4. Tristan
4
TRISTAN
P aul was waiting to pick me up a little farther down the road, but it apparently took Elle almost two hours to find her car keys in the forest. I know because I was watching the street outside my house, so I saw when she came trudging back to her own house.
I smile at the memory while I finish the equation on my paper.
The first two days of the semester have been insanely busy, so I haven’t had the chance to set my plan in motion and start ruining Elle’s life yet. But once I have finished these equations, I will finally be caught up on all the course work for the next few days. Then I can?—
My phone vibrates on the desk.
Pausing with the pen hovering over the paper, I glance at the screen as it lights up. In the brief seconds before it goes dark again, I manage to read the entire text.
Mr. Bracken: Come.
A deep sigh escapes my chest.
I glance back at the paper before me. I only have half of the equations left. And this is the final paper that I need to finish. The very last one. And I really wanted to get it done tonight.
Indecision flickers through me.
Can I get away with finishing this before I drive downtown?
It only takes me two seconds to answer that question.
No, I cannot.
When Mr. Bracken calls, you drop everything and show up. That’s how it works.
Frustration wells up inside me, and I slam my pen back down on the desk before raking my fingers through my hair. Then I shove my chair back and stand up. I only pause long enough to slide my phone into my pocket and grab my keys. Then I’m out the door.
Anger courses through my veins the whole drive into town, and I have to flex my hands repeatedly on the steering wheel in order to try to dispel some of the fury thrumming inside me.
This is all Elle’s fault. If it hadn’t been for her, I would’ve been just a normal student. If she hadn’t ratted me out, I would be back in my own room right now, focusing on my studies, instead of trying to perform well in all my classes while also juggling a highly illegal side job.
But she did. She snitched on me and I lost my scholarship. But I would rather die than lose my spot in the engineering program at Bercester U, so I did the only thing I could. I got the money from someone else.
Rob Bracken, leader of the White Serpents and one of the most successful drug lords in the city of Bercester, agreed to lend me the money for both my tuition and room and board. He expects me to pay him back. And I will. Every cent. As soon as I graduate and get a high-paying job as an engineer, I will start paying him back.
But in the meantime, I work for him.
No, I don’t just work for him.
He owns me.
So when he summons me, I show up promptly. And I do whatever he tells me to do. Without complaint or hesitation.
And all because Elle fucking Summers couldn’t keep her bloody mouth shut.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, I drag a hand through my hair and then take a second to compose myself before I pull open the metal back door that leads into the White Serpents’ main club.
I jerk my chin down in a nod to the guard inside the door before I follow the corridor towards the back rooms. Thumping music and loud voices echo from the bar area, but I steer clear of it and instead head straight for Bracken’s office.
Pausing outside, I raise my hand and knock firmly on the wooden door.
“Come,” Mr. Bracken calls from inside.
I take one more second to make sure that I have wiped all traces of frustration from my features. Then I open the door and walk inside.
The room looks the way it always does. Walls painted in a color that is neither red nor brown but somewhere in between. Black drapes pulled shut over a window that looks out over the main area of the nightclub below. Some wooden cabinets and shelves along the walls. And a grand desk where Rob Bracken himself is seated.
I move until I’m standing in front of his desk. Then I straighten my spine and clasp my hands behind my back. The pose is reminiscent of a soldier in front of his commander, and Bracken has always preferred it that way, which has made me wonder if he might be some kind of dishonorably discharged military man.
“You summoned me, sir,” I say, making sure to keep my voice respectful.
“Yes,” he simply replies while he continues writing something on a piece of paper.
I say nothing. Only continue standing there in silence while I watch him finish whatever it is that he’s doing.
Rob Bracken is in his fifties. Or I think so, at least. His brown hair has started to get the slightest dusting of gray, but his body is still strong and athletic. I’ve spent the past two and a half years working out and learning how to fight, but I have a feeling that I would still lose if I ever had to fight Bracken. There is something about the way he moves that once again makes me think he was in the military for a long time. A sort of ruthless confidence that people only get when they’ve repeatedly been the one to walk away the victor of brutal fights.
At last, Bracken puts his pen down and looks up to meet my gaze. His gray eyes are, as always, sharp and cool. Full of quiet command.
“This guy owes me money,” he says as he picks up the piece of paper he was writing on and holds it out to me. “Go and deliver a message.”
I quickly reach out and take the paper. “Yes, sir.”
Once I have the paper, he flicks his wrist, dismissing me. I bow my head in acknowledgement and then turn and disappear back out into the corridor.
While I stride through the hall and towards the back door, I glance down at the paper in my hand and read the name and address written there. Then I stuff it into my pocket. The guard by the door gives me a nod as I stalk back out into the dark night.
