by Marata Eros
They'll see him. Not us.
“Trainer's right. Cops don't look past the patch.” Noose points to the one-percenter patch—a solid red diamond with the number and symbol for percentage inside its borders.
We tap knuckles.
“That's why we're club, so we don't have to be under their authority.”
Sam takes a deep breath. “What can you do? Nevermind, maybe I don't want to know.”
She walks over to us and takes my free hand and Noose's. Tears well again in her eyes.
“Save my friend.” Her eyes narrow on me. “And pull the penis off Allen. Slowly.”
Noose chuckles, pulling his hand away. He grabs a tissue out of his pocket and hands it to her. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Sam dabs at her eyes. I never let go of her hand. Holding Sam's hand feels like I'm a little closer to Krista.
Sam cries for us both.
She tilts her head back, searching my eyes. “You love her.” It’s not a question.
I nod, because anything else is a lie. I fell hard. I fell fast… I'm still falling.
Squeezing my hand, she lets it fall. “Don't get dead, Trainer.”
I shake my head.
She smiles. “You don't talk much.”
“No.”
“You're going to kill him?” Her eyes skate nervously between us.
Yes.
I don't say anything.
Noose and I walk away, mount our rides, and slap kickstands into position.
We pull out, and I don't look back at Krista's friend.
Instead, I look forward.
Chapter 29
Allen
“Even I will have a challenge cleaning up this mess, Allen.”
My father’s ass is perched on an expensive table he and wifey picked up on holiday from Italy.
I sip my cider beer. “Krista needed to be encouraged.”
“Did you have to kill Abigail? She was a spectacular mule. I paid her well. She withstood your savagery in fairly good humor—it was a good marriage of greed versus perversion.” Orson's smile is clever.
How I hate this man.
“Krista Glass did this to your face?” His eyes run over my taped nose.
I throw him a sour look. “Yes,” I hiss.
The corners of Orson's lips tweak. “She might take some management in the future, Allen.”
I ignore his thinly veiled insult. “I can't undo Abbi, now can I?” Releasing a frustrated exhale, I continue, “Besides, I think Krista will do anything I ask now. She wants to protect her adoptive parents and this ridiculous thug she's fucking.”
His steely brows rise. “I prefer the term ‘sexing.’”
I sip my beer, hating his inept attempts to appear relevant. “Fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking,” I murmur.
Orson doesn't take the bait. He merely glowers at me with cold eyes. “Are you through with your juvenile antics?” One eyebrow rises again.
I sneer. “For the moment.”
“I will dispose of Abigail, and you get Krista Glass cleaned up.”
“Why?” I lean forward, gripping the table's edge.
“The wedding, of course. Let's strike while the iron’s hot. Don't give her any time for introspection or choice.”
I laugh. Cocking my head, I raise the fine brandy snifter in salutation. “Because your fortune hangs on me wedding and bedding this particular girl.”
Orson nods. “Your half-sister.”
Gives me a semi-boner just thinking about breaking that bit of news to Krista—her familial role and the horror behind the knowledge.
Nasty perfection.
“First decent suggestion you've had.”
His smile becomes predatory. “I have everything in place for a lavish ceremony. The story will be you traveled to a romantic destination and eloped, then wanted to share your joy with a large, post-nuptial celebration.”
“It won't look odd.”
“Exactly.” My father takes a sip of his brandy.
“Get her cleaned up, and I will pull a favor from a dear old friend of mine.”
“I didn't think you had those.” I feel a suspicious eyebrow elevate.
Orson sets the crystal snifter down. “I don't, but this particular fellow owes me a favor.”
I frown. “He'll perform the ceremony on such quick notice?”
He nods. “Judge Hammerstein will do whatever I want.”
That type of favor piques my interest. Not only is the judge's name somehow familiar, but I also wonder why he would be so indebted. “Did he do something wrong?”
Orson laughs. “No, that's the irony. He did something right.”
