FOURTEEN
BAD PERSON
FIX
My dick was as hard as a concrete post, and there was nothing I could fucking do about it. I could have slipped into a bathroom and jerked off, but where was the fun in that? It would get the job done, relieving some of the pressure that had been building up in my pants, but fuck…
I didn’t want my own hands on my cock. I didn’t even want that redhead’s hands on my cock, even though she had been fairly pretty and her mouth looked like it was used to being wrapped about a boner. I wanted Sera’s hands on me, and if I couldn’t have her, then I didn’t want anyone else.
How the fuck had this happened? How had I decided somewhere along the way that I wanted her? Like, really wanted her? Not just for a night, but for longer. She was literally the worst person to pursue, and I knew myself. That was probably the exact reason why I’d formed such an obsessive attraction to her over the past few days. It was as if my dick enjoyed setting me up for failure and catastrophe. I had to keep reminding it that we were on the same team, but it didn’t appear to be listening. Bastard.
Okay. A suit. I needed to find a suit.
The concierge would probably have one. People left clothes in hotels all the time. They hung them up in the closet and forget all about them. I didn’t want someone’s misplaced second hand shit, though. Just because I was crashing this wedding didn’t mean I couldn’t look sharp.
There were people wandering around in the lobby, drinking mimosas, wearing robes or their pajamas, chatting politely with one another. Obviously they weren’t dressed or ready for the ceremony yet, but the lure of alcohol in the lobby had been too much for them. Drinkers. My favorite. A million years ago, a different lifetime ago, in fact, I used to warn people of the dangers of imbibing too much alcohol from a pulpit. Then, after everyone had left, their faith and their good intentions reinvigorated after my stirring speech, I’d get so fucked up that I couldn’t walk straight.
People probably assumed I drank the communion wine. Fuck that, though. Communion wine was nothing better than watered down piss. Gentleman Jack had been my tipple of choice. It still was, when I didn’t need a clear head to get shit done. I felt Jack calling to me as I scanned the crowd meandering around the lobby—it would be easy enough to order a drink from the small bar that had been set up in the corner of the hotel’s plush entryway—but now wasn’t the time. I needed to be bright eyed and bushy tailed, just in case Sera decided to do something stupid. Also, if I was being honest, I wanted to make a good impression today. I wasn’t blind to the trauma Sera had been dealing with. I knew she was more shaken than she was letting on.
You’re a bad person. You know that, right?
She’d lashed out with her words without even thinking, which made her statement even more caustic. She’d meant it. She’d really meant it, and I’d seen as much on her face. I was a killer. I ended people’s lives for money. I got that. But in some warped, fucked up corner of my head, I still thought of myself as a good guy. Hilarious. It had been years since I’d done anything truly good. Carrying Monica out of that church, stowing her in the back of the ambulance, sitting with her for days, listening to her confession over and over again, reading her last rites on more than one terrifying, hair-raising occasion…
That was the last good thing I did.
Seeing her like that had done something to me. I’d lost all hope. I’d lost what little faith I had. And I’d lost any desire to continue on acting out the charade that I’d only undertaken in the first place to keep my parents happy. They were dead, and it didn’t matter anymore. There were people out there with the blackest hearts, capable of raping and torturing and maiming people more vulnerable and fragile than they were. They didn’t believe in any god. There was no moral compass guiding them, leading them away from the darkness. So I put away God, and I put away my compass, and I walked into the dark with a single, defining purpose: to find and punish the man who hurt Monica. To hurt him, the way he hurt her.
I didn’t know if there would be any justice in the afterlife for men like the guy who’d attacked Monica, and I couldn’t fucking bear it. Couldn’t let it fucking stand. If there was accountability after death, then great. He would pay eternally for the pain and suffering he’d caused. But, just in case there was no accountability, I was going to make him, and other men like him, fucking bleed in this life too.
“Can I help you, sir?”
A short, middle-aged man in a suit stood beside me, holding out a polished silver tray loaded up with cucumber sandwiches. The crusts had been cut off, and I grimaced down at the food. “Are there any guys my size staying in the hotel?” I asked.
He looked confused, but, ever the consummate professional, didn’t question me. Eying me up and down, he arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I shouldn’t think so, sir. You’re quite tall, and very broad. The only guest who might be close to you in stature would be Master Gareth, there. Might I ask why, sir?”
