COMMAND | MAFIA | THE LONDON CRIME KING | FIVE

Do I like beer?

No, it tasted like cat's piss, at least, if I knew what cat's piss actually tasted like, I imagined it was this warm, bubbleless substance in a bottle. Yet, I drink beer daily like a fool who became an alcoholic since I had nothing better to do. Well, that's a lie. I have plenty to do, places to go, people to see, but feigning to be an unambitious fool sounded better than admitting the truth.

Fabrication versus reality hurt less.

Am I an alcoholic?

I mean, sometimes I consider myself a pisshead because, well, here I am, yet again, in some seedy, rundown bar, drinking my weight in cat's piss.

But I function without alcohol, too.

I can say no.

I can smoke weed instead.

Come to think of it. Where is the joint, I rolled earlier? I patted down my leather jacket, the one I nabbed from the charity shop last weekend. It's old, faded, tattered and smelt worse than a wet dog, rotten food and smelly feet combined. "For fuck's sake," I mumbled, coming out of the short search party empty-handed. "I left it on the kitchen counter."

The corpulent barman arched a pierced eyebrow.

"What?" His one head became two heads thirty minutes ago. "Are we not having a conversation?"

"No, Brad. You are talking to yourself." Dropping change into the cash register, he slid a shot of whiskey to the male customer on my right. "I am tending to customers."

"Well, good for you, sunshine." I polished off the remainder of beer from the bottle, shaking droplets onto my tongue. "Be a good barman and get me a refill."

He snatched the empty bottle out of my hand.

"Easy," I said, relatively offended by his lack of people skills. "I am still a paying customer."

"Yeah." He tossed the bottle cap over one shoulder, and it landed on the floor, spinning in annoying circles. "Let's see how long that lasts."

My finger pointed somewhere in his direction--basically fucking aimless. "You need to get laid."

His cheeks were puce with discomfiture. "You need to find a new bar."

"Why the hell would I do that?" My nose wrinkled. "I only just got my foot back through the door."

You see, I have the type of face that pisses people off. I barely opened my mouth the first time I rocked up here, yet I managed to earn myself a nice shiner from the doorman and a six-week ban, which only lasted five weeks because, well, I can be charmingly persuasive. "How's the wife?"

He dried recently steamed pint glasses with a chequered tea towel and stacked them under the wooden counter. "She is still a lazy bitch."

"Harsh." And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why he is a moody old fucker with an overhanging gut. Hell, if i were his wife, I wouldn't want to roll around in the sheets with him, either. I mean, look at the size of that zit on his cheek. Look at the pendulous double chin flapping in the wind and wispy grey nostril hairs going to town on his upper lip. He is a diabolical mess togged-up in bleach-stained denim, leather boots and unruly chest hair. Christ, he made me look like a model, which, sadly for me, I was not. Perhaps in the next life, or maybe the future, I will walk a runway. Time will tell. "I bet she fucks the milkman."

"Probably." He shrugged. "Let's see if I care?"

"Fair enough." Mrs Annoying, Haggard and Bodacious returned to the stool to my left, her ample breasts practically on full display. "What do you want?"

"Hi." Her eyelashes, caked in layers of mascara, fluttered like dying butterflies. "So, you are still here."

I paid for the beer. "No, I left."

Her thick, raspy voice rattled as she laughed. "You are so funny."

If I could see my facial expression right now, I bet it is a mixture of dumbfoundedness and emphasised perplexity. "No offence, Lady. But I like to drink alone."

Damn, I sounded like a broken record.

I swear, I said that already.

"But you knew that because we had this conversation earlier, right?" When you tried to crawl onto my lap and lick my face. "But hey, Benny is interested." Benny, the ancient, expressionless geezer who sat at the end of the bar, raised his head, his eyes shielded by the threadbare ball cap. "Isn't that right, Benny Boy?"

Benny groaned in displeasure.

"Really?" The woman leaned in, and her breath emitted stale cigarettes onto my cheek. "I got my eyes on something better than constipated Benny."

I eyed Benny to find him already glaring at me. "Is that what we call him?"

"Yes," she said quietly, and when her lips stretched into a smile, the red lipstick stains on her off-white teeth had unpleasant shivers rippling under my skin. "So, what do you say, handsome? You won't regret it."

