by Lewis, R. J.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. In the rare event I don’t return later tonight, Gerry and the men will look after you.”
As if on cue, Gerry stepped out from behind the steering wheel and waited for me. Another meathead I couldn’t remember the name of slipped into the front seat, looking straight ahead.
I frowned. “If you don’t return tonight, can you call Graeme and have him with me instead?”
“Why?”
“He’s familiar to me.”
“Emma –”
“Please.”
Borden sighed. “Fine.”
I wouldn’t push my luck asking for Hawke too. That was not a safe territory yet to venture into. I turned away and opened the door. Just as I put a foot out, Borden’s hand wrapped around my arm. I looked at him just in time to catch his lips against mine. He kissed me tenderly, a kiss filled with assurance, and when he pulled back, he didn’t say anything. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and then I turned back and he let me go.
Nine
Borden
It didn’t feel right stepping into the warehouse without his right hand man Hawke by his side. He didn’t like to be surrounded by bikers, circling around him like hungry vultures. But they weren’t looking at him. Their eyes were centred on the fat fuck tied to the steel chair. Hector stood by his side, arms crossed, and his cut on full display.
“This is Bull?” Borden asked, eyeballing the sweaty fat man. He was in nothing but his white soiled briefs on, his chest a black carpet of moist hair, his head bald and glistening, and his eyes blindfolded. He was a major disappointment to Borden. He would be easy to crack. The stench of fear clung to him, an inescapable giveaway that this man would do anything to survive.
But he couldn’t survive this. It was a disturbing fact that came hand in hand with Marcus Borden. This man crossed him the second he opened his mouth and signed his death wish.
“Yeah,” Hector replied. “How do you want to do this? Knives?” The man whimpered. “Hammer and nails?” The man’s lips trembled. “I’ve got some of my best men here that are fucking mint with torture methods. They’ll make any dick squawk like a porn star.”
Borden sighed. He didn’t want to do this. What he wanted was to be in bed with his woman, cradling her in his arms, talking dirty in her ear. Torture was different to a swift clean kill. Torture meant getting his hands dirty, and that usually left scars to his mental state.
He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his knuckleduster. He’d put miles of blood on this baby. “Time to go back to the old ways, huh?” he murmured vacantly. The will inside of him had died, though. This type of violence had become nothing but a drain on his soul, and the only thing keeping him going was putting the man behind that message down. “I’d like to get this done fast, to be fucking frank. I’ll handle it my way, and that means I want to be left alone with him.”
“You want me gone?”
“Just your men.”
Hector nodded and wasted no time. He turned to his men and ordered the Warlord members out. When the warehouse was completely empty, Hector lingered nearby, watching as Borden approached the chair and removed the blindfold off the blob of man seated there. The man’s eyes shot open, blinking rapidly, bloodshot and swollen. He stared up at Borden, his mouth twisting in fear.
“They call you Bull, isn’t that right?” Borden said, his voice void of feeling as he stared down at him. “You know who I am?”
The man didn’t respond. He could hardly look in Borden’s eyes. The cuffs around his wrists shook against the steel chair as he watched Borden fit the knuckledusters on and whimpered out. Borden glanced disgustedly down at the man’s briefs and the freshly soaked patch between his legs growing bigger by the second. The smell of it hit his nostrils strong, and he recoiled for a moment.
“He’s a pisser,” Hector called out just as the piss formed lines down the legs of the man. “Men say he’s pissed himself four times already.”
“You the kind that begs, Bull?” Borden then asked. “I’d rather get that beta shit out of the way now instead of later.”
“I-I don’t know why I’m here,” Bull cried out.
“Don’t lie.”
“I haven’t done anything, Mr Borden.”
“Don’t. Lie.” Borden repeated slowly, his anger rising. “And don’t you fucking think that pissing your underwear and crying out like a little pussy is going to erase who you are and all you’ve done. People talk, Bull. They say a lot of shit, and they’ve been running their mouth about you, talking about how much you’ve been running me down.”
“That’s not true! I swear it.”
Borden immediately swung his fist into the man’s face, splitting his skin and bloodying his mouth in one clean punch. In a split second, the man’s face bloodied and he howled in pain. Leaning over the man, Borden gripped his dusters tighter, already coated in blood, and snarled, “I told you not to fucking lie. Every time you lie, I’m going to take a pound of flesh off you. Either you crumble now and tell me what you know, or I’ll force every word out of you until you’re nothing but blood and bone. Got it?”
But the man just sobbed and shook his head, begging.
Begging like it would do him good.
Borden shook his head and raised his fist again.
