Page 8 of Vow to Protect
Calvin believes repentance will be served through eternal guilt. That Syrah’s killer will have a lifetime of regret dragging down his soul. Apparently, that’s enough punishment.
Guilt is an emotion for the weak, for a bastard who shoved my love to her death. She helplessly tumbled from the top step of a stone staircase and cracked her skull on impact.
A knowledge of his lifelong regret doesn’t give me satisfaction. They shipped her murderer off to god knows where to start again—to pretend it never happened. I’ll never forgive the jealous prick, and I’ll always crave the justice that burrows in the fibers of my soul. Hatred has been the worst emotion to deal with, firing up violent notions, tainting the world with an unpalatable acidity.
As time passed, I lost myself in a cycle of drugs and alcohol. I fucked with my own head. My demons came out to play.
Until Calvin tracked me down in an underground fight club, coloured in bruises, reeking of booze and snorting an eight ball, partying was my fail-safe approach for survival. I threw thousands at the biggest, bulkiest fighter who looked like he could take on the entire room and win, only to watch him crash to the springy floor after a sucker punch connected with force. The unassuming underdogs soon became my addiction.
I patched up the bleeding holes in my heart with empty distractions. On reflection, I neglected the one thing that mattered most to me—Tilly.
I bailed on my daughter until dawn and slept until noon, never letting a single woman put her mouth anywhere near me. Not one kiss to replace the intimacy I’d lost. Women taunted and teased with bikini-clad breasts, straddling my hips for attention. My dismissive grimace warned them off. They weren’t good enough for me. They weren’t allowed to lay a finger on the wealthy, self-assured, Brett De Courcy, who at that point in time was anything but dogmatic. Those women didn’t deserve to know why I was alone, or why I would start a fight with my own shadow.
They weren’t permitted to tarnish the faint memory of Syrah’s laughter, or replace the tenderness of her smile, or compete with the exquisite memory of her kisses that left me drunk on love.
Even the hours spent under the needle didn’t inflict nearly as much pain to overshadow my grief. The tattoo artist inked my entire arm in an ode to love, loss and protection. Hearts, skulls and crossbows intricately cascade over my skin as a reminder of what life brings.
Calvin put a gun to my temple and asked if I wanted him to pull the trigger.
Live or die?
Stand the fuck up and be a man or accept a bullet in the brain to join the dead.
I didn't want to die—I wanted to feel something other than cheated.
Pain overruled the heartbreak.
In that wretched moment, I stared at the photo of my daughter, her sunny smile lighting up my mobile phone. It took a life-changing heartbeat. I picked her happiness over my own.
She was the light shining down on my darkness, brightening the future.
“I’ll pour the whiskey, Brett. One won’t hurt. You can stop after one, buddy.” Alexander’s elbow nudges my arm, and he grabs the decanter. “Beaumont might not make it tonight.”
“Thank fuck.” I reach for the unwanted measure of amber liquid calling to me from the cut glass and lift it to my nose. The familiar scent greets the dark vortex lurking in the back of my consciousness. One sip, that slow burn, that delicious taste, that one stupid gulp feels like an old friend wrapping its arms around my stupidity.
The noise of my quick intake of air follows the swift thump of weighty glass on a coaster. For my sake, I turn my back on it. I made a promise to put alcohol behind me.
“Kaleb said he’d be here,” I point out, checking my phone to see if he’s sent me another message. “Hold on.” I read his new message. “Great.” My eyes roll. “He probably won’t make it either. He went to a charity event with Cal, and it’s running over.”
“Looks like it’s just the two of us. What about Kai? Have you heard from him?”
“Not in the past week.” He’s a busy guy. “Tell me what you know about Blaine Casey.” His name has been on repeat in my head since last night’s visitor, who is now my alcohol distraction tactic.
Alexander’s golden pinkie ring clinks against the curved neck of his decanter. A slick of baby blonde hair sits neatly in a sweep above his forehead, and mossy green eyes narrow like I’ve asked him to suck me off.
“Why are we talking about Blade?” The sudden drop in his tone cools the air. He pops open a button on his waistcoat as he sits behind the desk.
“Blade? What the fuck kinda lame nickname is that?” I sneer, pocketing my hands.
Alexander snorts a blast down his nostrils. “It’s shit, right? Unfortunately for his victims, it suits him. I’m surprised you don’t know him personally. You’ve spent enough time in his clubs over the years. All the cocaine you’ve hoovered up would’ve come from his runners. In fact, I could put a billion-pound wager on it. Brett, you’ve lined his pockets with thousands.”
Floor to ceiling shelves cover the walls of the underlit library. A stark black glass desk oddly positioned in the heart of the room holds no place or belonging. It’s abstract and new, far removed from the ancient words, parables and scriptures of our predecessors. The entire penthouse suite is ultra-modern, decorated with arty statues and colourful paintings, but this room is cloaked in a historical shadow of priceless leather-bound books. It mirrors Alexander’s personality, loyal to the old and devoted to the new.
“I need a favour.” This is what we do. The VC members have their eyes everywhere and their fingers in everything. We’re underground in hell and soaring above the clouds in heaven.
The doors swing open. Malakai Fox joins us with his usual disconnected glance. Charcoal tailored trousers hug his thick thighs and a fitted shirt rolled to his elbows shows off his inked forearms. “Beaumont here?” The guy's voice is so deep he almost growls.
“Don’t know if he’ll make it tonight.” Alexander shrugs, tipping his tumbler in a silent salute.
