshot. “Why did you even offer to show her?”

  I look away. “I don’t know. Guess I feel bad for her. Just because she’s given up on her own happiness doesn’t mean we should give up on trying to cheer her up.”

  Gabby makes a pppffft sound. “Well, I’m giving up on her happiness. At least, for today.”

  A quote comes to mind. I recite it out loud. “Happiness is not out there. It’s in you. - Anonymous.”

  “True that.” Gabby grabs the rope from the box and holds it up, bouncing on her heels. “Now, show me again!”

  I do.

  In a world where we’ve experience little joy, we find it on our own. Today, we find it in magic. Because the quote is right. Happiness isn’t out there. It’s in us.

  If only Mona could find it within herself.

  Four

  Emma Jean

  The Present

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Hush now, don't you cry

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  The melody plays like a distant echo as the memory of the past fades away. I’m brought back into the dark reality of the present with a rough strangled gasp that burns my dry throat.

  Thankfully, I don’t sense Marco in the room, but the proof that he was here remains in the form of new pains on both the inside and outside of my body, along with the freshly dried reminder of his presence coating my inner thighs.

  With consciousness comes something else—a new awareness, a realization so big and powerful it feels as if it’s present in the room, hovering over me, glaring a new and obvious reality into my freshly opened eyes. The picture it paints is clear, but also promotes the asking of a thousand other questions and answers only a few.

  I know now why Gabby seemed so sincere when she attempted to free me.

  Why when Gabby was talking to Marco about my life and death, so flippantly and full of hate, she sounded like herself, yet not like herself.

  The lights click on. I blink rapidly to focus through the blur of brightness. My vision clears, and what I see before me confirms everything. The big and powerful realization is standing in the room with me in the form of a girl not much older than me wearing a loose-fitting black tunic over a tight pair of ripped jeans. Same long shining dark hair as Gabby, same big black eyes. But it’s her large lips that turn down at the sides into a natural frown, along with the beauty mark underneath her right eye that cements her identity. That, and the look of utter disgust and hatred painted on her otherwise perfect features.

  Why? I may have some answers now
, but I have even more questions.

  “Hello, EJ,” she greets, with a knowing and sinister smile on her big glossy lips.

  Our gazes lock, and I return her arrogant smile. I refuse to so much as grimace when the scabs around my lips crack apart with a sharp sting. Blood dribbles down my chin.

  “Hello, Mona.”

  Five

  Grim

  Sixteen Years Old

  It’s after dinner. The dishes are done, and the nightly rituals begin.

  Marci smokes a joint in the living room while my new brothers argue in Sandy’s room over a video game.

  Belly’s seated at the head of the dining room table. I’m to his right.

  I don’t know what he did after dinner before I arrived, but since then, Belly and I sit together while he shares stories of his time with the MC or explains the importance of one thing or another in my new world. Every night, I learn something new.

  “Bedlam distributes guns for Clan Egan. We mule all the way from Miami to Mississippi. It’s a good business to be in if you’re not on ATF or Homeland Security’s radar. Which is why the clan uses us. They are, but we aren’t.” He reaches for the bottle of whiskey. “Not yet, anyway.”

  I’ve heard of the clan before, but I don’t know much else besides the name. “Clan Egan?”

  Belly sits back in his chair. “They’re not local. Miami based. They’re a spin-off of the Irish Mob. Most of them are American born. They’re run by a man called Callum Egan. Nice enough fellow if he’s not holding a blade to your fucking throat.” He stares at the ceiling and chuckles at whatever memory he’s recalling. He shakes his head. “Where were we? Oh, yeah, Callum Egan runs the clan which brings me what I really wanted to talk to you about tonight. Leadership.”

  He pours out six shots of whiskey, sliding three over to me. He points to the first one, and we both knock it back in one swallow.

  “Ahhh.” He sets down his empty shot glass. “You feel that burn? That means it’s good shit,” he rasps. “Okay, leadership.”

  “Leadership?” I ask. “Why do I need to know about that? I’m not the leader here. You are.”

  “I won’t always be.” Belly leans his elbows on the table and glances over his shoulder toward the back room. “I love those boys, Grim. With everything I’ve got. They’re not my blood, but they’re my sons. Just like you are now. I don’t have a lot of talents in this life, but one I do have is recognizing a leader when I see one, and I see it in you.”

  “But—” I start, not knowing what exactly I’m about to say, but it doesn’t matter because it’s Belly’s turn to interrupt.

  “Just shut the fuck up and listen to your pops,” he growls, followed by a wink. “You may have missed the whole spanking and time-out parts of having an old man when you were a kid, but I’m not above doling those out now so you don’t feel like you missed out.” Another wink.

  Belly always means the words he says, but he has his ways of letting you know that he’s saying them because he genuinely gives a shit. I like our nightly talks. I like having an old man. A pops.

  I genuinely give a shit about Belly, too.

  “Leadership,” he begins again. “The most important thing you need to know about it is to never appear weak in the eyes of those you lead. Weakness is seen as a mistrust of your own decisions, and if you don’t trust yourself, your men won’t trust you either.”

  “Never look weak,” I repeat.

  “The second lesson of leadership is to always and I mean always obey the laws and rules of Bedlam. Especially, the rules you pass down. Don’t just obey them. Revere them like they were handed down by the Almighty himself and delivered into your hands. You’ve got to hold yourself accountable before you can enforce those laws and punish those who betray your trust.”