His secret smile infuriates me.
*
“Wakey, wakey,” I murmur beside Krista's ear.
She's probably sat in her own piss long enough.
With a start, her head whips back, cracking hard against the concrete, and she groans. “Go away.”
“I don't think so.”
I use a small key to unlock the metal circlets around her wrists. They clank against the cement wall.
Krista begins to lean, listing to one side. Her cast is much worse for the wear after having hung like a plaster sausage from the chain.
Grasping her shoulder, I tilt her upright. “Can you stand?”
She blinks, her gaze moving to where Abbi's body laid for more than thirty hours.
It's gone now.
Though a few blood spatters remain, and the room smells decidedly not fresh. It suddenly occurs to me I might have fucked her corpse that last time.
Hmmm. I'm not especially bothered by the idea.
My gaze travels over Krista, noting the strange pallor to her skin. She's not eaten in nearly a day and a half, and only gulped down the water I allowed her.
She pissed in fear and pissed again in desperation.
I loved Krista having to sit in her own waste.
After all, she's responsible for Abbi's fate. If Krista had not chosen to smash my nose and knee me in the nuts, I might have spared Abbi.
For a time, anyway. Abbi's eventual demise was inevitable. Being married to Krista will test the levels of what little self-control I possess, and Abbi would have suffered in Krista’s stead, at least until Krista bore my children. I’ll need another Abbi. I tilt my head, tapping my chin with a finger. Maybe two.
Hefting Krista up by her armpits, I wrinkle my nose. She smells like BO, piss, and putrid vomit breath.
“Let go of me,” Krista gestures weakly, feebly attempting to get away.
“Shut up, or I do something worse.”
She stills, grabbing onto my shirt. I was smarter this time and wore a T-shirt instead of decent clothes.
Krista would bleed, pee, or vomit over anything nice, I'm certain.
“I'm going to get you upstairs, where you'll be bathed, dressed, and fed.” She leans away from whatever expression is on my face. “Then we'll have our nuptials.”
“No,” she whispers, her stormy-colored eyes growing wide.
“Oh yes.” My eyes slim on her face. “Or I go after Mommy and Daddy and the big doofus.”
My eyebrows hike as I await her reply.
Krista says nothing, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
*
Trainer
“How long's it been?” Viper asks, splitting his attention between me and Noose.
I shrug. “Not sure. Sam wasn't paying attention to time when Krista left her place. All she could give us was a window of a couple of hours.” I flip my palm back and forth.
Viper looks at his watch, and Noose gives an amused smirk. Nobody wears watches anymore. Time's on the cell.
“It's been every bit of ten hours. Daylight's fading.” His brows come together, as his gaze takes in the fading light outside the one window in the space.
I know. That's why we're all in emergency church.
Vipe gives a frustrated huff. “This fucker's high profile. Noose did a quick look into him, and
he's from old money. Dad's loaded.”
Not a surprise.
“His inheritance is murky, though. Noose couldn't get a bead on that. Right now, he's just worth whatever his lawyering makes him.” This shit don’t matter. “Don't know what his money-bags status has to do with anything.” Just know he's hurting Krista. Makes my mouth water to kill him.
I think of Judge and how he'd want me to let whatever was gonna happen, happen. Save yourself, son, he'd say.
But I can't. There's that piece of me that won't be reasonable.
Ever.
And it's right here. Right now. In this moment.
The piece that's usually buried has resurfaced. Because of Krista.
I never cared about no lady—even Mama—the way I do her.
“What I'm saying,” Viper continues in a soft voice, “is that I know you want to get to Krista. You already threw down for her. We fully appreciate your feelings.” Mutterings rise at his words, backinʼ me. “But”—his voice drops impossibly quieter, and every brother at the table leans forward to catch what he says next—“this particular snake has got a lot of rattles. He's not an obvious slimeball with a criminal record that goes on for miles that nobody's gonna miss if he disappears off the face of the planet. He's connected, and from what Noose says, well-spoken, dressed, and understands whose palm to grease.”