Yes, I will.

I am uninterested in cougars. In fact, they do absolutely nothing for me. If I wanted to be extra technical, I felt nothing for the female population in general. Hell, if I were not so repulsed by the thought of touching cock, I'd probably consider myself gay.

Now, don't get me wrong, I appreciate women, but I am what you'd call awkward. I struggled with females, and flirtatiousness does not come easy for a man like me. I swear, I met Tiff, my girlfriend, by sheer luck. If it weren't for her unfaltering persistence, I'd still be single. And, trust me when I say that's not an over-exaggeration. When I met Tiffany Fisher five years ago, I could barely string a sentence together.

She smiled.

I scowled.

She talked.

I scowled.

She stalked.

I scowled until I stopped scowling.

Woman with the razor-sharp talons placed her hand on my thigh, her fingers stroking back and forth in an attempt to bring the cock to life.

I sighed a heavy breath, making it known that I was frustrated by her coquettishness. When she continued to push, to flirt, to murmur lewdness in my ear, I gripped her wrist. "I'm not interested in fucking a fifty-year-old cougar," I said in a low, angry voice. "For the fourth fucking time, I have a girlfriend."

Snarling, she snatched her arm out of my punishing grasp. "Screw you, tosser."

"You wish," I mumbled into the beer bottle, taking a long swing. "Pull the skirt down, woman. Everyone can see your arse."

Adjusting the skirt of her raised dress, she snatched the diamante clutch purse from the bar top and, flinging me the middle finger, sauntered to the back of the dark, smoke-filled room to find another victim.

Amongst the crowd, sitting in a corner booth with friends, I spotted a pretty face which very much sembled the girl waiting for me back home. Her rosy cheeks, her unassuming smile and green eyes brightened the room. Her sweet-sounding laughter put a smile on my face. She was slimmer, though. And her hair was poker straight and less vibrant.

My girl had wild red hair.

My girl was curvy and lucky in the breast department.

My girl, I thought.

It sounded ridiculous in my head, never mind aloud, because somewhere in our relationship, I had lost her. We might live in the same house and share the same room and grunt at each other while passing in the halls, but we were a far cry from okay. We argued more often than not, and lately, going home was almost unbearable.

Who wanted to work a fifteen-hour shift to go home and argue about pointless shit?

You left a dish in the sink.

You haven't mowed the lawn.

It's your turn to cook tea.

And then...

You do not appreciate me.

You are not affectionate enough.

You are a passionless arsehole.

Why can't you say it?

Just say it!

The response she yearned to hear dangled on the tip of my tongue. "I can't," I whispered, knowing it would be wrong to do so. "I would be lying."

My head began to pound at the temples.

One, I cleaned the kitchen this morning, did you even notice?

Two, I prepared food when I came in from work last night and left it in the fridge for us to prevent further arguments. I apologise for the lack of freshness.

Three, I will mow the lawn next weekend after I finish decorating the walk-in wardrobe you had to have.

Four, I do appreciate you, I do care about you, and I try to be passionate and affectionate, but you know it's easier said than done for a man like me. We talked about my issues right at the very beginning, when you determined I was the love of your life, and I told you to walk away because I could never be good enough for you. Yet, here we are, fighting and bickering over the same concerns I had raised before we agreed to exclusivity.

Five, I finished my beer.

When did that happen?

I wielded the empty bottle above my head. "Can I get another?"

The barman's hands splayed across the bar top. "I ran out of bottled beer. Lucky for you, I got some Guinness left in the pump or some liquor in the back."

Flipping open the leather wallet, I shook loose change in the broken compartment. "How much for a single shot of bourbon?"

He tapped the twenty-pound note tucked into the back of my wallet. "That'll get you a few rounds."

Christ, I have been saving that for two weeks. It's Tiffany's birthday on Monday. I had to buy flowers or something. Maybe a card and a box of chocolates.

I placed four-pound coins on the counter. "I will give Guinness a bash."

"Jesus, Brad." He began to pour the drink. "If you can't afford to drink, go home and save pennies."

"Did I ask for your bastard opinion?" I asked angrily. "No. I didn't. So, pour the drink and mind your business."

I checked my phone to see if there were any missed calls or text messages from Tiffany. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not one message from the woman since I left for work this morning.