  Belly points to the second shot glass, and we both take our shots. This one doesn’t burn nearly as much as the first. Belly’s choice of whiskey is something he has imported from…somewhere that isn’t here. But, I don’t think it’s Kentucky or Tennessee. I’m pretty sure it’s more like a Chevron station because the shit tastes like gasoline.

  “Questions?” he asks, flipping his now empty glass upside down on the table.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, honestly. “I mean, Bedlam doesn’t follow the rules of the city, the county, the state, or even the country. Why make any laws at all? Isn’t it the whole point? To do what we want?”

  Belly glares at me with a stern expression on his face. “No, it is not the point.” He stabs his index finger into the table. “The point of Bedlam is family. A fraternity. A brotherhood. It’s about doing things our way, not just any way.”

  He pauses, more to give his next words the importance they deserve than to search for the right ones. He always seems to have those right at hand.

  “Just because we don’t recognize traditional civilian law doesn’t mean we don’t need a code of our own. Our rules are made to bind us together, not tear us apart. They make us a family. Give us traditions. Garner respect. Having a family, a unit of people who would gladly hand their lives over for any of its members means a purpose greater than our own worthless lives.” He points to the third glass. Before we tip them back, he looks at me over the brim. “Even the lawless need laws, son.”

  The third still tastes like a shot glass of lighter fluid, but it’s growing on me. “Don’t appear weak. Follow your own rules and the rules of the Bedlam,” I repeat, but I’m not repeating because I want him to know I understand. I’m repeating because Belly told me that saying the words out loud is the best way to remember them, and I don’t want to forget a thing he tells me.

  Belly flashes an approving smile. “Good. Because if you don’t follow the laws, you’re setting an example to your men that there’s wiggle room in them, and there ain’t, not when it comes to men’s lives.”

  His comment has me curious. “Have you lost a lot of men?”

  Belly refills my shot glasses and then his own. We down number four. It actually doesn’t taste bad anymore. Like glass cleaner and bile but in an almost pleasant way.

  “I’ve lost too many men. But none who didn’t know beforehand that losing their lives was a possibility. None who I didn’t do my best to protect by listening to my gut and my head. Because once you put your laws out there, they ain’t yours anymore. They belong to Bedlam. And just because you sit at the head of the table don’t mean you don’t use your fork just like everyone else.”

  Belly glances down at shot number five, and I swallow it with ease. Following his lead, I flip the empty shot glass upside down on the table. “Do the other gangs…”

  “Organizations,” Belly corrects then quickly rethinks his correction. “Well, The Immortal Kings are an MC. Clan Egan is more like the mafia.” His jaw clenches. “Los Muertos…they’re the only gang bangers around these parts.”

  “Well, do the others have laws like Bedlam?”

  Belly nods. “Yes, and they’re all different, but the core laws are genuinely the same. Don’t disrespect the organization. Don’t rat. Don’t share what goes on here with your women when you get home unless they’ve been cleared by the voting members. Don’t challenge authority. I can go on and on.”

  He points to the next glass, and we down our shots. Number six?

  Funny. It tastes like water now. This can’t be the same shit we started with, can it?

  “Although,” Belly laughs, not seeming the least affecting by the whiskey other than his eyes, which are now shining under the dim light hanging over the table. “Speaking of challenging authority, Clan Egan has a rule where you can do just that, but if what you say gets voted down, you die. So to challenge the leader, you risk your life.”

  “Don’t suppose they get too many of those.”

  “A lot more than you’d think. Last I heard, at least, a few a year.”

  “Do they ever work?”

  Belly smiles. “Callum Egan’s been their leader for going on fifteen years now. What do you think?” />
  He takes a swig of whiskey, directly from the bottle this time, then hands it over to me. “Oh, and Los Muertos has a good one, too. It reminds me of those old westerns where they solved issues with a duel at dawn.”

  He makes finger guns in the air. Okay, maybe the whiskey is getting to him, after all.

  “They duel at dawn? From what you’ve told me about Los Muertos, that sounds…fucking strange.”

  He shakes his head and slaps the table. His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “They don’t actually duel! No guns are involved at all, actually. No weapons of any kind. But if a member has an issue with their leader and thinks they can do better, he can challenge the leader to a fight. The winner takes over.”

  “What happens to the loser?”

  Belly takes another swig and passes me the bottle. I do the same, swallowing two mouthfuls of delicious whiskey. “It’s a fight to the death.”

  “What happens if the leader just says no?” I ask, following the question with a loud belch.

  Belly sways in his chair. Or maybe, it’s me who is swaying. He grips the table to steady himself while I’m finding it hard to focus on him even though he’s now still.

  It’s both of us.

  His eyes light up. He points his finger at me, moving it up and down with each word he speaks. “That’s where our first lesson of the night comes into play. Follow your own laws, or risk appearing weak to your people. So, to answer your question, he could say no—"

  “But, he wouldn’t,” I finish.

  Belly grins from ear to ear with pride. He slaps me on the shoulder, “That’s my boy.” He hands me the bottle, and I grip it by the neck, lifting it to my lips. Some of it ends up in my mouth. Most of it dribbles down my chin and soaks into my shirt.

  “Wait, you said that leadership is the first lesson of the night. What’s the second?” I ask.

  Belly snatches the bottle from my hands and smiles. “How to drink like a fucking man.”