19. Bullwhip
19
BULLWHIP
Slouching into Felix’s cream-colored leather chair behind his desk, I read through his documents. It’s an activity that normally puts me to sleep, but not today.
2003, reads the label stuck to one of the folders.
The heavy paperwork weighs down my wrists, so I set the folder on the desk and leaf through. He would’ve been eighteen at the time these documents were created, around the time he started college.
I expect certificates that celebrate his success.
Instead my eyes meet the words: INVOICE.
Multiple times, too.
I flip a few more pages. Find even more.
The client names are different each time, mostly. I don’t recognize any of the names, but all have approached Felix for business. There’s a lot. Fifty, I estimate. He only started his business at eighteen years old. How did he bank up this many clients in such a short space of time?
I turn the next page.
Fuck, that’s a lot of zeroes.
Intrigued, I slip the document out of its paper sleeve to examine the text. Sealing one six-figure contract deal at eighteen years old is impressive. Also a little shady. This is an achievement, so I’m surprised he hasn’t dropped it into interviews before.
I look closer and observe the handwriting. For a guy who walks everywhere with a laptop clamped under his armpit, the handwritten paperwork seems very unlike him. Invoices take twice as long to write with a pen, and Felix, as a business owner, knows that time is a person’s greatest asset.
What is he doing handwriting all of his invoices?
Breath dies in my lungs.
That’s why.
Business: Contracted Assassin
Description of service: (24th November 2003): Tiger Fields has stolen client David Yarrison’s girlfriend, and phoned tonight to request Tiger’s elimination.
(25th November): Job completed at 2:35 AM in Tiger’s home. Evidence was cleared and burned. Alibi created. Payment received from David.
Contracted assassin.
It doesn’t surprise me. He grew up around deprivation and drug addicts, alone without individuals who gave a shit about him—of course illegal activities are gonna call your name. When everybody around you sees you as worthless, it feels good to finally exert control.
Work, according to the time and dates logged, was carried out just twenty-two hours later.
I sit back, startled, and flip the page to read more. One kill after the next.
Cash-in-hand payments too.
If people ever hear about this, they’ll call him a heartless freak, but I get it. The man had so much built-up resentment that he needed to outlet it somehow. I joined Venom Vultures to scratch the itch, but to feel in control and prove himself worthy, Felix began a side hustle.
So that’s how he scaled his business so quickly.
He didn’t magically go from rags to riches one day.
He killed his way there.
Slipping out my phone, I photograph the evidence and slot the folder back into the drawer. Next, my fingers crawl up to the next drawer, and I select a folder labelled: 2021.
Lo and behold, the marriage contract that will shock a nation.
I peel back the plastic sleeve and read. In the bottom right, I catch Zoe’s signature—a tiny scribble to mark day one of imprisonment. I imagine her signing it. The glum look on her face. I imagine her sister, Fiona, the young redhead beside her, sobbing or disassociating herself away from the situation or something, and then the two men—Warren and Felix, shaking hands to seal the deal.
How would her father feel? Sad? Did he want to marry Zoe off?
He was probably impartial about the whole thing and had no opinion.
Anything to save the business, right?
I snap another photo, and then move on to the top drawer.
2025.
The evidence in this folder suggests that he rarely kills now. The assassination business no longer exists. I flick through the folder and find no invoices, none of him killing anyone, anyway. It appears the setup was only temporary to increase bank so he could purchase his first property and kickstart the real estate business.
He doesn’t kill for others.
But he did, thirteen months ago, for Paul Royal.
I don’t know why he paper-clipped a 2024 invoice into a folder containing documentation from this current year, but it grabs my attention regardless.
Description of service: (July 13th, 2024): Whistleblower Isla Juniper manages to uncover Paul’s money laundering ventures that have been occurring behind the scenes at Cash Pot Palace for eleven years. The twenty-six-year-old whistleblower threatens to make information public, so Paul approaches me to eliminate the whistleblower.
(July 14th, 2024): Job completed at 3:33 AM in Isla’s home. Evidence destroyed and alibi created. Payment received from Paul.
