27. Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

Idrag Brandon's lifeless form by the arms across the lawn. My brother's already tucked away in my trunk, along with the plastic container housing his eyeballs. What was she planning on doing with them? Maybe it was her souvenir. Either way, I'll hold onto them.

"Fuck, man," I groan as I attempt to stuff him in the backseat of my ride. "It'll be so nice to finally get rid of you."

"Mmmm," Brandon moans before his eyes spring open and his body jack knifes into a sitting position.

I'm taken off guard when he flails his arms, jumping out of the backseat. His balance is off. I might have concussed him with the hit earlier. He takes the stance of a track star about to take off, but I slam my hand into his chest. The shove causes him to fall back, and his head bounces off the pavement with a loud crack. "Oh, no, you don't."

His eyes are as round as saucers, like a deer caught in headlights. Then he does the most unthinkable thing: he spits in my face, smirking. The fucker is smirking! Now, he definitely has to die. Plus, the spitting thing is only acceptable when Monica does it.

I'm on the verge of taking him out on the spot. Forget the long, drawn-out process of digging a grave and burying him alive. I want to see the life drain from his eyes, but his expression transforms in a way I never expected. He bares his teeth at me before spewing venom.

"He was right about you and your no-good mother."

The cold, dead thing in my chest awakens and bangs against its prison of bone. I grab him by the collar. His already bruised nose, from when I broke it in his bedroom, clashes with mine.

"What did you say to me?"

His grin is like the Cheshire cat. I'm gonna pull out a few of those pearly whites before I'm done with him. He knows something I don't. "I said… You're just as fucked up as he said you'd be. You should've died with your nasty bitch of a mother."

Red slowly claims my vision and a volcano explodes in my head. My body works faster than my mind as I pound him repeatedly in the face. When the smoke finally clears in my brain, I hold my fist high in the air, regretting that I let my emotions take over. I take a deep breath as I survey his bloody face. I check the side of his neck for a pulse and am relieved when I find one.

How the fuck does he know about me or my mother?

"Tell. Me. What. You. Know,"I seethe, annunciating each word.

Brandon is slumped over in the chair, drool dripping from his gaping mouth. I've nearly broken every bone in his body since the night he tried to kill my girl. I don't understand why Golden Boy hasn't spilled yet. He should've cracked after the first dislocated pinky. I would've killed him that very night if it wasn't for the secrets he tried weaponizing against me.

That's the only reason I'm keeping him alive in the basement of this old warehouse Archie set up. It's his new location, a front for his drug business. It's easy to launder the money through an up-and-coming dance club. He constructed Deep Rust out of an old warehouse building outside the business area, just adding a red brick facade. A great location that's semi-isolated. No prying eyes because if someone comes looking our way, we'll see them before they see us.

"Arrrhhhh!" I roar, knocking the various torture devices off a nearby table.

I'm frustrated he hasn't spilled what he knows because all I want to do is kill him for what he did to Monica. Her pale skin was colder than usual against my fingertips as I had sewn her back up. I haven't taken a pill in days, allowing the ache within to fuel me. I've never felt this way about anyone since my mother, and it's stronger than any drug. Monica has filled every crevice of my brain until there's no room for anyone or anything but her. A part of me knows I should back off and let her find someone else who can give her a normal life, but I've never been a good guy. I don't plan on starting that shit any time soon.

"Jax," Finn calls, pulling me from my unraveling thoughts.

"What?" I snap, frustrated by the situation with Brandon.

His hands immediately fly up. Fingers splayed to show he's not the threat here. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

I run my hand through my hair, frustrated. "There's no way he will last another session," I gripe as if that explains everything in a way Finn should understand.

Bravely taking a step toward me, Finn says, "Well, I may have something that could help." He pulls a rolled-up stack of papers from his back pocket and points them at me in an offer.

I furrow my brows in confusion. "What's this?"

I snatch it from him, and he follows me farther into the room. Smoothing out the pages before me on the workbench that I just so happened to clear off, Finn peers over my shoulder. His honey whiskey breath causes my stomach to roll. I haven't taken oxy in days, and the withdrawal is hitting me hard. None of that shit holds the same appeal as it used to.

"Something you should've thought of yourself," he states, jabbing a finger into my temple.

That wasn't fucking smart of him. My head throbs with a low, dull pain. It's as if his gesture has a ripple effect in the water because the ache is pulsing. I have to grit my teeth to keep from breaking Finn's finger off at the knuckle. When that doesn't work, I bite his head off instead.

"Keep your fingers to yourself, Finn, or you'll have to say goodbye to your girlfriends, Palmalina and Handcinda," I spit.

He scoffs at that, taking his life in his soon-to-be-detached hands and snatching up the papers. "Let's go, ladies. We aren't appreciated around here."

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose to alleviate some of the pressure. Come on, King. You don't have many friends. It's probably wise not to threaten them with amputation. "Come back here, Finn. You are very much appreciated," I grumble.

He halts at the stairs, and with all his dramatics, he tilts his head at me like a golden retriever, perking an ear up. "What was that?" he asks before taking the conversation to his palms. "Do you hear something? Nah, me neither."

Before he takes another step, I admit, "I couldn't do half the shit I do without you, Finn. Now will you get your ass back over here already?"

He smirks, returning with a bounce to his step. He's good at toying with me until I finally figure out the answers for myself or until I harass them out of him. He's used to my shit talk at this point. It doesn't phase him because he knows I'll always need him for something, and I make dealing with me worth his while. If there's information to be found, I swear that Waldo wouldn't be able to hide from this guy.

"I figured it out after you said this kid talked as if he knew you and your family. I started to dig a little deeper. There's no record of Officer Charles having a wife, so where did he get a kid?" Finn asks.

As if this is supposed to be the most obvious answer in the world, I counter, "I don't know if your mom told you, but you don't have to be married to have children," I lean with wide eyes, "You don't even need to know their name!"

He rolls his eyes at me, "There's no adoption papers? No woman to speak of? What do you think? Someone just gave this man a child out of the kindness of their heart? Think with your head instead of your prick."

He smacks the back of my head, and I damn near growl at him. I'm seriously rethinking removing his appendages. "Spit it the fuck out already before your eye socket becomes my new daycare."

"Ah, quit your bellyaching." He lays the papers before me again and points to a number before motioning between me and Brandon. "You two are fucking related."