Page 1 of Fearless

CHAPTER ONE

CILLIAN

Asylum’s upstairs office door nearly swings off its hinges as my brother, Cole, swaggers into the room.

He’s not due in tonight, but he’s wearing a Canali suit as black as his hair. That could mean he intends on working, or it could be a sign of an imminent three-day cocaine-fueled bender.

Only time will tell.

He holds the door open for Sarah, his newest conquest, and the GBX music from downstairs in the club comes through loud enough that I feel it in my throat.

I’ve tried to explain GBX a few times to people who don’t originate from Scotland, and never quite found the words. Imagine taking a popular song like Stand by Me, or The Gambler, speeding it up and adding a belter of a bass. It’s impossible to simply listen to GBX and thinkhmm, that’s nice. Nah, when you listen to GBX you’re a stone’s throw away from spunking every penny you own on drugs and texting your boss on Monday morning telling him to shove up his job up his arse.

GBX is a drug dealer’s dream, basically.

But as soon as the door swings closed behind him, the music fades to silence.

And thank fuck for that.

I’m in no mood for it tonight. It’s only just past midnight, and every floor is full to bursting. It would be good for business, if this place was actually a legitimate business and not just an excuse to rinse money, but I try not to think about that. Or the fact Cole swore it would be easy. It would only piss me off, and my mood is currently shite enough without dwelling on that.

I’ve already been called downstairs twice.

Twice, and the doors haven’t been open two hours yet.

People can say what they want about men and our violent ways, but in the three years we’ve owned this place I’ve seen more catfights than fistfights. Tonight, it was a stiletto. A fuckingstiletto. At least men generally have the decency to step outside with our shoes on when we have a problem.

All I want to do is read my paper—catch up on the week’s football fixtures—but Cole’s already firing up the volume on the TV.

He puts the controls back on the desk where I’m sitting and I quickly turn the volume down a few notches. This has been standard procedure since we were sprogs and TVs were as thick as they were wide. I used to think the cunt was deaf, but now I know he needs noise. He doesn’t even carewhatnoise, just as long as there’s something loud to listen to.

Maybe it drowns out the voices in his head.

Tonight, it’s the news he chooses to fill the silence with.

“Someone needs to fuck some sense into that woman,” Cole says, pointing his unlit cigarette at the flat-screen on the wall while he fishes in his pocket for a lighter.

Sarah, the girl who’s been following him around like a lost puppy for the past six weeks, covers her mouth to make her giggle look cuter.

“Is that you volunteering?” I ask Cole while looking at Sarah.

And just like I predicted, it wipes the smile clean off her face.

Good.

I have a complicated relationship with Sarah.

That’s code for—I wouldn’t piss on Sarah if Sarah were on fire.

She’s ahoor.

And I don’t throw that word around easily. I’m not a slut-shamer. I’m all for slutting it up. If a woman wants to enjoy the good times with multiple men, then that is her God-given right in this fine century. But a woman who moves from one twin to the next is a hoor. Pure and simple.

I’m not jealous of her and Cole. She’s nothing special. In fact, I’d describe her as mousey, and that’s being complimentary. We didn’t even sleep together, but that’s not the point. The cow has no morals and no loyalty, and it’s happened too many times for me to put up with those types of women.

I close my paper and kick my feet up on the desk to hear what the daft bitch on TV is prattling on about.

It fills me with great pride to say the rest of the world will look toward us. We’ve always been the progressive nation.

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