Chapter 47 Sloane #2
We pass more open doorways until we reach one at the far end of the corridor that’s locked.
I already know who’s inside this room. I’m praying to all that’s holy that Michael is still alive, or I’m gonna blow my cover right here and now and kill every last motherfucker within reach.
I’ll die trying to do that, anyway, and then everything really will be fucked.
Sloane. I won’t be able to protect her if I’m dead.
“Clark, get the door,” Jacob orders the other guard who was with Anton when I arrived at the compound.
Clark isn’t like Anton, though. He does as he’s told without voicing his fucking opinion over every little fucking thing.
And he doesn’t seem to hate me the same way Anton does.
He just does his job and keeps his mouth shut.
This might make him seem less of a threat, but the opposite is actually true.
Anton has shown me his hand. I know what’s going on in that dumb motherfucker’s head every time I fucking look at him.
I have no idea what’s going on in Clark’s head. He’s an unknown. A threat.
He’s all business as he opens up the door, and I brace myself for whatever might be waiting on the other side. Jacob’s bulk blocks my view for a second, but then I see.
Michael sits on an armchair, hands cuffed in front of him, watching television. The room is empty besides the chair and the television, which rests on a splintering wooden stand. My second in command doesn’t look up at us when we walk in. He focuses on the screen.
The photos Jacob’s guys had taken of Michael shortly after they’d captured him had shown him with a black eye and a split lip.
I’d assumed he’d be in far worse shape by now, but looks as though I was wrong.
He’s fine. Okay, not fine, fine, but they haven’t roughed him up any more.
The bruise underneath his right eye is vivid purple against his tawny skin, but the outer edges are starting to yellow, and his lip has had time to scab over.
Jacob lumbers into the room, pausing to take a moment to assess the TV set.
“America’s Next Top Model, huh? You gay, asshole?” Jacob asks in a conversational tone.
Michael, my boy, my right hand, smirks out of the corner of his mouth and raises an eyebrow. “Yes. That’s why I was checking out all those girls you have locked up here. Because I’m gay.”
Jacob snorts, nodding slowly. Michael finally peels his indifferent gaze away from the TV and sends it our way.
His expression doesn’t falter when he sees me, and I cheer like a fucking moron on the inside.
Seriously. Most people would twitch or something—would show some sign of recognition—but not Michael.
“Well,” Jacob says, “I suppose it’s a good insight into how chicks’ brains work, I guess. You learned anything interesting yet?”
“That they’re all vicious and competitive?
” Michael rubs his nose with the back of his hand, at ease in his surroundings.
He’ll have been like this since they put him down here, which has undoubtedly been driving them all mad.
The problem is, a random perv busted for spying on chicks taking a shower wouldn’t react this calmly.
They’d probably be shitting their pants.
The Talons may not have anything on Michael, but his attitude is telling them enough all by itself.
He’s not just some pervert. He’s someone—a someone who will eventually be missed.
Jacob walks to Michael’s chair and picks up the remote.
He switches off the set, and Michael sucks in a tired breath, pivoting in his seat so that he’s finally facing us.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and I get nothing. Not a warning. Not a flicker of recognition. Nothing. I’m itching to send him some sort of message, but no. I do that and we’re both dead. “You brought in the heavy artillery, I see,” he says.
Jacob snaps his fingers, and Clark hurries out of the room. “Yeah. I brought in the big guns just for you, buddy. We gave you some time to think about what you’ve done and why you’re here. Now we’ve come to chat. Anything in particular you’d like to talk about, asshole?”
Clark reappears with a wooden stool in either hand. He sets both of them down in front of Michael. Jacob sits on the first. The other is apparently for me. I sit, trying to figure out how the hell this is all gonna play out. Badly, I’m guessing. Really fucking badly.
“Not particularly,” Michael says, letting his head fall to one side.
His shirt is filthy, covered in blood. Not his blood.
His lip wouldn’t have bled that much, and his nose is just fine, which means it must have belonged to someone else.
I get a kick out of that. My boy Michael is fucking dangerous when he needs to be.
Jacob isn’t at all impressed with this show of nonchalance, though.
He leans forward, stool creaking underneath him loudly as his body weight shifts.