Interesting that Paul was laundering money, but not surprising. Everybody knows casino owners harbor money. I guess people just always thought Paul was different, and legitimate.
Maybe Grizzly’s wrong about Paul. Maybe he didn’t hang himself to one-up Felix.
Maybe he just saw no way out.
Felix knew about the money laundering. Maybe he threatened to expose the secret if Paul didn’t hand over the cash.
I reread the sentence. Payment received from Paul.
Huh. He already paid for the assassination, so what’s the problem?
I snap a photo of the document, then place it back into the folder. The digital clock on the desk reads 10:15 PM. I should get back.
Rising from the seat, I turn to do so, but my feet run into another folder on the floor. It calls my name. The sensible thing would be to leave, but I’m too invested now. This isn’t the curated Felix Fernando that everybody else sees. These documents expose the real Felix Fernando. This guy didn’t work two jobs during college to fund his realtor ventures—that’s all bullshit. He night-shifted as an assassin and wove between the shadows every night night, killing for cash.
But he’s not just a seasoned killer.
He knows how to clean up too.
Records show that he’s not once been caught. Eighteen years, he’s been doing this dance, and still nobody suspects anything . Over the years, he’s probably had investigative journalists on his back—when you’re in the public eye, conspiracy is guaranteed. Trouble is, the guy’s simply too powerful. All he has to do is channel some built-up resentment and pull the trigger. Bam! Man down. Evidence cleared.
Nerves bundle in my stomach as I squat to reach the folder.
Stakes are seriously high.
Zoe is right—Felix never loses.
I sit back down in the chair and open up the folder, expecting to see another collection of invoices. Instead I see a photograph. It must’ve been from school. It’s the annual grade photos they used to do before summer vacation, and Felix—it must be him—he’s the one with the funny-shaped head—stands at the end looking glum. He’s fully brunette here—no salt-and-pepper hair.
And he’s exactly what you’d imagine a victim of bullying to look like.
I turn to the next page. Scan my eyes up and down a birth certificate.
Felix Grayson.
Immediately, my hands flip to the next page, and holy fuck, it’s a report from Child Protective Services.
(16th February 1985). Due to severe drug misuse, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson are unable to take care of twin sons. Felix and Blazer Grayson have been taken off parents this afternoon, and will be put into the foster system. We hope to find homes for them ASAP. Mitch Hazel-Lewis has advised homing them separately to increase chances of adoption.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to find that.”
I whip around.
The folder crashes to the floor.
Felix stands in the doorway with a neutral expression. And I don’t know how to feel.
“Long time no see, baby bro .”
“We’re twins,” I say. “We’re the same age.”
“Clearly, you didn’t finish reading the birth certificate. I have two minutes on you.”
Fucking just what I need.
He smiles and walks into the room, and I feel some of the tension in my shoulders dissolve.
I broke into his office and in extension of that, his life.
And I slept with his wife.
Under the table, I close one of my hands into a fist. The other retrieves the folder from the ground.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“What is there to understand?”
I cross my arms. “How do you know? When did you?—?”
“When the pap captured you enjoying alone time with my wife.” He stares blankly at me. “I did some digging and traced your passport information. You’re tricky to find, aren’t you? Prefer an off-the-grid lifestyle away from people and cameras. Now I know why.”
“Felix—”
“How low can you go?”
All the way to the floor , I feel like saying, to lighten up the mood and take a page out of Wrangler’s book.
But I’m not sure where this conversation’s heading.
Felix walks into the office and stands over me, hands on hips until it becomes obvious that I’m in his chair.
I move aside and let him sit. Venom Vultures, over the years, has thickened my skin and taught me to stand my ground, even if I’m in the wrong, but in Felix’s presence, I struggle. My posture slackens, and my intestines knot together.
He’s the one person who understands. The one person who gets me.
And he just so happens to be my brother.
Felix Fernando is his stage name, but I know him as Grayson.
It appears we both ran away from our childhoods and changed our names as soon as we got the chance…
“I’m hoping that will be the last of that,” he says.
“The last of what?”
“Of you trying to pursue my wife. I’m disappointed, Blazer.”
