Chapter 45
Brody
It’s the dark of night as I descend the steps to the basement of my parents’ home. They’ve gone to sleep, yet I hear moaning. It’s not like I’ve grown to expect when torturing a lad. It’s a different kind of moaning. With my hand fisting the handle of my Glock, I remove it from the back of my jeans pocket. Mam had texted a while ago. Da was coming down with a cold and moaning ‘bout her famous stew.
But as I make it down the last step, I’m shocked at the sight before me. Wilmer’s half-dead, of course. The thick joints in his noodle arms are twisted out of their sockets. He’s been washed in blood, looks like. Wilmer is chained at his wrists. His hands are indistinguishable, limp masses, as are his dangling feet. There’s the usual pool of blood beneath him. There is some sort of carvings across the mangled flesh of his chest. That’s new and bloody fecking unusual.
Across the room, my bràthair is on a couch in black jeans and a long sleeve shirt. I don’t know when or how he got the fecking lounger down here, but he did. With his legs planted wide, a blondie is in reverse cowgirl position on top of him. She’s naked as the day she was born. His hand is clasping her throat, and his other tweaking across her bush.
“The feck is this, Cam?”
The lass jolts. Camdyn clutches her, and his face comes into view as he grits into her ear. “Did I say you could stop fucking me?”
The snarl on his face twists into a smile. “Bro, she’s twenty, relax. I’ve got the back door.” He nudges his chin to a pile of condoms on the floor. “The front’s all yours.”
“I said wit in the bloody hell is going on?”
“Psychological torture.” He clasps her throat tighter. The blonde’s cunt gyrates as if beckoning me. “Not the bitch. Him.”
Still confused, I skip to something new. “Mam know—”
“Don’t ask asinine questions.”
I paw my beard. “Ye have some girl in our—”
“My bitch, one of many, yes. Sweetie, cum now. I’m bored.” The blonde writhes over Camdyn as he speaks. “Brody, if you were on that fucking chopping block, wouldn’t you want this to be the last cunt you were ever going to see? Gorgeous, ain’t it?” He uses his fingers to widen her pussy lips. His hand roams up her chest to clasp a pert nipple. “Look at your friend’s face. One can disassociate himself with physical pain. But the thought of not having pussy . . .” Camdyn grips her waist and jerks his hips up. “Kill me now. That’s a worse fate than death, huh, sweetheart?”
“Yesss, yes,” she calls out.
I fold my arms as the lassie gets herself off on my wee bràthair.
Camdyn puckers her cheeks. “This is an innocent face, like those sweet Little Debbies. But trust me, she won’t be telling our secrets anytime soon. Will you, girl?”
“Yesss yess, yesss,” the lady pants. I glance away, grabbing a tuft of my hair as she comes again.
“Wrong answer.” Camdyn shoves her from his lap, removes his condom, and zips up his jeans.
“Cam, sorry. I didn’t mean,” she stutters. I help her up. “I meant ‘no,’ Mr. MacKenzie. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Leave,” I tell her.
Justice would be disgusted. This woman has nae respect for herself. Despite that, a month ago, I’d have fecked her. As she sashays toward a pile of clothing, I remember my manners and grip her arm. “Ye say something, I’ll kill ya.”
“She’s not afraid of you, Brody. My bitch. My training.” Camdyn rolls his eyes as she picks up a slinky dress. “Little Miss Thing has a knife fetish.”
She loops one arm into a dress that barely hides her shaven beaver, grabs a purse, and starts in the direction I came.
“Bitch.” Camdyn’s head cocks. “How did you get in here?”
Her blue eyes flit toward a tiny, rectangular window. She ain’t enthusiastic about it. Camdyn adds, “Please don’t disrespect my mom’s house.”
She walks over to a chair, uses it to help herself up, and goes out of the window.
I blink a few times. “I’d not make this shite up, Camdyn. Wit sort of drugs is she on?”
“You saw those baby blue eyes. No drugs. I’m like a vampire. My natural compulsion.” He shrugs. “We had a little fun. The half-dead fuck pissed himself when she got naked. I was in his ear letting him know of all the delights in this world he has relinquished for crossing you.” He taps an index finger to his head. “I could see the wheels of his brain. The pain in his eyes. Mind. Blowed. Bro.”
“So, the drug ye are on?” I point.