Typing out a short text, I thanked the barman for the Guinness.

Me: Are you still angry?

Me: Look, maybe we should talk? It's getting quite nasty between us and personal. And I don't like it. I assume you don't like it, either.

After a short pause, I fired another one.

Me: The Boss let me go home early. I should have been at the house, but I stayed at the bar all evening instead because I could not face you, not after this morning. I know I am no walk in the park, but Tiff, you are downright spiteful. The shit you say to me, it hurts. You make me feel pathetic, worthless. You emasculate me to the point I question myself.

Should I go?

Should I stay?

What do you want from me?

Tell me how to fix this?

How to fix us.

"Listen." A familiar clutch purse landed on the countertop. "This back and forth is driving me around the bend." It's the cougar from earlier. "At this point, I am willing to pay." Sliding a hand to her hip, she cocked her head and, with her eyes alone, pleaded with me to scratch the unceasing ache between her thighs. "Whatever the cost," she added whispery. "I just need a good fucking before I go home tonight."

Even if I was a sleazy arsehole who cheated on his girlfriend, I had an irregular functioning cock.

It only stirred for Tiffany.

At the beginning of our relationship, I couldn't get hard for over four months, and even then, it flopped within five minutes. Imagine my horror every time she and I fell into bed, or the backseat of a car, or whatever unfortunate item of furniture had to brace our bodies when sex may have been on the cards for the night to end, well, floppily soft. It resulted in my fingers working overtime because my dick decided to be a twat and not cooperate.

My poor girl overworked her jaw for months, sucking, bopping, licking and stroking in a failed attempt to stimulate arousal while I stared at the ceiling with raised brows and pinched lips in premature mortification.

Knowing the cougar would not go down without a fight, I stood, hands in my pockets, and rocked back on the heels of my tan boots. "I am gay."

Christ, that made me cringe. However, lying was better than explaining, especially to a woman who did not understand the meaning of no.

"That's okay..." Her face scrunched up. "Just bend me over and pretend I am a guy."

Oh, for the love of everything bastard holy.

"I feel sick just looking at you," I said unapologetically, and her jaw slackened. "I would not fuck you if you were the last hole on earth--"

"Brad!" The barman scolded, and I flung him a double-take. "You cannot speak to my customers like that!"

"What, but it's okay for her to hound the males in your bar like a bitch in heat!" I felt a sharp clip to the cheek and belatedly realised that she'd slapped me. "What the actual fuck?" My cheek began to heat from the aftershock. "You hit me!"

"Yeah?" Her chest touched mine as she invaded my personal space to reprimand. "And you liked it, didn't you?"

This bitch is crazy. "This bitch is crazy," I said aloud, throwing up my hands in utter disbelief. "I should press charges."

"Come on." To my left, the barman appeared alongside two burly doormen, gesturing for me to leave. "Go home, Brad. Sleep it off."

"Fuck, no." Shirking out of his grip, I reached for the Guinness and sipped, masking distaste as the disgusting flavour slathered my tongue. "I am enjoying a drink. Can't a man be left alone to enjoy an uninterrupted," I side-eyed the cougar, "drink without hostilities?"

"No." He wrestled the pint glass from my hand, which resulted in T-shirts drenched in Irish dry stout. "Brad, hand over the goddamn glass!"

It fell through our hands and shattered across the floor.

My lips thinned. "That was an accident."

He was puce with rage. "Get out before I throw you out."

Okay, his disrespectful attitude began to piss me off.

"Well." My arms folded. "I guess you will need to throw me out."

Ten seconds later, the two bouncers launched me through the front door and onto the pavement. My arse numbed from the impact, and I swear I saw fucking stars. "Christ," I groaned, rolling onto my side. "That was unnecessary."

I felt their threatening eyes on me when the barman said, "You are banned for five months."

Even my arms ached as I pushed myself off the cold ground. "Twat," I said, unsure if I was insulting him, the bouncers, or myself. "You." Pointing to the man who is no longer my friend, I squinted through the misted rain splattering against my cheeks. "Fuck. You."

"No, Brad. Fuck you." His lips twisted into a snarl. "And don't even think about coming back here, you piece of shit."

"Screw your fucking mother." Staggering backwards, almost falling into a rain-filled pothole, I flipped him the bird. "You fat fuck."