“So we gotta be careful,” I state.
Vipe nods. “Yes.”
“I can't wait.” I barely keep the frantic note outta my voice.
“We'll send in Lariat, Wring, and Noose with you. They can go in and SEAL it out.”
Noose rolls his eyes, but Wring looks up from the corner, taking a break from cleaning his nails with his switchblade. “I'm in.”
Lariat raises a hand, saying nothing, but his black eyes glitter his yes at anyone botherinʼ to look.
Viper turns his attention back to me. “See what shit's going down, if anything. I repeat, do not dust this guy without reason.”
I turn to Noose, seeing a bruise growing on his jaw. “We kill him if he's hurting her.”
Noose grins.
*
Trainer
Normally, jealousy is something other people suffer from. I never had nothinʼ and never thought things or how much shit I had was gonna make me happy. I was too busy surviving to wish on material shit.
But rolling into the exclusive gated community on top of the East Hill of Kent has me kinda pissed. We slide by the ritzy houses then go back down into the valley between the east and west hills of Kent. We park Noose's slightly beat-up Nova in a dark alley.
Krista fucked Allen in that fancy house. When I craned my neck to get a look, I let my eyes roll over the outside, where two houses flanked his. The view of the valley was glowing neon lights swathed in surrounding darkness, keeping true light pollution at the edges of the valley.
Noose taps my arm, and I look at his painted face, pulled from my thoughts.
First, we Google Mapped the place, then did a drive-by. Now, were on recon, as my brothers call it.
We crawl up the ravine leading to the high fence surrounding the small neighborhood of million-dollar houses. Noiselessly, we move through yards. Any dogs that bark are silenced by tranquilizer.
“Can't move quietly enough for a dog not to notice,” Noose said after he nailed the second one.
“He'll be okay,” he added when he noticed my lingering look at the unmoving dog.
Don't like hurtinʼ animals, women, or children. Goes against the grain for me.
With his assurance, I nodded and followed.
The hike was easy at first, then went to sucking ass pretty fast. Every bit of strength went to climbing up the steep ravine—quietly, which seemed to be the worst part.We poured sweat, all of us shaking our heads to part the sweat from our flesh.
When we reached the fence, Noose tapped me again.
“Gonna do a little recon, Trainer.”
His voice was so quiet, the light breeze stole most of the sound, but he used the hand gestures he taught me before.
I never been in the military. Couldn't have passed squat for any kind of test. But Lariat, Wring, and Noose seem to speak their own language. I understand it more naturally than I should. Probably comes from a lifetime of not being able to read and having to count on body language to understand shit goinʼ on around me.
I’m grateful they brought me along. Would've come anyway. I smirk. They probably knew that.
Digging his elbows into a hard and narrow trail that surrounds the entire length of the fence, Noose drags his body forward with hard pulls. Wring and Lariat watch him.
When he's near the gate, Noose rolls onto his back, pulling something out of his pocket. He rips it apart with his teeth and puts the small circular object against the bottom part of the gate.
After a full minute, Noose gives the signal to follow.
When we reach his position, I want to ask what he did. A small black disc is attached to where the gate latches against a post. All metal.
Looks locked up tighter than a drum.
Noose stands, and we remain on our bellies. With a thumb pressed deliberately on the latch, Noose lifts his other hand, which holds a small aerosol can.
He sprays the latching mechanism and pushes the gate open. Soundlessly.
Jogging along the fence, Noose sidles to an obvious security system portal then jams a sharp object in the side, where a key or tool should be inserted.
The numbers on the viewing screen blink randomly then go black.
Noose turns his head. Only his teeth appear, like a slash of white in his painted face.
We come.
*
Noose's restless gaze covers the interior quickly. “Clearly, Fitzgerald isn't here, and neither is Krista.”
