Quinton's Crucible

by Trent Evans

  Grayson’s punch came so fast, Quinton’s head rocked to the side before Anna realized what had happened. Someone in the crowd bit off a surprised yelp.

  Anna gripped his shoulder, hoping her touch was reassuring to the man who up until thirty seconds ago had been her slave.

  “You foul-mouthed fucking punk.” Grayson spit at Quinton’s feet.

  But Quinton stood his ground, rubbing his jaw. “Not bad for an old fuck like you.”

  Brauer chuckled, stepping closer, the barrel of the gun an inch from Quinton’s nose. Quinton stilled, the muscles of his back going rigid under her palm.

  Oh, shit.

  “You’ll be smart to shut that mouth, friend,” Brauer said, his voice cold and smooth. His eyes were like twin spots of obsidian, his gaunt, long face breaking out into a grin that resembled a death mask. “I think it’s time you came with us. If Ms. Shaw doesn’t want to finish her work, then we’ll take over for her.”

  A silver gun pressed to Brauer’s temple. “You so much as move and I blow your brains all over your boss.”

  Darynn!

  It was Grayson’s turn to laugh then, his deep chortle echoing through the now deathly quiet club. He shook his head mockingly as he straightened the cuffs of his shirt. “Put the gun down, Hauser. You’re outnumbered here. Who do you think owns this place? The Trust? I got news for you — I am the Trust.” His eyes went flat and cold, his voice a jagged snarl. “You shoot my friend there, and your carpet-munching ass will be dropped before you make it two steps out of here. George Trask isn’t here to bail your asses out. What I say, goes. Get the picture?”

  The crowd stirred as two more men stepped forth, opening the jackets of their suits to expose the flat black sidearms at their waists.

  Grayson lifted a finger toward Darynn, waving it as one might admonish a child. “Now, I suggest you put the gun down.”

  Anna looked at her friend. “It’s okay, Darynn. Put it down.”

  “Over my dead fucking body,” her stubborn friend said, cocking her gun.

  “I’d like to see that,” Bauer drawled, despite the gun jammed against the side of his head.

  “Nobody’s going to be shooting anyone,” a deep voice rang out.

  Turning toward the voice, Anna felt like her heart had stopped, even as she smiled.

  Thank Christ.

  The crowd gasped softly at the sight of George Trask. The man was built remarkably similar to his son, with the same rangy build, the broad shoulders and trim waist — though his particular head of dark hair was seriously graying at the temples.

  “You were saying about George not being here?” Anna crossed her arms over her chest. “Contract canceled, asshole.”

  For the first time since she’d known the man, Anna saw a note of uncertainty in Corddray’s flinty gaze. But it was gone as fast as it appeared.

  “So much for the Toronto trip then?” Corddray sneered at George. He extended his arm toward Quinton. “Not going to change things though. Your boy comes with me.”

  “Come on,” Brauer said, waving his gun at Quinton.

  George’s jaw clenched, his charcoal gray suit well-fitted, showing off well the older man’s still-muscular build. “We both know that’s not going to happen, Grayson. Tell your attack dog to put that piece down, or we’re going to have… a problem.”

  The two men flanking George, dressed in dark suits and sunglasses, the pair of figures strongly reminiscent of Agents from The Matrix, stepped to either side, retrieving pistols from their coats and training them on Corddray and his hatchet man.

  George’s lip quirked. “I don’t think either one of us wants that, do we?”

  Corddray glared at his rival, eyes blazing, his square jaw like granite. Not a sound could be heard in the entire space, the onlookers not even daring to breathe. Then he flicked a glance at his subordinate. “Let him go.”

  Brauer betrayed not the slightest hint of emotion as he lowered his weapon, holstering it in a calm, almost relaxed motion, straightening his suitcoat, his soulless gaze fixed on Anna as he did so. “Shame. I was looking forward to cleaning up the mess you’ve made of what used to be Quinton.”

