by Zara Cox
Hell, even now I can’t tear my gaze off her. Impossibly, she’s more gorgeous in sleep. Maybe it’s because I can’t see her eyes, can’t hear that voice that promised to take care of me for Finnan. With her gloriously rich hair damp and just-fucked messy, her long lashes fanning her cheeks and her face devoid of makeup, I search for a whisper of the semi-innocent, sexy, shy girl I once knew.
Had she ever been there? Was it all a cover?
She gives a low moan and mumbles something in her sleep. My name? His name?
The renewed churning in my brain launches me out of bed. I sit on the edge, teeth gritted tight against the need to growl. Or wake her to demand answers to the questions plaguing me.
The hand I reach out to do just that hovers over her shoulder for a long second before I change direction and tug the covers over her.
There are others who owe me answers. Answers I won’t get sitting here, staring at her like the horny asshole she labeled me.
Silently, I dress, leave the room, and head up to the sixth floor.
There are no signs of life in the hallway at this time of the morning, for which I’m thankful. I reach my suite and command the lights.
The spotlight falls over the metal chair.
Is it really only a few short days since I indulged in that useless six-hour bender? My gaze drops to my wrist. It’s completely healed, although a few scabs remain here and there.
All the screens are blank. I don’t intend to activate all of them. Only one. I head to the concealed bar set into the wall and grab a bottle of water. Then I check my phone for messages. Nothing.
I’m acutely aware that I’m delaying taking a seat in the chair, delaying the inevitable. I drink the whole bottle, my gaze finally resting on the screen on the far right.
Sitting down in the chair, I pick up the remote. My hand is shaking. I don’t clench it or stiffen it to stop its damning tremble.
I deserve this. All of it.
The beginning of the video is laughably banal.
Early fall in Connecticut is the most beautiful time of the year. According to Cleo McCarthy, at least. Which means it was naturally my favorite time of year too.
The late-afternoon sun glints off the twenty-five-foot pool that fronts my pool house. The person manning the camera doesn’t pause to appreciate the russet-tinged leaves or the beginnings of a glorious sunset.
His hurried footsteps approach my sanctuary, bursting in without knocking. He bypasses the messy living room and flings open the bedroom door.
I’m sprawled facedown on the rumpled bed, naked except for a pair of Calvin Kleins.
He kicks the side of the bed with a heavily booted foot. “Hey, Axe-hole, it’s almost noon. Time to get up. Pa has a job he wants you to take care of.”
I jerk up, my stubbled face going from startled to pissed off in a nanosecond. I roll away from my noxious, uninvited visitor. “Stop pointing that fucking camera in my face or I’ll make you eat it.”
Troy’s mocking laughter. “You look like crap. You’ve been knocking back that shitty tequila again, haven’t you?”
My gaze slides from the camera, and I leap off the bed in a vain attempt to hide my true state. “Fuck off, Troy.”
He follows like a damn bloodhound. “Oh…wait! What you hiding, baby brother? Go on, tell me. I can keep a secret.”
I round on him, my anger flaring in my bloodshot eyes. “Jesus, I’m fucking warning you. Quit with that thing.” My chest rises and falls with uncontrolled breathing that I can’t regulate, probably due to the other, illegal substances coursing through my veins.
He retreats a few steps until I head into the bathroom. The moment I slam the door, he turns the camera on himself and waggles his eyebrows. “Methinks the baby bro doth protest too much. Either a) it’s his time of the month, or b) he’s hiding something. I don’t know about you, but I vote for door number…two. Shall we find out what he’s hiding?” He nods eagerly in agreement to his own question.
He starts opening and closing dresser drawers, closets. In the nightstand closest to where I sleep, he discovers a stack of condoms, and he smirks into the camera. Pillows are tossed, and my gym bag is turned upside down. He toes the contents, grunting in disappointment when he doesn’t find anything. He circles the room with the camera then points it at the bathroom door beyond which the shower is running.