“Smells stale,” Lariat comments, lifting his nose.
“Nobody's been cooking in these swank accommodations for a long time.” Wring looks around. Wipes a gloved hand over a surface. Lifts his finger. Even in the darkness, I can see dust.
“Where the fuck is he then?” I whisper-hiss.
“Chill,” Noose says absently, looking over everything. “Losing your shit means a case of soft brain.”
He's right.
I don't see everything Noose sees, but I do see money: the TV set above a rich-boy fireplace that has a hearth full of expensive lookinʼ stone running the length of the wall.
I stalk away from the guys, moving to the bedroom.
Flinging open the door, I stop. Noose almost collides with my back.
It's covered in photos of Krista. Seeing her large gray eyes and open face makes my palms sweat, and that weight inside my chest grows. The photos were obviously taken without her knowing.
Pervy fucker.
Finally, I look away and start jerking open drawers on a wide dresser.
I paw through shit, finding a drawer that's filled with only lube. Like thirty tubes, stacked with a creepy sorta OCD.
The guys stare inside.
“Guy that needs that much lube isn't doing the work to get a chick ready.” Wring chuckles.
No. But a dark part of me likes it. He had to use this shit with Krista because he couldn't turn her on.
Not so perfect after all. I snort, blowing off the wealth of his place. Who cares how fuckinʼ rich Fitzgerald is if he needs shit like this?
“Whoa—what's this?” Lariat looks to Noose and holds up a piece of paper.
Frustrating letters crawl across it. I can read some, but not most.
“Birth certificate says Rothschild, not Fitzgerald.”
“Yeah,” Noose says, ransacking the other drawers without looking up, “Took his mother's name. Father's got money coming out of his ass. Different last name.”
That strikes me as weird.
“Why though?”
“Who the fuck knows? Richies have their own set of rules. Makes sense to them,” Wring says, setting the piece of paper down.
Slowly, I close the d
rawer filled with lube, a grim knowledge eating at my brain. “He wouldn't take her here.”
Lariat, Wring, and Noose look at me.
“What do ya mean?” Noose frowns. “You know something I don't?”
I quickly shake my head. “No, but Fitzgerald is about himself. And he wants to keep things separate. I bet you he's taken Krista somewhere that's easier to hide his sick brand of shit.”
I wipe damp palms on my black pants. Getting worked up again, thinkinʼ about Fitzgerald having Krista.
Wring's face lights even as his glacial eyes narrow. “Daddy's.”
“Bingo,” Lariat says, slamming the drawer.
“Field trip,” Noose says, and claps me on the back as he makes his way to the bedroom door. “Way to make a leap of logic, Trainer.”
I tense. “You sayinʼ I'm smart?”
“I'm saying I never doubted it.”
Chapter 30
Krista
My legs dangle as Allen easily carries me upstairs.
I recognize his father's house. I've been here a couple of times in the nearly two years we'd been dating.
Allen doesn't have to do much work to get me upstairs.
The elevator does most of it.
I watch the bright blue-white light of the LED numbers tick off from B to the third floor, then a sharp ding tells me we’ve arrived.
Allen steps out, and another man steps forward.
I'm too weak to flinch, but I know a bodyguard—or just plain guard—when I see one.
He holds his arms open, and Allen transfers me to him.
“She reeks.”
“Yes.” Allen gives me a tender smile, and I shiver. “Our Krista needed a little lesson.”
The guard’s pockmarked face, riddled with the evidence of teenage acne, puckers in obvious disgust. “I'll have a girl get her cleaned up.”
Allen shakes his head.
“You do it.”
The guard raises his head. “I don't know if Mr. Rothschild's duty list expands to cover washing the piss and puke off this woman.”
I listen to them discuss me, but don't even have the strength to be embarrassed.
Allen lifts a shoulder. “That's not my concern. Mr. Rothschild said he wanted her cleaned up.”