“I ain’t got time for torturing people right now.
I’m gonna ask you two questions, and then after that we’re not gonna use words anymore. You hearin’ me?”
Michael looks at Jacob, then at me, and then at Clark, as if considering his options. Even I know they look pretty fucking bleak right now. But Michael also knows I got his back. I won’t let things go too far before I step in. “Sure,” he says. “Ask away.”
“You see this man?” Jacob points his thumb to his right. At me. Michael nods, and an unhinged smile spreads across Jacob’s smug face. “Great. You ever seen this man before?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? You’ve never heard the name Zeth Mayfair?”
“Never.” Michael is a brick wall as he denies knowing me.
We’ve been friends, business associates, drinking buddies for close to eight years, but from looking Michael straight in the eye, you would never, ever suspect him of lying.
You could hook this guy up to a lie detector and he would charm the pants off the thing. Jacob’s a persistent bastard, though.
“You ever heard the name Charlie Holsan?”
“Nope.”
“So you weren’t hired by anyone of that name? To follow this man to my home? To disturb the peace here?”
Holy shit. Jacob suspects Charlie sent Michael here to spy on me?
I guess in Jacob’s head that’s the only thing that makes sense.
It never occurred to me that he might come to that conclusion.
I’ve been too busy worrying over the real reason to consider that.
Jacob has no cause to suspect I came here to steal a girl from him, though.
I mean, why would he? That wouldn’t only be dumb. It would be fucking suicide.
“I told you. I don’t know this guy, and I don’t know those names.
I got laid off from my job with a nice fat payout.
” Michael rolls his eyes, as if he’s told this story before.
“I knew about this place from my cousin. He said you had top pussy here, so I thought I’d pay you guys a visit.
I wanted to see the girls first, though.
No crime in that, is there? Why should I waste my money if the product isn’t as advertised, y’know? ”
Shit. He had money on him when they found him, then.
A lot of money. I know because I gave it to him to pass on to Rick.
Too much money for your average person to back-pocket, but enough to have in your possession if you plan on renting a girl or two from Jacob Dixon.
The only problem is, the people who know about this place also know that you can’t just turn up looking to hire a girl without an invite. That’s suicide, too.
Clark scowls, brows banking together as if he’s thinking the exact same thing. Jacob nods, considering Michael’s lie. Maybe not believing it, but definitely considering it.
“Who’s this cousin of yours, then? He someone who comes here often?”
An important question. If Michael doesn’t tell Jacob his cousin’s name, he’s dead.
If Michael makes up a fake name and Jacob knows he’s lying, he’s dead.
I have no idea how he’s going to get out of this one.
I straighten on my stool, readying myself.
If I see either Jacob or Clark reaching for their weapons, my ass will be up and charging before they can manage to pull off a round.
Hopefully.
Michael still doesn’t look bothered by this situation.
I’ve gotta admit, I knew Michael was stone cold, but I can see his slow, steady pulse beating in his neck, and it’s barely fucking there.
Even I would be sweating a little if I found myself down here, cuffed, and forced to watch America’s Next Top Model.
“Well, my cuz is a regular here by all accounts. I could tell you his real name, but he won’t be happy with me. ”
Jacob’s the one who isn’t happy. “Now is not the right time to be fucking around. Understand this. You are on the verge of being skinned alive and left out in the desert for the vultures. I invite you to act accordingly.”
Michael smirks at that. “Then I accept your invitation. My cousin’s real name isn’t mine to give. But you’ve heard of Rebel, right?”
Jacob wheezes like Michael’s just sucker punched him. Clark steps forward, clearing his throat nervously. He wants to shoot Michael, or at least he wants to know if Jacob wants him to shoot Michael. Jacob gestures with an urgent flick of his wrist—get back. “You’re Rebel’s cousin?”
Michael smiles like the cat who got the cream. “His father is also my godfather, if that’s not enough of a commendation for you?”
“Did you happen to mention this to Anton when he brought you down here?” Jacob’s turned a queasy greenish color. He’s sweating, too, which makes him look decidedly unwell.
“He didn’t ask.” Michael raises both shoulders and eyebrows at the same time, a picture of indifference. “He seemed more interested in using his fists on me. There wasn’t much time for talking.”