Page 96 of Bound to a Monster

“Fine, I’ll meet with them again, but I’d rather just shoot them both in the skull and move on.”

She stops in the street and puts her hand on my chest. Her lips press to mine in a soft kiss. I love that little smile on her face as she touches my cheek.

“That’s why I know you’re going to be a good leader.”

“What, because I’m not going to murder a couple Canadian cocksuckers?”

“You’re putting the family ahead of your own personal needs and pride. Even though you don’t like it, you know figuring this out with those two is what’s best.”

“Yeah, well, murder’s not entirely out of the question yet.”

“I know. Just keep it in your pants a while longer.” She kisses me again, but this time it lingers. “Now, can youpleasetake me home? I’m tired and I want you to fuck me in that big jacuzzi tub. Then rub my feet when you’re done.”

Chapter 39

Lev

The Bald Pelt is a rundown strip club in a formerly industrial part of the city. This area’s all warehouses and business parks, and I get the feel that the Pelt is a sort of informal home base for Olivier.

“The truck depot’s not far from here,” Simon explains as Olivier greets every half-naked waitress by name and orders expensive alcohol on my tab. “Some of the boys like to come after their shifts and see the girls.” He doesn’t seem happy about the idea. I wonder what his wife would say to all that.

“Let’s see some tits, eh?” Olivier seems like he’s in his element as he posts up beside the stage while a bored-looking brunette girl gyrates around a pole. He hoots and shouts at her in French and shoves singles into her G-string.

The whole scene’s skeevy. Olivier clearly isn’t interested in talking business tonight. I’m paying, which means he’s going to wring me fucking dry.

At least Simon’s holding back. He’s watching his boss with a mixture of disdain, especially when Olivier uses his teeth and tongue to shove more bills into a new dancer’s thong.

“How many kids do you have?” I ask Simon, and he tells me a bit about his family. An older daughter from a previous marriage and two young sons, the second barely past two.

“Never thought I’d be a father again in my forties,” he admits. “But Isabella’s only twenty-nine and she wanted kids.”

“Good for you,” I murmur.

He grins crookedly while Olivier gets a lap dance. He’s loudly shouting at the woman and raining more money on her. The bouncers are watching with annoyed expressions, and I get the feeling he’d be out of here if he weren’t such a loyal customer.

“Izzy’s a good woman. Hates it when I come here though. Can’t blame her though.”

“Your boss in here a lot?”

“Every night, at least when he’s got money. There’s a reason why he’s always got a new girlfriend every week. Most can’t stand him for long.”

“Seems like you two have very different personal lives.”

Simon gives me a hard look. “But we’re aligned when it comes to business, and that’s what matters.”

I nod and let the topic drop. Olivier drinks more, flirts with strippers more, and even goes back for another lap dance in the private rooms, all funded by my credit card and my wads of cash.

Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Simon. He tells me about his oldest daughter and how she wants to go to a private college,but tuition is obscenely expensive, and she didn’t get any scholarship money. Housing in Canada’s a nightmare too, so forget about finding a cheap apartment to keep her in, which means room and board on campus.

On and on like that for over an hour. The more Simon talks, the more I start to understand his dynamic with Olivier. The stocky leader’s an outgoing psychopath with enormous appetites, while Simon’s the more conservative brains behind the operation. Olivier takes the risks; Simon runs the books. They’ve been working together for years.

Except Simon grew up. He got a wife and kids. While Olivier was boozing, whoring, and getting in petty fights, Simon was investing in retirement funds and looking into expanding their legitimate operations.

I catch myself looking at my phone more than once, checking to see if there’s a message from Carmie. Simon must notice too after the fourth or fifth time, and he’s smirking at me over his third whiskey, buzzed but nowhere near as shit-faced drunk as obnoxious fucking Olivier.

“You and that wife of yours are happy, eh? It’s not common in our line of work.”

“I think you could say that.”

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