And the gossip blogs wonder why he hasn’t dated in over a year. Not since his boyfriend went off to become a stuntman in Vancouver and broke his heart.
Made him meaner.
Having just left the gym, Alistair insisted on stopping by my house upon seeing me parked outside for the first time in weeks.
“In any case,” he says, rolling back on his heels, “there’s been a massive rise in missing person reports lately. Chief of Police called me yesterday, asking if I’d be willing to make a statement on it.”
“So?”
“So, are you trying to tell me it’s a coincidence that the missing people are all connected to a Mr. Preston Covington?”
“I think it’s interesting that you seem to have so much information about a case you say you were just told about a day ago.”
“Due diligence, little brother.” He watches as I bend down with a nylon rope, maneuvering the comptroller’s son—whose name I’ve already forgotten—into the fetal position. “But truly, what’s your endgame here?”
“None of your bloody business.”
His eyes narrow. “See, that’s not true, is it? Our fates are quite intertwined, Jonas. You get into trouble, and it inevitably bleeds over to me. I’m the one who stands to lose something from the fallout.”
Clenching my jaw, I cinch the rope tight, tying the corpse’s wrists to his knees before rigor mortis can set in. “There won’t be any fallout from this. It’s just a little rubbish pickup.”
“For your fake girlfriend?”
“Fiancée,” I snap. Alistair’s head cocks to the side, and I kick myself internally. Why does the distinction matter when it’s all pretend, anyway? “It’s not anything she asked me to do.”
“Oh, good. You’re just killing on another’s behalf without even telling them first. I’m sure that’ll be a great addition to the vows at your imaginary wedding. Have you completely abandoned the list I gave you?”
Blowing out a breath, Alistair drags a hand through his inky hair and stalks to the kitchen sink off the living area. He dumps the remaining water in his bottle, then refills it from the tap before returning to my side.
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask, dragging the folded corpse into the corner where a hollowed-out concrete block sits on a plastic tarp. “You’re dodgier than normal.”
“I’m fine. Just a bit concerned you’re losing sight of our long-term goals.”
It takes some serious finagling, but I manage to stuff the dead bloke’s body into the block, then reach for the blue plastic wheelbarrow at my side. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I check the consistency of the concrete batch I made just before Alistair showed, then aim the mouth of the barrow at the container.
“Our long-term goals?” I shake my head. “You asked me to date her, Alistair.”
“I didn’t ask you to care for her.”
“Well, that’s too bloody bad, isn’t it?” His glacier-blue eyes widen at my words, mirroring the size of mine.
The mixture pours out, filling the empty spaces rapidly, then leveling out as it overtakes the body. Once he’s adequately submerged, I drop the wheelbarrow and wipe the front to keep anything from dripping onto the floor.
“So, that’s it? She bats her pretty lashes or spreads her tanned legs, and you give up everything you’ve been working for?”
My hand whips out as I whirl around, grabbing one of the branding irons from the fireplace and shoving my brother against the wall. His skull smacks against a sconce, knocking it out of place, and I bring the brand up to his face.
It’s still hot from where I spent the last hour decorating the comptroller’s son’s skin, and I know he feels the heat on his cheek, though he doesn’t even flinch.
Just stands there, letting me crush his windpipe. Not a single flicker of emotion reflects in his eyes, and I realize why it was easy for him to enter the world of politics, and why he’s always insisted on outsourcing his dirty work.
Alistair simply doesn’t care. About anything, or anyone, and certainly not enough to get his hands a little muddy.
One thing brings him satisfaction, and it’s the ability to get under someone’s skin. To goad them into a reaction because the man’s not capable of emitting one himself.
Lessening the pressure on his throat, I press the edge of the iron W to his jaw, testing him.
Still, he just stares. Motionless. Almost bored.
Like some sort of bloody sociopath.
“If you speak of her like that again,” I spit, my rage reaching a boiling point, “I’ll feed you your tongue and make sure those are the last words you ever utter.”
His right eye twitches, like he’s resisting the urge to roll it. “I didn’t realize how deeply involved you’ve become.”
It’s a taunt more than anything, the insinuation that I’ve come to care for Lenny beyond the confines of our contract and sex life wrapping itself around my neck until I’m choking for my next breath. With an irritated huff, I push him aside and turn away before I do something I’d probably regret.
Besides, we worked tirelessly to get to a point of ease between us. No need to ruin that progress because we’re both arseholes.
He is, after all, the only family I’ve got.
“Nothing has changed.”
As I clean up, he stands off to the side and stares at the wall. I look over a few times while I scrub the wheelbarrow clean, half expecting him to have moved away at some point, but he never does.
After a while, he finally seems to slip back into himself, and he straightens up, giving his head a little shake.
It’s like watching a reverse exorcism, and he becomes slightly more animated as he pins me with an arrogant smirk. “But you care about her, no?”
I don’t bother answering. The leaden ache in my chest each time I think about the little puppet waiting for me back home, proves that anything I say would be a lie, anyway.
Alistair sucks on his bottom lip, releasing it with a pop. “You’re bound to hurt her, you know. That’s the Wolfe curse.”
This time, he doesn’t wait for a response, leaving quietly a few minutes later.
When I lock up a little while after his departure, I take a moment to look around the house, double-checking to make sure everything is still in its rightful place.
It feels odd that I’ve been away so long, but the smell of formaldehyde and industrial-strength cleaning solution that’s practically embedded into the walls relieves some of the nostalgia.
Half an hour after I’ve left, I’m parked in front of the beach house, and I spend a few moments just twiddling my thumbs, staring at the front door.
In truth, I’ve thought of little else since I brought Lenny to bed several nights ago, and I’ve kept her in it every night since.
If my mind was preoccupied with the vixen before, now that I’ve defiled her over and over, it’s as if there’s no room in my brain for anything else.
Normally when I complete a kill, the outside world ceases to exist, and yet when I grabbed the comptroller’s son this afternoon and held him facedown in a dirty puddle outside my pub, Lenny’s face had been everywhere.