Chapter 8 Everett
Damn Your Eyes, Alex Clare
After placing Brielle in her new domicile, I find my body is still exuding irritation after watching Carlton’s performance with her.
This woman takes too much shit from others.
That’s one notation on my tasks for her: teach her to assert herself with others.
She people-pleases way too fucking much, yet she had the balls to storm into my office after protesting the Adders’ “stamps.”
Walking down her town house steps, I turn to enter a building neighboring it.
I made sure to vacate the other two townhomes next to hers. Honestly, I am not too sure why, but know I wanted to .
Possibly provide her privacy from others? Make sure any prying neighbors wouldn’t have access to her? Provide myself easy access to the hidden secondary hallways so I may watch her?
Probably the final option.
Feeling the lock click beneath my grasp, I enter the secret doorway, looking around to make sure no one is watching.
I’m appreciative of my men for standing watch in the streets.
I sent them to the vacant house next door to sit and enjoy some scones and coffee.
Payment for their patience. It isn’t too cold outside.
The crisp fall weather has barely set in, but it would be utter bullshit to keep them outside for nothing.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I find the two-way mirror and lean my back against the adjacent wall. I place my hands in my trouser pockets and peer up to find Brielle, chest-deep in the grand clawfoot tub. Her emerald eyes are enraptured by everything around her.
Those sweet mannerisms entertain me, as if she has never had anything of quality in her life.
Her small fingers tentatively pick up each bottle, reading the labels and sniffing their contents.
With each inhalation she makes a sweet gesture, closing her eyes while a tiny sound of glee escapes her throat.
I chuckle under my breath. It will be interesting to see how she fares when I gift her pearls or jewels. It may make her heart stop.
I watch her soak in the tub for a long period of time, then glance at my watch to realize I’ve been here for nearly forty-five minutes.
Taking a long exhale, I curse the fact I must return to work to sort out the drama: stolen goods, and now a murdered massage girl.
No rest for the wicked.
As I turn to leave, movement in the mirror catches my eye. She stands from the tub. I eye her pert ass, then modestly peer to the ground.
Why? Why do I feel guilty for gawking at her ? I see women in the nude because of the massage parlors. Why do I feel that I’m intruding on an intimate moment? Preserving her modesty.
I’ve lost my fucking grip.
I glance from the ground to find her wrapping the towel around her slender curves, watching as it slides across her skin, caressing her hips. I lick my lips, my mind traveling down a dangerous avenue of imagination.
How I wish I could be that towel. Imagining wrapping my arms around her, feeling her body pressed against mine.
Flesh to flesh.
Touch to touch.
I want to paint her skin with me .
Own her, body and soul.
With a harsh intake of air, I adjust my growing cock, scolding my mind from the demons toying with my imagination.
This succubus alluring me with her beauty, her mystery.
Frustrated with myself, I charge down the steps, then lock the door, returning to my men in the next townhome.
As I enter their room, they are playing a game of cards.
Interrupting their fun, I ask, “What do we know of the dead body?”
Their heads snap up to meet my eyes.
One of my men answers, “The woman was found by a customer last night. They had an appointment with her but when they entered her room she was slit navel to throat. Blood was everywhere, boss. They are still trying to clean the room.”
The others shake their heads in disbelief and sorrow.
“Anyone know who did it? Was it the client? Is he trying to play dumb? Or was it anyone else that was on her schedule that day?” I coldly ask.
“We each questioned men on her schedule. All had alibis or other girls from the parlor that saw them leave her room with no quarrel or fuss,” Biscuit exclaims. “Girls were in and out of the parlor and no one saw anything suspicious, like a fucking ghost came in, or a demon of some sort.”
I narrow my eyes. “There are no ghosts or demons, Biscuit.”
“S’not what your Baba thinks, boss. She may be able to help us figure out the case.”
My hand juts out, ceasing any more ridiculous blabber from his jowls.
“For fuck’s sake, Biscuit, the last thing we need is Baba coming into the massage parlor with her bones, or gypsy or Viking spirits, and scaring the girls even more.
Have more security set to watch the parlor.
Biscuit, don’t forget to retrieve the package today.
Boys, interrogate old lovers of hers and get to the bottom of this. ”
They all state, “Aye sir” in unison.
What a fucking mess I have on my hands. The last thing I need is for the girls to not feel safe in their own work establishments.