I glanced in the direction he pointed, taking in the guy standing on the opposite side of the lobby—slicked back blond hair, sparkling blue eyes. Unlike everyone else sipping from their flutes of champagne and nibbling delicately on the de-crusted sandwiches, he’d made the effort to get dressed before coming downstairs. His beige chinos had been pressed so violently that there was a knife-edge crease down the front of them, and his dusky pink button down shirt looked like it had come straight out of the packaging. He was wearing a fucking Aran-knit sweater over his shoulders, the arms of which were tied loosely around his neck. I immediately hated the prick. He was a mirror of so many guys I’d gone to college with; he came from money, that was clear enough. And from the way he tipped his head back and laughed loudly, seeking attention, he was used to people fawning over him in public.
“Never mind,” I said, still staring at the stranger. “You’re right. I don’t think he’s broad enough. Not by a long chalk.” My parents had had money. Plenty of it. They’d packed me off to receive the best education money could buy, and when I’d agreed to undertake my seminary training, they’d insisted on putting me up in an exorbitantly expensive hotel instead of allowing me to room with another student at the church facility. Their wealth had set me apart from the crowd. I wasn’t like this Gareth asshole, though. I’d never flaunted the healthy state of my bank account by wearing expensive clothes or sporting three hundred dollar hair cuts. I’d worn the cheapest shit I could find, stocking my wardrobe by shopping at thrift stores. And when the time had come, when both my parents died, I’d tied up every single penny they’d left to me in trusts and bonds, making sure I couldn’t even see the disgusting amount of cash that had fallen into my lap anymore.
Next to Gareth, a flash of red caught my attention, and I realized the person Gareth was laughing so boisterously with was Arianna, the woman who’d been flirting with me in back in the room only fifteen minutes ago. Her hand was resting lightly, possessively, on Gareth’s arm—a clear sign to the other tittering women hovering around him that he was already taken. So…Arianna was the jealous type. But also the type to flutter her eyelashes at other men whenever the fuck she felt like it. Sounded about right.
I was about to slip down the remaining stairs and sidle my way out of the lobby, when Arianna looked up, her gaze settling on me. Gareth looked up at the same time, frowned, then whispered something into Arianna’s ear. Her cheeks were stained with color as she replied to him, nodded, then waved me over.
Under no circumstances did I want to go and join them. I’d suffered through root canal surgery before without anesthetic, and even that sounded more pleasant that being introduced to this fucking jack-hole. Still…this was Sera’s sister’s wedding. I had to keep reminding myself of that. Sera thought I was the shittiest human being to ever draw breath, but I could at least prove her wrong in this. I could at least make sure today was nothing but smooth sailing.
“There we are, darling,” Arianna said breezily, as I arrived at their group. “I told you he was part of the wedding party. Felix Marcosa, meet my boyfriend, Gareth Douvillier. Gareth was just saying that you looked like you were about to perform at a rock concert, not attend a wedding.”
“Actually, I didn’t,” Gareth said tightly. His eyes were bland and uninteresting. Untrustworthy. “I said he looked like an underpaid roadie, who should be lugging DJ equipment through the service entrance at the rear of the hotel, not lurking in the lobby during a wine mixer.”
Well, well, well. Gareth had a sharp tongue in his head. He wanted to look down at me, I could tell. Trouble was, I was about six inches taller than him, and I wasn’t wearing lifts in my shoes like he was. Arianna laughed, high pitched and nervous, playfully slapping Gareth’s arm. “I’m sorry, Felix. Gareth’s always a little testy at these things. People ask him so many questions, y’know? He’s very successful at what he does, and everyone wants to know his secrets.”
“Oh. That’s great. I’m pretty fucking successful at what I do, too.”
Arianna’s mouth gaped open the moment I swore. Gareth didn’t seem to care, though. “Oh? And what might that be?” he drawled.
“Who knows?” I slapped him on the shoulder. Hard. “Maybe one day you’ll find out first hand.”
He bared his teeth at me. It was supposed to be a smile, but good ol’ Gareth was transparent as fuck. He didn’t like me, and he wasn’t doing a very good job of concealing his emotions. “Whatever she’s told you, it’s not true, you know,” he said. “None of it. She’s a fucking liar.”