*
The man surprised Borden. He was stronger than he originally thought. Even though he sobbed like a little girl, he tolerated pain remarkably. Borden knew what was going on. Bull hoped if he carried on with his lies, they’d believe them. On and on he denied talking shit about Borden. He had no idea who would want to watch him fall. He made no plans to bring him down. He was just an innocent man, unrightfully terrorised.
The more Borden heard, the angrier he grew.
He was tired of playing soft. He was sick of hoping the man had easy cracks. Bull needed a lot of work, and Borden snapped. He lost it. He stopped holding back with his strikes. He erupted.
Hector stepped in at some point, careful not to touch Borden, who was panting and pissed and on a hair trigger. “He won’t be able to talk if you break his jaw, Borden.”
“I don’t give a fuck about him talking anymore,” Borden retorted. “I’m punching to kill next time –”
“No!” Bull screamed, his face swollen beyond recognition. He could hardly open his eyes, but tears continued to stream out of them as he slobbered and begged. “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me –”
“Then fucking talk or I’ll start with your fucking eyes next!”
More piss.
More blood.
More strikes.
It was the eyeball forced out of Bull’s socket that finally cracked him.
“Terry Mulligan!” he screeched in pain, sobbing uncontrollably. “His name is Terry Mulligan.”
“What about him?” Borden demanded, wiping the blood off with an old rag Hector passed to him.
“He’s after you!”
“Why?”
Bull wheezed, trying to gulp in air. “B-because of what you did!”
Borden threw the rag down and grabbed the prick by his double chin, forcing him to look up. “Fucking get to the point! What did I do?”
“Y-you killed his boys.”
“I’ve killed a lot of fucking people! Be specific.”
“The brothers you murdered…for killing the girl.”
Borden went still. His eyes searched the maggot, finding nothing but truth in the words he spewed.
“Does he have people following him?” Hector then interjected. “What power does he have? Come on, Bull, don’t fucking make us wait all night for this shit.”
Staring at them with his one swollen eye – the other bloodied and gouged out – he shook harder and rasped, “He’s a devil. In prison for-for fifteen years. Just got released five months ago. He ran these streets once. He wants them back. He’s underworld, man. Deep underworld. You can’t find him. He’s the puppet behind the strings, and he wants New Raven back and you dead.”
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Borden could feel Hector studying him, waiting for his next move. Truth was, he was taken completely off guard. The brothers he killed had a different name to Mulligan’s. There had been no familial connection.
“What do you want to do?” Hector finally asked him.
Borden exhaled slowly. “I want another chair in here so I can talk more thoroughly to our buddy Bull. We’ve got a lot of bumps to smooth in his story, and if he’s smart, he’ll keep his second eye.”
Hector snickered and went looking for another chair.
Meanwhile Borden stared into the eye of Bull and saw a fear there that even startled him. The man was more terrified of Mulligan than he was of Borden.
Ten
Emma
I spent the evening having a long hot bath, trying to comfort my aching body. More bruises crawled down my shoulder and upper arms. Bite marks around my collar bone and up my throat. I had taken a good chunk of hair out when I combed through it in the water, staring at the long strands he’d pulled out of my scalp as he fucked me. Even now, I was still bewildered that I liked the sight of it. The bruises, although easily misconstrued by a stranger’s eyes to be something far more sinister, were like little temporary trophies to me, reminding me of his pleasure. It was kind of deluded.
The man was a lunatic. I didn’t care. He was possessive and violent. I still didn’t care. He was jealous and rude, and he took what he wanted without fear or regret. And I didn’t fucking care. I fell into a light sleep with the last thought of how little I cared and how much it no longer bothered me that our relationship was built on a lot of dysfunctional crap a therapist would be bursting at the seams to dissect.
My eyes shot open at the sound of a door closing. I bolted upright in bed and looked around the room, unsure if hours had passed, or minutes. I looked at the clock on the night table. It was two in the morning and Borden’s spot on the bed was unfilled. More light noises caused my head to whip to the side and my heart to spike. I stared at the bathroom door, listening intently. I could hear clothing being torn off and dropped to the floor, and then the sound of the water from the shower head bursting.
It was Borden.
Of course.
No machete yielding man ready to murder me or anything.
I moved to the edge of the bed, straining to listen to his every movement; from the moment he stepped into the shower stall, to the glass door closing, I’d held my breath, wondering where he’d been after he’d dropped me off. I didn’t know what would compel him to go to the bathroom immediately upon coming home, and my curiosity got the better of me.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against it. I could faintly hear a grunt and a curse before the silence took over. I didn’t understand my hesitation, but I swallowed it down and turned the knob. The door swung open silently, and I caught him standing in the centre of the stall under the beating water. He was naked, and furiously cleansing himself.
