Page 4 of SNOB

I saw her face plastered with horror when that bullet left the chamber. Petrified.

It made me want to do it again.

“The sickest little psycho I know,” Father speaks to me like he speaks to the men he keeps closest to him. An odd lightness to his tone. “But Malcolm, you know I don’t condone violence.”

“You do,” I remind him. “You just don’t like getting your hands dirty.”

“And neither should you.” With a rough hand, he turns my face to his. Wrinkled. Jaded. He wears the stress on his face like a trophy. It’s only his ruthless ways that stop the ladies in The Hill from lining up at our doors. “You can pull the wings off a butterfly. You can burn an ant with a magnifying glass. But the thing is, son, when it comes to people, it's better to dominate with your mind. Your hands will get you in trouble. That’s why I hire out. Our status? Use it.”

“Why do you want that ugly old shop anyway?” I ask. “You already own half The Valley.”

“And now he owns more,” Gray says my father’s keyword, sipping a glass of whiskey in a grey sweater worth way more than that shop. It matches his hair, grey since the ninth grade. He swings back and forth in a leather swivel chair, used to McKinsley chaos. He thrives in it.

“Pow!” My father makes the sound in my head, his throaty chuckle following. The men around us laugh with him. With the exception of Gray, they’re all either old and frail or old and muscular. But if I know my father, each one of them has a purpose.

“I know you’re twisted, but that was ruthless,” Gray says. He wasn’t with us. But since he uses this bar as his hiding spot from his folks, he heard all about it. He nudges me with the tip of his grey leather slipper. “‘Fess up, what really made you pull that trigger, Mac?”

Her.

“Boredom.” My tone matches my words. “Wanted to get out of there.” My mind flashes to those eyes. Haunting and daring, threatening to consume me. “He wasn’t going to sign in a reasonable time unless you did something drastic.” Unless I did something drastic.

The power I got holding that gun in my hand was nothing I’ve felt before. Almost too powerful.

“He’s as calculated as you are, Sterling,” Gray chuckles.

Father chuckles with him. “Think you have what it takes to follow in my steps, boy?”

“I think he has his eyes on other things,” Gray says.

My eyes stay fixed on my phone, the hockey puck going back and forth between teams. But my eyes don’t align with my mind.

She couldn’t take her eyes off me and hell, I don’t blame her. I’m Malcolm McKinsley.

“Malcolm.” Father leans closer, his cigarette and whiskey breath coming with him as my eyes zone in on the black puck. “Did you know you’d ruin his chances? Forever?”

He’s speaking in riddles again and for some reason, I engage. “What do you mean?” My voice comes out as tired as I am.

Father clarifies, “Jake Everett.”

My hand tightens around my glass, my eyes lifting from the screen at the mention of that name.

“That man will never play again,” Father laughs between his words, the rest of the room laughing with him. “You set a precedent today. No one in this town will say no to us.” Knocking the remaining contents of the glass down my throat, it burns when I stand, my Father’s words loud. “You’ve paved the way, just like your old man. Now you can drop that stupid game and join a real career that will get you further than sports ever will.”

“I need some air,” I mutter. Codeword for needing a smoke.

Father lets me head for the door, tending to my habit he fails to acknowledge. Heat dances on my skin but when I’m outside, the night air brings relief. When I take a breath, a stench enters my nose that makes my nostrils flare. It smells just like The Valley. Regret.

My sweaty hands pat my blazer, searching for that rectangular bulge. Once I find the golden case, I pull out a black cigarette. My favourite. Leaning against the wall, the flame of my golden lighter only adds warmth to my skin.

Jake Everett. Potential draft pick for the Vultures. The dream team.

The first inhale is hardly enough to calm my mind. Sucking in another pull, the back of my head lands against the brick behind me.

What the hell was he doing at a dirty thrift shop? And how the hell was I supposed to know he would be the one on the other end of my?—

Click!

My jaw tightens, my inhale cut short.

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