“I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”
“Sera. I never cheated on her with Arianna. We’d already broken up when I got with her.”
I stifled a laugh. “Sera? Sera was with you?”
Gareth was indignation personified. “Don’t give me that shit. There’s no way she didn’t tell you about me. She lost her freaking mind when we split.”
God. So I wasn’t just crashing a wedding. I was neck deep in ex-drama, too. That was just fucking perfect. I folded my arms across my chest, making sure to flex my muscles a little. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. She’s never mentioned your name before. She can’t have been that distraught. Good on you, though. Sera’s a catch. You’re a lucky man to have spent any time with her at all.” Gone was my smile. And gone was the arrogant glint in Gareth’s eye.
“She’s a head case, man. You’ve got your hands full with all the luggage that bitch carries around with her. I mean, why the fuck would you want to involve yourself with damaged goods like that? Her own father fucked around with her.”
I’d been planning on walking away from this conversation without being a cunt. There were times when it was appropriate to smash your fist into someone’s jaw in the middle of a crowded room, and there were times when it was smarter to send a parting shot across the bow and walk the fuck away. Gareth was a needy piece of shit who didn’t like the idea that there were people out there in the world who’d witnessed his ugly side. I’d handled scores of guys just like him, and I’d learned how to cut them down and move on without breaking a sweat. But to call her a bitch? To speak openly to someone you don’t know about her being sexually assaulted? I’d have to unpack that one and deal with it later, but for now…
Nope. No fucking way.
I was itching to lay the bastard out. Fair enough, I knew very little about Sera, had no right to feel protective over her, but none of that mattered. Slating your ex to the man you who was now dating her (as far as he knew) was a classless act, but resorting to name calling was just fucking horseshit. I played out what it would feel like to knock the motherfucker out right here and now. The bright snap of pain as my knuckles connected with his jaw. The vivid, bright red of the blood he would shed. The satisfying thud his skull would make as it bounced off the floor. It was all going so well in my head, until I imagined the look of horror on everyone else’s faces, and the shit Sera would have to field as a result of my rash actions.
Fuck.
The sense of gratification that had been welling up inside of me vanished. I couldn’t do it to her. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I said. The vein in my temple was pounding like a demented drum. “Sera’s baggage is nothing compared to mine. And besides. I work out. I’m perfectly capable of carrying whatever pain and heartbreak she’s been through for her. Not that I need to, of course. Sera’s a wildfire. A lot of guys aren’t capable of caring for a woman who’s been brave enough to fight her way through dark times. Don’t worry. I get it. Their strength can be intimidating.”
Gareth’s mouth was yawning open, moments away from spewing out even more bullshit. A right hook would have been impeccably timed right now, but instead I turned around and walked away. I knew exactly what I was doing; men like Gareth were used to being listened to. They believed everything they said and did was of great import to others. For someone to belittle them, cut them off, turn their back on them and walk away? That was fucking crushing to a puffed up, egotistical degenerate like him.
As I casually strolled out of the lobby, I grabbed a bellboy by the arm, jerking my head back over my shoulder in Gareth’s direction. “Hey, that blond guy over there with the redhead? What’s he driving? Tell me and this is yours.” I showed him the hundred-dollar bill I’d taken out of my pocket.
The bellboy squinted at Gareth, then back at the hundred-dollar bill again. “The red Lamborghini out back. The brand new one with the black leather interior.”
“I’ll give you another hundred if you loan me the keys for ten minutes.”
“Why? You’re not going to do anything bad to it, are you?”
“Oh, god, no. I’d never do damage someone’s ride. I just have a gift for him is all.”
By the time I was done pissing in the front seat of Gareth’s stupidly ostentatious vehicle, the pounding in my temples had eased. I wasn’t done with that motherfucker, though. Not even close to done. My boots bit into the gravel on the way back across the parking lot. Fuck it. I wasn’t going to bother finding a suit for this ludicrous event. I’d skip the ceremony, and then hang out at the reception once the photos were out of the way. And once night fell and ever—
“Father? Father Marcosa?”
My boots stopped. My heart stopped. The world stopped.
Who?
Who would know to call me that out here, in the middle of nowhere? The chances were non-existent. My mind went blank as I turned around…and looked into the face of a man I never thought I would see again.