Loran

 

 

 

I haven't seen my brother in months. That's not as sad as it sounds. We've never been particularly close, despite our small age difference. Despite sharing the same parents, we are very different people who grew up under very different circumstances.

He's always been the golden boy in my parents' eyes, the heir, the prodigy who skipped fourth grade, but who hasn't really done anything impressive since then. On the contrary. He'd be in prison if it wasn't for me, and he'd be penniless, too, as would my parents. I don't think they would ever change their opinion about either of us, even if they knew the full story about what happened. Even if they knew that I was the one who saved our family's business, that I was the one who made sure we retained our wealth, and that I was the one who not only bailed out my fucked-up brother, but the one who covered up his deed and helped him - and our family's company - get out of the mess he created, and without any lasting repercussions.

I never told them anything about it, because it wouldn't change a thing. I don't need anything to change, and I also have to consider the deal my brother and I made. He knows some shit about me that I don't want exposed. He knows how I spend my free time, about the easy and ever-changing string of girls, the prostitutes, about the twisted things I do to women. He's the only person on the planet who wouldn't be surprised to find my toy chained up in the basement. It's what he'd expect of me. I'm the sick one, the black sheep who was dumb enough to get caught paying a girl for sex before I was even legal, while he's the one who brought home a picture-perfect girlfriend who is now his wife and pregnant with their first child. He may be a criminal and a loser when it comes to business, but unlike me, he's playing the role of heir to a wealthy and reputable family perfectly. And no one will ever know the truth about either one of us.

Because as long as I keep my mouth shut, so will he. That's the deal.

Unfortunately, it also means that I have to rush to his aid every time he gets into trouble. I've told him numerous times that I won't be able to do this for the rest of his life and there's a limit to what I can do to help him. Tax fraud is a serious offense, especially on a scale as large as this. If you draw attention to yourself once, you're never above scrutiny again. I don't know why that's so hard for him to figure out. He's like an impatient kid, always feeling that he's being cheated on by everyone else.

"Paying your taxes is not the same as having money stolen from you," I tell him for what must be the thousandth time. We're sitting in a dimly lit booth at an Italian lunch place in the city. He‘s dressed in a dark gray suit that makes him look older than he is, while I opted to wear casual attire, the same pair of jeans I wore when I was with my toy, when she had her lips wrapped around my cock. The memory makes me smile.

"Yeah, yeah, you've mentioned that more than once, Loran," he retorts, rolling his eyes at me. We're both sipping Scotch on the rocks. I always enjoy a cold and spicy drink after a good fuck, but I don't think he's drinking for the same reason.

"And trust me, I listened to you. I've paid my dues," my brother continues. "This isn't even about taxes, it's about a simple mistake made by my accountant. I tried to fix it the proper way, I really did. But these idiots are so fucking stubborn - it was a simple delay due to a miscalculation, causing them to dig into my assets again, something they wouldn't even have done if that delay hadn't occurred."

"And you want me to cover for it," I say. "Again. You want me to take the rap for something you messed up."

"No, that's not what this is," he insists. "I just want to transfer some of the assets into your name for a while, just to secure the money until this ridiculous investigation is over."

"So, you simply want to unload the problem onto me?"

He looks at me indignantly, even though I should be the one who's insulted by his dumb proposition.

"That's not exactly-"

"Yes, that's exactly what it would be," I interrupt. "Look, it was different to help your sorry ass out when you were dumb enough to gamble our family's money away-"

"I didn't gamble the money aw-"

"Yes, you did, and don't you fucking interrupt me, big brother," I hiss.

He sighs and rolls his eyes at me again, but he knows I'm right. Even he knows that he depends on my help and wouldn't be the smartest idea to aggravate me any further. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks at me expectantly, arching his eyebrows in a way that's freakishly similar to our father's expression when he was annoyed with us. I haven't seen his face in a very long time, but I will always remember this particular look.

"I don't know why we are even discussing this," I say. "Just pay the damn penalty and make sure your accountant doesn't fuck up again."

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Have you seen how much money that is?"

I nod. "Yes. It's quite a sum."

"Quite a sum!" he repeats. "This totally destroys our plans."

"Your plans?"

"Carol," he says, now in a lower voice. His voice always loses vigor when he starts talking about his wife. "She had some things planned for the house. And we wanted to buy a vacation home..."

"That'll have to wait," I say, unimpressed.

He huffs. "Yeah, easy for you to say, Mr. I-own-half-of-New-England."

Our eyes meet across the table, and it's as if we're reliving the ubiquitous rivalry of our entire upbringing in that moment. I don't even blame him for any hostility he might feel towards me, because I wouldn't want to be in his skin either. My parents never expected anything from me, I never felt the same kind of pressure that he was put under from the day of his birth. They paid little attention to me, leaving me with a kind of freedom that he never got to experience. The fact that I've also been seen as the "troubled kid" my entire life and only managed to gain their attention when I did something wrong, is an entirely different story. A story that doesn't have a bearing on him, because it's not his plight.

"Why does a single man even need so many houses?" he asks, narrowing his eyes. "I mean, I know you're swimming in money, even compared to me or our parents, but-"

"It's called making smart investments in real estate," I lecture. "It's a way of securing your wealth without getting in trouble with the government."

He casts me a dark look. "Still. So many houses? And you live in half of them and aren’t even renting them out. What the fuck are you doing with them?"

"That's none of your business," I snarl. "You’d better focus on your own shit. Do what I told you, and if your accountant keeps messing things up for you, or you feel you can only save your ass by getting in trouble with the law again, don't come crawling to me."

I get up from my seat, a motion followed by a miffed expression on his face.

"Oh, and I'm always happy to help you find a better accountant - or give you some advice on legal ways to manage your money," I say, before turning around and walking away from him.

I don't have to look back to know that his angry stare is following me all the way out the door.