Page 28 of Heresy

Sadly, I don’t have that option.

Not with the games we have to play. And certainly not while our fathers are still running around making our lives miserable.

One day, I’ll be free to pursue my own interests, but until then, I’ll keep playing with the team to finish the war our fathers started.

Unlike the other guys, I haven’t spoken to my dad in a few years.

There’s not much reason for me to keep up with the old fuck. He’s simply a small cog desperately clinging onto the machine built by Gabe and Tanner’s dads. A henchman like me who is given marching orders and expected to carry them out. We have that in common. I couldn’t care less about what’s going on with the Inferno’s overall game plans. I just do as I’m told.

Basically, my dad is a teeny tiny fish in their large, illustrious pond, which is damn good for me.

The less time we spend around each other, the better.

The bottle is to my lips, beer sliding down my throat as I turn back to run my gaze over the second floor of Myth.

To an outside observer, Myth is nothing more than a large, two-story feed store that went out of business years ago.

Sure, the structure still stands, but the owners of the club had allowed the outside to fall apart with time, the dilapidation turning away any would-be travelers who’d gotten lost and ended up in its parking lot.

On the inside, however, Myth is the perfect oasis of hidden debauchery, complete with the average nightclub feel downstairs and the stages and cages upstairs.

It even provides a hall of wonders and pleasures, which is basically a long corridor with several doors, most which open to playrooms and other setups for those curious about the kinky side of life. The rooms change style from week to week, so it keeps regulars traipsing through just to see what weird shit the owners thought up next.

I can’t say I wander down that hall every time I grace Myth with my presence, but I also can’t say I haven’t wandered down there a time or two in the past.

For the most part, Myth is a secret and a legend.

Only those in the know, and in the right tax bracket, have ever wandered through its doors.

Thankfully, the owners have managed to keep it that way for as long as it’s existed, which is why I frequent it so often.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a jackass who gives much of a fuck about how much money a person pulls in. I’m all for the nine-to-five crowd living life to the best of their ability. But at the same time, I’ve also come to appreciate a place that touts exclusivity as its mantra.

There are less crowds.

Less headaches.

And for the most part, less worry about chaos that I didn’t personally start.

You see, I have a love of chaos. I just like to be in control of it when it occurs. And the best way to control a chaotic situation is to be the bastard who engineered it.

Like tonight, for instance.

The tranquility of Myth will be disturbed just as soon as Paul makes good on his threat to walk through the front doors and up the stairs to where I’m waiting.

Can’t say the guy ever gave me anything in life … except for maybe the warning he would be here tonight.

He’s an idiot for doing so.

Never warn an enemy that you plan on starting the war. By doing that, you might as well wear a target on your shirt.

I’m prepared and taking control of the battlefield while he’s busy driving. My position is held while he’ll be walking into unfamiliar territory.

It’s common sense, but apparently, dipshit Paul didn’t think his battle plan through.

I’ll reiterate this again: Fucking dumbass.

“Man, fuck that prick. You’d think the blue angel up there was royalty for how secure he keeps her.”

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