CHAPTER TWELVE #3
Gerald slid a pair of pocket doors open to reveal a large, modern kitchen. He turned to walk backward, pointing a finger in my direction as he asked, "Care for a slice?"
"No," I answered, my tone flat.
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Dean over here, his wife makes a killer apple pie.
I remember when I first met her"—he opened a drawer and pulled out a cake knife—"and I thought, Well, isn't she a beautiful little thing?
I could see the physical appeal. I mean, great tits on that girl.
Pretty face. Dumb as a fuckin' doorknob though, that one.
Can't hold a conversation to save her life. But, damn, she's nice to look at."
My eyes volleyed toward Dean. What man appreciated another man—his boss, no less—talking about his wife in that way?
But the guy stared ahead with a blank expression on his face, his lips a loose line, his jaw relaxed.
The guy looked downright bored, a contradiction from how he'd been with Analise—affectionate, caring, and warm.
What the hell is that about?
"And, man, what an apple pie it is," Gerald went on, cutting himself a slice and dropping it onto a plate.
He licked his fingers as he grabbed a fork and carried his dessert back to the table, taking up residence once again in his seat beside me.
"You never got married," he commented, glancing at me with curiosity as he shoveled a heaping forkful of pie into his mouth.
I gave my head a subtle shake.
Gerald nodded and, with his mouth full, said, "Marriage is …
well, it has its benefits." He chuckled and waved his fork around, as if gesturing toward the whole room.
"And, of course, there's the pussy whenever I want it.
That's nice. Not that I had a problem in that department before, but, you know, don't have to hunt for it now. It's there when I wanna take it."
The hair on the back of my neck bristled at his choice of wording. Take it. Was that what he'd done to my mother? Taken it … taken her? Had he not given her a choice?
I remembered very little of my younger years.
Bits and pieces of filthy streets, cold alleyways, and the ache of having a hollow, empty belly.
If I tried hard enough, I could conjure vague fragments of memory, my mom doing lewd things for slimy men in exchange for food or a fix.
Sex had been a business transaction as far as I was aware, unless it was with Gerald.
I assumed she'd wanted it with him, yearned for it.
Now, I wasn't sure.
"But it's more than just pussy. I wouldn't be where I am if it wasn’t for my wife," Gerald went on, loading his mouth once again with pie. "You could benefit from that too. Find someone to settle down with. Get married. Have a family to carry on your legacy."
"No interest."
Gerald's fork was halfway to his half-eaten slice of pie when he glanced at me, seemingly perturbed by my indifference toward wedded bliss and the promise of regular sex. Then he dug back in and said, "Dean, how's marriage treating you?"
"Very good, sir."
"It's nice having someone to come home to, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Nice knowing someone would miss you if you never came home again, right?"
"Very nice, sir."
I rolled my eyes toward Dean. If he said sir one more time, I wasn't sure I could promise not to shove Gerald's fork up his nose.
"And women," Gerald continued, lifting his fork to his mouth, "they thrive on that shit. They need it. To be a wife, to be a mother, to spread their legs and give their man what he deserves for working hard all day. Isn't that right, Dean?"
I closed my eyes, bracing myself.
"That’s right, sir."
There was no stifling my irritable groan.
Gerald laughed. "You don't agree."
"I can't say that I do," I muttered.
"That's fine," he replied.
"I also wasn't looking for your approval."
He shrugged. "No, guess not. But there are particular things I would normally expect from you as my son.
Under a normal circumstance, I would expect you to be married, to provide me with grandchildren, to ensure all of this went to someone long after I was gone.
But luckily, I have someone else to handle that for me.
And besides, our situation isn't exactly a normal circumstance, now is it? "
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Gerald grabbed his discarded towel from the chair beside him and wiped his mouth and hands. Then he sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his gut. He looked at me, a smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eye, and a discomfort settled in my stomach, a warning.
"I'd like to make a business proposition."
I was already shaking my head before he could finish speaking. "No."
"You don't know what I'm offering."
"I don't care."
"Oh, but I think you will," he said before addressing Dean and asking, "Do you have it?"
Dean offered a curt nod and stepped forward, producing a black file folder from behind his back. Funny, I hadn't noticed him standing with it this entire time, and that only made the unsettling in my gut worsen.
I was alone in this house with these people, and suddenly, I was a sitting duck, waiting for them to pull a fast one on me.
Gerald took the file from Dean and laid it on the table before sliding it toward me with just the tips of his fingers.
Without a moment's hesitation, despite the war taking place in the pit of my stomach, I flipped it open to find a picture.
I bit my lips together as I stared down at the color photograph.
It was a picture of me, sitting on the couch in Gerald’s upstairs office.
My mask was off, anybody looking could clearly see my face.
I moved the photo to the side and found another of me pulling the mask on.
And then beneath that was the final nail in the coffin.
Because there I was, pouring the contents of a little glass vial down the throat of a man I didn't know, outside of his involvement in Leonard's murder.
Of course, I hadn't wanted to do it.
Of course, I'd been coerced.
But my innocence ended there.
I had made a choice, and that was all a judge would see if these pictures landed on their desk.
"You're blackmailing me," I stated, my voice gruffer than usual—the only evidence that I'd been successfully shaken by what was laid before me on the table.
"It's business, son. Nothing personal."
"You planned this," I accused him, diverting my eyes from the pictures to my father's face, which was, to my surprise, not at all smug.
In fact, he looked absolutely apologetic as he shook his head. "Not exactly. But I can't say I'm unsatisfied with the outcome."
All I could do was ask, "What do you want from me?"
"Well, as luck would have it, son, you have a particular skill set that I'd like to take advantage of," Gerald said, clasping his hands together on the table's glossy black surface.
"And what skill set might that be?"
He tipped his head, gazing at me like one might stare at something they wanted. Something they wanted badly.
"You're ruthless."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
He reached over to tap the picture lying before me. "This man deserved to die, didn't he? He took a life, and you saw fit to take his. No mercy."
"You made me."
"I nudged you, sure," he agreed. "But you’d made that decision before I suggested it. You knew what you wanted to do. Don't pretend that you didn't. And, given the right circumstances, I know you'd do it again."
My heart thumped wildly, threatening with every beat to shatter my rib cage and blast through skin and bone to lay on this fucking table.
I swallowed repeatedly, the urge to vomit imminent.