by Hamel, B. B.
I had enough to last a lifetime.
I didn’t tell my mother at first. She was probably too busy running the town with an iron fist to care. She’d notice eventually, anyway, when some young upstart kid started plying his trade in town. She was one of the most powerful members of the city council, after all, and any changes in town inevitably went through her.
Still, I got my private license, I used what savings I had left to rent out some office space, and I put a little ad out in the paper. Work started coming, but slowly.
It took my mother three months to notice that I was home. Needless to say, she was pretty unhappy when she found out that her son had been fired from the Feds and was suddenly working as a cheap private eye for hire right in her city center without her knowledge. That sort of thing just didn’t happen to Susan Wright.
I took a little pride in the fact that I had lasted so long without her noticing. I used every trick I could think of to stay underneath her radar, but eventually she was going to find me out. I thought three months was pretty damn good.
That first conversation didn’t go well. I didn’t much care whether she was happy to see me or not, but I knew she could make my life difficult if she wanted to.
Eventually, after another few weeks or so, things got a little better.
I parked my car around the corner from her house, a habit I’d picked up when I was an agent. Never park right out front; never leave yourself exposed. I was a careful person and always had to be. When you worked in my division of the FBI, you had to be.
There were some fucked up, dangerous people in the world.
I walked slowly around the block and up my new stepfather’s stoop. Susan had moved in with him after she had convinced him to sell his old house and to upgrade. It wasn’t surprising that she refused to live in anything but the best.
I rang the bell and waited, shifting my weight foot to foot. In the Feds, they teach you to always be ready for everything.
I still had a lot of habits from my days in the bureau. I glanced down at the tattoos peeking out from my shirtsleeves and grinned to myself. I had picked up a few new things, too.
Susan answered the door after another few seconds.
“Mom,” I said.
“Easton. Nice to see you.”
Her tone suggested otherwise.
I followed her inside, not saying anything. We walked into the kitchen and sat down at a nice little island. I guessed the house was worth at least a million, possibly one point two. I knew that Alan Mason could afford it, considering he was the most successful property developer in Mishawaka. Actually, he was the most successful developer in the whole county, if not the state.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked me.
An ominous beginning. “No, Mother, I don’t. I have work to do, so let’s make this quick.”
She frowned at that. “No need to be uncivil.”
“Nothing uncivil about needing to work.”
“Some drunk cheater you need to follow?”
I smirked at her. “Heroine addict, actually.”
She scoffed and shook her head. Susan Wright believed that staking out drunks and cheaters was below her, and her son by extension. Personally, I wasn’t above or below anything, which was something I had learned the hard way.
My job wasn’t glamorous. For the most part, I followed around cheating husbands. Ninety percent of being a private investigator was waiting around to take pictures. The life of a PI was all about patient and diligence, and I had both in spades. Though I wasn’t hunting bad guys at the federal level anymore, I was still helping people.
Even small towns like Mishawaka needed help. There were enough bad people to go around.
“At any rate,” she said, moving on, “I wanted to ask for a favor from you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
She nodded. “I hoped it could be a way for us to mend things.”
“I’m listening.”
“You know that I’m married now, but did you know that Alan has a daughter?”
I nodded. “Laney Mason. Twenty-one. Junior at the University of Chicago.”
“Very good. You did your homework.”
“It’s my job.”
She would have been surprised by the other things I knew about her new husband, but I kept that stuff to myself.
“Well, did you know that she’s studying criminal justice?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t. And I can guess where this is headed.”
“Before you say no, hear me out. She’s a bright young girl.”
I stood up. “Sorry, Mother. I’m not interested.”
“Please, Easton, sit down.”
I sighed and looked back toward the front door. I had absolutely no interest in hiring some daft undergrad girl to hang around my office all day long. I didn’t need a secretary, and frankly I couldn’t afford one. I didn’t like babysitting and I didn’t need another distraction in my life.
“Why do you want this, anyway?”
“Because, despite what you may think, I want us to be a family again. I’d hoped that you could help her, maybe teach her some things.”
“She’s some spoiled, small-town girl. She doesn’t want to work with me.”
“Actually, she does. She’s on her way here right now to meet you.”
I clenched my jaw. An ambush. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I’ll pay for her,” she said quickly. “You won’t have to worry about that. Just take her on, teach her what you can.”
“I don’t believe that you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart,” I said, turning away. “And I’m not interested in being a part of your little games.”
Her response was swallowed by the sound of the doorbell.
“There she is,” Susan said softly.
I glared at her. “I’m leaving. Tell her I said no, and that it’s nothing personal.”
“Tell her yourself,” mother said.
I turned away, shaking my head, and walked toward the door. I pulled it open, not sure what to expect.
That was the first time I really saw Laney Mason. We had gone to the same school together, though we never ran in the same crowds. I never knew her and barely ever saw her. What I remembered was a gangly young girl, all knees and braces.
Laney had grown up.