“Bullwhip,” I correct, “and who says I’m trying to pursue your wife?”
“Do you take me as a fool?” He gestures to the other side of the room. To the very same pair of red lace panties Zoe was telling us about earlier.
I drop my eyes.
Zoe.
Fuck, why of all people is it my brother she’s married to?
“Now, let me cut to the chase.” Felix leans forward and nets his hands. His jaw juts out in front of him—an obvious indicator of our relation, and his mismatched eyes narrow.
Are the others still upstairs? They need to get the fuck out of?—
“Don’t worry about them.” His eyes remain on mine. “Worry about us.”
I fold my arms over my chest. The suits don’t tidy him up or make his face any less harsh. God, we’re like two peas in a pod, both outcasts. Both with a hunger to destroy. Our only difference is Zoe. He wears her like a designer handbag, and I have an obsession with making her come.
“Join me.” His eyes narrow even more at the request. “Think how powerful we’d be.” Felix undoes a cuff link and rolls back his sleeve. The beard isn’t the only thing he shaves. He strokes his hand up the length of his limb. “Come on. It would be a waste when we both have the same blood running through our veins.”
I wince.
Wrangler. Poet. Zoe. Yes, they have loyalties to me, but it’s different. I’m not like them. They have goodness in their heart, and the two other guys kill only when it’s necessary to do so. I kill for fun. To control. To pay tribute to my childhood self who needed somebody to stand up for him.
And now Felix is my brother.
Brothers should stand up for each other and protect each other no matter what.
“How many people have you killed?”
“Why?” he scoffs. “Is this one of those sibling things where we see who has the most?” He shakes his head, and a smile lights up his face—a genuine one. He looks nothing like this on TV. Everything’s too reformed, too planned out, but this doesn’t feel like one of those moments. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve seen the folders.”
“You were eighteen when you started?”
“Technically seventeen, but I only killed two at that age.”
“Why?”
“I had a dream. You ever had one of those?”
Everybody has dreams, but so few people pursue them. Mine was to make something of myself, and I joined Venom Vultures to be powerful and in control for once in my life.
But it’s not good enough.
I murder and repeat.
Murder and repeat.
Nothing ever changes.
Brander’s the only one in the group who understands what it’s like to be parentless, but he has Alice so I never see the guy anymore.
Suddenly, Felix interrupts my digging and presents the perfect opportunity. Belonging to something, truly, is all I’ve ever wanted. Venom Vultures gave me that for a time.
But nothing beats blood relation.
“Of course I had a dream,” I say. “Everybody has dreams.”
“What was yours?”
I press my lips together and look to the floor, avoiding the question.
“You’re my brother, alright. Mute like me.”
Seriously? Arrogant people don’t exactly keep their mouths shut.
“I used to be, in school. Being mute was the only way to survive. If I didn’t open my mouth and say anything, nobody had anything to hold against me. Of course, popular kids still find ways, don’t they?” He sharpens his eyes for a moment. “My foster parents owned a drug trade, and illegally employed all of these?—”
“I know.”
He waggles his eyebrows. Continues, “Anyway, I binge ate as a result. Coping mechanism, I think. I put on pounds, and they started calling me fat and whatnot. A fat nobody that’s too shy to stick up for himself, that was the one that dug most. Isla Juniper was her name. She was always all up in everyone’s business, so it comes as no surprise that she made a career out of it.”
“The whistleblower?” I say. “The one who uncovered Paul’s money laundering and threatened to turn all the evidence in to the press?”
“Good, you’re catching up.” Felix ties his hands behind his back and paces the room. “That was an especially satisfying kill. Do you wanna know how I did it? Blow to the head.” He acts the scenario out, cocking a hand to his temple.” She recognized me, too. Karma works in the most weird, wondrous ways.” He drops the makeshift gun and turns to me. “You know how it feels, don’t you…Bullwhip? You know how it feels to finally be behind the trigger instead of in front of it? Words hurt, one could even argue more than death.”
This must be why it’s so important for him to make a good public impression.
