Chapter 53
Now
Brody
Goodbye, old friend,I tell my beard. I’ll be seeing ya again, though. I should be in mourning, but I’m bloody fecking pissed while shearing the length of my jaw. In the mirror, I see my barber’s somber reflection as he drones on about how sorry he is. While the ginger blanches behind me, a dead bampot rests in a pool of blood at my feet. I focus on the end of an era. My velvety soft hairs slip down my chest and onto the ground.
I’d not been vigilant this morning. My good mate paid the ultimate price too. Justice has invaded my heart. Maybe it’s not love, but it’s the next best thing?
Can’t be love. I start on the opposite side of my face, the blade moving with my steady hand. She’d meant to leave me.
Nae. Not love. She did leave. And came back. Women. They’re fickle creatures.
Minutes later, I run my palms over my smooth face, giving a nod of satisfaction. I open a plastic compartment grabbing a hot, steamy towel to wipe my clean-shaven jaw.
“Feels good.” I hype myself up for my new normal, turning around. Nae. This feckingsooks. Justice was in a state of shock when I opened the door this morning. Nae. That was not naked. My baws love freedom. Like a bairn straight out his mam’s cunt. This is fecking naked.
“Brody, I’m truly sor—”
I arch my hand across his neck, the knife gliding with precision over his throat. Warm blood showers my forearms and hands.
My barber clasps at the red liquid cascading out the gaping hole in his neck. Drained of color, he stumbles to the ground. While he chokes on blood, I mutter, “Ye’re not a sorry lad, just unlucky and deid.”
I scan the bloody scene, tossing both bloodied straight razors into the Barbicide. That’s the perfect vehicle for a fire. Aye. Justice hasn’t ruined me.
Nae goofy nugget here. I’m a cold-blooded killer, and she is mine.
I squat next to the dead stranger and search for his wallet.
“Did ye wait for me to arrive, aye? Or did my mate, here, feck me over?”
I pat down the druggy, arms needle marked, and fingertips burned. There’s nae wallet in his jeans. My fingers run over the pocket of the stranger’s linen shirt. I pull out a photo that’d sober the town drunk, a picture of Justice and me. This is what fear looks like—cold fecking dread. Someone may have intended to snatch her from me for good. Shite, I’d not let Justice snatch herself away from me. I don’t love her, but I’m obligated to keep her safe. So, cool it, Brody, with all the fecking emotions.
“Shite,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Who sent ye?”
Justice ain’t clan. But I’d take a bullet for her. Maybe even two. Nae. Ye are lying. I throw a container of Barbicide to the checkered floor next to the barber. I throw another, and the blue liquid douses the stranger, glass crashing all around. Now, I’ve created the perfect perimeter. I search through the barber’s top drawer. I grab a pack of matches, light one, and let the flame catch across the entire booklet. It floats to the ground. I step back and watch the flames. In the wild frenzy, I see the truth. I feck hard. I love harder. I’m in love with Justice Flowers.
She’s safe at my house. That’s a small relief.
Strolling to the exit at the rear, I tug back into my leather jacket, blood sticking to my skin. With the sun beaming down, I pull my Dodgers cap from the back of my jeans. I sling it low over my face, slipping my red-stained hands in the pockets of my jacket. I’d not parked in front of the barbershop. Never did. In the same manner that I’d visit and not give the lad any notice, I’d also parked down different streets. Tiny matchbox homes are to the north, east, and west, while a major boulevard is south.
I circle my way around, and when I get back to my car, I notice a piece of junk parked across the way. I sift back through my thoughts.
“Ye are a fecking idiot, Brody.” Earlier, I’d sat in my car. Another laddie sat in his car while I ordered online from one of my favorite breakfast spots. I’d planned to swing by and pick up food on the way back to the house. When I got out of my car, the laddie stayed. He must’ve gotten out and followed shortly after that.
I take a picture of the license and peel out of my spot. I dial a friend.
“Nolan, I was getting a barbecue set.”
“That’s a little early for you,” he groans into the receiver. “But I’ll be attending. Nan making her famous—”
“Nae. My barbecue.” I reply.
“Oh, okay. I’m sure you did your best,” he replies. “The wife will clean up afterward.”
Detective Nolan McGregor has nae wife. He’s gonna make sure the fire and the two dead feckers are considered an accident. “There’s something else.”
“Long as the ribs are good,” he chuckles, switching over to Gaelic.
I speak in code again, providing the license plate for the dead lad. Once we hang up, I pray to God there’s a connection between the wannabe murderer and the McFarlands. My mouth twists into a sinister smile. They’ve unraveled our relationship. Now, I’ll not feel bad for killing my best mate’s father.