Chapter 8 Everett #2
Bobby carefully approaches me. “He is becoming more and more unhinged, brother. Bloody train coming off the tracks. I know we ain’t supposed to kill our own family, but for fuck’s sake, can we make an exception?”
I keep quiet, mulling over my thoughts as a beautiful green-eyed girl tries to invade them, like ink in water. Shaking away the threatening distraction, I state, “Just get to work. In time he will come to his senses. Don’t act like such a hard-ass, Bobby, we know you couldn’t kill anyone.”
Bobby chufts under his breath, “Fuck off, Everett! On a different matter, I got somethin’ entertaining to show ya.”
I raise an eyebrow, as he expects me to follow him into his office.
Without any time to entertain anyone, I retreat to my desk, going over the paperwork for missing firearms and alcohol shipments.
The veins in my neck are pulsating with the rise of my blood pressure.
This on top of a bloody murder… The stress couldn’t possibly get any worse.
At times I wonder how my father dealt with all of this stress and juggled such problems seamlessly.
My ears perk up at a sound I have never heard before. Sounds like something rolling across the floor, a cart maybe? A cart that has no direction or is out of control. I stand, getting ready to leave my desk to inspect the sound emanating from the hallway until the sound barges into my office.
Bobby in an office chair with fucking wheels .
“You won’t come to me , so I’ll come to you. ” He smirks with his arms outstretched, “Look at her! Ain’t she a beaut? I can roll around the whole floor and never leave the fucking chair!”
I smother my smile, denying him the advantage of seeing my pure entertainment at his childish behavior, though I love seeing the joy alight on his face.
Bobby is the light of the family.
And I must stay the stoic and powerful dragon.
“Bobby, I don’t have time for this.”
He looks at me, hurt within his large eyes as his white-blonde hair shifts in front of his face from spinning in circles within the chair.
Before I may utter another word, Kenneth emerges from behind Bobby and his beloved new chair. Kenneth cocks his head to the side, studying the chair, then asks, “How’s it do going down the stairs? ”
Bobby, confused, let’s out a “Wha!? Chairs don’t go do—” Before he is able to mutter out the word, Kenneth playfully grabs the arms of the chair.
He begins rolling Bobby toward the top of the steps, threatening to push him down, maniacally laughing as he scares the utter piss out of our baby brother.
“Oi! Leave ’em alone, we don’t need him visiting the hospital,” I yell from my office.
Kenneth releases his grip on the chair as Bobby scoots his feet on the ground, sliding himself a safe distance from the steps, yelling, “Fuck’s sake, ya fucking arse!”
All I see is Kenneth’s face as he peers into my office from the side of the door.
“Oh? But wouldn’t you like that saucy nurse to come visit him, brother ?” Then he leaves before I can retort, laughing down the hallway.
Glancing at my watch, I find that I am going to miss my dear nurse’s appointment. So I take my leave to the massage parlor.
Standing in the rafters watching Brielle’s petite form undress, I have no need to hide my eyes, for she keeps her undershirt and undergarments on. Spotting the scars upon her back, I see we have something in common.
Crossing my arms across my chest, I monitor.
She’s apprehensive.
Has no one seen her in this state before?
Following her hands, I watch as they lift the sheet, so her body may slowly get beneath it on the massage table. My nostrils flare as my mind wanders again .
Picturing her lifting the sheets on my bed and curling her small frame beside me.
My body longs to know what she feels like.
To feel her wrapped around my arms.
To watch her small breaths as she drifts off to sleep.
Jameson walks into the room, her bright personality allowing Brielle to relax just a decimal.
Though I see Brielle’s shoulders are strung tight like a guitar string.
I notice each shudder that racks her body from Jameson’s initial touch, and it makes my blood boil knowing that someone has caused that reaction from her body.
Continuing to listen, I begin to pick up on her lies .
I theorize that she must have become a great liar out of self-preservation, for Jameson believes some of the half-truths and half information she’s fed.
She gives Jameson just enough to draw her own conclusions, without Brielle having to explain certain things.
For example, her scars: Jameson has drawn the conclusion those scars are from Flanders Field, though I know for a fact they aren’t.
Even though Brielle didn’t outright lie regarding their origin, I see her self-preservation kicking in.
My little dove is hiding something, and I will find out what she has been keeping secret.
Someone or something has caused her to cower and stay subservient.
I intend to break her .
Break her to build her back up again.
Stronger .
The fight is there, I can see it. She has shown it once and I intend to stoke that fire and let it blaze all over my town.
For like calls to like .
Selfishly, I want her to feel things she has never felt before .
From our short interactions I have identified that her life has been painful, unforgiving, closed off, and I intend to show her what it is like to have everything and anything at her fingertips.
For this person, this tiny dove has made my soul feel something for the first fucking time in my pathetic, tortured life, and I intend to repay her kindly. Regardless of whether she meant for it to happen or not.
I think it is time to lift the veil and let her see why we burn for each other.