Chapter 5 – Sebastian
Chapter
Five
SEBASTIAN
“ Y ou all right, Boss?”
I glance over at Alex Brodie, one of Archangel’s toughest employees, and raise my eyebrows. “What the fuck are you asking me that for? You’re the one with a black eye and a split lip.”
He grimaces and rubs his hand across his jaw. “Yeah. I am aware. It’s just that, well, you were a lot more…”
“A lot more what?”
“A lot more everything today. Not to brag, but I can hold my own in a fight, and you don’t usually knock seven shades of crap out of me as easily as you did then. You were like a man possessed, and when I fight like that, it’s usually because I’m working through some shit. All I’m saying is, if there’s anything I can help with, let me know, okay? Even if you just need someone to listen.”
I know he’s being sincere, but I still want to punch the cheeky young pup in the face. He’s also right. Alex and I work out together at least once a week—and by work out, I mean fight. He’s ex–Special Forces and hard as nails, so he gives me a good run for my money. Gabriel used to be my sparring partner, but he’s understandably got a lot less spare time these days, and what time he does have, I’d rather him spend it with my daughter and grandson.
Alex usually does more than hold his own, and there’s never been a clear winner between us in these sessions. Until today. Today, I had hefty old demons I needed to exorcise, and Alex happened to be on the receiving end. And now he’s sitting there and offering to be, what, my spiritual counselor? Fuck that. “If I need someone to listen? Who do you think I am, Alex, some cunt who suddenly wants to talk about his ‘journey’ and cry on your manly shoulder? Give it a break, numbnuts.”
He laughs and waves his hand in a gesture of surrender. “All right, all right, no need to get your knickers in a twist—it was just a thought.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t pay you to have thoughts, do I? How are you and Jacob getting on with the McIverson situation?”
I stand up on the mat and roll my shoulders. He might look worse than me, but I took a few knocks too, and I’ll feel it later if I don’t get in the shower or ice bath soon. In days gone by, I’d have been lucky to manage either, but as Archangel has grown, one of the few luxuries we’ve invested in has been this gym and training suite at our HQ. It’s a staff perk and an essential part of keeping my head on straight. I offer Alex my hand and he takes it, pulling himself upright. He’s the same height as me, a shade over six foot, but built a lot leaner. What he lacks in bulk, though, he makes up for in technique. He knows more dirty tricks than anyone I’ve ever come across, including pro fighters.
He’s not been with us as long as some, but he and Jacob Cavanagh proved themselves in the best way possible—by helping me and Gabriel rescue Samantha from a scumbag who kidnapped her while she was pregnant with Max. After that, I’d trust him and Jake with my life.
“Work in progress, guv,” he says, shrugging. “As we thought, seems to be the dipshit younger son who’s causing all the bother. McIverson senior and his older lad are reasonable men. They might not like the deal on the table, but they know they’re all out of choices. Young Jimmy’s looking to make a name for himself, though, even if that name is only ever going to be useless twat . You know the type.”
“I do. Skinny streak of piss who wants to prove himself by playing the big man.”
“Exactly that. Leave it with us though. We can be very persuasive.”
I nod. The shooting pain in my left kidney is proof of how persuasive he can be.
Archangel has been branching out, starting with clubs and bars, a few small hotels. We’ve also recently started the process of acquiring a chain of London gastropubs from the aforementioned McIverson family. It’s not quite what you’d call a hostile takeover, but it also isn’t the best deal in the world for them—basically because they’re desperate. They took a perfectly decent business and ran it into the ground with sloppy management, too many favors for mates, and piss-poor decision-making. They ended up borrowing money from the wrong types, and now they’re deep in the shit. It’s reached the stage where either they take our cash offer or they start looking forward to life with less working limbs than they’re used to. If they’re lucky. The blokes they borrowed from aren’t the kind to repossess their car—they’re the kind to run them over with it, then piss on their bleeding bodies.
We’ll have our lawyers sort out the finer details, but we let Alex and Jacob take the lead on the initial process. It’s a step up in responsibility, and they’ll get a share of the profits, assuming all goes well. I trust them, but I’m keeping an eye on the thing, just in case. Frank McIverson is okay for a complete screwup, but Jimmy has been making noises about fighting us off and “blowing us up to the world” if we don’t sweeten the deal. Fuck knows what that means. Maybe he’s got plans to out us on his YouTube channel or whatever.
I doubt the idiot knows anything that could harm us, but it’s best to keep a lid on that kind of shit—in any way necessary. Gabriel is keen to go more legit and I understand why, but I’ll always be a bit of a thug. Always have been, always will be. Like my dear old pa used to say between swigs of vodka and lashing out with his belt, I have the heart of a devil and the soul of Satan.
“And how’s the new lad working out?” I ask.
Alex nods, unable to hide a grimace when his lip starts bleeding again. “Taylor? He’s good, Boss. Bit green around the edges, thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks, usual stuff for a dumb fuck in his early twenties, but I think he’s got what it takes.”