  Quinton stood nose to nose with the cold-blooded goon. “I’m right here, you fucking yes-man.”

  Brauer didn’t so much as move a muscle, staring into Quinton’s face, as unflappable — and heartless — as a machine. “There will be a time. I promise.”

  “Stand down, Brauer,” Corddray snarled, his gaze training on George once more. “There will be a Quorum called, Trask. And I’m telling them everything about what your degenerate fucking spawn did to Genna. You’re going to wish Anna had done her job once the Council votes in favor of my petition. Then we’ll see what we need to do about you.”

  “We’ll see about that,” George said, softly. “First though, you and your bag men are going to leave these premises. Now.”

  Grayson spit the words at Quinton. “This isn’t done.”

  They watched them stalk out, pushing their way through the crowd, everyone giving the tall, creepy Mr. Brauer the same sort of wide berth one might an undertaker — or a hangman.

  George nodded toward the guard to his left. “Follow them, Brant. If they aren’t out of the building in ten minutes, call me.”

  The guard nodded, he and his partner strolling unhurriedly toward the entrance as the music began to swell again, the crowd dispersing slowly, while hanging in the air there was a sense of disaster averted, of dangerous tension finally defused.

  “You crazy fucking bitch,” Anna hissed, even as she hugged her friend fiercely.

  “Don’t get mushy on me, you lesbo,” Darynn muttered, pulling away after she could bear it no longer. Her black top rode up, exposing her tight midriff as she shoved the silver pistol in the back waistband of her jeans. “I knew you were going to get your ass in a sling again. Seems to be habit with you.”

  Quinton, his face drawn and pale, nodded at the blonde. “Th-thank you, Darynn.”

  “I didn’t do this for you,” Darynn snapped, glaring at the man. “I did it for my friend. You’re lucky she thinks so much of you.”

  Anna touched his arm. “Quinton.”

  He looked down at her, confusion in his eyes. “Mistr—”

  She placed a finger over his lips. “I’m not her. Not anymore.”

  “What?” He took a step back, looking from Anna to Darynn. “What the fuck is… happening?”

  Anna didn’t let him go far though, hooking a finger in his collar and reeling him back in. “Turn around,” she said, giving him a smile.

  He obeyed instantly, her surge of helpless arousal bittersweet, almost painful.

  Just get it over with, Anna.

  Working as fast as her suddenly trembling fingers allowed her, she unsnapped his collar, and pulled the leather from around his neck.

  He touched the pale band there as if she’d exposed his most private of places. Perhaps she had.

  She took his hand, and pressed a soft kiss to the knuckles, her gaze meeting his, a pricking sensation at the back of her eyes. “You’re free to go, boy.”

  George stepped in, a long, dark cloak in his hands. He wrapped it around his son’s shoulders, then stared at him a moment. Then, the halting, uncomfortable movement like someone just learning a new dance step, the two men embraced.

  She left the men then, heading for the exit, the storm of emotion within her threatening to break down her will to do what was right.

  To do what needed to be done.

  Anna stopped at the doors, chancing a look back, one last time, to find Quinton’s gaze following her. She’d never forget Quinton’s lost, hurt, confused stare, his big, blue gorgeous eyes welling with tears.

  Chapter 34

  I stood out on the windswept deck, admiring the stunning view of the north side of Seattle. My hair — longer than I’d ever let it get before — blew around in the breeze. I hadn’t shaved in at least a month, the wind whispering through my whiskers in a w
ay I still wasn’t used to.

  That apartment had been my pride and joy. How many parties had I held there? How many empty, selfish, indulgent orgies of excess?

  All of that was gone. The sprawling pad was now as empty as my soul.

  I’d initially thought I’d simply loan the place to a friend, sub-let it for no other reason than to justify my keeping it. But like so much in my former life, my friends… were no longer. I didn’t even return what few calls I got anymore. I didn’t know who was a hanger-on or who was a real, true friend.