"You lowlife loser!"

"Yeah?" Spinning back around to face him, I licked the front of my upper teeth. "Insult me all you want, old man." I tapped my chest. "You can't hurt someone that feels nothing."

If he hung around, if his lapdogs stood back to watch me leave, I couldn't tell you. I couldn't even tell you if I was drunk or sober.

Well, I am walking sideways, so that confirmed reservations.

Each step down the dark, mostly barren street seemed to exhaust energy and to go back home was growing less appealing by the second.

Tiffany.

Christ, I had to face her eventually.

Maybe she'll be in a good mood.

Maybe she'll be willing to talk about us.

I rechecked my phone.

Still, there were no text messages.

"I care about you," I said, practising a little speech before my arrival. "You are unlike any other woman I have met." Wincing, I rubbed rain droplets off my face. "When you entered my life...When you smiled at me..." Just open up, Jones. "I was smitten, but I knew it wouldn't work because I am...strange."

Well, that sounded about right.

"I am not completely strange. I have my wits and a good sense of humour, and I am a good talker." Drunk Dave peered up from his squatted position at the street corner, the flagon of cider in his hands, landing on the floor between his bare feet. "Are you good, Dave?"

He blinked.

"I'm a decent guy, right?" I stood there, hands on the hips. "Do you think I'm a good talker? Any girl would be lucky to have me."

Once more, he blinked.

"Oh, you don't talk to strangers, huh?" I swept wet strands of hair out of my eyes. "It's all good. I am not a stranger. I walk past you every night on the way home from work."

He growled like a feral animal. "My name is Bob. You fuckin' halfwit."

I stand corrected. "Alright." Stepping away from the crazy person, I proceeded ahead. "Keep your knickers on. I was only trying to be friendly."

My sheer existence affronted everybody.

My gregariousness rubbed people up the wrong way.

My sense of humour often rendered me friendless.

I like to think that I am a people person, but, in reality, I don't fit in.

I never have.

"Sounded sad upon the radio," I sang in a husky voice. "Moved a million hearts in mono. Our mothers cried. Sang along, who'd blame them?" Double-checking for oncoming vehicles, I jogged across the road and jumped onto the brick pavement. "You're grown. So, grown. Now I must say more than ever." Grabbing the lamppost, I kicked out a leg and swung around it. "Toora loora toora loo rye aye." Lightheadedness almost took me off my feet. "And we can sing just like our fathers!" A loud burp escaped my lips. "Oh, that's disgusting."

It would be fifteen minutes later when I unlocked the front door to my house, entering the unlit hallway to sounds that would haunt me forever. Pleasure filled moans echoed from upstairs, the repetitive thump of the headboard crashing into the wall as someone, another man, who groaned just as loudly, pleasured the girl I shared a bed with at night.

Slowly, the keychain slipped between my fingers, landing on the uncarpeted floor. Assured I was drunk and hallucinating, I shut the front door and listened intently. Still, the moans continued, loud and clear for all to hear.

Pushing down the lump in my throat, I took cautious steps towards the stairs and, prolonging my torture, listened to the sound of her voice keen as she pleaded with him for more.

"You didn't believe me," the voice whispered inside my head. "I told you, didn't I? No one could ever love you the same way I do."

I covered my ears.

Think clearly, Jones.

"Yes," Tiffany cried, and my eyes snapped open. "Oh, yes. Right there."

I walked away.

"Brian," she screamed, and I came to an abrupt stop. "Yes, shit. Make me come."

I don't know why the room greyed or why everything became quiet.

I don't even know why I thought it was a good idea to climb the stairs, bridge the landing, or stand in the doorway to my bedroom to watch my girl with another man.

Not just any man, though.

My best friend.

My only friend.

Brian and I, we grew up together, lived on the same street back when we were kids. Neither of us had the best home life, the best childhood, but we were happy because we had each other.

How could he do this to me?

How could she do this to me?

Tiffany's red waist-length hair clung to her back, where dews of sweat trickled down to her flexing arse. Both of them fucked as though time was of the essence, as though someone could come home at any given moment, so they had to be quick. His fingers, lined with silver rings, held her waist, her breasts, touring every ounce of naked skin before clasping to her thighs. "Tiff," he groaned, his head pushing back into the pillow. "I love you."