For hell’s sake, that was the whole point of opening up the massage parlor—to ensure the women would be treated fairly, given more power and protection over their line of work.
It was something my grandfather worked diligently on.
Marching down to the office, I make a mental list of the tasks I need to accomplish, grinding my teeth with every new endeavor and responsibility.
As I enter the office floor, I find Frederick.
His hand is gripped around the back of my assistant’s neck.
I can hear his disgusting words as he leans down, sneering into her dainty ear.
“If I ask you to suck my cock, you better get on your goddamned knees and open your fucking mouth. I’m a fucking Afton and you do what I fucking say, whore.”
My nostrils flare, but I breathe in, nice and shallow.
My receptionist spots me and as she mutters, “Ev—”
I land a beautiful blow to my brother’s face, causing him to release his hold on the poor girl. She shrieks and scoots back into the corner of her desk as Frederick stumbles backward and anchors one hand to the adjacent wall.
I calmly yet firmly grab him by the lapels of his jacket, thrusting his back into the kind wall that aided his balance.
“Frederick, dear brother. We don’t talk to woman that way unless they specifically ask for it. She does not work in the massage parlor. She does not do that line of work, and if she did, she would be there. Don’t you think?”
I see a trickle of blood running down the side of his mouth, as the movement in his jowls precariously alerts me that he is going to spit. Cocking my head swiftly. I miss the contact as I hear a tooth hit the ground.
“Fuck you , Everett. I am as much an Afton as you are. I should get what I’m due ,” he mutters with his bloody mouth.
I exhale dramatically .
“See, brother, there are only two things we are certain to receive. That is life and that is death. Everything in between is made through our own choices. It is not entitled to us. What we want in life is earned, given, or taken away. If you lay a hand on my assistant, on any woman without their agreed consent, you will regret it,” I threaten through gritted teeth.
He chuckles with an accompanying snort. “Ya, brother? Well, you don’t kill family. So how the fuck you going to make me regret it?” he challenges, cocking an annoying, egotistical eyebrow.
I slam him against the wall for good measure as a gasp leaves his parted, bloodied lips.
I calmly, ever-so-softly state in his ear, “I may not kill you, but I know firsthand how to beautifully torture someone. It seems you are dying to find out.” Leaning my head back to gaze at him, my eyes light with fire.
He tries to shove my hands off his lapels but I’m much stronger and more sadistic than him.
“Let go of me!” he shouts, panic setting into his eyes.
Bobby comes around the corner, questioning, “What’s going on, you fuckwits? ”
Frederick bitches, “He’s being a fucking arsehole, Robert, get ’em off meh!”
Bobby looks between Frederick and myself as I keep my steel gaze on Frederick. Then he eyes my assistant cowering in the corner.
“Oh, love, you okay?” He reaches for her.
She stammers, explaining, “He…he wanted to force me to…to…”
Bobby holds up a compassionate hand. “No more, love, I can figure it out. If you’d like to quit, we understand. We can give you compensation. I’m so sorry this happened,” Bobby explains and holds out an endearing hand to help her out of the corner she backed into.
Bloody bleeding heart, he is.
She knew we were ruthless fucks, though that gives no excuse for Frederick to threaten her, lay hands on her or demand anything out of her that isn’t within her job description.
She mutters softly, “That’s all right, Mr. Robert. I’m all right now. I’d prefer to keep me job, please.”
He nods, then tells her to take a long lunch break.
Spinning to face us, Bobby gets into Frederick’s face, as I move to firmly grip Frederick by the neck .
“Get your fucking shit together. Maybe we should treat you the way you fucking treat others and you’ll finally get off your high horse, you overinflated shit bag,” Bobby spews with a pointed finger as Frederick snarls at us.
I think of the poor girl who died in the parlor as I eye Frederick up and down.
“Did you fucking kill Silvy?” I ask point-blank.
He looks up at me, puzzled and confused.
“Wha?” he spits out.
“I asked—” Death is exuding from my glare. “Did. You. Kill . Silvy?”
He gives another confused furrow of his brow, then replies, “No.”
His performance is convincing, but I determine that I need some men to follow him and provide intel on his whereabouts. His drunken rage, his entitled behavior, could have lead to a perfect storm for murder.
I let go of my piece-of-shit brother and he stumbles to the floor, then storms out of the office giving us a vulgar gesture.