Page 75 of Locke

He needed to remain an enigma. At the same time, he needed the loyalty of men who shared the same objectives as him. They needed money, and he needed power. They did as they were told, and they were paid handsomely. Give them a brotherhood, though? Surround them with people of equal misfortune and a bond was formed. Stamp them with numbers on the wrist to highlight such loyalty, bond and brotherhood? They became his for the keeping.

Men wanted to feel like they belonged somewhere. They needed purpose. This was Hunter/Gatherer shit. Make them feel hardened, reward their work, make them feel like they’re coming to the table with a proud kill. A man felt his best when he knew he was not only protecting the ones he loved, but taking care of them to.

That was the point of the numbered brotherhood Locke devised. He remained hidden, lightly giving orders, allowing them to steer their own path. He didn’t care what unlawful behaviour they were committing so long as it didn’t involve kids, prostitution and rape. If they wanted to go on a bank robbing spree, all the power to them, so long as they answered to him at the end of the day. So long as they got to do his dirty work and pave a path that led him straight to the cunts that hurt him so that he could kill them with his own bare hands.

Or, in this instance, fortify his base for her arrival.

And Locke knew how wrong this was, except he had no one in his immediate circle to stop him. Except for maybe Charlotte, the broken bird he put through school for the sake of Conor. Their story had always intrigued him. She’d carried Conor’s baby, had waited years for him, and he never understood it before. Regardless, she was serving a purpose; an indirect link to both the Raven Brotherhood as she aided in laundering Locke’s illegal fortune through his businesses. While Conor had served his sentence, Locke made her cook the books for him. He turned to her when it got hard—when the killing got to be too much. Sometimes the memories returned, and with them the feeling of being at the mercy his abusers.

So, yes, he wasn’t so far fucked that he did not understand the weight of his actions. This was unbecoming of him. To want a woman this badly. To go this far, to be so willing to invite her into his darkness. This was wicked, creepy shit. To want to ruin her, too? Unfathomable and sick.

Fuck, but he loved it.

And when the time came, he was going to tie her up in his bed again. He wouldn’t be so merciful like he was the first time. He would make her beg for her release. Fuck, he wanted her skin raw and aching. He wanted to face-fuck her. Make her take every inch of his cock. He would make her choke on it. The tears in her eyes as she looked up at him would be the most beautiful sight. Only then would he release her of those binds. To then keep her so that she could not leave; this was the essential goal. Taking her from this bright world would ease both their suffering.

And the world wasn’t going to understand her mad descension. They were going to see a woman flee from her life when she was really going to flee from him.

His little prey was slowly becoming his captive.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Twenty-Four

Kali

I stood outside Max Locke’s law firm.

The day was sunny, and the streets were packed. People were laughing and some kid was skipping past me with a balloon in hand. All seemed joyous—except me.

I stared at my reflection in the dark glass doors, and I saw an exhausted woman growing madder every day. My blinks were slow. Plagued by exhaustion, my body still felt sore after my night terror and subsequent orgasm or two.

You happened to think more rationally when the sun came up. When the light pierced you in the morning, it wasn’t just dosing you up with its rays. It was giving you a harsh dose of reality. I felt it, and the clarity was a punch in the gut. I felt ashamed of myself. Ashamed of my sick urges, my desire for unhealthy things.

This needed to stop.

As I continued to stare at myself drowning in my thoughts, I knew I needed to shake tail and catch the bus to Ryan’s house to look after his demon spawns. This was a severe detour, one that I had pretended was an innocent walk that led me straight to Locke’s firm.

But I was really here for a reason. A justifiable reason. One that evoked this response, and it was because before my night terror, I had seen his car again last night. On the balcony, I had been keeping a diligent look out. At one point, I watched as Sylvia talked on the phone, puffing on smokes that she lied about cutting down on. She was a little too close to some addicts out front of our building, but they were harmless, so I didn’t worry. The car showed up just as she went inside. It had sat idle before the building, unmoving. A pricy car always caught the attention of residents in Hawthorne, and yet nobody fucked with it. I couldn’t have been the only one that sensed him.

What did he want?

Was he trying to provoke me?

Or was he going to fucking kill me after all?

It stressed me out, sort of spooked me because those windows were too tinted under the streetlamp, and I didn’t know what he was doing. After an hour, he left.

“What’s gotten into you?” Sylvia asked as she stepped inside. She caught me standing by the window blinds, sneakily peering out intermittently.

“Nothing,” I answered without even looking back at her.

“What are you looking at?”

I shook my head. “Just watching out, Syl.”

When she came to stand next to me, I still wouldn’t look at her. “What are you watching out for?”

My voice was hardly above a whisper. “Danger.”

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