The Brother
The Brother
K. Larsen
Edited by
Indie Edit Guy
Contents
The Brother
Copyright
Trigger Warning
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Epilogue
The Best Friend
The Tutor
Copyright
Trigger Warning
Prologue
Copyright © 2017 by K. Larsen
Cover by: Cover Me Darling
Editing: Indie Edit Guy
Formatting: Dani René
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Click the lady for your
Newsletter
Facebook
Website
Twitter (@Klarsen_author)
Many of them.
3 Months Ago
Liam
* * *
The Tutor Captive Speaks Out For First Time Exclusive!
* * *
I admit I’m curious. I’ve heard the news reports. Seen the reporters trying to get the meek redhead to talk to them over the last year. I am waiting in line at the grocery store—a task normally done by my assistant—when I pick up the rag and flip it open to the article. Immediately, nostalgia sucker-punches me. One of the featured pictures shows the redhead, a young girl and... my brother. I slam the magazine shut and slap it on the conveyor belt with my groceries.
Fucking Holden.
When I slip into my car, I yank the magazine out and read the article. Held captive. Cuts. Love. Emotional abuse. Scars. Moving on. Single. Raise awareness about abuse and PTSD. Blah, blah, blah.
“Dammit,” I mutter. Although I don’t recall an awful lot from my childhood, I do remember my mother and her specific brand of abuse and my brother’s. I pull my cell phone from my back pocket and dial my father.
“Liam,” he answers.
“Sir.”
“Burn through the money already?” His voice is rigid. I groan.
“No. Have you seen the latest edition of—” I flip the magazine over “—People Weekly?”
“Why would I have, son? You in it?” His voice grates my nerves. He has two tones of voice, condescending and stern.
“No, but your other son is,” I say. I run a hand through my hair. It’s just long enough to consider scheduling a haircut. My father would prefer it cropped close to the scalp, but I’ve always kept it longer.
“Excuse me?” he barks into my ear.
“Holden Douglas Lockwood, remember him? He’s featured in the magazine.” I wait for his retort. His predictable slew of curses but only silence greets me. “Dad?”
“I’m here. Come to the house now.”
“Yes, sir.” I end the call and toss the magazine on the passenger seat. I start the car while pulling up Carol’s contact to send her a quick text that I won’t need her tonight. She texts me back immediately to let me know she left dinner in the fridge.
The drive to my father’s house isn’t long enough. As I navigate the bends in the road, clips of my former life flick through my mind. Mountain life. Memories of Holden’s screams and my father’s shouts bombard me. Holden coming into our room with blood dripping down his torso, as I cower in the corner. Holden covering my mouth in the middle of the night and drawing thin slices along my scalp. What Ma did to him, he did to me, but less so. And hidden.
When I told Dad what was happening, he snapped. Without warning, he threw me in his truck and drove us away. He told me to never speak of our cabin—to never speak of Holden or baby Laura or Ma again. Nightmares kept me up most nights until Dad started to beat them out of me with his belt.
We started fresh, four hours south of that damned mountain. He created an empire for us. Sent me to the best schools and now I run the business he started. I have wanted for nothing. I had no idea how Holden or Ma or Laura fared. Except now … I do. I know they are all dead, according to that damned article.
I pull into Dad’s gated driveway and leave the car running at the front door. His valet takes my keys as I pass him. I don’t bother knocking on my way inside. The knock would only echo through the enormous house. Dad sits behind his oak desk. He hand-carved it. Sanded it for days. Stained it and had his security detail move the enormous hunk of wood into his office. Two fingers of whiskey reside in a glass to his left, like always.
“Sit,” he says. I do. He doesn't offer me a drink.
“Show me this article.” I lean forward and toss the magazine on his desk. He flips to the article and reads to himself. When he finishes, he grunts and slaps the magazine closed. Is he thinking what I am? That we could be linked to the heinous crimes Holden committed? That the truth about who we are and where we came from could surface? What would that do to our social standing? Our company?
“We don’t have anything to worry about. They got his last name wrong.” He shakes his head, as if that one detail is the most ridiculous error in history.
“But, Dad, what about the cabin? There could be things there that lead back to us. Pictures or … I don’t know?”
“There’s nothing, Liam. Holden’s dead. Laura’s dead and your mother is dead. Good riddance. It sounds like Holden took up her ‘art’. He was destined to get caught.”
“That’s all you have to say? Laura and Holden were your children, too.”
“I let them go a long time ago and so should you.”
