Chapter 8 Angel #3
Dr. Willoughby-Horton stiffened. “Oh. Didn’t know you were so into your wife.”
“Well, I have to admit the objective truth. She’s much prettier than you.”
I had to cover my mouth with my hand to stifle a ridiculous giggle. This was absolutely unnecessary and more like to piss her off, but I couldn’t lie, it felt damn good after years of Henry’s criticism.
“What? You said she was boring in bed. You said you were going to leave her for me!”
Dr. Willoughby-Horton looked pissed as fuck.
But Hunter laughed scornfully as he grabbed the briefcase.
He was the very picture of his brother. Unless you knew him at all.
Then it wasn’t possible to confuse them. Because Henry had never said what came out of Hunter’s mouth.
“I was just using you for meaningless sex. She’s the only woman I have ever cared about.”
Since we had already verified that Henry was at the house, the next step was to head there and wait until nightfall.
“I’ve got the security cameras off,” Jasper warbled in my ear. “I’m so happy you’ve finally let me participate in torturing Henry.”
“Follow my lead,” Hunter said as we parked his truck a distance away and walked behind the buildings. “You have to promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” I retorted, glorying inwardly in his want to bet growl in response.
I should not be this aroused by him, even though I was dying to know what other times Hunter had been Henry.
But I shouldn’t know. I shouldn’t encourage him. What future could we have together?
Through the windows I could see Henry looked like hell, chain-smoking cigarettes inside, with huge bags under his eyes. He was bleating away on the phone to one of his stupid fixers.
“All the computers have been fucking wiped,” he was moaning, then, “I don’t know who! Fix it!”
He threw his phone in the corner and grabbed for the bottle of whiskey.
“Is that really what I look like?” Hunter asked as we waited in the shadows of the backyard. “Ugly bastard.”
“No,” I said, the hair on my neck standing up at the feel of his breath across my skin. “That’s not what you look like.”
Hunter moved to the fuse box and cut power.
“Let’s go.”
I could hear Henry’s panicked shout as we opened the French doors and stepped inside, and he was already stumbling down the stairs when Hunter shone a bright flashlight into his eyes.
“A-angelise! Are you ok? Hunter? What the fuck?”
“Did you hire a hitman to kill me?” I asked.
God, he was so weak. Why hadn’t I seen it before? He was good at performing strength. But the second the power balance shifted, and he didn’t have his goons as backup, he crumbled.
“Nooo, Angelise, noo, I didn’t mean it—I wasn’t really going to—”
“Oh, it’s Angelise now? Whatever happened to ‘bitch’ or ‘fat bitch’?”
“I didn’t mean it,” he begged.
“You out here whining because you can’t find the little wank videos you made of me?” I snarled. “You pathetic bastard.”
Henry’s face crumpled, and suddenly he looked 10 years older than Hunter—like a hollow shell of himself. But it wasn’t true repentance, because I still saw a bitter angry energy in his eyes. He was a cornered rat—he’d attack us if he thought he could get away with it.
Henry sunk to his knees, piss leaking from his dick until there was a big wet patch on the front of his sweatpants.
“Please—please, forgive me!” he begged, hands reaching out for me. “I was so scared of losing you.”
Hunter slammed the hard butt of the flashlight into his brother’s collar bone.
“Stay away from her.”
“I’ve come for my shit,” I said.
“Take it, take it all,” Henry wept. “Just go away and leave me alone.”
The living room smelled like piss and booze and stale smoke as my eyes roamed around all my expensive possessions. All the things Henry had bought me. All the things that fit into a life with him.
A life I didn’t want anymore.
“You know what,” I said suddenly. “I don’t even want any of this shit.”
I started pulling things from the walls, ripping his art down, breaking apart the fancy electronics. I yanked at the massive flat screen TV until it tore from the wall with a splintering crunch. Then I let go and it fell on the ground with a terrifically loud and satisfying smash.
I heard a soft flick and Hunter handed me his knife with a twisted grin.
“For the couches,” he said. “And anything else you want to gut.”
“Please—please no,” Henry begged.
I slashed through the leather couches, splitting up the expensive material until my arm ached from destruction.
“I think Angel needs a nice marital settlement,” Hunter said. “I’m thinking. . . 10 million. 12 million. Let’s say we round up to 15 million. Then maybe we’ll let you go.”
“I don’t have 15 million!” Henry said. “Things are wrapped up in stock—homes—my investments—”
“Make it 20 million,” Hunter said.
“I don’t have that,” Henry whimpered.
“That’s a shame,” Hunter said, and he extended his fist and hit Henry in the head, a cold, precise blow on the corner of his forehead, knocking his twin out cold on the floor.
“Well, let’s go,” he said, grabbing Henry by the pant leg, leaving a long trail of pee along the floor as he dragged him to the door.
“Go where?” I cried.
“Back to my place outside town. Too many people to hear him scream at Jasper’s.”