Page 83 of Vile Bastards
“Emma Jean Thompson.” Chet pulls his phone out of his pocket, showing me a photo of the pretty pixie-faced girl. “She’s a reporter.” She’s a journalist, I think haughtily, but I say nothing. “And she’s becoming a real pain in our asses. Take care of her for me?”
What am I supposed to do or say other than agree? I allow my mouth to twist into a disturbing semblance of a smile, something wicked and depraved, something out of a nightmare. Aspen’s smile. I’m channeling my twin so deeply that I swear I can hear him chuckling from behind me.
“You bet I’ll take care of sweet, little Emma Jean. Care to make a wager as to whether she’s still a virgin or not? We’ll be finding out either way.”
I realize only after the words have left my mouth that I am the one who said such sickening things. I scratch at my arm through the sleeve of my suit jacket, a nervous habit that I’ve just now started but which has already resulted in bloodied forearms.
“I’d bet a million on her being a whore,” Chet replies easily, chuckling at the sentiment. But of course he finds this whole scenario amusing; he’s as smooth-brained as they come. “All women are. And then they wonder why they can’t find husbands.” He laughs outrageously at that, and Ernest snorts in agreement.
I just stand there staring, unable to comprehend the fact that this is now my life.
Get the Ruger. Go upstairs. Shoot Jonas first then Cody, Chet then Ernest. I could probably get all four of them before the cadre of paid muscle took me down. It’d be worth it, wouldn’t it? The world would be a much brighter place without these cretins sucking down oxygen that they don’t deserve.
Only, I’m too selfish to give up just yet. Dying means giving up a chance to be with Scarlett. On a more practical note, I’m concerned what the mob might think if these men all end up dead. Won’t it make Alexei—and by proxy, Scarlett—seem guilty as charged?
“I’m sure your wife considers herself very lucky,” I add with an adorable smile. This is also one of Aspen’s favorite expressions, the mocking moue of feigned sincerity. It takes Chet a second to assess the expression. In the end, he must believe I meant what I said because he laughs again.
I start to turn away, but Chet grabs onto the sleeve of my jacket as Ernest eyes me warily, drowning his sorrows in yet more alcohol.
“On another note, what do you know about that girl, the one that was friends with your fiancée?” Chet Archer is asking me about Scarlett Force. I don’t like that, not at all. I struggle to control my breathing, affecting Aspen’s usual apathetic boredom as best I can. Doki-doki, doki-doki, doki-doki. My heart doesn’t lie; I just hope that Chet can’t tell how hard and fast it’s beating. “Scarlett Force? Your father seems to think she’s afraid of us, and that’s why she buried her friend’s body instead of going to the police. I think she’s setting up to blackmail us.”
“Why would she do that now, after so much time has passed?” I ask, blinking heavily lidded eyes, as if I couldn’t possibly care less about Scarlett Force. It’s just a question, and a reasonable one at that. I scratch my arm until it hurts.
Ernest’s downturned mouth looks like a frog’s smile out of the corner of my eye. Disgusting, filthy little toady. I swallow past the bile in my throat, and try to rein in my crazy.
“Because I’m aiming to get ahold of her family’s duplex. It’s the last one on the block that I need in order to move forward with a new project. If she levels Lucy’s death against us as blackmail to keep Archer Realty from getting ahold of the property, well, you see why that would be a problem, don’t you? Take care of that, too, while you’re at it.” Chet rises to his feet and puts a hand on my shoulder. From the right person, it might be intended as a means of comfort. Here, I imagine that it’s a threat. “You’ve been fucking her, haven’t you? Invite her to dinner or something. Women love that shit.” He pats my shoulder once more and then moves out of the room, leaving me standing there with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I resist the urge to give into a panic attack, waiting until I’m in the Shelby Cobra before I start to hyperventilate. Take care of Emma Jean. Take care of Scarlett Force. I’m fucking lucky that I’ve been given these jobs as opposed to someone else.
And I’ve been given them because the last men contracted to carry them out didn’t succeed. I’ve been given them because—especially in the case of Scarlett—Chet thinks it’ll be easy for me to get to her, to get her in private, to kill her without anyone being the wiser.