“Don’t you care at all?” I ask. This article, the photograph of my brother, has raised old curiosities in me that were best forgotten.
“No. Your mother was bat-shit crazy. Love made me do stupid things for that woman. Move to that damned mountain to commune with nature. Live off the grid to aid her art. I gave her enough years. I have nothing left for her—not even curiosity.”
“But Laura, Holden?” I say.
“I couldn’t care for an infant on my own and Holden was too far gone by then. I could, however, save you. Are you not grateful for that?”
Save me. The words sound sincere rolling off his tongue, but saving me from Ma and my siblings didn’t spare me from his abuse. I can’t say this, however.
“Of course I am. I just ...”
“Don’t overthink it, Liam, and don’t tell anyone about this article. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
“Good,” he says, wh
ile lifting his glass to his mouth. I watch the amber liquid slosh back and forth and yearn for a glass of my own to staunch the thoughts bleeding from my brain. The first time I’ve heard of—or seen—my brother since we left our home, was in a magazine for being a psychopath and my father wants to simply sweep it under the rug with no explanation. It baffles me and irritates me simultaneously. I say nothing to my father because he’s not the kind of man you push.
Nora
Present Day
* * *
There are days I wish I’d never been born. What is the point? The second we enter the world, we’re dying. No matter how much money you have; you can't buy another moment when your ticket is up.
Rotting. Decaying. Slowly. Bit by bit. Year by year.
Joints. Brains. Muscles. All give up. They all give in.
Everything we experience is a lead-in to death. If the goal of a life well-lived is death—what is the point? These are macabre thoughts, even for me, but my mind wanders as I watch people standing in front of me waiting for their prescriptions. I cross my arms over my chest. I fail at life—at real life. My anxiety starts, the doubts, the pressures and worries that every person on the planet deals with, yet somehow, I cannot handle.
Nothing changes instantaneously, it is gradual and likewise, my anxiety problem arrived. I felt safer when Holden was out there. Alive. Knowing he is dead has jumbled my brain. Anxiety riddles me more now than before. What a queer turn of events but my truth nonetheless. I step up to the counter and give the clerk my name and date of birth. I watch as she rifles through the bags to find mine. There has to be something more than this to life.
I carry the small white Rite Aid bag, receipt stapled over the top, and start to wonder how many people will notice and try to figure out what medicine I’m on when they take in the tell-tale prescription bag. It is bizarre really, that I want to shield my purchase from the public—though most people take something these days. I am about to tuck the bag beneath my arm, when my right shoelace snaps. I stop and glare at my traitorous foot.
I set the Rite Aid bag down and kneel. I try to figure out how to fix the lace so my sneaker will stay on. From the corner of my eye, I see people staring at me as they pass by. Does it have something to do with the prescription bag? Am I hunched over because I need help? I have a moment of anxiety, unfounded and irrational and think, screw my sneaker. Standing, as white hot heat spreads across my chest, I race across the parking lot to the path that cuts through the park. I should have driven. I contemplate taking one of my little white pills to stop this but I like to pretend I am stronger than I am.
It takes ten minutes to settle again. To catch my breath and feel at ease. Calm. Tilting my head to the sky, thick with fluffy white clouds, I inhale, hold it, and then let it out slowly. The river rushes over stone and clay to my right. The sound is soothing. Vines grow up and around the trees, the leaves fat and wide like elephant ears. White bits of dandelions float in the air. They settle atop pine needles littered across the ground, forming cotton-like batting. It reminds me of the mountain. Of Holden. The river runs wild from the recent rain. It slides over rocks, a ruddy brown color from the clay riverbed. The path forks and I stay left. Sun filters through the canopy of trees that arch over the smooth path along the water. I inhale deeply.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Daisy.
The name plaque is nailed to a tree next to a rock that juts out over the roaring water. It is ceramic, her name engraved into it. It hangs on a nail pounded into the flesh of the tree. The perfect place to sit and just be. Every time I see it, it makes my brain swirl with questions. I wonder if Daisy ever felt the way I do. If she battled demons. If she went through the push and pull of therapy. Probably not. I bet Daisy was the happiest girl in town. She was probably raised in a house that smelled like blueberry cake, with parents who nurtured her and doled out hugs frequently. I follow the path and remind myself to breathe. I remind myself the world doesn't revolve around me.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Fucking Daisy.
