Moth to a Flame

10. CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

Landon

The Friday after I left Regan at the store, all I did was work, squeezing in the meetings I’d rescheduled that Friday night and the following Saturday morning.

No one could tell me they don’t work late Friday night or over the weekend. I’m their fucking boss.

Now, on a late Saturday afternoon, everything is settled. My VPs think I’m back to being my old self. Responsible. Detached. Professional. They’ve been led to believe that Moth to a Flame is at the forefront of my mind. In a way, it is.

I’m going to keep it. Going to improve it.

Not going to list it in the stock market.

Everyone will understand. Or they won’t. Doesn’t matter either way because…

Yes.

This again. I’m the motherfucking boss.

I’ll throw bonuses and raises at my employees and that should do it.

Later. I’ll deal with all that shit later.

When I’m done making the world a better place for Regan.

And Tripp Cantrell is going to help me do it.

The sun is setting over the pink and blue Manhattan skies as I navigate through traffic in an old silver Chevy I bought from a slimy car dealer before I left for the city. It’s untraceable, just like the cash I used to pay for it.

Vince and Beverly can’t track me down here.

I’m out of the car, pulling the hood of my hoodie over my head. Just another person, my platinum-blond hair tucked away as I stroll out of the parking garage gripping my duffel bag.

Tripp’s lobby is one of many in this city. Luxurious and filled with light. Two chandeliers hang off the high ceilings, the black and white marble floors probably cost more than what the average person makes in a year.

Boring as fuck.

What’s less boring is the security at the front desk who jerks his chin at me, a smirk curling his lips up. He’s pleased with himself and with good reason. Fifty percent of the five-figure bonus I’d transferred to the company he works in was wired to his bank account yesterday.

Hush money so he’d pretend that he’s not giving me the key to Tripp’s apartment. So he won’t let anyone inside the elevator in case Tripp has visitors.

Since Tripp is sick and all. And yes, it’s very contagious. He’ll call once he’s better.

I head up to the second floor of this Upper West Side building.

Rage bubbles inside me as I remember his message. I’d bet everything I own that even if Regan would’ve replied and would’ve told him no bleach, he still would’ve broken her boundary. What he wrote to her wasn’t just another suggestion. It was violent.

It had abuse written all over the goddamn thing.

The key to his apartment drills holes into my palm. I’m gripping it so tight, my rage so powerful, that it might break my skin.

Which will be bad. If I leave even a drop of blood here, there’s only so much the security company can do to save my ass. DNA is motherfucking DNA.

Ding.

It’s a soft, pleasing sound to welcome me into an equally pleasing hallway. That’s me who’s disturbing the peace. Who breaks into his home.

The lights are on in Tripp’s apartment. An old Frank Sinatra song plays in the background, and sings along.

Tries to.

At least he’s distracted. I head toward the sound of the awful singing—man couldn’t carry a tune to save his life—and end up in his kitchen. He chops vegetables on the butcher block, his back to me as his voice commits crimes against humanity.

He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans. His brown hair is thinning at the top of his head. With his broad shoulders pulled back, he’s standing tall.

Proud.

Confident.

He keeps belting out line after line from “My Way.” Abomination, really.

Just like his intentions to destroy Regan or any other woman.

Both offenses are punishable by death.

Lucky for him, he has something I need.

He’ll die another night when I have no more use for him.

That settles the beast inside of me. Temporarily. Long enough for me to execute my plan without shoving my knife into his jugular.

I place the duffel bag silently on the marble floor. Slide my hands into the pocket of my hoodie, take out my leather gloves, and slip them over my hands.

Take the pocketknife out of my jeans pocket.

The song reaches its crescendo, that moment near the end right before Frank wraps shit up. Conceited Tripp raises his arm, clenches his fist in the air. He’s about to continue this sacrilege.

“You will do no such thing.” One gloved hand slaps over his offending mouth, the other pins the blade of my pocket knife to his Adam’s apple. “This song isn’t for you to ruin. Regan isn’t either.”

Before he can do anything like fight or stab me, I pull both of us back. I release his mouth for the split-second it takes me to grab his hair and— bam —bash his face into the butcher.

A slice of carrot flies off to the floor. I don’t think it matters to Tripp all that much.

It’s impossible to care about anything when you’re knocked out.

After checking my phone for messages from Regan one last time, I place it on top of Tripp’s glass coffee table. I promised her to be there for her. Since I’m going to be preoccupied in the next hour, I had to double-check.

Well, she hasn’t texted, and I’ll see her later anyway. There’s nothing I want more than to be with her, in her bed, right this fucking minute. But this is important.

This piece of shit with a brother serving time in Brinestone. Technically, I don’t need him. I could offer the guards money for their services.

Except it won’t be as entertaining as this.

As avenging Regan.

“I’m not here to watch you sleep.” My fist connects with his cheek, slamming his head into the floor.

His brown, repulsive eyes snap open and he glares at me from the tarp.

Doesn’t take long for him to realize his wrists are tied behind his back. That his ankles are just as tightly bound together. His clothes have been left on, but he’s not any less exposed.

They won’t protect him from what’s coming. Nothing will.

He screams something through the duct tape, eyes squinting.

The man who can’t tell the difference between violent rape and consensual non-consent role play resents me.

Me.

The nerve on this guy.

A second punch cracks the bone beneath his cheek, and he turns quiet.

His eyes slide to the front door of his home. It’s just there, a few feet after the living room. Freedom is within his reach.

Like hell it is.

I grip his chin, yanking his face so he looks at me. “Don’t waste your energy, Tripp. No one’s coming. No one’s saving you.”

