Risqué by Elena M. Reyes
1
“Dispose of the two separately.”
“The two?” the man on his knees asks. These whimpered words slip through busted lips, the sound is amusing—a little whimsical—and I smile down at him. This is someone I’ve known my entire life, I grew up with the bloke, but greed is a dangerous disease and he let it consume him.
You don’t steal from a Jameson.
You don’t run from one either.
My family has a certain code we live by, and Jonathan Bryce broke every commandment.
Outside of his connection to me, he’s no one of real importance, a normal man working a boring desk job with a wife who’s pregnant and a dog who bares his teeth at him each time he walks through the door. The animal is a good judge of character. Can smell the bollocks that reek from this man’s pores while he lies to his wife about where he’s been and with whom.
He’s useless, yet many overlook the shortcoming; the flat he lives in belongs to her, while the car he drives was a gift from me on his last birthday. His employment is another gift he didn’t deserve then, and much less now as the family business isn’t worth shit under his care.
Three simple responsibilities he couldn’t provide for himself, and it stems from a gambling problem he refuses to accept.
Bryce loves football yet chooses the wrong team each bloody time, and as a mate, I’ve bailed him out more than a handful of times. Killed so he would be spared. I gave my protection because I felt bad for those he’d leave behind if a bookmaker took back a failed payment in blood.
He shared meals with the Jamesons.
He was allowed perks that weren’t his to imbibe in.
And yet, he bit the hand that feeds.
Jonathan Bryce stolefrom me, and all for a night of basic sex with a whore’s used pussy.
At the sight of my smirk, John pisses himself once again. Disgusting. “Please, Callum. It doesn’t have to end like this, brother. Let me work this off. Or better yet, let me just call Mum. My family’s good for it, and she’ll wire you—”
His mouth snaps shut after kissing the two large rings on my fingers, the skin further tearing from the blow. “This is your mess, mate. Not theirs.”
“Please.” It’s low. A cry. “It’s not that big of a deal. Ezra was in on it. He—”
“No.” Another plea sits heavily on his bloodied tongue, but I shake my head. He’s afraid and has every reason to be. My friendship was an honest one, no strings attached on my end, but he abused the power it came with. I let him live in my shadow, and now I’ll take away his right to breathe just the same. “You knew the consequences and took the risk anyway. Did you think someone loyal to the family, a hacker of all fucking things, wouldn’t protect himself? I’ve seen the video. I heard every word that came out of your mouth.”
His eyes drop to the ground, expression contrite. Too late. “I’m sorry.”
“Lying to me will only make this worse.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“And yet you’ve failed to give me a single reason why I should take pity, Jonathan.”
“My unborn daughter.” Bloody spittle lands on my trousers while I finger the edge of the blade in my hand. It slices the pad of my thumb, a few drops dripping down the metal and onto the handle while he watches, unmoving. Paralyzed. “She will need me.”
“How sure are you about this?” I scratch my jaw. “What are you willing to bet?”
From the corner of my eye, I see one of the cleaners with me stop a few steps to my right with a familiar briefcase in hand. I’m not the only one who notices his presence, and I chuckle at the sight of Jonathan moving closer to me. An idiot move. I’m the reaper. His executioner. Jonathan’s bloodied face tips up, his hands gripping my pant leg while tears roll down each cheek.
A true disappointment.
“She will need me.”
“You can do better than that, arsehole.”
For every action, there is an equal consequence you must accept and confront with pride. In my world, to hide, beg, or cry is a disrespect. More so than the offense that led you to your sentencing.
“I’m their sole provider. Neither would survive—”
Pursing my lips, I tilt my head to the side and give him a small sense of hope. As if I’m considering his idiocy—pretending for those few seconds that I don’t know the kind of pathetic wanker he grew up to be. He’s mistaken my friendship for something it’s not, and even if he were family, I’d slit his throat just the same after a betrayal of any kind.
There’s nothing above loyalty. Not even familial ties.
“Liar,” I spit out through clenched teeth, and he stumbles back on his haunches, trying to crawl away but the stomp of my boot on his left knee stops him. Four times, and a scream rends the air; he’s quick to grab the injured leg but stops when the tip of the knife in my right hand presses against his forehead, digging in just enough to bring blood to the surface of the small incision. “You’re not worthy of the family you had, Jonathan. Melissa deserves better than you, and I’ll make sure they’re both taken care of. She’ll never work two jobs again, nor will she continue to pay for your mistakes.”