  Considering who I’d been, the things I’d done, I wasn’t sure I wanted to associate with a person who would have called me friend.

  It reminded me of the old Groucho Marx quip:

  I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member.

  So, I just decided to sell the thing. In the white-hot Seattle real estate market, I’d had multiple offers the same day it was listed. I was supposed to hand over the keys to the title company in the morning.

  It was going to be a seven figure transaction, but I didn’t need the money. I just needed to have this reminder of my old life, the old me, removed.

  Was it a new start I needed? Or was I simply burning down the rotten edifice of an existence that was nothing more than a sick joke, a facade as bogus as any feelings I’d thought I felt for any human being in my life.

  Life afterward, after what I’d gone through… wasn’t much of a life after all. After my ordeal, after how much I’d been turned inside out, after all the hours I’d spent alone in my cell, with only my fears and doubts and rage to keep me company, it was ironic that I was only able to find a modicum of peace when I was alone.

  I’d walked down to Green Lake one night well after eleven o’clock. I had no idea why I did it — or where I was going. There weren’t many people along the shore, in the dark, in the stillness of the cold evening. The fog had that same sort of acrid note I’d always liked, a memory from childhood, I supposed.

  A kid with a metal stud through his nose, smelling of dirty human and marijuana, had shambled up to me as I’d walked. He’d asked if I had any spare change, giving me his story. It might have been fiction, it might have been the truth. In the past, it wouldn’t have mattered. The old me would have told him to fuck off — maybe even threatened to kick the shit out of him. I’d enjoyed scaring those kids off, those “punks.”

  This time, I’d listened to him.

  It was uncomfortable, but after what I’d been through, I felt like I could endure anything. When he finally went silent, I hadn’t known what to say. I wasn’t used to even expressing kindness, let along feeling compassion.

  It was alien to me. And that fact had filled me with a powerful shame.

  For a moment, we simply stared at each other, the night sounds of the city strangely muted by the thickening fog. The kid looked haggard, a hopelessness that lent a grizzled twist to his features far beyond his years. I never went anywhere without at least a thousand dollars in cash. I gave him everything I had on me, pressing the wad of bills into his dirty hand and mumbling something about him taking care of himself.

  It wasn’t enough, but it was something. I hated that I had to rationalize things, even then.

  I’d become somebody occupying the space of an old life, of an expired existence.

  I had no idea what to do with myself. I didn’t have to work — I wouldn’t ever have to work the rest of my life, if I didn’t want to. I wasn’t sure I even knew how to work now.

  All of my thoughts always circled back to the same thing.

  Her.

  What was she doing? What was she thinking? Did she miss me at all?

  I shook my head dejectedly, disgusted with my idiotic thoughts.

  “Why the fuck would she miss you, asshole? She was doing her job.”

  But was she? Even in my darkest, most self-destructive moment, I still could feel it.

  There had been something there, something between us.

  The problem was — I didn’t know what the fuck it was.

  Stockholm syndrome is what it was. Accept it.

  The night she let me into her bed, into her body, into her heart… that wasn’t Stockholm syndrome. I knew it.

  And yet, she let me go anyway. No, she pushed me away. Why?

  The thought of it — that moment — it caused a twisting pain deep within me each time. What did that mean?

  For days, weeks, I’d gone round and round in my mind about all of this. What had I become? I didn’t recognize my existence anymore. I didn’t recognize me anymore.

  How was it possible that part of me — and maybe much more — longed to see her again? My captor. My tormentor.

  My Mistress.

  Like everything else in the ruins of what used to be my world, I had no answer. I wasn’t sure I knew up from down. But maybe there was someone who did have the answer.

  Maybe there was someone who might be able to steer me straight.

  And tell me why my heart ached.

  * * *

  I found him sitting down at the end of his dock. Lake Washington stretched out all around, the wind calm, the water as smooth as a mirror.

  “You only ever come out here when something’s bothering you.”