My jaw steeled.

"Yes." Her body convulsed above him. Collapsing across his chest to ride through intimate waves of ecstasy, she whispered in his ear, "I love you more."

My body vibrated. I had the sudden urge to say something—do something. And I did. With an outstretched arm, I grabbed the closest item on the vanity table, fingers curling around the handle, and, in a warped haze, moved through the room, towards the bed, imagining how good those white sheets would look with a deep, primary shade of red.

Tiffany sat up, still saddling his lower body, and swept bangs of red, sweat-slicked hair out of her face. When our eyes collided and she screamed something indecipherable in panic, I brought the iron back and struck her across the head. I knew it was bad because when she toppled off the bed—off him—and landed on the floor in a heap, she never cried, or moved, or attempted to run and talk. She laid boneless, lifeless, blood seeping into the once white carpet. Her green eyes, wide open and glassy, stared back at me, but they were empty, gone. She was gone.

"Brad, what have you done?" Brian sat upright. He was not looking at me, though. He was staring at the floor, where she laid, sprawled out disjointedly. Catching the gut-wrenching cry from the depths of his stomach with his hand, he burst into tears. "Brad..."

"It's not okay." My fingers tightened around the iron's handle. "I am sick of people taking the piss out of me."

"No." Falling to his knees beside her, he thumbed tears from her hollow cheeks. "It wasn't...Brad, it just happened. We fell in love, but we never wanted to hurt you."

My lips wobbled. "I don't believe you."

"Tiff," he whispered, and something inside me snapped. "Wake up, baby. Please, wake up." Falling back on his haunches, he stared at his bloodied hands through wide, terrified eyes. "I don't understand. This is not you. You wouldn't hurt anyone, especially her." When he perceived the anger in my eyes, he stood, albeit gingerly, and raised his palms in surrender. "Brad, what is going through your head right now? Remember what we talked about? You have to ignore it. You cannot—"

"Do not reason with me," I spat, tasting tears on my lips. "Do not take me for an idiot. How could you do this to me? To us? Fuck her," I added angrily, and he stared at me in disbelief. "Girls come and go. But us? You and me. That's supposed to be legit. You were my day one."

"We will always be friends." His brown eyes squeezed shut. "That's our motto, right?"

My chest hurts. "Friends don't betray one another."

"I am sorry." Lips pressing into a firm line, he peeled his eyes open and stared disparagingly at me. "I wanted to tell you. We were going to tell you. But this," he gesticulated frantically to Tiffany's dead body, "was not the answer, Brad. Violence is never the answer. Have you learnt nothing?" He cupped his mouth, smearing her blood over his pale features. "I have to call the police."

Before Brian could grab the mobile phone on the floor, I whacked the iron across his face in an unforgivable act of vengeance. His body spun around, dropped to the ground on impact, but he groaned, breathed, and strived to stand.

I could not let it happen.

So, I hit him again and again. His blood spattered across the carpets, painted the white walls in gruesome slashes. Through short belts, I reduced anger, resentment and bitterness until his unrecognisable face, his hacked flash, and crushed bones told me to stand down.

Flinging the iron across the room, I let out a harsh wail, resting my head on his chest where his heart once beat. "Why?" My cries resounded throughout the house. "Why did you do this to me?"

Adrenaline pumped blood through my veins. In devastating madness, I crawled across the bloodied floor, slipping through pools of their blood and collapsed onto the landing to cry some more.

Christ, I was pathetic.

If I was drunk before, I am undoubtedly sober now.

"I hate you." My stare found Tiffany's from across the dark hallway. "I fucking hate you."

I repositioned, back to the wall, and drew my knees to my chest. Burying my head on my hands, cringing at the taste of metallic copper on my lips, I rubbed my face and cheeks, doing my utmost to efface their blood from my skin.

What have I done?

I killed my girlfriend.

I killed my best friend.

Prison, I thought. Double homicide will land me in jail. A dingy, tiny cell with an annoying cellmate who likes to watch me while I sleep. Unpalatable food. Shared bathroom. Daytime television. Oversized clothes.

Fucking hell, I had to get out of here. I could pack a bag and flee to Mexico, find myself a nice place to live and be a loner for the remainder of my existence. It beats incarceration...