“If I don’t return home, she’ll call the cops. There’s a file—” He trails off when the briefcase is opened and a second later a manila folder is tossed at his feet. He makes no move to grab it, but tears do fall when a few seconds later a dial tone fills the warm building I own a few hours outside of London. The area is all private farmland, almost two hundred acres of untouched property with a few buildings at the center that I use for personal storage. There’s one road in and one out with security around the clock to take care of my cars, a few small planes, and my private collection of war memorabilia—weapons used throughout history to be exact, including a tank used during the Gulf War.
“That file?” The knife’s tip digs in a little deeper.
His expression is one of disbelief—betrayal—but that soon turns to abject horror when his pregnant wife’s voice comes through the line. “Is it done, Callum?”
“Not yet,” I say before slicing down from forehead to cheek while puncturing his eyeball.
“Fuck!” His scream, full of anguish, makes pleasurable goose bumps rise across my flesh. The darkness within my soul is feeding off the echoes that surround us in the large, open space. The cut isn’t deep enough to cause blindness, not that he’ll be alive to enjoy the sights and sounds of life outside these walls, but enough to make him hiss in pain and tear up—each track down his cheek turns a reddish-brown as the dirt on his face mixes with his blood. “No more. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“We have a request I must oblige.” Maybe it’s because of the cut or the realization that he’s truly dispensable, but Jonathan’s face drops and his shoulders slump. He’s the poster child for someone who’s disingenuously ashamed, yet either way, I pat his head like one would a dog and wag the knife in his face as one would a finger. “Someone needs to hear the verbal confirmation of your blessing.”
“Are you taking the piss?” Her laugh is sardonic, completely ignoring his pain-filled yell, but I can still make out her tears. The anguish Jonathan has caused. “Do my words really matter?”
“Yes.” Yet I’m not the one she’s asking. Her question is directed to the piece of shit on his knees crying like a git. “Give me your vote.”
She takes a deep breath, and I plunge the blade of my knife from one cheek to the other and leave it there while her husband whimpers. Paints the ground red with his blood one drop at a time, the sprinkling reminding me of one of those designs made by a macabre artist I admire from Seattle. “I’ve been a widow since the day after we said I do. It’s time to recoup my full freedom.”
“No!” Jonathan yells out without thinking, ripping the flesh on each cheek apart. His mouth fills with blood, it rolls down his neck and onto the dirty collar of the light pink polo he’s wearing. “Love, please. Please don’t abandon me. You’re my—”
“I’m tired of bailing you out,” she says lowly, the words full of so much hurt, and for the first time, I see true repentance on his face. Too late. “Your family’s legacy is gone because of your selfishness, you bloody bastard. The dealerships are under insolvency proceedings, the houses are being sold to pay back the money you stole, and all while your mum had a heart attack at the care home after finding out what you did. While you were busy shagging...” She chokes on a sob, the pain raw, and if I had a better conscience, I’d forgive him for her. But I don’t. I won’t. “She’s been in a coma while you were busy bending over a woman that isn’t the one you promised to love and cherish.”
“I’m sorry.” His split lip wobbles, his entire frame shaking. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Melissa, I know I’ve hurt you. That I’ve—”
“Wasted enough years of my life.” The woman on the other end takes in a deep breath, the silence looming from the line before a painful sigh escapes her. “I can’t do this anymore, and neither can your mum. You can go in peace knowing we’ll be better off.”
“I’ll make this right. Just please—”
“You’re only sorry you were caught, Jonathan. Goodbye.” The dial tone follows, and the sorrowful scream that leaves him shakes his entire frame. And I’m humanitarian enough to give him a second to come to terms with his reality. His death sentence was handed out by the same person to whom he tied his life to, and then proceeded to hurt by breaking each of those sacred vows.
And while I’m not a man who believes in love or spending my life with one woman, I respect those who do. I respect those vows. I’ve seen in my life what a good woman can do for a man in my aunt and uncle’s relationship, my own parents not being the best example, but those two made it work. She was his true right hand before he stepped down and Casper took over as the head of our family.
Classy and poised—nothing like the women that cross my path.
They want an easy fuck with the hopes of taming my cock and bank account. To become a Jameson.
I fuck and leave. No strings attached. No commitment.
Pussy doesn’t rule my life. I scratch the itch when the need arises and that’s as far as it goes.
“Call her back.” It’s no more than a whisper, but I hear, and I also don’t respond. “Call her!”
My hand extends out, palm side up while my eyes hold his. His anger is rising, and I find the false bravado amusing to an extent. It also doesn’t last long as a second later my favorite toy is placed in my hand by the cleaner just slightly behind me.
