Page 51 of Damon
A whole year has passed since I lost my wife. The girl I adored as a teenage boy, my one and only lover. When I woke this morning, it took me a minute to realize which day it was. Last night, I met with Harrison for a few drinks, and we toasted Connie. We reminisced of a time when she was still here, and how things would be so different if she hadn’t been murdered in cold blood because of my job. She’s still constantly on my mind; however, she’s not always my first thought in the morning. Some days, I find myself thinking of the other women in my home, and it’s not always my daughter who takes center stage.
Over the past few months, Emma and I have fallen into a slick routine operating as roommates. The sexual tension is still there. I doubt it will ever leave, but I keep my emotions in check and my cock in my shorts. Emma seems to have moved on completely; she looks at me with an impassive stare each time we speak. Our engagement is civil but cool. Ever since that night at the door of her room, she’s been distant. I don’t blame her; my actions were twisted and dumb. I hate the confusing bastard I’ve become too.
Annie keeps us both sane and together. In the beginning, I hadn’t been sure Emma would be able to take on the role of nanny in my home. Even though she’s the biological mother to my daughter, I had doubts about her maternal instincts. Mainly because when I first met her over a year ago, she had been adamant that she never wanted a child and her primary focus was her career. However, with her history and the events of the past year, it’s understandable that opinions and outlooks have changed.
Each day, my daughter is her primary focus; the whole day revolves around her needs and schedule. Our security team is still on alert, so although there seems to be no immediate threat, Emma does not leave the house without a guard. Moreno appears to have gone quiet and is living a routine lifestyle, but I suspect he’s just getting better at hiding his moves. The best criminals know when to strike. The ability to lie in wait for your victim is a necessary trait for success.
Hunter and Greyson arrive to prepare for our MMA class. They walk in, side by side, in the midst of a heated debate. Both walk up to me as I take another swing at the red leather punching bag. “Did you see the fight last night?” Hunter asks. I shake my head. “The wrong man won.”
“Bullshit,” Greyson snorts. “You’re just pissed because you lost the bet. I told you that your money was better on the other guy. Go on Devane, how much did you lose?”
“Nine,” he answers, his voice sharp.
“Nine hundred! Ouch!” Greyson hollers and grabs the other man’s shoulder in comfort.
“I’d guess it’d be nine thousand,” I say, pausing my workout and turning to the two men. “Am I right?”
Hunter nods, then shrugs. “It’s just money, I’m more annoyed I missed out on the other man’s wife.”
“He bet his wife?” Greyson utters, disgusted.
“It was my suggestion and, being a gambling addict, the old bastard jumped at the chance. Fuck, you should see her,” Hunter tells us. He lifts his hands and makes the shape of an hourglass. “All tits, ass, and hips. One night with her would have been worth nine grand just to tie her up and make her scream. I’ve had visions of riding her doggy style for weeks, watching my dick slide in and out that ass.”
“Disgusting bastards, you and her husband,” I mutter, and he grins. “So if he bet a night with his wife, what did you bet on top of the money? I can’t imagine your wife would be willing to sleep with someone for you.”
“Fuck knows where the old bag is,” he says with a chuckle then stiffens, scowls, and rolls his eyes. “I loved that car, but a bet is a bet.”
“Your car? Which one did you bet?”
“The Range Rover.”
“Expensive loss. At least you can afford it. Silver linings, Devane.” He glowers on the words silver linings. It’s a phrase I’ve heard him use often.
“No one likes a parrot, McKinney,” he retorts. “Luke has an update for us,” he adds, which diverts the conversion and causes my ears to prick up. “He’s coming to class today and will stay behind.”
Luke is a sixteen-year-old lad from the inner city who’s been running with the wrong crowd since he could hold a knife. He came to our MMA classes through a local charity program two years ago and has bounced between us and juvenile detention ever since. However, once we managed to locate one of the gangs directly involved with the collection of the debts in the money laundering circuit and found out that Luke had known connections with them, he automatically became our way in.
Now, thanks to false promises of non-conviction and wads of cash, Luke has become our eyes on the inside. His epic criminal record for a teenager gave him instant acceptance to the collection squad. He is the ultimate double agent, a reality I am highly aware of, but with limited options, we have to use what we have.
In the past few weeks, he’s been able to provide us with photos of some of the gang members and names. Last night, I finally was given the name of the bastard who pulled the trigger and killed Connie. From the little information Luke was able to extract, her death was allocated to the shooter as an initiation task to the gang.
The man who killed my wife had no vendetta against her or me; he was simply following instructions to allow him entry to an organization he thought may provide some solace. A place he could be protected. But by killing Connie, he signed his death warrant, and his demise is now top of my priority list.
The young offenders arrive, and the gym fills with the excitement of teenage voices. All boys, they run into the gym and start wrestling with each other or punching whatever piece of equipment is in front of them. My eyes land on the young man at the back, Luke. He stares at me unblinking, nods, then smiles. “We’ve got the bastard,” he mouths.
My excitement heightens as I realize what he means. The man who killed my wife is somewhere, waiting for me to go and dispense my form of justice. With sudden positivity at the news, I clap my hands loudly and announce that class will begin now.
After what feels like the longest-ever MMA session in history, everyone leaves except Hunter, Greyson, and Luke. The younger man smiles broadly as he takes my hand, shaking it. “Are you ready to go and claim some overdue justice?” he asks. My focus moves to Hunter, who smirks elatedly.
“You knew about this? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Luke was a key player in us getting the little bastard, and he wanted to tell you himself,” Hunter says bluntly. He glances at Luke, who is standing with his chest puffed out like the king of the jungle. “And I’m not a man who steals another man’s thunder.”
“Great job,” Greyson tells our prodigy. “You’ve been instrumental in this task and will continue to be.”
“Thank you, Luke.” It’s all I can say as my mind whirls with what could happen next. “Where is the cretin?”
“The tunnel,” Hunter advises. “Let’s go.” Luke pauses, unsure whether to follow or not. I stop and turn to face him.