Page 20 of Hearts Held
The large painting of a dragon rearing back to engulf a town hangs on one wall, while the adjacent one features an image of two lions fighting. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with various novels, collectibles and picture frames featuring us as children, not yet realizing the extent of our family’s world.
All items from the time of my father’s reign. I haven’t reorganized anything or attempted to personalize this office. I’d rather keep it as a shrine to my father.
“Ah, you’ve finally graced us with your presence,” Kenneth blandly states.
I walk around to my large oak desk that is stained black and sit in the tall leather-upholstered armchair.
Cracking my knuckles, I proceed. “Hopefully you didn’t have to wait long, yeah?” Folding my hands atop my desk, I await his response.
“You ready to confront him today?” Kenneth asks sternly. He means Frederick. Today we make him repent for his sins.
“Let’s get this over with,” I remark.
Lyle and Lloyd shuffle uncomfortably in their seats. Peering over at them, I raise an eyebrow, questioning their mannerisms.
Lloyd scratches at the snake scar burned into his forearm. “Sorry, sir, just uneasy because Lyle and Frederick got into it last night, ’cause Lyle caught ’em red-handed taking a case of our finest scotch. He tried to knock one out at Lyle, but… Well, Lyle taught him a lesson.” Lloyd looks over at Lyle, awaiting further explanation.
I notice Lyle’s face turns a shade pinker. He probably thinks I’m going to scold him or retaliate for taking matters into his own hands, but I won’t. These men are more brothers to me than Freddy. I’d have more sentiment and care for Freddy, but he keeps digging his own grave—and for hell’s sake, these men have taken theoath. They burned their skin to prove their loyalty and continue to prove it day in and day out.
“Lyle. I’m not gonna hurt ya. What happened?” I ask cautiously, to make sure my tone doesn’t head in the wrong direction.
He looks over at Lloyd and scowls. “Sorry, boss, I just—I’m sick of his piss-poor attitude. He acts like everything is his and just takes what he wants. It was a busy-ass night at the Den and this fucker— Uh, sorry—I mean Frederick, just goes and tries to take a case from the back and shove it into some friend’s truck, stating he was having a big party.” Lyle’s nose flares, his words getting faster each moment that passes as his anger becomes palpable, then he takes a deep breath and continues. “He swung at me first when I confronted him about the case. I did ask him nicely to give it back, but he laughed at me then swung outta nowhere, not provoked or anything. Then he told me to go back to being a bar dog. When he tried to take the swing, I couldn’t help myself—it was a reaction to protect myself—and I hit his ribs and then his face a couple times. Then his friends jumped me, but luckily Clint alerted Lloyd. Then he came out with a few guys and backed meup. I’m sorry, boss, I know it ain’t what ya wanna hear.” Lyle looks down at his feet in defeat, thinking I will deliver some sort of punishment, but it isn’t warranted.
I scratch my chin as I stare between the three men.
Kenneth pipes up. “Well? Are we gonna let this shit stain continue?” Kenneth has made his stance on Frederick more than clear, assigning him the nickname “Freddy the Fuck-up.”
“I believe Lyle delivered a fair disposition and also a fair punishment, but this needs to stop once and for all. What shall we do with Frederick?” I ask the men.
Kenneth snorts. “Beat the ever-living shit out of him again.”
I attempt to hide a small smile at his retort.
Lloyd answers, “Should he shovel the horse stables? Maybe find a way to get him away from the drugs and alcohol? To humble him somehow?”
“That’d be a good resolution. The only issue is making sure he does what he is told. He would need a babysitter, one that intimidates him,” I state plainly. I pinch the bridge of my nose, my migraine growing.
Lyle remarks, “You all right, boss?”
I nod curtly. “Let’s place Biscuit on him. He can watch ’em along with a couple of the others. Maybe he’ll be persuaded to follow the rules and show some respect if he has a pistol at his back,” I state as I rub my palm over my face.
“Or we could just kill him and end his fucking misery,” Kenneth spits.
A knock at the door stops our conversation. I call out for the person to enter.
It is the receptionist, Elly. “Your brother is here, sir,” she states in a sing-song voice.
I look at Kenneth.
“Put ’em in the conference room and throw a fucking adder at his face,” he remarks.
Elly’s eyes go wide with shock.
I smile. “Elly, place him in the conference room, but hold the snake.”
She swallows, then proceeds to ask, “You want me to actually hold the snake, sir?”
Jesus, she is dense.
