Page 11 of The Player
ChapterFour
WILL
Ifilled the drive back home with mindless chatter to try and impress her.
It didn’t.
But I didn’t care.
I couldn’t change who I was, and I loved playing with her. I lived for our banter, the back and forth. Even if she kept shooting me down, it didn’t matter. It only made the chase sweeter. I liked winding people up, and teasing Bryony had become my favourite thing to do. Had been since the day I’d met her, back when her sisters needed our help with a little blackmailing problem they’d had. But that was all over now, and even though we’d sorted it, we still kept them around.
What can I say?
The Masters sisters had grown on us.
Colton had claimed Shelley, or was it the other way around? Probably a bit of both.
And me?
I took one look at Bryony on the day she crashed into my life, heard her sassy mouth and sharp putdowns, and I knew she was mine. The fact that she answered back, fought me, questioned me, and wasn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit made me want her even more. I loved a challenge, but pinning her down wasn’t easy, and there was nothing I wanted to do more than pin that girl down. Literally.
I knew I annoyed her ninety-nine percent of the time, but I was okay with that. I liked getting a reaction from her. Any attention was good attention when it came to Bryony Masters. The girl was fucking stunning, with her poker-straight, long, black hair and the way she wrinkled her cute little button nose and huffed like an angry chipmunk when I teased her. She was beautiful, and she kept me on my toes. She was my sexy little nemesis with a body to die for.
I’d never had a problem pulling women before, but with her, all my rules flew out the window. The Will Stokes book of charm didn’t work on Bryony, so I’d tossed it on the fire months ago. She was immune to it all, but it was all good. The longer she made me chase her, the more excited I got. I was playing the long game, and it'd become my favourite game to play.
When she pulled her car up at the side of the old asylum, I got out, telling her, “See you later, sunshine.” To which she replied, “Not if I see you first.” And I laughed, slamming the door shut and taking a step back.
I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans as I moved to stand in the dark shadow of Sandland Asylum and watched her speed away down the drive. When she’d gone, I turned around and peered up at the building. I never grew tired of looking at this place, knowing what we’d done.
This asylum was our home now, mine and my four brothers.
A towering gothic landmark that stood guard over a town that didn’t appreciate its existence. It was a building full of wicked secrets and harrowing screams from the past. A past no one wanted to acknowledge. Except us. We loved the history that bled from the old stone walls, we loved that we were adding to it too. Leaving our own twisted mark on the place. We were responsible owners, after all, and an asylum should always have a story to tell, no matter how disturbing it was.
When we found this place, it’d been earmarked for demolition. But with our unique powers of persuasion, we soon put a stop to that. Now, the asylum was our home, our business, our sanctuary. We even used the name ‘The Sanctuary’ when we opened up the first two floors as an exclusive nightclub for the town. An asylum, by definition, didn’t just mean psychiatric support, it meant a haven too. A place of safety for those who needed it when they were at their lowest.
And that’s what it was for us.
We were five men who lived to expose the brutal truths most people scraped under the carpet. We were vigilantes. Bloody good ones at that, and we used this place to carry out our work.
I stepped further into the shadows, letting the darkness shroud me as I headed to the door that led to the asylum chapel. When we’d bought this place, we’d decided to keep the chapel. We renovated the rest of the building, but once a chapel, always a chapel, that’s what my friend, Devon, had said. We knew he’d fallen in love with that part of the building. He had visions of using the place as his armoury, and we were fine with that. A former symbol of hope being used for a completely different kind of worship. I’m not sure God would approve, but he was Devon Brady, Brinton Manor’s Reaper.
Who were we to argue?
We’d each put our stamp on the building, and that was his.
I creaked the old wooden chapel doors open and walked through. Devon peered over his shoulder as I made my way into his gently lit, sacred bolthole.
“Did you see her?” he asked as he polished the knives lined up on the stone altar in front of him.
He took such care over each one, twisting it to check it was spotless before laying it carefully back down. There was every kind of knife, axe, sword, every weapon you could ever think of in this chapel, and some you’d probably never heard of. Devon liked to be original, inventive, and a few of his own creations were hanging up on the walls, ready to be put to good use.
Death was an art to him, one he revelled in, and this armoury was his pride and joy. He’d earned his name, The Reaper. If something or someone needed taking care of, you could trust Devon to do a good job. He was the best of the best.
“Yeah, I saw her,” I replied. “She just dropped me off.” I shrugged, leaving it at that. I didn’t feel like elaborating.
Devon hummed in response but carried on polishing his weapons, focusing solely on them. As he worked, I glanced up at the old stone walls of the church. There was always a chill in here, but it was a special room, with its stained-glass windows and stone carvings. It was such a shame that its beauty was currently marred by two men shackled to the wall from the chains we’d installed. Their heads hung forward, chins resting on their chests as the drugs they’d been given earlier kept them locked in a different kind of prison of their minds.
“I see our guests are making themselves at home,” I joked, pointing up to the limp bodies hanging above us. They were lucky, they still had their clothes on. Dirty T-shirts and jeans, trainers that were caked in mud. It wasn’t the best look, but it was better than stringing them up naked. But then again, that might come later. Sometimes, humiliation followed by a humbling bit of torture did men like them the world of good, cleansed their souls ready for their final reckoning. A reckoning they whole-heartedly deserved, believe me. We never killed unless we had to. And we always made sure we got the right guy… well, most of the time.