The heavy leather feels good in my palm, centers me, and I breathe in deeply while letting its coiled length fall to the ground. The slapping sound isn’t muted, and the subtle hint of a clink makes Jonathan’s ire lose all strength, going from hot to a shivering form sitting atop his own mess.
He knows what this is. He was with me when I acquired the specially made whip.
“Vest off.”
“I’ll leave the country. I’ll disappear.”
“Shirt. Off,” I spit out from between clenched teeth, and the guard who’s been standing at the ready to help dispose of Jonathan comes forward. Within seconds, he rips the bloody garment from Jonathan’s body, the fabric digging into his skin and my old friend hisses, feebly attempting to push my employee’s hands away. But then again, he’s always been a weak man. Once done, the guard looks at me, and I nod in appreciation. “Stand back.”
“Yes, sir.”
My thumb rubs against the handle, feeling the small button there, but I refrain from pressing it.
Instead, I take two steps back while dragging the thick leather against the harsh concrete, my eyes on the man I once called family. There are cuts and bruises, the holes on his cheek are a nasty color already, and his chest bears the brunt of an earlier kick to his sternum.
“Don’t. Come on, mate...not—” He doesn’t get to finish as my wrist flicks forward and the first lash lands across his upper torso, the skin there welting and in some spots ripping. And this was a soft strike. No real force was applied. The second and third are much the same, but now his abused body crawls away from me—he drags himself toward a door to the left he’ll never make it to.
I follow at a leisurely pace.
For each step forward, I bring down the whip with precise strikes across his slim build: back, legs, and even the pads of his feet, all while ignoring his sad attempts at swaying my emotions. His tears and pleas mean jack shit to me; it’s his blood I am after.
“No more. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Each slash slowly releases his life’s essence. Each pays one drop at a time for each pound he stole.
“You held a gun to the head of a Jameson employee.” Another direct hit, this one down over the center of his spine, and he arches, a silent scream catching in his throat a second before losing control of his bodily function, once more. Jonathan throws up, the bile liquid escaping from both his mouth and the tear on each cheek. Disgusting. “You threatened his mum and twelve-year-old sister. You told him you’d put a bullet between the eyes of a minor if he didn’t transfer half a million pounds into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Am I lying?”
“No.” Jonathan’s trembling, arms giving up as he falls forward. He’s face down and mumbling, fingernails digging into the concrete, and that only serves to break each to the flesh. The meaty stumps leave tracks across the floor as he fails to escape.
His words—the low mutterings—reach my ears, and I know what they are. What they represent.
I let him pray.
Honor the one thing he grew up with; what his mum wouldn’t forgive me for if I interrupted. They are devout Catholics, and I’m granting him mercy by letting him speak to his maker one final time.
After a few minutes, a shuddering breath escapes him. “Will you forgive me?”
“Already did.”
“Will you end me, then?”
“Almost.” Bending my knees, I lower my body beside his and place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, something I’ve done over a million times. “But before I do, I need you to answer one thing.” His barely perceptible nod is agreement enough. “Why?”
Jonathan swallows hard, fat tears rolling down the corner of his untouched eye. “The truth?”
“Anything but, and I’ll make your last breath excruciating.”
His response is quick and just as bloody idiotic as I thought it’d be.
“Because I never thought you’d kill someone who’s been like a brother to you.”
“And that was your biggest mistake.” My hand grips the back of his neck and I pull him up, forcing him into a painful kneeling position at my feet. Then I take a step back and the whip falls over Jonathan’s left shoulder. Just lies there as I walk around him and say my own silent goodbye. I’ll see you again someday. Stopping behind him, I bend and put my mouth near his ear while gripping the leather end hanging against his body. One end in each hand. “Your cockiness landed you here; I’d kill my own father if he betrayed the family.”
His mouth opens, lips beginning to move but then snapping shut as I press the button on the handle. At once, two-inch blades—surgically sharp pieces of steel—pop out, and I pull them tight to his neck.
“No!” Bryce thrashes and tries to pull the whip away, but my grip is unmoving. Instead, I embed them deeper—each blade piercing his skin and cutting through as if it were butter. “Have mercy. Don’t kill me like this!”
“All debt will be erased and your family protected.” Those are my last words before I give one hard pull across his flesh and the blades slides through, sawing down to the bone without pause. His head falls back, and horrified vacant eyes stare back at me.
One second, you’re here.
The next you’re not.
A reality for those who let greed overtake their common sense.
A Jameson always collects.