Taylor joined us a few months ago, straight from a similar firm in Manchester. He was looking for a fresh start in the big city and came highly recommended for his complete commitment to using whatever violence was needed without enjoying it too much. It’s a fine line to walk, and I’m glad to hear the boy is doing okay. So far, he clams up whenever he’s around me, and I need to get him in here on the mats one day soon, see what he’s made of. You’re not part of the Archangel team until one of the bosses has beaten the shit out of you.
Alex makes his farewells and sets off. I wait until he’s gone before I give in to the pain, doubling over slightly and swearing. I’m the only one here right now, so I can afford to drop the tough-guy act a notch as I head to what the fella who installed it called the “recovery suite.” I think he had in mind recovering from a strenuous workout, but truthfully it’s been a useful spot when some off-the-books medical treatment has been required as well. We don’t keep essential oils and exfoliating body scrubs back here, but we do have a decent stash of suture kits, bandages, and local anesthetic.
I rinse off in the shower, then head to the sauna. Maybe a bit of heat will help. That and possibly a giant mallet to the brain to stop it functioning for a few hours. The fighting was a good distraction, but now I’m back to having too much time to think.
Alex hit the nail on the head when he said he thought I was working through some shit. Specifically, I’m working through some Lauren Hayes–shaped shit. The woman has messed with my head, and I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s ridiculous after one night, no matter how spectacular that night was, and I need to shake her off. I’m a busy man, and I don’t have the kind of job where I can afford to go pussy-blind and make mistakes. I’ve already been out to spend the night in my cabin in the woods, which is normally all it takes to clear my head.
I get into the sauna stark-bollock naked, because it’s my fucking sauna and I can, and pour water on the coals. The sizzle of warmth seeps into my skin, and I massage my quads as I settle down on the bench. Why the fuck am I so fucked up about this one? What’s so different about Lauren Hayes that she’s snuck under my skin like this? Is she really that special, or is it just that she walked out on me like she did?
Got to admit, I’m not used to that. No woman has walked out on me since Samantha’s mum, Alice, when I was only sixteen years old—and she didn’t so much walk as get scooped away by her parents. They hit the roof when they found out she was pregnant and whisked their daughter away from the bad boy who’d done the damage: yours truly.
Since then, I’ve been in and out love so many times I’ve lost count. I genuinely feel it at the time, but looking back now, I don’t think any of it was real. I’ve been engaged five times without ever making it up the aisle, last time to the perfectly lovely Kayleigh. I found out later that the lads in the office were running a cheeky sweepstake on how long it’d be between the engagement party and me dumping her. Sounds funny on the surface, but I don’t like what it says about me. I’m not a young man anymore, and I’m a fucking granddad—there’s no glory in being an eternal playboy. I’ve seen what Samantha and Gabriel have together, and who wouldn’t want that for themselves?
The problem is… Well, dammit, the problem is me. I grew up under the thumb of psychopaths until the age of twelve, and when things finally got bad enough for me to be taken off them, I was in the care system for years. After the first few foster parents showed signs of being even more mental and abusive than the biological set or sent me packing because I was too much trouble, I made up my mind that I wouldn’t give a shit anymore. If nobody wanted to love me, that was fine. I’d make myself even more unlovable, and the world could go fuck itself. I might have the heart of a devil, but nobody would ever get to break it.
Now, here I am—feeling my years and brooding over a slip of a girl I’ve only just met. It’s infatuation, I tell myself. No different from all the other times I’ve been here, wondering if I’ve finally met “the one.” Crap. I sound like a teenage girl. Worse actually, because there’s no way Sam would have talked like that when she was a teenager.
What the fuck has Lauren Hayes done to me? All I can think about is the way those soulful brown eyes of hers clouded over when she came, like she was having some kind of spiritual awakening. The way she cried my name when I was inside her. The way she submitted to me despite being ninety-nine percent spitfire—I could tell submission didn’t come naturally to her. The way her tight pussy walls squeezed my cock so well it felt like we’d been purpose built to fuck each other.
I groan and punch the wooden wall of the sauna as the cock in question springs to life. I stare it down, the traitor—why is it reacting like this at the mere memory of that woman? Of her soft, golden-brown skin, her thick, dark curls, her taut nipples dancing beneath my fingers. My hand goes to my shaft, gripping hard. I don’t know if I want to jerk off or pull it off, I’m so messed up. I’ve shot my load thinking about her several times in the last few days, and I always feel annoyed with myself afterwards. She walked out. She hasn’t been in touch.
She’s made it pretty clear that it was a one-night-only deal, and she doesn’t want anything more from me. So why am I still rubbing my cock and hearing her voice in my head all the bloody time?
This is obviously more of an ice-bath situation. I march angrily out of the sauna and force myself to sink completely under and only emerge when I run out of breath, completely soaked and shivering at the subzero temperature. I glance down at my now far less enthusiastic cock. Well. That’s one problem taken care of, at least. All that’s left is for me to get through a full day of planning meetings, then take care of the bigger issue. I have to see Lauren and get some closure. Fuck. What am I turning into?