Page 58 of A Game So Reckless

Saw him grabbing Valentina. My vision goes briefly black with rage.

I breathe unsteadily, trying to clear it. With my free hand, I pop open a small cooler built into the boat. There’s a bottle of rum in here, presumably belonging to the previous owner. I toss it into Connor’s lap.

“Drink that.”

Connor looks down at the half-full bottle in his lap.

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

I need him good and fucking drunk so that if they bother with an autopsy, they’ll see the death was his own fault. Same reason I used a rock to break his wrist instead of shooting a hole through it. There are a lot of rocks out here in the bay. And by the time he’s found, his body will likely be even more battered than it is now.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he babbles as he struggles to open the bottle with his one good hand.

The apology combined with the shaky show of incompetence makes me imagine smashing the bottle across his face. Over and over and over again.

“I swear I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

Jesus fucking Christ. I’ve never been somebody’s boyfriend in my entire goddamn life.

“I’m not her boyfriend.”

“Oh. Sorry. Her brother?”

I snort darkly at that. If I had a sister and wanted to do to her what I imagine doing to Valentina on an hourly basis, I would be one rather fucked-up individual.

I nudge his forehead with the gun.

“Start drinking.”

He’s breathing so hard and fast now I wonder if he’ll even be able to do it. He might puke before he even takes a sip.

If he pukes in my fucking boat, I’m going to make him lick it off.

But he doesn’t. He starts drinking. Slow sips at first, but then faster chugs when I press the gun meaningfully against his forehead.

He struggles towards the end, but manages to drink it all. By the time he’s finished, he’s weeping, tears and snot running down a face I am once again longing to smash the bottle against.

I huff the cool air, trying to keep the writhing hate under control.Keep this clean. Don’t cut his fingers or his ears or his balls off. He has to be mostly intact.

There’s a smaller watercraft tucked into the side of this larger boat. It’s something between a kayak and a paddleboard. I don’t know the name of the precise design. I didn’t grow up with a fancy house on an Ontario lake doing rich kid watersports the way Connor probably did.

Whatever the bright yellow thing is, I turn my attention towards it, untying it and yanking it out of its place before turning back to my prisoner.

“Get up.”

He tries, but the rum along with whatever he drank earlier has already made a mess of his coordination, and all he can do is collapse heavily to the side. I put my gun down. At this point I’m not even close to needing it anymore.

I take the kayak-board-thing and drop it down into the ice-black water. Then, I grab Connor by his preppy fucking shirt.

And I hurl him over the side.

He lands awkwardly on the yellow board, his good arm loosely grabbing for purchase as most of his body slides sideways into the water. I take out my boat’s spare oar – the same one I used to haul Valentina closer when she was floating out here on her tube, like a little lost gumdrop – and I place its paddle beneath the board Connor clings to.

“May the waves rise up to meet you,” I tell him, a twisted reimagining of the traditional Irish death blessing. “And may they be cold upon your face.”

I flex my arms and send the oar’s paddle jerking upwards. The watercraft flips and takes him with it.

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