Page 9 of Isaac

Then, suddenly, the chill of metal presses against the nape of my neck.

"You move, you die, asshole," a voice hisses. Raw, dark, and commanding whisper coiling around my chest.

My world constricts to the point of a gun.

Fear, sharp and acrid, floods my senses, and a bead of sweat mingles with the water on my brow. It’s a delicate dance now, each breath measured, each flicker of thought racing like a caged animal seeking escape. The gun is an icy promise, a lover's caress that speaks only of finality. My fingers twitch, yearning for the weapon they cannot reach, muscles tensed and ready, though I dare not make a move.

Have I been compromised already?

"Who the fuck are you?" the man asks. "This is the staff’s bathroom."

The cold voice slices through the fog of adrenaline and water dripping into my eyes. I'm staring dumbly into the sink, the faucet still open. I can't see how old he is or what he's wearing because of the angle my head is bent. And I'm not stupid enough to do what he explicitly told me not—move.

"Name's Hawk," I say steadily despite the ice in my veins. "I'm here for a job interview. The other john's busted up. Jeremy sent me here to do the piss test." I nod toward the plastic cup on the marble counter, waiting to be filled with proof of my supposed allegiance—or at least my sobriety.

The cold metal presses harder against my neck, a silent assertion of dominance.

I don't need to see his face to know he means business. I can sense it in his voice, the authority and the madness. And those are dangerous qualities, especially when they go together.

The silence stretches between us as I listen for any sign of movement from the man behind me. I hear nothing but I do feel his breath on my skin, hot and fast, slipping under the collar of my dress shirt and spreading across my upper back and turning into a shiver that runs down my spine.

"Listen carefully," the man standing behind me continues, the gun's kiss a ghost now as it withdraws from my neck just enough for me to understand he still holds all the power. "You tell someone about this, you bleed out. We clear?"

"Crystal," I say, each word a tightrope walk over an abyss.

"Good." He slowly steps back, the dark presence behind me fading.

He moves away then and toward the door, a whisper of danger that flirts with my senses. I can't see him. My eyes are still on the sink and I don't dare to look up.

There's a silence that follows, a loaded chamber where the next move could be the last. Then, footsteps, retreating yet still commanding every ounce of my attention. He's leaving, but the weight of his gaze lingers, a shackle I can't see but feel all too acutely.

I wait until the door clicks shut, until the absence of his aura allows the tension to pour out of my limbs.

Dallas Bradley may have never seen the face of the man who just held him at gunpoint but he remembers his voice very well.

CHAPTER 5

ISAAC

"Numbers are lookin' good for the quarter," Jeremy says as he flips through a stack of papers on the desk in front of us.

We are in the back office, sipping on a whiskey. The dim light from the single lamp tossing shadows across his face emphasizes the jagged scar that cuts across his left cheek. The scar that signifies the bond we have, the bond that runs way too deep. He earned that mark by saving my life right after I got out.

I close my eyes for a moment, remembering that sweltering Las Vegas night. The images are etched forever into my mind like a twisted tattoo. I was barely a week out, finally stepping out into the world again, blinking against the harsh sunlight and gagging on the stench of freedom—body odors, cigarettes, and despair. The taste of metal lingered on my tongue from the cell door clanging shut behind me night after night for nine years straight. I was numb yet hurting all over, newfound adrenaline pumping through my veins as I tried to navigate this foreign place.

I didn't know Jeremy well. He was tagging along everywhere I went on the orders of the family. I knew they hated me, hated the fact I was free. I had no idea where they’d found him.

I also knew I wasn't good to them dead.

They needed soldiers. Needed trusted people.

Because The Thoreau had been weakened by yours truly when he drove a knife into Jacob’s body.

That evening Jeremy and I stood in the alleyway outside Purgatory, smoking and shooting the shit. I remember tasting copper before the knife that glinted in the dark reached my throat. A whisper of steel sang past my face before it met flesh. I didn't see the man sending it. He came out of nowhere, stealthy and lethal.

Jeremy reacted like lightning, his hand snapping out instinctively to bat the blade away from my throat. The man with the knife lunged at him with a growl, but Jeremy was ready—he dodged nimbly and landed a hard punch that sent him reeling back against a dumpster.

It was over quickly after. When Jeremy looked at me, I was sliding my hand across my throat, feeling the sticky warmth of blood seeping through my fingers. His own face was a bloody mess too.

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