Her hair was long and dark, and her eyes were a deep brown. Her skin was pale and her lips were full, the kind of full that you couldn’t help but imagine would wrap perfectly around the tip of your cock. Her body was full and I could tell she kept herself fit.
I stared at her for a second, feeling something stir. She wasn’t what I’d expected, not at all.
“Hey—” she was saying, but stopped and suddenly looked awkward. The way she bit her lip drove me fucking insane.
“Can I help you?” I asked, deciding to see how she’d respond.
“Uh, yeah. Hi. I’m Laney.”
“Hi, Laney. I’m Easton.” She shifted nervously as I stared at her, a smirk playing on my lips.
“You’re Susan’s kid. Easton Wright.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Alan’s daughter.”
“Well, Laney, I guess this makes you and me stepsiblings.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I had a strange, sudden jolt of adrenaline. I’d never experienced something like that before, but I knew instantly what it was.
Lust, pure and simple. I’d wanted plenty of women before, and had plenty. But never before had I experienced that initial desire like a jolt of lightning to my core.
The girl was damn sexy, and she was my stepsister. It was fucked up and wrong, but I knew instantly that I wanted her.
“I guess so.”
“Good to meet you,” I said, looking back inside. “I was just leaving. Susan is just inside, in the kitchen.”
“Okay—” she began, but I was already moving past her. My heart was racing and my cock was
slightly hard as I imagined what those lips could do. “Nice to meet you,” she called after me.
I gave her a short wave but kept moving.
Laney Mason, my new stepsister. My mother’s proposal came back to me as I moved closer and closer to my car.
I had some work to do, but maybe it was worth considering. I could use a little help around the office. And maybe Laney was as bright as Susan said she was, and maybe she would be an asset.
Or she’d be a total waste of my time. Part of me was looking forward to finding out.
My office smelled like sweat.
Probably because I’d been sleeping there ever since I’d come back to Mishawaka. At first it was because I couldn’t afford both home and office space, but it quickly became apparent that I just had no interest in finding a separate apartment.
I lived on the top floor of a three-story building. It was a mix of mostly offices and dentists, though I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only person living there. I was lucky enough to grab a spot with a small shower, and the tiny kitchen space did the trick. I sighed as I unbuttoned my shirt, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
As I poured two fingers of the cheap whisky, I thought back on the last few years of my life. My time in the FBI had been ideal at first, and I had fit in perfectly. I had stellar scores on all my exams at the academy, and people were even calling me a rising star. It became obvious how good I was at my job when they assigned me to a special division operating out of Texas.
We called ourselves the Serial Hunters, because we specialized in tracking and capturing serial killers. Law enforcement from all over the country would call us for help on their most difficult cases, and we were expected to crack them every time.
I loved it. I loved the challenge and the prestige, of course, but most of all I loved getting into the mind of a killer. The men we tracked were the worst of the worst, the baddest, most sadistic fuckers that ever existed. They were men that killed for fun or pleasure or for some twisted reason we couldn’t even fathom, and it was my job to try to think like they did.
And I was good at it.
I slugged back my whisky, dropping down onto the couch that also pulled out into my bed. The back room served as my living room slash bedroom while the front room was where I met with clients. After all, I had to keep some semblance of cleanliness and professionalism, otherwise I’d never get any work.
And shit did I need the work. The FBI had been pretty generous when they’d let me go, but I found that money quickly was getting sucked up into my monthly rent check.
As I turned the TV on to whatever football game was on that day, I heard my doorbell ring. Sighing, I took another sip of whisky and then stood up and buttoned my shirt back up.
I walked out front and paused at the door.
Normally in movies, I’d reluctantly open the door and find a beautiful woman standing there. Her long blond hair, full lips, and killer tits would all make me want to let her in, even though she reeked of desperation. She’d give me some crazy job that I knew I shouldn’t take, but I’d take it anyway.
Eventually, I’d fuck her rough, bent over my desk. I’d make her come again and come, her tight pussy wrapped around my cock as she screamed my name.
I pulled the door open. Standing there was a woman in her mid-fifties, short and round and dark-skinned with brown hair and brown eyes.
I sighed. Real life was never like the movies.
“Mister Wright?” she asked. “Private detective?” She spoke with a Spanish accent, which didn’t surprise me. Mishawaka had a large Hispanic community, and I had done a lot of work for them in the past, mostly because I could speak passable Spanish.
“Please, come in,” I said.
I ushered her inside. She looked nervous, like most people I found at my door did. I sat down behind my desk and she sat in front of it, frowning down at her hands.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. . . . ?” I trailed off.
“Suarez,” she said. “Please, Mister Wright, you must help us.”
“Call me Easton,” I said in Spanish. “What can I do for you?”
She instantly looked more at ease as she switched into her more comfortable language. “I live with my family on Maple Avenue, in the apartment buildings at the corner of Maple and Brown. Do you know them?”
I nodded. “Drove by them yesterday.”