“We’re the same person, me and you. Twins. You’ve seen it yourself.” He stops pacing. Straightens his spine with a crack. “Join me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s no cap on power. You can always do better.” He walks back over to the desk and takes a seat, hands netting together again like he means business. “Help me take over the Vegas casino scene.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“ Power , Bully, you’re not listening.” He raises his eyebrows and says my name again. “Bully. Good name, I like that.”
“I thought you have Warren.”
“I do have Warren, but he’s my right-hand man. My behind-the-scenes guy. I want you. We could be business partners and monetize the Vegas scene. Think how powerful we’d be. How much we’d be able to get away with.”
“Money doesn’t interest me.”
“It doesn’t interest me either,” says Felix. “To an extent, sure it does, but it’s the experience that money provides. It’s priceless, if you’ll pardon the pun. You pay for people’s silence if they uncover what you’re up to, and if they refuse to shut their mouths, you pull the trigger. Simple. If anyone suspects the murder—same goes. You either exchange cash for silence, or you blackmail.”
Paul’s pallid body returns to my vision. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Who?” Felix sniffs a laugh. “You’re gonna have to give me a name.”
“Paul.”
“Paul Royal took a turn for the worst after killing Isla Juniper. He silenced the whistleblower with a Glock 17 thirteen months ago, and the guilt weighed on him ever since. Death was the only way to escape the regret in the end.” Felix flashes a smile. “Good, isn’t it?”
“So you staged a suicide?”
“Of course!”
“But you wanted him dead because…?”
“Cash Pot Palace needed a new owner.” The grin widens. “Me.”
Paul was one of the most renowned casino owners in Vegas. Of course Felix wanted him out of the way.
“What about the money? The half a million dollars you wanted from Paul?”
“Ah, so you’ve been onto me?” Tension tightens Felix’s jaw, poking the right side of his chin out more than normal. “I don’t know why Paul didn’t just hand it over, he had more money than he ever needed. Trouble is, he’s a stubborn guy unfazed by any lump sum of money, so Warren and I had to take matters into our own hands.”
“Killing him was the only way?”
“Killing is the only way, period.” His voice cuts through the room. “It’s bullshit, all the working-hard talk I boasted about in interviews. I tricked a nation into thinking that knuckling down and passing your exams with flying colors will make you successful, but it doesn’t. Truth is, everybody’s passing their SATs with distinctions in today’s world. Nowadays, even top scholars struggle to get into Harvard. You have to be better than smart. You have to gamble, and take risks, and dip beneath the law to make yourself enough cash. Ninety-five percent of people in society don’t have it in them to kill, but I did. I was so fucking angry at the world. At my foster parents, at my peers and the teachers in school who turned a blind eye to the bullying. The world wasn’t fair and I wanted justice. I wanted to know the feeling of power, and feel the gun vibrations ripple through my veins. If I wanted to murder, I thought I might as well make some money out of it. Do you wanna know what all those deaths bought me?”
I stare, waiting for his response.
“My dream. A five bedroom, five bathroom detached house in Spanish Hills that sold for nine point eight million. It kickstarted everything.”
I stare into Felix’s brown, mismatched eyes, and I see myself.
We’re one and the same.
Zoe’s too good for me. Simply too far out of my league for anything to happen between us. After the sex, all my dick wants to do is plunge straight back inside of her and chase another orgasm, but one day that’s gonna reach an inevitable end.
Maybe she wants this to work, and maybe she wants all three of us.
But the truth is, I’m only gonna bring her down.
Day by day, my rotten energy will transfer into her soul and ruin hers too.
How is that fair?
She deserves better.
Sex is transactional. Energies are shared. Yes, she might pour light into me, but my presence in her life will take hers away. Sticking around is too dangerous.
Fate blew Felix to me for a reason. I’m a killer, a bad person, and it’s about time I start surrounding myself with people who share the same heartless mindset.
I rake an unsteady hand through my hair. Not much fazes me. Holding somebody at gunpoint doesn’t shake my core, and watching their rotting flesh decay out in the desert afterward doesn’t either. The only thing that does is Felix, and his tempting words.
“Where is your bathroom?”