“Okay…” he muses. “One last try and then, sadly, I’ll be forced to concede he’s as boring as he’s been begging me to believe.” Once again, he approaches my bed. He climbs onto it with one lunge. Now level with the huge surfer painting hanging above my bed, he runs a hand along the top of the frame, down the sides, and across the bottom. He lifts the wooden frame and peers behind it.
Finding nothing, he tramples across the bed to the right side.
About to hop off, he hesitates, leans forward, then lets out a triumphant laugh. “Fuck yeah, jackpot!”
The large black lamp on my nightstand has a cylindrical shade. On the inside is a baggie taped to one side. Troy turns on the lamp and positions the camera to perfectly capture my hiding spot. Reaching inside, he rips off the bag containing the white powder and holds it up properly to the lens.
“Oh, Axeeeeeeeel!”
I yank open the door, see what he’s holding in his hand and rush out of the bathroom. “The fuck are you doing, going through my things? Dammit, give that back.”
He holds my stash out of reach. “No, no, no. Possession is nine-tenths of the law or some fucking bullshit, right?”
“Not when you’re in my room, asshole.” I lunge for the coke but he steps back into the middle of the bed.
“Tell you what. You want this back, you have to earn it.”
My face congeals with boiling rage. “Fuck you!”
“Ah…no. I believe the fuck delivery is now firmly in your court. Your move, sunshine.” He shakes the bag in front of the camera.
I grip the towel around my waist tighter, my gaze moving from the camera to the coke.
“What the hell do you want?” I hear the compliant tone of a burgeoning addict in my voice.
“Like I said when I got here ten minutes ago—ten minutes of my life I’m never going to get back, by the way—Pa has a job he wants you to take care off.”
“Hell, no. Tell him thanks, but no thanks.” I turn around and head back into the bathroom.
He follows. I grab my razor and look up into the vanity mirror. Our gazes clash.
“I’m not your fucking messenger boy.” For the first time, the jocularity drops from Troy’s voice. “I’m even less inclined to act as your carrier pigeon when the last time I tried I got this.” In the reflection of the mirror, he taps the inch-wide gash on his chin that is still healing. “You’re fucking coming or I’m going to tell your little girlfriend about your nasty new habit. Let’s see how hot Cleo Spitfire is for you when she realizes you’re snorting shit up your nose. You do know that two overdoses in her father’s clubs is one of the reasons they hightailed it over here, right? You’re not going to be her darling boy any longer when she finds out. In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb and predict that she’ll drop you like a fucking stone.”
Fresh rage spikes my body. “Go ahead and tell her. I fucking dare you.”
He shrugs. “Alrighty, then.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. Flips it open.
I drop the razor and lunge for the phone. “Jesus. Okay! I’ll run whatever the hell this errand is. Afterwards, I’m changing the fucking locks to this place.”
When Troy slides his phone back into his pocket, I return to the vanity. In the reflection, I catch a wave of bitterness cross his face. “You can’t. You may think you’ve escaped to your own personal paradise, but you’re very much a puppet on his string. Just like the rest of us. So man the fuck up and stop whining at every little thing.”
“I’m no one’s fucking puppet. And all this is going to be behind me. Very soon.”
Through the mirror, I watch the camera low
er a touch, and Troy’s eyes narrow on me. “The fuck’s that mean?”
In the chair in the Punishment Club, I close my eyes for a moment, foolishly wishing I can go back in time and shut the fuck up. That my cocky, coked-up and hung-over nineteen-year old self can find a little bit of self-control and not give in to the need to gloat.
“Online gambling. My fucking ticket out of this slime hole.”
“You mean that poker crap you keep going on about?”
My smug eyes meet his. “I’ve made over thirty-seven thousand in five days doing ‘that poker crap.’ And tons of money doing other ‘crap.’ In one month, I can make a cool half mil. And you know the best thing? None of it requires breaking an old man’s arthritic fingers. Or putting a liquor store owner in the hospital.”
“You’re still breaking the law. You’re nineteen, Axe-hat. You can’t gamble in Connecticut until you’re twenty-one.”
