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Chapter 6
Puke splatters far tooclose to my loafers. My mouth twists down as I look up to the man behind the desk. Cigar between his sausage fingers as smoke bellows around each word. "I need him gone." Mr. Bishop says.
"I'm a fixer not a fucking rehab. What is it you want me to do with him?" I look over to the twenty-year-old in question. Hisskin is pale and sickly, a layer of sweat gleaming. He lays on the floor in the fetal position, puke trickling out of his open mouth.
Mr. Bishop waves a hand, his gray mustache flicking up in a sneer at his nephew. "I can’t have him tarnishing my name any further. You're a fixer, so fucking fix this."
"I don’t kill the innocent." I grit out.
He laughs, hard. The sound ending in a cough. "Grow morals overnight, Atticus? Get this trash out of my sight." He waves a dismissive hand.
With a sigh, I grab the boy by the collar of his shirt, tossing him into the back of my car. I drive ten miles to the closest rehab and drop his ass off at the front door. I'm not killing an innocent, not for money or fucking anything.
I drive, my hands gripping the luxury of the leather steering wheel as I race down the city of Seattle. I pull into the familiar parking garage, keying in the code that makes the gate rise. I pull into the parking spot, killing my car and releasing a breath. Stupid rich fucks never clean up their own messes. They just throw money at me and expect me to bow down and do it. I'm my own boss. I choose what I do and don't do. And that wasn't a job for a fixer, that was a goddamn call for help.
I climb out of the car, stride to the elevator and punch in the digits that will take me to my illicit gambling ring operation.The elevator goes below the parking garage, underground and opens up in a brightly lit room. The sounds of bells, the slap of cards, roll of dice and the sliding of chips all greet my ears before I even step out into the lobby. The vacant lobby, except for the security guard that stands at the door. I take the side hall that leads to my office. Unlocking it with a swipe of my fingerprint, the door swings open and I take my seat behind my desk, pulling up the video footage of the private rooms I frequent when I feel the need to destroy someone’s life in another form. I'm not surprised to see Joseph, but his appearance is one to be worriedabout if I cared. Like the fact his usual pressed clothes are wrinkled, his eyes sunken and coated in thick dark circles. How his body is slumped, and his eyes are wide, taking in everything and everyone around him. Seems he hasn't slept much and for good reason. He lost his fiancée to The Beast, Seattle’s number one fixer. Fuck, I wouldn't sleep either. He's thinking about all the ways I'm hurting her. Raping her, torturing her. That's if she's even still alive or if I finally had my fill and let her go to the big sleep with the fishes.
I smirk. Little does he know, she's perfectly fine.For now.
I'm about to go taunt him when my phone rings. My personal one that only very few have. Bringing it to my ear, I say, "What?"
"Sir, I think you should come home."
I rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose. Francis has always been too soft for his own good. "Why?"
He clears his throat. "She's not eating, sir. I can’t get her out of bed. I think she's starving herself. I'm very worried."
"Let her die. One less person to worry about." But even as I say it, I don’t mean it. For some fucking reason, I don’t want her dead. Not just yet. Growling, I say, "I'll be home soon."
Gettingto my island isn't a quick trip. Not by a long shot. It's five hours to Seattle on a good day. When I arrive in the middle of the night, the house feels different. Colder somehow. Which is saying something since I stalk around this place. But the energy is not.... lively by any measure. I throw my case on the ground next to the front door, untucking my shirt and tossing my suit jacket. Francis meets me at the stairs. His grim face tells meenough to know it's serious. I've been gone for a week. After seeing her reaction to my present, I figured space was the best option for now. But maybe, maybe I was wrong.
I take the stairs two at a time. Reaching her door in record time. I don’t knock, but when I twist the door handle it's locked. I pound on the door, "Open up, Little Bird."
Nothing.
These doors are imported, rare, but they can get fucked if they're in my way of something I want. Taking a step back, I send my foot into the door, causing it to crash and splinter off the hinges. And the sight before me is enough to send most grown men to their knees. Not me, I don’t do the dramatics of emotions. In a white dress in the chair that overlooks the balcony, sits Constance. Blood spilling down one arm that rests on the armchair. She's not dead, even though she has definitely tried to be.
"Failure at killing yourself, I see."
Her head rolls towards me, the shadows to rival her ex-fiancés, the moon lighting pale skin with a sickly sheen. She's lost weight, weight she didn’t need to lose. Like a skeleton.
I take powerful strides towards her, slowly looking her over and tsking. I snatch the kitchen steak knife from her. "You see, the problem with your tactics is that you went side to side." I motion to her deep cut. I roll my shirt sleeve up, pushing the knife from the bottom of my hand and slicing in a straight line. Red metallic pours from my skin and her eyes widen slightly as it pulls to the surface, dripping over my fingertips. "You need to go up and down if you want to do some real damage." I toss the knife into her lap. I box her in, leaning my face close to hers as I whisper. "I am your God. I'll choose when you die." I rub a thumb over her trembling lips.
I snatch her body up out of the chair, throwing her over a shoulder as I stalk to her bathroom and turning the shower on.I toss her in, clothes and all, watching the clear water turn red. "Get cleaned up." I sneer.
I stalk out, meeting Francis’s disapproving stare.
He's too soft to know what she needs.
She needs me.
Chapter 7
“I’ll never forget how depression and loneliness felt good and bad at the same time. Still does.”? Henry Rollins, The Portable Henry Rollins.
I stare downat the angry line of blood clotting inside the white bandage. No matter how many times I hit it, pull at it, someone always finds me and patches me back up. The sadness has turned to rage. Rage at not allowing me to have control of the situation I'm in. If I'm going to die, I should get to pick when. Yes, I was trying to die, but cutting my wrist wasn't the way I was going to go out. I just wanted to feelsomething.Pain seemed like the best option. It is, which is why I keep opening the wound. But I don’t need the wound open when I sit at the table across fromThe Beast. He smirks as I pull on my restraints, my hands fastened to the damn armchairs like a prisoner. He leans back in his chair, all powerful and smooth with a face that is far too pretty to belong to such a monster. God, I hate him.
"Rules."