I squeeze the prescription bottle through the paper bag, letting its presence calm me. I breathe in another lungful of crisp air and recap my pathetic life. About the way I wasted two hours reading a women’s magazine earlier because apparently, I want to punish myself. I was overwhelmed by all the dieting gimmicks. Juicing, smoothies, pills, calorie cycling. Who has time for that? Who wants to crap red for a week, simply because they are on an all beet juice cleanse to lose a measly ten pounds? Instead of learning any useful information, I sat with my Jack Russell, Burt, spread across my lap, stuffing my hand into a bag of salt and vinegar chips, wondering why I have an extra ten pounds on me since being home. Since leaving the cabin.
Since leaving Holden.
Liam
Watching Nora has been easy. She’s a creature of habit. For the last three months, I’ve kept my eye on her. My father would be angry to learn what I'm doing but I just can’t let it go. My brother was alive with her. He touched her. Spoke to her. Hurt her the way he did me so many years ago. She knew him. She, presumably, got to know him better than I did. A little bubble of jealousy formed in my gut after that visit to my father.
I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to understand what Holden saw in her. There was a time, a long, long time ago, when I looked up to my big brother. When I wanted to be just like him. That morphed and changed when he started passing Ma’s abuse on to me, but still, what about this woman captivated him? I need to know. It started out innocent enough. I googled Nora. Found out what I could about her through the internet. But that just didn't do it for me. It didn't satisfy what I need.
I hired one of my father's guys from The Black to gather more intimate information for me. Home address, a remote login to her computer and email password. The Black is full of seedy men waiting to get paid for their particular skill sets. It wasn't hard and I didn't have to wait long. Reading her emails sent a thrill through me at first but then I needed more.
I am distracted at work. It no longer holds my interest and that is unsatisfactory. My father will certainly take notice soon. I need to focus. I have a job to do. I have people who can’t know about the methods it takes to get me off. Or even who it takes. Sweat drips off my assistant Mara’s forehead, she grabs a tissue from her bag and tutting with irritation at herself, scrubs her face dry. I watch as she goes about her duties. She’s a good employee and she’s been carrying more than her share of the load recently.
I stare at my monitor and will myself to pay attention to the charts and graphs on it.
It is after seven p.m. when the phone rings. I managed to dig into work after hours in the quiet of the office.
“Lockwood,” I answer.
“Liam.” I hold my sigh in.
“Dad,” I say.
“I’m at The Black with some potential investors. I want you here.” I scrub my palm over my face and stifle a groan.
“Yes, sir. Give me,” I look at the clock, “thirty minutes? I’m just wrapping up contracts for the Harrington deal.”
“Twenty.” His tone is stern. I open my mouth to speak but the line is already dead.
The Black is a gentlemen’s club. You must be a member to enter. It is a collection of the most powerful men in the area. Dangerous men. White collar criminals. Men with dubious proclivities. Before Nora was on my radar, before I stumbled across that damn magazine article, it is where I spent most of my evenings. Tonight, however, I am less than excited to go.
The woman I frequent there normally, isn't doing it for me lately. I am hooked on Nora. I crave her. Obsession is a tricky thing. I check my side mirror and pull in the flow of traffic.
I am late. My father will not be pleased. I crank the music and roll my shoulders as I drive. I’m tense. When I pull up to The Black, I take a deep breath. I toss my keys to the valet and continue into the club. It is dimly lit and smells of cigar smoke. A hand in the far corner raises. It is my fat
her’s. I make my way to him.
“Ah, Liam, my boy. There you are,” he says. He is pink-cheeked from too many bourbons and too nice in the face of guests. He was once fit; he is now round. Many women still consider him handsome but I can’t see it. All I see is a ghost of what once seemed like a great, virile man. He is aging poorly. I attribute it to his copious drinking and cigar smoking.
“Here I am,” I say. He shoots me a look. The kind only passed between a parent and child. The kind that says I better behave. Introductions are passed out as I take my seat at the circular wood table. I shake hands. I down two gin and tonics. I laugh at crude jokes. I tell some of my own. We talk deals and cash and how to make sure certain things stay under the radar and all the while, I am wishing that I was watching Nora.
When the girls are brought to the table, it is a welcome distraction. Yuri and his partner, Gregor, smack asses and have devilish grins on their faces. My father sits preening in the corner with his own girl tittering over him. He is confident he has sealed this deal.
The girls pretend their crude comments and gestures turn them on and soon, two-by-two, they disappear into the back of the club. I know better. I don’t want pretend. I want ... different things from women.
“Come on, stud,” Candy whispers in my ear. I smirk out of habit.