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“FUCK YOU! You dare speak my name,” I warn, my lip curling. Apparently, Marsden did his ground work. It’s not a surprise that he knows my name, but speaking it so brazenly in association with this situation is fatal. Rumours of our connection to something darker have been spouted for years, but no one can ever prove shit, and those who do make the connection or have proof, die.
Clive looks sickened to his putrid guts, his skin a shiny white sheen. He begins whispering a plea over and over.
“Oh God, please,” he sobs quietly.
“I thought you were going to pay me, Marsden,” I hiss his last name venomously. Having to speak his name at all pisses me off.
“I just need more time.”
I detest begging. I tut back at him and take a pull on the cigar. This is a real good blend. I lift it and give an approving nod to Seth.
“Cuban,” Seth comments.
I draw on it once more and blow smoke up against the window, watching it hit the glass and disperse into smoky fingers. Fingers of death clawing their way to their next victim. Him.
“Sorry just isn’t good enough, Clive.” I shrug. “In fact, sorry makes men like me want to kill something.” Last night’s kill merely stoked the dark rush pulsing through my poisoned veins. Only blood can douse the fire out in me.
“Thayer. Please!”
I bare my teeth when the thick fuck uses my last name now.
Ryan enters and his eyes momentarily flit to the other room where he laughs deeply at Clive sobbing.
“Where’s Barclay?” Ryan asks.
“No idea.” I approach the two men who have been nothing short of brothers to me for the thirty-plus years I have known them. Ryan pours us each a drink.
“Israelis are making moves again.” He frowns as Clive’s snivelling becomes louder. “Turn that shit down.”
“It’s not a fucking CD.” I laugh.
“Thayer?” Clive calls out, more anxious now that I’m not conversing with him.
Sighing, I move to the wall and cut the audio so we can no longer hear him.
“Fuck, that’s better, my head has been pounding all fucking day,” Ryan says, then necks his whiskey. I eye him, noticing the dark circles around his eyes. Yesterday has taken its toll on him.
“Maybe put that pretty secretary to use and get her to suck the headache straight out your dick,” Seth replies, lifting his whiskey with a wink and pouring it down his throat.
“You got the hots for my secretary?” Ryan murmurs, making himself another drink.
“You don’t?” Seth exclaims, mystified by Ryan’s resilience to his hot-as-fuck assistant.
“She’s not my type.”
“Tight arse, perky tits, and a mouth pretty enough to be fucked. Oh, sure, such a turn off,” Seth mocks, shaking his head in dismay. “You got knob rot or something?” He looks at me and doesn’t see the fist swinging into his temple. Seth drops like a sack of shit, his whiskey glass shattering on the floor.
“Now, now, one would say that was too defensive for someone who hasn't got knob rot?” I raise my brow at Ryan.
“I got a fucking headache. I haven’t got time for either of your bullshit.”
“Quit being a bitch,” I huff. Libby was shipped off to Sweden to a private rehabilitation facility this morning. He’s hurting, guilt-ridden, and still angry as fuck, but that doesn’t mean I won't still rib him. If I were to treat him any differently, he’d fly off the handle.
“Your toy is pissing himself,” Ryan mutters, rubbing at his temples.
I swing round and find Clive with his bare toes in a pool of urine.
“Fuck’s sake!” Crossing the room, I open up the audio feed. “So, about that money, Marsden?”