She looked a bit more comfortable. “Yes, well, the landlord is a very bad man. You see, many people from my home country live there, and many of us are just poor, hard-working immigrants. He constantly threatens to throw us out on the street and to raise our rents.”
“I can’t do anything about a rude landlord,” I said.
“But that isn’t the problem. You see, he never does his job. We have rats, bugs, the trash sits outside our apartments for weeks, and the washing machines are all broken. He does nothing for us, even when we complain.”
I sighed, shaking my head. It was a pretty common story. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
Her face fell slightly. “I heard you can help. With problems.”
“Mrs. Suarez,” I said, sitting forward, “it sounds like this landlord is breaking the law. Go to the police first, maybe even find a lawyer.”
“We cannot afford a lawyer,” she said quickly. “And if we go to the police, he will know.” She paused, frowning as she stared at me intently. “Please, you have to help us.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. This was the hard part, the part I fucking hated.
“I cost fifty an hour plus expenses. I need one day of work up front.”
She looked down at the floor. “Mister Wright, I cannot afford that.”
“Please,” I said, “it’s Easton. What can you afford?”
She opened her purse and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the desk. I picked it up and counted about three hundred dollars.
It wasn’t enough to cover even two days’ worth of work on this. I did need the money, but I also needed to be able to work real, paying jobs and not be stuck sidetracked on some hopeless landlord shakedown.
Then again, I knew about the place where Mrs. Suarez lived. It was notorious in town for being an awful shithole, and the landlord was well known as the kind of man who would take advantage a well-meaning older woman like Mrs. Suarez.
“This is plenty,” I said, already regretting it.
Her face lit up. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said and began to talk quickly in Spanish. I only understood about half of it, but I was pretty sure she invited me to marry whichever one of her daughters I wanted, or even a son if that was what I preferred. No judgment.
I held up a hand. “Please, Mrs. Suarez. I can’t promise results, but I will do my best.”
“Rosario Mendez said you are the best, Easton, so I will trust you.”
I nodded, remembering Mrs. Mendez well. I had helped her track down her drug addict son and get him straightened out. That one was pro-bono.
I stood up. “Come back in a few days and I’ll let you know what I find,” I said.
“Thank you so much,” she replied as I ushered her out of my apartment.
Once the door was shut, I leaned up against the jamb. Another quick job done on the cheap. When was I going to learn that I needed to take serious jobs? I couldn’t keep doing damn charity cases, or else I was going to be out on my ass at the end of the month.
Still, three hundred helped. It meant food and whisky for the week, at least. Plus, Mrs. Suarez seemed like a nice lady.
And I fucking hated scumbag landlords. Hated them almost as much as I hated killers. The bastards all preyed on the weak because inside, they were weak too.
Real men helped those that needed help.
I walked into the back room and poured myself more whisky. Suddenly, I found myself remembering my new stepsister and the way she had first looked at me. I knocked back my whisky and then pulled my phone from my pocket. I dialed a number and let it ring.
&
nbsp; “Hello?”
“Susan, it’s your son,” I grunted.
“What can I do for you, Easton?”
I hesitated. Did I really want to bring someone into my fucked up world, especially some naïve college girl?
But then her body, her look, flooded my mind again.
“Tell my stepsister to be here by ten tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Easton. I’m really glad you’re doing this.”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“You won’t. She’s a really bright girl.”
I grunted something vague and then hung up the phone. I already felt like it was a bad idea, but I poured another whisky instead of dwelling.
I had an envelope full of cash and a case. And apparently I had some unpaid labor heading over to help out.
Tomorrow was looking like a decent day.
Chapter Three: Laney
I felt oddly nervous as I walked up the stairs toward the third floor.
His office was in a pretty nondescript office park in the middle of town. It looked pretty much like anything else in Mishawaka, and I briefly wondered how he even got any clients. I wasn’t sure if I was dressed appropriately, or even what I would be doing, but I was determined to find out.
I had hoped for some more time to get used to being home. Instead, Susan told me to show up at this address at exactly ten in the morning. I was a few minutes early, but I figured that wouldn’t matter since he probably opened up at nine anyway.
I kept thinking about him, my stepbrother. He seemed too young, too attractive to have been an FBI agent. Nobody would say why he had left the bureau, and the curiosity was practically tearing at me. Maybe he had gone rogue or something like that, or maybe he was totally incompetent.
Finally, I found his door. In the glass, a few sentences were etched in fancy lettering. It read, “Easton Wright, Private Eye. Ring the bell if you need help.”
I tried the knob, but it was locked. I hit the bell and heard it buzz on the inside.
Nothing happened. I bit my lip. Maybe he hadn’t heard? I hit the bell again and listened to it buzz, and part of me thought that it sounded a little louder.
Again, nothing. I waited for almost five minutes and didn’t hear a peep from inside. I was beginning to wonder if I had came at the wrong day or time, but I was positive Susan had said today at ten.
