AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STALLION
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The only reason I even came back to Bexley Falls was to keep an eye on my brother. For so long, I wanted to steal him away, save him from the doom I knew would come from my father, but after I graduated from the boarding school that asshole sent me to, I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I was always fascinated with fighting. Boxing mainly, because I knew it would be a useful skill to have if I ever came back here and was faced with my dad. I could put all my anger to use and give him exactly what he deserved. I would beat him the way he beat our mom. The way he beat me. And the way I know he beat my brother. I didn’t realize the dedication it would take though, which made me keep my distance from my brother. In this business, it’s better to fly solo and not keep anything close to your heart.
Now I get firsthand knowledge of why.
I had a feeling picking up a job somewhere like Bexley Falls was odd. The crime rate is basically nonexistent here, and people keep indiscretions hush-hush, but when Ghost called and offered it to me, I couldn’t say no. I needed the cash. I needed to stay relevant in the game.
Spitfire was a happy surprise though. I didn’t know who she was at first, but after watching her awhile, it wasn’t hard to figure out. Somehow, she’s connected to my brother. She goes to his house frequently and sees some blonde I’m assuming is his girl. I should have ended things then, but I thought being with her made me closer to my brother in a way. Fucked up? Maybe. But I never claimed to be a saint.
And after seeing her at the elevator, I knew exactly where she was going, but I couldn’t stop her. I knew she’d walk in that room and see all the evidence of my rage, but I was too fucking freaked-out to do anything. I should have warned her—or even warned her the night I saw her with him the first time—but I didn’t. My job relies heavily on secrecy, and she asks too many questions. So, instead, I’m sitting at the bar, having a fucking drink, and waiting for the cops to show up. No doubt she’ll be calling them, and they’ll lock down the hotel to try and get to the bottom of it.
But when I look at my watch, I realize maybe I’m wrong. It’s been twenty minutes, and this place isn’t crawling with law enforcement.
I gulp down the last of my whiskey, and it gives me a sliver of serenity. I release a breath and stand, then start back to the elevator. I shake out my shoulders as I wait, letting the alcohol loosen my muscles and relax me.
I do this shit daily, so it isn’t the blood, or body, or anything else that bothers me. I’m used to it. The only thing fucking me up right now is the fact I’ve basically blacklisted myself. One of the few rules hitmen follow is never—never—kill a client. It jeopardizes our reputation and makes business harder to find.
As the doors ding and open, I step inside and push the thoughts away. I can deal with Ghost later. For now, I need to clean up the mess I made and hope like hell it’s believable.
When I exit the elevator, I go by the room I checked in to today and grab my duffel bag with all my supplies. With it secured, I head to the client’s room. The light turns green as I insert the key card, and I step in.
I study the room, feeling something is off. Almost everything looks exactly the same. The pool of blood, the position his body is in, everything, but when I glance next to the body, I see the briefcase gone.
Maybe that’s why she didn’t call the cops because she took the money and ran instead. At least that’s what I want to believe, but what if it’s more than that?
I never thought to vet her or even get her name. I watched her for all of a few hours before thinking shit was okay simply because she knows my brother somehow. And I was too busy thinking about getting my dick wet instead, which is my mistake. But it wouldn’t make sense. She can’t be anyone other than some Bexley Falls girl. She was too timid to do what I do, so the thought of her being a competitor flees, only leaving one thing behind. This is worse than I thought. Much worse. Not only did I fuck up once, but now there is someone out there who is a liability.
I shake my head and drop my duffel bag to the floor. I kneel beside Bernard’s body and open the bag. I grab the wire cheese cutter, the notepad and pen, basic cloth, and some leather gloves. I slip the gloves on, then get to work.
This, this is something I can control, and right now, that’s what I need. Control.
Manipulating a body and crime scene to paint the picture you want is one of the first things Ghost taught me, and I’m good at it. Numerous men and women murdered by my hand, but never a shred of evidence. This is my forte. My specialty. My job.
First, I forge the note. Normally, I’d be more thorough, but I’m already racing against the clock. Goodbye, cruel world is the only thing I pen out. It’s generic, but since the fucker was already going bankrupt, I’m sure no one will question his sudden demise at his own hands.
I stand and lay the note on the nightstand, then walk back to where he lies on the floor. I examine him for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to conceal the gaping slash in his throat.
With the only logical thing I can think in mind, I snag the cheese cutter, wrap it around his neck, then put him in a kneeling position with his back to the door. I wedge the handles of the wire between the doorknob and door so I know they won’t move. I tug on it with some force, making sure it can withstand the weight of him. Satisfied it won’t budge, I move to the next task at hand.
I’m always careful with meetups, so I know there will be no trace of me, but I still gently wipe the handles of the wire and knob in case I’m wrong. Killing him wasn’t on my agenda today—or ever—so I need to be a thorough as I can, as quickly as I can.
I stand and admire my work. It’s believable at best, but not my best. I’d like to add more details, maybe even plant some evidence to incriminate someone else in case the cops do ask questions, but I can’t. Spitfire is still out there, doing God knows what, and I need to make sure she won’t talk.
After circling the room one last time, making sure no piece of me can be connected to this place, I crack the door enough to keep his body in place and slip out with my bag. I look down each way, making sure I’m not being watched, then head back to the elevator. Now that he’s handled, I need to find Spitfire.
If I had to guess, she’s either home or at my brother’s. I’ll start with the latter and finally let my presence in Bexley Falls be known.
