Page 42 of Three
I clench my ass, and the sting on my cheeks is real. As is the soreness and the utter satisfaction embracing me. I want to know how far I can push him and discover what else he’s capable of doing…to me.
First, I need to know what’s happening to me, though, and there’s only one person that can help me.
“Serena, find Meg.”
After a few seconds she answers. “She’s at home.”
“Tell her we are coming and that it’s urgent.” It’s ten p.m., but I know she’s awake.
I turn on the engine while my AI keeps talking, “Malcom Bindy hasn’t gone back to the house you went to yesterday. He has no credit cards or a current domicile.”
It took me a while to find him the first time. Fuck!
“Find his recent and old associates, see if they can lead you to him. Also check hospitals and morgues. He has a target on his head, he could be hurt or dead by now. Any news on the cemetery front?”
“St. Benedict Catholic Cemetery is in Crestwood, Chicago. Spans eleven acres and has eight thousand five hundred fifty-six interments. I’m cross-referencing to find a link between one of the graves and Hunter Penn. It will take time.”
“Alright, thank you.”
After a while, I’m still trying to get used to these around-the-clock sensations while fighting with the damn car heater when I pull in front of Meg and Linda’s gate. I send a glance to the bear statues on either side of the intimidating black iron fence like I always do when I come here.
It’s a comforting sight. Reminds me of the first time I saw them. I was a broken kid, numb and barely alive, filled with hate and fear. Fast forward eighteen years, I’m still broken and scared shitless, this time because my senses are all fucking alive.
I take more than a minute to run a diagnostic on the security system—which I personally installed and connected to Serena. The truth is that the easy task helps to put a break on my chaotic thoughts. When I’m sure it is working properly, I drive to the house.
I ignore the garage and leave the car outside, hurriedly getting out. The seat belt feels smooth, handle hard, car door cold. The chilly air envelops me, and a cold shiver trails down my back. It feels amazing. I use my coats and jackets to hide my knives or as a fashion statement. Never to shield me from the weather.
A short laugh escapes my lips, and I’m smiling, staring at my cold fingers. Ferdinand, the butler, opens the front door before I have time to ring the bell.
“Ramiel.” Only Meg and he call me by my full name. And Hunter.
Ferdinand clears his throat getting my attention again. He reminds me of Alfred, Bruce Wayne’s butler—distinct, poised, phlegmatic. Linda hired him when we were young. He knows about the family side business. He’s an old coot, but still in great shape.
“Ferd, looking sparkly as always.” His imperturbable demeanor is enough reason for my good-natured jibes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile.
“Mrs. Meg is waiting for you in her study.” He lets me know in his Cornish strong accent. He slightly bows, displaying his balding spot while I get a whiff of his strong-smelling cologne. Thankfully, he moves aside to let me enter, giving mercy to my only just-reclaimed smell receptors.
I take a step inside. This house has always reminded me of a huge, cold marble mausoleum with white columns and crypts behind the multiple closed doors. When I was young, it was fun fake skiing with my bros on the shiny floors and sliding down the long stairway handrail, trying not to hit the wooden pole at the end. But the house doesn’t reflect Meg’s warm-hearted and brainy nature, or Linda’s passionate, irascible personality. It’s impersonal and filled with tacky shit in Meg's parents’taste.
I turn down the long corridor, leaving the dining room behind—where the whole family gathers for Sunday lunches. I stop in front of her office and knock on the hard wooden door before going inside.
Now, this room is all Meg: the messy desk buried under mountains of papers, the warm crackling coming from the old fireplace, the unique decanters filled with expensive liquors, the cerebral books gathering dust on the wooden shelves and the two small, camel-back sofas facing each other. Her floral and sweet scent hangs heavy in the air. I take a big gulp of it until my lungs are full and sigh contently.
I can smell, it feels surreal.
She looks up from a file. Her reading glasses have slid down her nose, and her black hair is streaked white. The smile she only reserves for us—herkids—and Linda sweetens her features and makes her look younger. She is tired, though. The concealer doesn’t fully hide the black shadows under her eyes. She raised six potential psychopaths with different and problematic conditions. She battled with the stress, anxiety, fears and setbacks on a daily basis while suffering from Lupus. Linda was there with her every step of the way, but Meg really devoted herself to us. Never gave up.
She doesn’t attempt to stand up and touch me, and I’m grateful as always. Maybe even more now.
“Serena said it is urgent. What is it, Ramiel?” Meg takes off her glasses and frowns when I sit on the sofa close to her.
Instead of explaining, I do something I’ve wanted to for a very long time. I wrap my arms around her narrow shoulders and press her fragile frame against me. Her Chanel No.5 perfume surrounds me, while her body turns rigid, surely out of shock. I can count on one hand the times Meg and I have hugged, and in those rare cases, I was the one as stiff as a pole, hating the fact that I couldn't feel anything. Now I do, and it’s strange and familiar at the same time.
Her warmth seeps into me, her small figure feels even smaller in my arms, her gasp of surprise hot on my shoulder. Fuck, I like this.
“It’s happening, Meg,” I whisper emotionally. She knows what I mean. Her hands grasp my sides tightly.
My vision turns blurry, and then a wet sensation trails down my cheek. She pushes back to look me in the face, her eyes darting between mine and then to my gloveless hands.
