Page 4 of Their Broken Legend

Not my Family’s style.

And, well, our empire has more money than sins, which is funny, considering the way we earned our fortune is sending us straight to Hell to cash them all in.

The music pulses around me.

Had I known they’d be partying, I may have ditched my mother’s wake earlier. Ditched that fabricated room of grievers who never knew her, and those who did and didn’t like her. I may have avoided the current simmering guilt—the blame—inside me that it might be my fault she ended up dead on my big brother’s couch. Avoided the need to cry for her when she never once cried for me—Did she?

Did she ever cry for me?

Fuck.

I snatch a beer from the counter, already open and half-empty, heading through the crowd. I doubt theYoungChuck Norris is here, he’ll be at the gym, not downing booze, but my muscles fill with anticipation just at the thought of seeing him.

They part for me—lads all casual in their Converse and jeans, as opposed to the girls who are dressed for attention and anything but casual. They all separate down the centre as I search the crowd. Listening to the conversation.

Listening for a name—Young.

I’m used to the District kids moving from my path. The name Butcher forces their feet to shuffle, to scatter. Once, it was because of my brothers, the enforcers of this corrupt city jungle, but these days… The city parts forme.

Their legend.

Xander—The Butcher—Butcher.

First time in my entire life that people want to speak with me and not with one of my brothers.

I swig the beer in my fist and feel the dried split in my lip stretch like worn leather. Hitting my teeth with the bottle in my effectively inebriated condition, I empty it.

I use the booze in my bloodstream, the grief and discomfort rolling along my skin, the adrenaline already firing through my veins in anticipation of that first sweet knock to the head. I hope he fights back.

I loosen the knot of myblacktie, the matching piece to my sombre black slacks and shirt. The colour of a mourning man, the colour of sin.

Welcoming the alcohol and hormone-fuelled movements of the crowd, I smile, mocking my situation as I add a little rhythmic shuffle to each step, in time with the bass beneath my shoes. Why not? It’s a party.

The girls smile at me.

The lads avoid eye contact.

Hitting a staircase, I bound up it. Halting at the picture frames halfway up, I notice two red-haired boys standing with their parents in a park. The thicker of the two is Chuck, so I’d bet my arse the other is Grayson.

I continue up the stairs. Passing a few cute girls, I acknowledge each with a wink, with an exaggerated perve that is forced. Not absorbing anything, barely noticing the colour of their hair, needing a beating first, a fuck second.

When I hit the next level, a carpeted hallway stretches ahead of me with several doors. I bet he’s in one of those rooms getting a rim job. Lucky dipshit…

Here comes the fucking cockblocker.

Opening each door, I search the vast top level. People pass me but peer over their shoulders to watch as I explore without regard for anyone’s privacy.

Door one: empty.

Two: a girl and a guy making out. “Hey, man, get out.”

Three: a bathroom. A girl gapes at me with a half-freshened face of makeup.

Four—

CHAPTERTHREE

kaya

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