No, there are no escaping consequences.

I'll have to kill myself.

End it all once and for all...

"Don't be silly," the voice taunted in my head. "Remember what happened the last time you were silly, Bradley?"

"Stop." Fisting hair by the roots, I pulled until pain sliced through my skin. "Get out of my fucking head."

A floorboard creaked downstairs.

I stopped breathing.

My heart rate accelerated from the sudden change in the air. Either the temperature dropped drastically in the last few seconds, or there was an uninvited visitor in my house.

At the bottom of the stairs stood a tall figure. It was too dark to see and identify the person, but I sensed his intense watchfulness.

He was staring at me.

He knew I committed murder.

"Who are you?" I asked, ignoring the sight hitch in my voice. "What do you want?"

With unhurried steps, he climbed the stairs until the soft light from the bedroom's lamp outlined his honed features.

I'd recognise his face anywhere.

You do not want a man like him standing in front of you.

And you most certainly did not want a man like him entering your house.

Liam Warren.

His name alone churned my stomach.

"Fucking hell," I said almost inaudibly as his ice-cold blue eyes came into vision. "The devil quite literally walked through my back door."

His leather shoes, one by one, stepped onto the landing, where a cheap, fringed rug adorned the old floorboards.

I studied his shoes first, wondering how good it felt to splurge out on such expensive clothes and jewellery items. The man's suit is probably worth more than my house, and his diamonds gave local jewellers a run for their money.

When he took another step closer, I flinched, sticking myself to the wall.

My nervousness amused him.

Tilting his head to the side, he smirked wolfishly but said nothing.

"I went out on a bit of a bender tonight." Chuckling nervously, I adjusted the collar of my white polo shirt. Well, it's white if you exclude the blood. "She wasn't expecting my arse home yet."

Without a word, Warren stepped into the bedroom to assess the damage. After a glance in multiple directions, he stood over Tiffany's dead body. "Brutal," he said, his voice deep and unintentionally terrifying. "Did you love her?"

No, I don't love anyone. "Five years I was with the bitch," I croaked, looking away to hide the embarrassment I felt. "I found her in bed, fucking my best mate." Pinching the bridge of my nose, I forced myself to stand. "I may as well call the police and hand myself in."

Confessing to The Met was the last thing I wanted to do, but I had to pretend to be apologetic for my sins, I guess. Plus, what choice did I have? There is a witness here...A renowned criminal who most likely arrived here after a massacre, but still, a witness who could sail my arse down the damn river.

Unless I killed him, too, but killing him would be unjust. After all, this man once spared my life. He might not recognise me, but I remember the night he let me go. "So, what brings Warren to my humble abode?"

He kicked Tiffany's abandoned lace aside. "I followed your ass."

"Why?" Oh, shit. I have a bounty on my head. "Did someone put a hit on me or something?"

My question irked him. "I'm not a fucking hitman."

Then, what the fuck does he call himself? The streets are terrified of him. You don't even say his name around these ends without repercussions. Too much chin wagging could lose you a tongue or limb. And if you do stumble into a problem with him? You are better off committing suicide because I hear he's pretty fucking sadistic.

"So, don't fucking insult me," he warned, and my gaze lowered to the floor. "I got more money than sense."

Yes, I know. I know more about this man than I cared to admit.

"Moreover," his judgmental eyes raked over the room, "I don't think you could afford me."

Okay, that was a bit rude. "I wasn't going to ask..."

He removed leather gloves from inside his trouser pocket. "Did anyone see you come home?"

"I don't think so."

"Go and find some petrol."

"Petrol?" My eyebrows welded. "Why do I need petrol?"

"I don't fucking have time for this." He crouched next to Tiffany. "Move it."

Hastening downstairs, I checked the kitchen first and came unstuck because why the fuck would I have petrol in this bastard shithole?

Gripping the counter, I stared out the window, remembering the kid next door stored petrol canisters in the shed for his motorbike. Hurrying out to the garden, making sure no one's watching me, I unlock the shed door, steal two canisters, fall twice as I head back for the house, and manage to make it back upstairs in one piece.

Liam is squatting in front of clothes piled high on the floor.

"I found these." I was panting upon my return. "What are you doing?"

He stuffed something under the bed. "So, you never suspected their romance before?"