I was about to call out his name when I saw what was coming off of him and circling the drain. It took a few full seconds for my brain to register it.
Blood.
I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the red. Oh, my God, there was so much red. Was he hurt?
“Borden,” I said in panic, my heart beating full force.
He turned around, narrowing his eyes at me. “What are you doing up?”
“Why are you bleeding?” I moved to him quickly, opening the shower stall door to get a better look at his red hands.
“Go back to bed, Emma,” he ordered.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m not –”
“You’re bleeding!”
“It’s not my blood.”
I froze, my wide eyes flickering up to his vacant blues. I could feel the blood in my face drain, and I imagined what I must have looked like, all pale and in shock. He didn’t want to stare into my questioning eyes. He looked away instead and resumed washing himself like nothing had happened, like I wasn’t even standing there. But I knew he was still watching me from the corner of his eye. I could tell by the stiffness in his shoulders, by the slower movements in his hands under the beating water, that he was affected.
“What happened?” I asked quietly, trying not to feel queasy at the sight of more blood flowing down the drain. He didn’t respond. “I’m not going away until you tell me, Marcus.”
I closed the glass door and sat down on the toilet seat, watching him intently. He rinsed himself off, scrubbing beneath his fingernails, glancing at me every few moments as I waited for him. When he finally finished, he stepped out and didn’t bother with a towel. He stood in front of me, dripping wet, his beard now a few inches long, his hair curling over his forehead, water lines trailing down his face. He glistened all over, his black and grey chest tattoos prominent against his tanned skin.
“We’re going to bed,” he stated simply. “Come on.”
“No,” I stubbornly replied. “What happened to you?”
He fisted his hand for a beat. I caught the movement, and my eyes flickered between his fist and his angry face. He’ll never hurt you.
“Marcus,” I whispered, catching the way his body began to tremble, that anger of his spiking alarmingly. I felt my fear climb, and I had to remind myself over and over again that he would never hurt me. He wasn’t like that, even though he scared me when he was this angry.
I hesitantly reached my hand out to him. “Marcus,” I said in a soft voice, “it’s okay.”
He took my hand and I pulled him down to me. He went to his knees, looking back at me with this disconnected look I couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized swiftly, resting my other hand on his face. “I shouldn’t have pushed. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. Don’t get angry, Marcus. It’s not worth it.”
He didn’t react to my words. He was so distant. Something was wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I let go of his hand and rested it on his face too. I stroked his bearded cheeks, trying my best to distract his anger with my touch.
“Hey,” I continued, “don’t go distant on me. Come back.”
Every time he looked away, I repeated my words, until his eyes were drawn back to mine. We stared at each other for what felt like forever, until slowly the anger he felt began to wean. His eyes gained focus, and he started to really look at me.
I smiled softly. “There we go. That’s the man I love.”
He inhaled sharply at my words, the blues of his eyes glistening. “I’m sick of it,” he hoarsely said. “I’m sick of it so much.”
“Sick of what, Marcus?”
“Sick of washing the blood from my hands.”
I swallowed hard at the pain in his voice. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” he replied vehemently, his lips quivering. “It’s fucking not okay. I can’t keep doing it. I thought I was numb. I thought I couldn’t feel anything, but every punch I gave tonight, I felt something inside me tear open. I felt this sick twisted feeling in my stomach, this fucking kind of remorse I couldn’t shake. The fucking realization I’m going to be doing this to people who cross me all my life; fighting them, torturing them, killing them, burying them and washing my hands clean of them. Washing the blood. Washing it away, but it’s still everywhere. I can see the red everywhere, and I can’t end it. I can’t fucking end it until I find this prick and tear him open.”
He was shaking. His face had gone pale, his lips turned blue. I quickly grabbed the towel off the hook behind the door and draped it over his ice cold body. Jesus Christ, his skin was freezing everywhere. Like he’d been washing himself in cold water.
“Let’s get you to bed, you’re tired,” I told him, feeling shaken by his words. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow when you’re thinking clearer.”
He gripped me by the shoulders, squeezing me tightly. “You’re not listening! I’m going to be doing this all my fucking life, Emma.”
“Then stop!”
“I can’t just fucking stop. People like me can’t stop. I’m stuck in this power, stuck fighting to stay on top. If I blink, I’m fucking dead. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, I hear you –”
“And you still want to stay? You still wanna be with a fucking target your whole life?”
“Marcus –”
“Answer me!”
“Yes!” I shouted, tears stinging my eyes.
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
He dropped his arms and collapsed to the ground, his back against the wall. He banged his head back, glaring up at the ceiling as another wave of anger tore through him. Moments passed in silence. I watched him every second, wondering what the hell had happened earlier to make him this way.