  My Dad looked up at me from his book, his tan coat wrapped around his broad shoulders as he sat in the battered Adirondack chair he refused to retire, no matter how many times he’d had to repair it.

  He tilted his head toward the other chair, but his expression didn’t change.

  I didn’t blame him one bit.

  Taking a seat, I took a deep breath, just needing to get this all out before I pussed out and beat cheeks out of there.

  “Dad, I’m sorry.”

  He slowly laid his book down across his lap, his hand flattening upon the faded denim of his thigh. He met my gaze, but said nothing.

  “I know I’ve been… nothing but a fucking pain in the ass for you and Mom. My whole life.”

  “Quinton, you—”

  I held up a hand. “Just let me say this. Okay?”

  He gave me a little nod, his glare beginning to thaw a bit.

  “I was wrong — about everything. I was stupid, and selfish, and I… I hurt you both.” I swallowed, the lump in my throat threatening to choke off the remaining words I knew I had to say. “I should have listened to you. I just… I thought I had everything handled, you know? I wish I’d lived my life differently. The way you have.”

  I watched him for a long time as he looked out at the lake, the reflection off the water playing faint yellow light across his jaw, the light sparkling in his eyes. “You… you’ve got a lot to make up for. A lot to make amends for, son. I’m not going to deny it. It’s not going to be easy.” My Dad’s lip quirked. “But no matter what you get up to, no matter how much you fuck up — and you did. Badly. It doesn’t change things. You’re still the boy I raised. You’re still my son.”

  He gave me a wan smile then, and I felt my heart clench. How long had it been since my father smiled at me?

  He continued. “I should have stopped this a long time ago. It should never have gone this far. It’s my responsibility… and I failed.”

  “You didn’t fail.” I leaned toward him, gripping the arms of my chair as if to bolster my courage to say what needed to be said. “I wasn’t going to listen to anyone… let alone my fucking parents. That’s not your fault.”

  My Dad met my eye, the sudden sadness in his expression making my breath catch in my chest. “You’re kind to say that, son. Someday, I even might be able to forgive myself for being a shitty fucking father. Maybe. But… I’ve failed more than you.”

  I leaned back, my mouth hanging open. “What… I don’t know what you mean?”

  Dad lifted his chin toward the water. “Out there. There’s trouble. Serious trouble — and I let it get this way. Let things fester far longer than they ever should have.”

  Grayson.

  I’d always foun
d it funny, in a way, that the two most powerful Trust members on the planet lived on opposite sides of the same picturesque lake in Washington state. The symbolism held a black irony now. As big and all-powerful as the organization was, it still came down to — mostly — two grizzled, dangerous men. An amoral egotist, and a pragmatic peacemaker.

  “What are you going to do?” It was a stupid question, but even now, even as a young, independent man… I looked up to him. That I’d never once told him so was a bitter pill to swallow.

  Even now, after everything I’d done, he still stood by me.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do about him, not yet anyway.” My Dad rose to his feet, pacing the dock, the boards creaking with each step, his hands crossed at the small of his back. It made me think of a general pacing before his troops, the day before a dangerous invasion.

  “What he and I agreed to — what Grayson demanded. With you.”

  I wasn’t able to suppress the heating of my cheeks, but I had the sense to stay silent. I still wasn’t sure what to feel about the knowledge I’d been used as essentially a bargaining chip to keep the peace.

  You got off easy, asshole.

  Dad sighed. “I thought it would be enough. That it would avoid… all of this.” He turned toward me, though he still gazed out at the lake. “It was just delaying the inevitable. A band-aid. It was me being a coward, to be honest about it.”

  “Cowardice and George Trask don’t belong in the same sentence, Dad.”

  He gave me a bittersweet smile then, and it eased my growing unease, if only a little.

  “I’m sure that wasn’t the first thing you thought when you realized how it was you ended up in your little predicament.”

  “No… no, it wasn’t.”

  The truth was, once I’d learned I’d been taken in an effort to teach me a lesson, I was fairly certain I never wanted to see my father again.