"No." I placed two petrol canisters on the floor. "I don't think it was serious or anything," I lied, knowing damn well they'd fallen for each other. I was too proud to admit anything, though. "Tonight was probably their first time. We haven't been in a good place lately."

Unscrewing the canisters, he forced one into my hands. "Douse the room."

"Right," I said tightly, uncapping the bottle, dousing everything in sight, including the bodies.

"It wasn't a mistake." He hurled the empty canister across the floor. "They've been at it for years."

Yes, and now I look like an idiot. He must think I am pathetic. "How can you be so sure?"

Popping a cigarette between his lips, he matched a flame and inhaled a deep drag. "I'm never wrong."

I smothered a scoff.

Letting smoke roll around his mouth, he blew out a calming breath and chucked the cigarette onto the bed. The petrol caught, instantly spreading across the soaked material, flames licking the bodies, clambering the walls and ceiling and, too soon, black smoke began to thicken through the room.

Warren exited the room to descend the stairs with one final glance in my direction. I waited for a moment, watching the flames claim Tiff's body before I yanked a discarded hoodie over my head and chased him.

"Wait," I called, dashing down the garden path in his footsteps. "Where are we going?"

"I am going home." He faced me head-on. "Fuck knows what's in store for you."

"What?" Horror-stricken, I glanced back to the house where smoke rippled from open windows. "My house is seconds away from blowing up."

"Correct." He moved ahead. "So, fleeing is probably a sensible option." Ducking into the gully across the street, he sprinted through the maze-like lane to locate another street, somewhere safe and away from prying eyes. "Why the fuck are you following me?"

I snatched his arm, bringing him to an abrupt stop. "What am I supposed to do?" When I discerned his furiousness, I released him. "Come on, Warren. Help me out."

He stared, long and pensive. "Why would I help you?"

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked, spearing a hand through dishevelled hair. "I got nowhere to go—nobody to turn to..."

As if pleased by my depressing life story, he closed the small gap between us. Our noses touched. "Do you feel any remorse for what you did?"

I feared chains and isolation more. "Nope. I feel betrayed. In my defence, I am half-cut. I'm sure tonight's actions will weigh heavily on me in the morning."

Warren hummed in reverie. "You can work for me," he clipped, and I had to pinch my neck to be sure I was not dreaming. "After we go over the rules, of course."

I might have pissed myself with excitement.

I almost smiled.

Christ, Inside, I was screaming at the top of my lungs.

But let's stay calm, Jones. Try to be cool, less needy and inoffensive. "Brad Jones," I introduced myself. "Or sinfully fucking gorgeous will suffice. I'm not too picky."

He looked at me like I was unhinged. "Let's go."

"Christ." Draping an arm across his shoulders, I walked alongside him. "I always wanted a fucking brother."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Brad." Whacking my arm aside, he exited into the next street in time to see emergency vehicles speeding down the road. "I'm just helping out a loser, that's all."

"Whatever." My arm returned to his shoulder, and this time, he did not chastise. "I wanted a brother, and now I have one. Oh, and whilst we are on the subject, what are these rules?"

Warren paused at the street corner. "We were not on the subject of rules."

"Right, I get it. Wrong context and all that malarkey. But, going back to previous conversations, can I ask about these rules?"

He was expressionless. "Rule number twelve: never question the boss."

I sucked my cheeks in. "Right, so, how do I find stuff out without asking questions? Let's pretend that wasn't a question."

He texted someone on his phone before giving me his full attention. "There are many rules, Brad." A black Bentley pulled up behind him. "Now, come with me, and we shall discuss terms and conditions."

I struggled to swallow. "What If I get in the car and your driver searches for the nearest ditch to bury me?"

His jaw muscle ticked. "Was that another question?"

I sucked my upper lip. "Definitely not another question."

"Good," he said huskily, gesturing for me to climb into the back of the vehicle. "Do you like Macallan?"

"Me? Macallan?" Next joke. "Yeah, it's an all-time favourite."

"Then you shall join me at the penthouse for a drink."

"Okay, one more question," I chanced to say, and he sighed under his breath. "Will I regret this?"

Warren fixed the collar of my polo shirt. "Regret is for the weak. And you, Brad, are far from weak."

For the first time in my life, I had hope.