Silo let his focus fade again as he stared at a picture on his far wall. It was a large picture of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Fucking popes.
After several moments, he finally nodded. “All right. Let’s do it. At this point, as you said, it certainly can’t hurt. Don’t push things too hard. Let it organically blossom.” They’d successfully used identical tactics to run behind-the-scenes smear campaigns against liberal politicians in especially close elections.
“Excellent. I’ll get started on the planning right away.”
Jerald turned to go. Before he reached the door, Silo stopped him. “Push to get me an appointment with President Kennedy,” he said. “Soon. And privately. We need to follow up with that avenue of access, although I’d really wished I hadn’t needed to use her this early in the process.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“She owes us. Time for us to call the favor in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once he was alone, Silo closed his eyes and tried to think happy thoughts.
Like big bank balances.
Full tithing plates.
Young, nubile, virginal brides with their asses thoroughly striped by his belt and tears running down their faces.
Aaaand there’s my center of peace restored.
He reached down and adjusted the bulge now pressing against the front of his slacks. Yes, time to push those plans forward now, to complete all the strongholds and make his final choices for his future brides. Once the larger outbreaks started, it might be difficult to get the construction finished.
Soon. He was so close he could feel it. Right on the brink of reaching the summit. He couldn’t give up now. He’d come so far, it would be a waste not to follow through.
It’s just a minor monkey wrench in my plans. Nothing I can’t overcome. Everything worth working for is worth working for. If I quit when it gets difficult, I don’t deserve it.
He felt the smile return to his face. The Drunk Monkeys were running on borrowed time. He hoped wherever they were, that they were enjoying themselves.
Because he was going to fuck up their unholy existence.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was sunset. To the west, the sun looked like a reddish orange orb as it struggled to pierce the smog and smoke cloaking the Los Angeles area through its descent into the Pacific Ocean.
Stacia stood on the shore, at the high tide line, looking at the abalone shells and seaweed strewn along the shore.
To their left, seagulls dove and squawked over a sea lion carcass that had washed up about fifty yards away.
Lima and Quack stood behind her, each with a hand on her shoulder, ready to catch her if she needed them.
Since picking her aunt’s ashes up that morning from the mortuary, Quack paying the undertaker cash to claim the small cardboard box, she’d held it clutched to her chest and didn’t speak.
The men had driven her to a place where they could easily climb down to the beach area from the road. There used to be public beaches and seaside houses along this part of the California shoreline, until the last series of great quakes had shaken them into the sea.
She’d waited until sunset, because she’d wanted the memory of her aunt having one pain-free day, even if only vicariously, and being able to watch an ocean sunset. Her men hadn’t questioned, hadn’t made suggestions. They’d simply been there for her, holding her, guiding her, supporting her.
Loving her.
Stacia didn’t know how much longer she had on the earth. She did know she’d spend it with those two men. No way in hell she’d ever let go of them.
Never.
There also wasn’t a single doubt in her mind about their feelings for her, or hers for them.
She’d go down fighting alongside them, if necessary.
And hopefully it would be after personally castrating Reverend Hannibal Silo.
It was between wave sets now, the surf gentle and easy. She pulled the lid off the box and unfastened the twist tie holding the plastic bag inside closed. Then she stepped down to the water’s edge and carefully tipped the box upside down so the eastern breeze carried the ashes further out into the surf.
The men moved with her, leaving their hands gently resting on her back, reminders they were there for her.
When she finished, she straightened and stared as the waves claimed her aunt’s cremains. She closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath of the salt air. It was comforting to think about her aunt, her uncle, her mom, and her dad now all part of the Pacific. She barely remembered the day she and her aunt and Marvin had come to the water and given over her mom’s ashes to the Pacific.
She was too young to remember doing it for her father.
They’d stopped by the park next to the apartment building the night before and the men allowed her to quickly scoop a small handful of dirt from the base of the oak tree and put it in a small baggie. She withdrew the baggie from her pocket, opened it, and tipped it upside down so the contents also joined the Pacific.
“I know that’s not you, Marvin, but it’s from where we had our best times. Take care of them all for me, okay? I promise, I’ll try to make this right. Love you, bro.”
She stepped back, into the men’s arms, letting them hold her with Quack in front of her, her face resting against his chest, and Lima behind her. The breeze blew across and around them, but they were too close together for it to get between them.
“We’ll get him, babe,” Lima whispered. “We promise.”
“I don’t just want him dead,” she said. “I want him broken first.”
“Roger roger,” Quack said, kissing the top of her head. “It’ll be our pleasure.”
When she was ready to leave, Lima took the empty box and carried it for her as they walked, together, hand in hand back toward the trail up to where they’d parked the truck.
When she looked back over her shoulder, the sun was halfway below the horizon and sinking fast.
Tonight she’d let them hold her and love her and distract her mind from her grief and loss.
Tomorrow, she’d set to work learning everything she could to make sure she kept her promise to Marvin.
If it’s the last thing I do.
THE END
WWW.TYMBERDALTON.COM
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tymber Dalton lives in the Tampa Bay region of Florida with her husband (aka “The World’s Best Husband™”) and too many pets. Active in the BDSM lifestyle, the two-time EPIC winner is also the bestselling author of nearly sixty books, including The Reluctant Dom, The Denim Dom, Cardinal’s Rule, the Suncoast Society series, the Love Slave for Two series, the Triple Trouble series, the Coffeeshop Coven series, the Good Will Ghost Hunting series, and many more.
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Dalton, Tymber - Monkey Wrench [Drunk Monkeys 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 21