Chapter 3 #2
For good measure, though, I land a solid left-handed smack to Nick’s mouth, temporarily satisfied at the fresh river of blood that flows from the new split that opens on his bottom lip.
“Ready to try again?” I ask the terrified man.
Nick’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He licks the blood from his ruined lips before sobbing out a broken, “Maddox, please, believe me. I swear to God—”
Another sound slap leaves my handprint on his right cheek.
I’m not even a lefty, and yet I do a fair amount of additional damage to his already ruined face.
“You think there’s a god in here with us?
” I give him a slick grin and glance around the small, dank room.
“Tell you what, Nick.” This time, when I press the muzzle of the gun to his forehead, I’m fully in control of my temper.
“You pray, and if your god shows up within the next sixty seconds, I won’t pull the trigger. ”
“You’re out of your mind,” Nick breathes, his eyes wide, tear-filled, and full of horror.
With a shrug, I twirl my index finger near my temple. “Never claimed to be sane.”
“Please don’t kill me.” Nick squeezes his eyes closed. “I have a wife and a kid.”
“Don’t care.” Okay, that’s not true. I do care, but only a smidge.
Unlike Roman, I’m not entirely heartless, but I didn’t put Nick in this chair.
Physically, I did, sure, but it was his own poor judgment and bad choices that got him into this fatal predicament.
“Should have thought about your family before you made the monumentally idiotic decision to steal a hundred grand from Roman McQueen.” I huff out a gruff laugh.
“Did you think he’d slap you on the ass and send you on your merry way with a warning?
Hell no. This is you facing the consequences of your actions. ”
Nick wiggles on the chair, trying to break free of the duct tape. “I’m sorry!”
“You’re wasting time on an apology when you should be praying,” I remind him.
“Fucking dirty cheat,” March growls, flexing his free hand in a fist over and over. “Save the bullet. Let me beat him to death.”
I point to March. “Good idea, but no.”
Meanwhile, Roman’s presence looms in the background, heavy and silent, with those icy gray eyes taking in every nuance. His stoic demeanor betrays nothing, but there’s a palpable intensity in his gaze as he watches us from the phone.
I’ve never been good at exercising restraint.
I relish the prospect of turning Nick into a grotesque spectacle.
I fully acknowledge what this means about me.
There’s a term for it—one that begins with psycho and ends with path.
But who is without flaws? Who shall cast the first stone?
Or some such shit. I know for a fact that I should have gotten help for my…
mental instability…ages ago, before it spiraled into something harder to control.
But I didn’t, and here we are, and when Nick opens his eyes and shakes his head, his dark and blood-streaked hair hanging wildly around his sweaty face, I don’t feel a bit of remorse for him.
“Dear God in Heaven, save me.”
Again, I glance around the room, with its sawdust-covered floor and array of cutlery.
“I’m looking, Nick, but I gotta tell you, I don’t see a deity in here with us.
” I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, then re-aim the 9 mm directly at Nick’s face.
“It’s a shame because, as far as people go, you’re not awful. Just woefully stupid.”
“Don’t do this, Maddox, please,” he pleads, then looks square at March’s phone when he shouts, “Roman, for the love of God, I’m sorry.”
“Come on, Nick, you know Roman has more use for the shit he took this morning than a dirty thief.” I tap the barrel of the gun against my chin.
“But even if he was feeling a rare moment of benevolence, I gotta tell you… Lately, I’ve been contemplating words that begin with the letter M.
Misery. Malicious. Murder. Mercy, however, isn’t among them. ”
I extend my arm. A gentle squeeze of my index finger on the trigger as I exhale is all it takes to release the bullet that slams into Nick’s skull.
His head snaps backward as blood and bits of brain and skull spray the sheet of plastic we hung on the wall behind the chair.
Then he slumps forward, and for a moment, I wish I’d have drawn this out.
Made it fun. But mindful of Roman’s steady glare, I keep things short and sweet.
Professional.
Having given Nick’s skull proper ventilation, I tuck the hot weapon into the shoulder holster and spin on the heel of my heavy boots.
The bang of the gun left me half fucking deaf.
I remove the balaclava. I stuff the mask in my back pocket as I stride across the room to get up close and personal with March’s phone. “I want a raise.”
“Don’t be cute,” Roman snaps. “And clean up that mess.”
I pull out my pocket watch, its intricate design catching the dim glow of the overhead light as I flip it open with a practiced flick of my wrist. “Wow, look at the time,” I say, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smirk.
“As much as I hate to shoot a man and run, March and I have a fucking mountain of studying to do.” No, we don’t.
We’ve been strategic in ensuring that there’s not a professor at Briar Rose who would dare to fail us.
I tuck the fob back into my pocket with a flourish, adding with a teasing lilt to my voice, “Good grades are important, right? Weren’t those your exact words?
” I lean in closer, bringing my face within inches of the screen.
“Guess you’ll have to call the Tweedles for this one.
Those brothers clean up better than we do, anyway. ”
Besides, I’m starving, and nothing beats a good meal after a bloody night’s work.
No, wait, that’s a lie.
Pussy.
Pussy trumps everything—and I can be one hundred percent quoted on this.
Okay, that’s another lie. I’ve got to narrow it down to one woman’s pussy trumping everything, but she wants nothing to do with me, and I gave her my word that I’d respect her stupid boundaries because…fucking reasons.
I texted Alice a grand total of one time.
One. A week after she left for Riverton.
It was only that one time, and it was a playlist of our favorite songs.
Did she listen to it? Maybe. Or maybe not.
Regardless, I sent it, and after that, I kept my promise to stay away from her, even though it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
It’s a constant struggle not to shake some sense into her pretty, stubborn head.
“Don’t push me, Maddox.”
I roll my eyes at Roman’s warning, hoping he doesn’t think I’m afraid of him because that ship sailed when I was ten years old.
Everyone else might shit themselves at the mere hint of the Lord Almighty McQueen’s displeasure.
Me? I genuinely don’t care. I’ve got no problem putting a hole in his head, same as I just did to the newly air-conditioned Nick Lowell.
And I’d do it with the same lack of remorse.
I pinch my nose through the balaclava and wave a hand in front of my face. “Better hurry and make that call to the Tweedle brothers. It’s hot in here. Nick won’t keep long.”
Laughing, I nod at March to end the video call.
My insolence will bite me in the ass later, but right now, I relish this small win, this moment of defiance.
Most people wouldn’t dare challenge Roman’s authority, but someone has to remind him that he’s not a fucking god.
Like the rest of us slobs, he’s just a living, breathing man.
Also, if Roman truly wants me to be something other than the manic soul I am, he would have gotten me that psychiatric help back when it would have made a difference.
But he didn’t, and here I am, left to piece together the disjointed fragments of my brain the best I can.
I’ve come to recognize words like “mental” and “psychotic” fit me like a second skin, wrapping around me in a way that feels both alarming and comforting.
I should probably be on a cocktail of medications or perhaps locked away in a padded room, but no, here I am, unrestrained, free to be a danger to society.
Ah, well, I guess there are worse things I can be other than a psychopath—like a dirty, lying thief.