The address is within walking distance from the club, so I head over there on foot.
My footsteps echo faintly against the stones as I walk up a short set of steps and towards the apartment door specified on my paper. Once I reach it, I check once more to make sure that I have the right number. Then I raise my hand and knock.
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
I knock again.
Harder.
Something clanks inside the apartment. It’s followed by some muffled cursing. Then the lock on the door clicks open.
A man with dirty blond hair and slightly unfocused eyes peers out at me. “Yeah?”
“Ken Ripley?” I ask.
He glances up and down the empty corridor behind me before focusing on my face once more. “Yes. Who are?—”
I kick him in the chest.
He falls backwards, crashing into a side table in the short hallway inside, and then tumbles down to the floor. I stalk after him, throwing the front door shut behind me as I go.
Ken blinks hard and tries to scramble up from the wooden floorboards.
I kick him in the head, sending him crashing back down.
Groans of pain spill from his lips as he writhes on the floor. He twists, bracing one hand on the ground, and then tries once again to get to his feet. I kick his arm out from underneath him and then grab the collar of his shirt. With a firm grip, I yank his face closer while I bend down and drive my fist into his jaw .
His head snaps to the side.
I punch him again.
And again.
This is what I had to trade in exchange for my tuition. And in exchange for not having to touch any of the drugs that the White Serpents handle.
When I first started working for Mr. Bracken, I was one of the drug dealers. But I realized quickly that I had to get moved from that particular duty to something else. And fast.
If the police were to arrest me while I was carrying or selling drugs, it would be an open and shut case. My whole future as an engineer would be ruined.
So I decided to become really good at something else. Namely, beating people up. Most of the guys in the White Serpents think that this is one of the worst jobs. Being a goon. Someone who provides security for the dealers and who punishes whoever Bracken wants punished. But they’re wrong. This is the best job.
Because, as opposed to carrying or selling drugs, this is a crime that the police can’t prove that I committed.
I’ve been picked up by the cops a couple of times after someone I beat up snitched to the police. But they’ve always had to let me go. Because they can’t prove anything. It’s just their word against mine.
So I do everything I can to make sure that Bracken keeps me on goon duty. Because as long as there is blood on my hands, there won’t be any drugs on them.
Ken Ripley cries out in pain and tries to protect his head as I ram my fist into his face again. Blood runs from his broken nose and his split lip. I hit him two more times.
Then I release my grip on his collar and unceremoniously drop him back down on the floor .
He gasps in a couple of breaths and then coughs blood on his shirt.
I move up closer to his head and put my boot on his throat.
His eyes snap open. Panic pulses on his face as he desperately tries to push my foot off his neck. I just keep applying pressure.
“Mr. Bracken wants his money,” I declare.
Ken tries to say something but only garbled noise comes out. I give his throat one more push before I remove my boot and take a step back.
Wheezing breaths and wet coughs echo through the apartment as Ken sucks air back into his lungs. I remain standing there on the floor, watching him. Rolling over, he coughs twice more before he manages to push himself up to his knees. For a moment, it looks like he is going to get to his feet after that. I level a sharp glare on him. He swallows. Then coughs again. And remains on his knees.
“Mr. Bracken wants his money,” I repeat.
“I don’t have it on me,” Ken croaks.
After heaving a sigh, I bend down to grab his shirt and to start hitting him again.
“No!” he cries. Ducking down before I can grab him, he bends over and presses his forehead against the floor in front of my boots. “Please. I don’t have it on me right now, but I swear I’ll get him the money first thing tomorrow when the banks open. Please. Please, I’m begging you.”
Satisfaction washes through me like a warm ripple, curling around my spine.
This is a side effect of my servitude that I didn’t expect.
I thought I was going to hate every second of working for Mr. Bracken. But as soon as I became a punisher instead of a dealer, I learned something about myself that I didn’t know before.
I love exerting my power over others.
Maybe it’s because I have never had any real power or control over my own life. Or maybe it’s because I want revenge for all the unfairness I’ve had to deal with. Or maybe I’m simply a sick twisted bastard who loves the feeling of having someone’s life in the palm of my hand. Of watching them kneel and grovel and beg me for mercy. It’s so fucking addictive.
“First thing tomorrow morning,” I declare.
“Yes,” Ken says, still keeping his forehead pressed against the floor in front of my boots. “I swear. Please.”
“Good.”
Then, without another word, I spin on my heel and stride back out into the night.
Hopefully, this will be the last job like this for a few days. Because now, I need to get back and finish my equations. And then, I need to start focusing on the second most important part of my life right now.
Breaking Elle Summers.