I shrug and pick up my razor. “It’s a small technicality I can live with.”
His gaze stays on me, gray eyes, similar to mine, turning pensive. “Well…whatever. Hurry the fuck up before Pa sends Ronan. That dude’s ornerier than a box full of wasp-stung frogs.”
“Get the fuck out of my hair, and I will.”
“You better, or this cheerful bag of shit lands on Cleo Baby’s doorstep.” He starts to back up then stops. I know whatever’s coming will blow the top of my head off even before he speaks. “Hey, you know with her parents missing and Pa stepping up to adopt her, she’s going to be our sister, right? So technically, by messing around with her, you’re committing incest?”
I lose all interest in shaving. “Christ, were you born a full-fledged asshole or did you practice really, really hard?”
He shrugs. “Would rather be an asshole than a fucking perv.”
“Why don’t you go and do something useful then, asshole. Like find a fucking dictionary?”
“Nah, I’d rather go and tell the old man you’ll be there in three minutes and watch him time your ass.”
He leaves.
“And FYI, I haven’t done anything with her yet,” I call after him. He doesn’t respond.
The footage cuts to Finnan’s office. He’s seated behind his desk with Ronan standing to one side, as usual. His instructions are simple enough. “Bolton, you go pick up the Ferrari from New Jersey with Axel. Ronan and Troy will take care of the Camaro.”
Finnan casts a glance at Ronan. A look passes between them.
“That’s it? We’re just picking up a car?” The relief in my voice is palpable. I don’t need to stand around and watch Ronan deliver a knuckle-duster sandwich to a waiter who skimmed a hundred dollars of an evening’s take. Or Troy taking a sledgehammer to a food truck because the owner is two days late with his monthly ‘stipend.’
The look in Finnan’s eyes mocks me. “Yes, boy. That’s it. It’s only a classic car worth three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, so by all means, treat it like a goddamn Sunday afternoon joy ride.”
My temper flares. My fists bunch. At the far side of the office where he does his best to appear invisible, Bolton catches my eye and shakes his head before his glassy gaze returns to the carpet. I throttle down and take a deep breath for two reasons.
One, if I succeed in pissing the old man off the way I’m dying to do, he’ll find something more unpleasant for me to do, which, depending on what it is, might mean I don’t get to see Cleo tonight. Missing the chance to see her is not an option.
Second, I may be hungover and still a little high from the lines of coke I did last night, but even from across the room, I can tell Bolton is strung so high, he’s halfway to the fucking moon. No way can he handle driving a sports car with a powerful engine like a Ferrari without smashing it into a tree and getting us both killed.
I take a step back, lower my head, and fold my hands in front of me. The compliant gesture satisfies Finnan. He issues final instructions, and I nod.
As we turn to leave, he clears his throat. “One last thing, Troy?”
“Yes, Pa?”
“Take that camera with you. Make sure you get everything on film. If we need to, we’ll use it to teach other assholes a lesson that you don’t mess with the Rutherfords.”
“Yes, Pa.”
The next clip, the one with only Ronan and Troy, flashes onto the screen. My eyes refuse to blink, my stomach turning in on itself at the look on Ronan’s face as he does what he relishes.
A warehouse with grimy windows and rusting car parts.
A man on his knees, a black cloth over his head hiding his identity. The suit he’s wearing is soiled and ripped and two sizes too large. Either he’s lost weight or the clothes don’t belong to him.
Ronan circles him slowly, a menacing figure wielding a baseball bat.
“It’s the end of the line for you, I’m afraid. I’m told you’ve become a strain on our resources, and these days we’re all about streamlining.”
The muffled sounds that come from beneath the bag tells me he’s gagged.
“What was that? Sorry, I can’t hear you.”
More incoherent noises.
Ronan sighs dramatically. “It’s okay. We don’t need to have a conversation. We’re strangers after all. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.” He looks at the camera and winks. “This is merely a necessary dance before the final goodbye. But kudos to you for doing the right thing for your family.” He taps the bat lightly on the man’s left shoulder. He flinches out of the way. “Although I don’t know quite what that was. I was asked to tell you that the account numbers and the corresponding sums all check out. And for that, no other members of your family will suffer. That’s good news, right?”
