Page 69 of Black Sheep

There are others who owe me answers. Answers I won’t get sitting here, staring at her like the horny asshole she labeled me.

Silently, I dress, leave the room, and head up to the sixth floor.

There are no signs of life in the hallway at this time of the morning, for which I’m thankful. I reach my suite and command the lights.

The spotlight falls over the metal chair.

Is it really only a few short days since I indulged in that useless six-hour bender? My gaze drops to my wrist. It’s completely healed, although a few scabs remain here and there.

All the screens are blank. I don’t intend to activate all of them. Only one. I head to the concealed bar set into the wall and grab a bottle of water. Then I check my phone for messages. Nothing.

I’m acutely aware that I’m delaying taking a seat in the chair, delaying the inevitable. I drink the whole bottle, my gaze finally resting on the screen on the far right.

Sitting down in the chair, I pick up the remote. My hand is shaking. I don’t clench it or stiffen it to stop its damning tremble.

I deserve this. All of it.

The beginning of the video is laughably banal.

Early fall in Connecticut is the most beautiful time of the year. According to Cleo McCarthy, at least. Which means it was naturally my favorite time of year too.

The late-afternoon sun glints off the twenty-five-foot pool that fronts my pool house. The person manning the camera doesn’t pause to appreciate the russet-tinged leaves or the beginnings of a glorious sunset.

His hurried footsteps approach my sanctuary, bursting in without knocking. He bypasses the messy living room and flings open the bedroom door.

I’m sprawled facedown on the rumpled bed, naked except for a pair of Calvin Kleins.

He kicks the side of the bed with a heavily booted foot. “Hey, Axe-hole, it’s almost noon. Time to get up. Pa has a job he wants you to take care of.”

I jerk up, my stubbled face going from startled to pissed off in a nanosecond. I roll away from my noxious, uninvited visitor. “Stop pointing that fucking camera in my face or I’ll make you eat it.”

Troy’s mocking laughter. “You look like crap. You’ve been knocking back that shitty tequila again, haven’t you?”

My gaze slides from the camera, and I leap off the bed in a vain attempt to hide my true state. “Fuck off, Troy.”

He follows like a damn bloodhound. “Oh…wait! What you hiding, baby brother? Go on, tell me. I can keep a secret.”

I round on him, my anger flaring in my bloodshot eyes. “Jesus, I’m fucking warning you. Quit with that thing.” My chest rises and falls with uncontrolled breathing that I can’t regulate, probably due to the other, illegal substances coursing through my veins.

He retreats a few steps until I head into the bathroom. The moment I slam the door, he turns the camera on himself and waggles his eyebrows. “Methinks the baby bro doth protest too much. Either a) it’s his time of the month, or b) he’s hiding something. I don’t know about you, but I vote for door number…two. Shall we find out what he’s hiding?” He nods eagerly in agreement to his own question.

He starts opening and closing dresser drawers, closets. In the nightstand closest to where I sleep, he discovers a stack of condoms, and he smirks into the camera. Pillows are tossed, and my gym bag is turned upside down. He toes the contents, grunting in disappointment when he doesn’t find anything. He circles the room with the camera then points it at the bathroom door beyond which the shower is running.

“Okay…” he muses. “One last try and then, sadly, I’ll be forced to concede he’s as boring as he’s been begging me to believe.” Once again, he approaches my bed. He climbs onto it with one lunge. Now level with the huge surfer painting hanging above my bed, he runs a hand along the top of the frame, down the sides, and across the bottom. He lifts the wooden frame and peers behind it.

Finding nothing, he tramples across the bed to the right side.

About to hop off, he hesitates, leans forward, then lets out a triumphant laugh. “Fuck yeah, jackpot!”

The large black lamp on my nightstand has a cylindrical shade. On the inside is a baggie taped to one side. Troy turns on the lamp and positions the camera to perfectly capture my hiding spot. Reaching inside, he rips off the bag containing the white powder and holds it up properly to the lens.

“Oh, Axeeeeeeeel!”

I yank open the door, see what he’s holding in his hand and rush out of the bathroom. “The fuck are you doing, going through my things? Dammit, give that back.”

He holds my stash out of reach. “No, no, no. Possession is nine-tenths of the law or some fucking bullshit, right?”

“Not when you’re in my room, asshole.” I lunge for the coke but he steps back into the middle of the bed.

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