Senseless mumbling ensues.

So does my wrath.

Tripp’s message to Regan will not leave my head.

I’ll drown your mouth in bleach. That’s my rape fantasy, and you’re going to give it to me. You’ll let me damage you beyond repair.

Motherfucker. I lift his head, slamming it into the tarp.

The nauseating cracking sound and Tripp’s muted scream are a reprieve.

I could do better. I will do better.

“Now that I have your attention.” I sneer. “We need to discuss Bobby.”

He frowns. That’s cute, trying to trick me into thinking I got the wrong house.

“Yes, him. Your brother. The felon. Who’s incarcerated in Brinestone.” Each word is spoken slowly. Emphatically. “You’re going to call him now, and you’re going to tell him I’m dropping by to visit him tomorrow. Don’t forget to mention that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll add me to his list of visitors.”

Tripp drops the innocent act, shaking his head.

“Got it.” My pocket knife is on the tarp one second, in my hand the next. The blade shines under the expensive overhead lights. “The hard way it is. Not a problem.” I lean over to grab his foot. “Not a problem whatso-fucking-ever.”

“Mmmm!” His pathetic kicking attempts are just that. Pathetic. They get him nowhere with his bound ankles. “Mmmm!”

“Are you trying to tell me you’ll make the call?” Thank fuck for my gloves. Otherwise, it would’ve been nasty business, grabbing his toe with my bare hands.

The minute I noticed the unique oval-shaped birthmark on it, the decision was made.

His brother will need some convincing to do the task I have for him.

If the carrot won’t work…

There’s always the stick.

“Mmmm!” Tripp nods his head, since mmmm! obviously doesn’t mean shit.

“That’s good. That’s better.” Too easily, I flip his body, pinning his toe to the tarp. He keeps screaming. I start cutting. “Unfortunately, I need that toe.”

I start slicing into his flesh, driving the blade of my pocket knife as far as it’d go. See-saw, see-saw.

I’m not actually sawing it off. A saw would’ve been the wrong tool to handle this. This way, I’m savoring it.

Damn, I can’t believe how much I’ve missed when I avoided the good things in life. Abstinence is definitely not for me.

Tripp doesn’t share the sentiment. His screams go on and on and fucking on. They don’t stop once I remove his toe. If anything, he screams louder when I drop it in a pack full of ice that I got from his freezer.

Then I flip him on his back again.

Fueled by revenge and righteousness—and those images of Regan’s mouth being burned from bleach—I dangle his phone in his face.

“Ready to make that call?”

His nod is slower this time. Less vehement.

“Right, I forgot to bandage your foot so you won’t bleed out.” I wrap it in one of his shirts that I brought here while he was knocked out and lock it in place using my duct tape. “Done.”

The color in his face has turned from a healthy tan to pale gray, and that’s my cue to haul ass.

“You scream, and it’s the last sound you’ll ever make.”

He offers another weak nod. I rip the duct tape off his mouth, putting my face above his.

“What do you want?” His voice is merely a breath. “With my brother?”

“What do I want?” I unlock the phone by aiming it at his face, then start scrolling through his contacts. “Let’s see. It starts with none of and ends with your business .”

Other people can’t just dial the prison and demand to speak to one of the inmates.

But rich fucks who went to high school with the warden can.

A quick search for the Brinestone Correctional Facility’s contact on his phone gets me what I’ve been looking for.

“Talk. Tell him Landon Sterling will see him tomorrow.”

He does. In a voice that grows fainter by the second, he asks the warden to get his brother on the line.

“Why you need to see him?” He tries so hard to sound like the man who threatened my Regan. Impossible when he’s bleeding on my tarp. When he coughs between words. “Yes, I’m fine. Do I need to remind you who pays your legal fees? Who lines the warden’s pockets so no one gets anywhere near your ass? What? Oh, now it’s my fault that you were dumb enough to leave your fucking pube on her?” He sucks in a sharp breath, the pain getting to be too much for him. “No. No, fuck you.”

Their conversation is grating on my nerves. They’re not kids anymore, for fuck’s sake.

With one hand on the phone and the other stretched to his foot, I remove the shirt I wrapped around it.

An incentive, if you will.

I revel in the blood gushing out of him.

“Jesus. No. No, Bobby, I said I’m fine.” He slams his eyes shut, cursing under his breath. “Would you stop arguing? See this guy tomorrow. Landon Sterling, add him to your visitor’s list. He’ll come to see you, and you’ll talk to him. That’s it. Okay. Okay. Yeah, goodbye to you too, asshole.”

Once I rewrap his foot, I look at Tripp and wait for his answer.

“He says he’ll see you.”

“Can’t wait.”

Until then, another person is owed a trophy from tonight.

Regan hasn’t logged on to Moth to a Flame ever since I decided that we were in a relationship. She has no idea this man had deplorable things planned for her.

She’s getting his other toe, the one I won’t be needing, regardless. When the time is right.

“Oh, and if you ever subscribe to Moth to a Flame again, trust that I’ll find out about it.” Back and forth, back and forth. I cut through flesh. Through muscle. There, I made it to the bone. “Your severed toes will be the least of your problems. I’ll operate on you without anesthetic. Feed you your liver. I can do that.”

He wets his jeans.

Wonderful.

It’ll be hell to clean up this mess. Hell, but not impossible. I’ll work fast and get the fuck out of here in thirty minutes.

I’ll shower in my office, change into the suit I have there since I forgot to pack a change of clothes, and go to her.

To my woman.