Rough, urgent sounds.
“Sorry, this is out of my hands. I follow instructions. Same way you should’ve.”
A frantic shake of his head. Quick shuffling on his knees, as if he has any hope of getting away. For a split second, Ronan appears almost remorseful. Then his face hardens. “You brought this on yourself and on your family. Did you really think you could get away with disrespecting the Rutherfords?”
The man moans and shakes his head continually for a full minute. Then, perhaps knowing his fate is sealed, slumps onto his heels.
The first blow from the bat breaks his arm, a guttural scream echoing through the warehouse. The second is a roundhouse to his chest. He falls over groaning in agony. The third strikes his temple.
He stops moving.
Ronan tosses the bat and grabs the man by the shoulders. The camera follows as he drags him to a sky-blue car with classic lines.
A Camaro.
The trunk is already open. And there’s someone else in there. Someone less hurt than the man, if the frantic wriggling beneath the tarp is any indication. The shape of the body and the pitch of the moans tells me it’s a woman.
The man, now moaning again, is tossed in with her, and Ronan slams the trunk shut. The camera stops recording.
The next shot flickers into life, and the remote drops from my numb hands to the floor. Regardless of how many times I watch, the agony and rage and remorse are as fresh as the first time Finnan made me watch it.
A deserted parking lot behind a block of boarded-up properties in a shitty part of Bridgeport. Troy leaning against the Camaro, once again manning the damn camera.
I step out of the SUV driven by one of my father’s security guards. My expression is beyond pissed. “What the hell are we doing here? I thought I was supposed to drive the Ferrari back to Greenwich?” Having to hand over that sweet ride to one of Finnan’s goons to run yet another errand is frying my last nerve.
“Don’t worry, this will be quick,” Ronan says. He nods to the driver, who steps to the back and returns with a jerrican.
I smell the kerosene from five paces away. “What the fuck are you doing? That car is worth seventy thousand. Easy.”
“Not everything is about money, baby brother. This is about principles,” he replies.
I back away when the driver silently holds out the fuel to me. “Fuck no. This is a ’69 Camaro. If any of you ignorant assholes want to torch a piece of prime American art, you do it your goddamn self.”
“For fuck’s sake, Axel. Torch the damn car and let’s get the hell out of here already.” This from Bolton, who’s been finding reasons to head to the restroom every chance he gets. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to in the last ninety minutes, and he’s twitchier than a jumping bean.
“Yeah, Axe-hole. All this bitching is keeping your piece of ass waiting.” Troy.
I look at the car. At my brothers. I shake my head, wondering for the umpteenth time if I’m adopted. I grab the kerosene and head for the car.
“Wait!”
“What the hell for? Isn’t this why I’m here—?”
I stop when Ronan holds up his hand in warning. He turns up the illegal police scanner we all carry on outings like these. Then curses under his breath. Troy jerks to attention, his glib mood gone.
“Two patrol cars are headed to a property on the next block. A bonfire is sure as shit going to get their attention.” He turns to me. “Change of plan. We’re getting the hell out of here.” He tosses something to me, and I catch it mid-air.
Keys. “I’m driving? Why me?”
“Because you’re the fucking petrol head with a hard-on for ‘prime American art,’ apparently. And because I said so.”
Again, I want to argue. But this whole errand thing has already taken too long. And Cleo has been sending me increasingly descriptive texts in the last hour. The last one was particularly dirty, involving my bed, my favorite baseball T-shirt, and a heavy hint that she wasn’t wearing anything else.
I yank open the door and slide behind the wheel.
“Head to Bearwood Lake. We’ll follow,” Ronan says.
Bearwood Lake. Damn stupid place to torch a car but also the most likely place to be deserted at this time of day—just after sunset when it’s too early for the nocturnals and the mosquitos are out in full force.