Nothing More To It

Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say. (1)

She stands there with a fist on her hip and I’m just about ready to curse her to oblivion when she rips her briefcase in two and slaps a stapled document down on my kitchen table. I stare blankly at the papers ‘cause the claw tipped fingers that spread over the page make it impossible for me to read.

“Hello son,” her voice is frosty and I sneer.

“Hey bitch. How’d you get in? Better yet, the fuck is that?” I gesture to the paper.

Her manicured nails are done like mirrors and I swear her suit must be made of stone. She leans toward me and I hear the sleeves crackle and grind where they crease.

“Bob Holloway’s will.”

“Fuck me,” I curse and snatch the paper from under her bony hand. “Be useful for once in your life and tell me I’m not in the damn thing.”

She snorts.

“Fat chance. He left you everything.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Damn right you’re fucked,” a man’s voice comes from nowhere before everything bursts into chaos. The bitch whirls around, a gun appearing in her hand, and I hear a discharge. I blink a few times. Bob Holloway’s will is wrinkling under the pressure of my clenched fist. The bitch has her heel poised over a man’s throat and red is seeping out of his torso onto the floor.

“Nobody fucks with my son,” she snarls, her eyes cold.

“Is that right?” he smiles and his teeth are washed in pink. “You see, I heard back in the day Bob Holloway and family fucked him good. And didn’t you know you’re not supposed to shoot the messen—”

He doesn’t have the chance to say anything more because her mirrored nail pulls back on the trigger once more.

“Come help me check him, Tracy,” she orders. Usually I’d tell her to fuck off but this is personal. I don’t want to look at the red that blossoms across his shirt like a botanical illustration gone wrong. I settle for his face instead.

“Shit, I fucked this guy,” I say without thinking as she starts going through his pockets.

“Don’t be obscene. How would you remember, anyway? It was ten years ago and Holloway had you drugged all the way back to your occipital.”

“For an unfortunately miniscule portion of my stay,” I divulge ruefully and her head snaps over to me.

“He really wanted you for you,” she sounds skeptical and yet somehow believing. I frown.

“What? You think I’m not worth wanting?” I snap. She just tuts at me and starts to undress the poor sap lying dead on my kitchen floor. Once she’s picked him clean she stands back to survey her handiwork and brushes off her stone slacks.

“So it wasn’t just Holloway you whored yourself to?”

“No, though I’m surprised you didn’t know. Not exactly sleuth material at the time, were you,” I snidely jab but she ignores me.

“There’s something that bothers me about that. It doesn’t make sense that he’d let other people touch you. The man was obsessed.”

I laugh.

“Obsessed? Bitch, that man was far worse than obsessed. That fucker was in love.”

“Well at least the will makes more sense to me now.”

“Unfortunately. I’m guessing you came to get some answers?”

“Yes. I didn’t think the man even remembered you existed. Hell, nobody does the way you’ve holed yourself up in this deathtrap of a bunker.”

“That was the point. Better holed up than with fifty years in a high-security prison,” I snort and then my eyes widen. “You’re going to want to head negotiations with the Holloway family, aren’t you?”

“Of course. You may be twenty-four but you’re still as hopeless as when you were fourteen. Sometimes I wonder what made you think it would be fun to get kidnapped.”

“It was fun. I’ve got a penchant for pseudo-Stockholm syndrome. ‘S hot when they think they’ve got me helpless and under their thumb but in reality I’m the one messing with them. I can’t even tell you how many guys I converted. Not to mention I harpooned the old man’s heart.”

“Well look at the mess you’re in due to your rotten fourteen-year-old link of sausage and tell me it was worth it. This one isn’t going to blow over easy, you know. I’ll save your ass but don’t think it won’t cost you more than your life.”

My heart sinks.

“Fuck. I knew it. You want me home for Christmas. You know I hate that shit.”

“Thanksgiving too.”

“What! You’re pushing for too much and you know it. Drop it to attendance at the annual Halloween party otherwise I may have to invest in some arsenic and a pad of ass-fancy stationary,” I threaten but she stares me down calm and cool. I want to put up more of a fight but eventually I sigh, figuring its useless to rail away against the inevitable. There’s no way I want to deal with the Holloway’s again and they’re probably damn angry that all the old man’s shit is going to the sweet twink of a little kid who liked it when they gangbanged him right under Bobby-boy’s nose over a decade ago.

“Alright ma. Christmas and Thanksgiving. But no forced interactions with your ass of a husband and my visit only lasts for the day of the holiday itself. No longer.”

She flashes a quicksilver smile and pats me on the cheek. I cringe when I feel the cold nails against my skin.

“That’s my boy. Now you sit back and let me take care of this.”

She calls someone on her cell and within minutes there’s a shifty eyed girl wrapping up the dead man on my floor. When she hauls him up there’s a puddle of smudged crimson mixing with a little pile of fecal brown. Oh, hell no.

I ring Brucks and in a moment he’s standing before me, staring me down.

“Clean that bloody shit up.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You deserve it for letting the bitch in,” I shrug and though his mouth stays neutrally still his eyes promise revenge. I should be scared. Instead I want to give him a piece of my mind but I’m distracted by the body that’s now propped up under the armpits. The fucker’s head pokes out of the black material wrapped around him and for some reason he reminds me of a deformed caterpillar.

“See ya later hot stuff,” I give the corpse a half-assed salute. It’s a good thing he has sunglasses on. I hate it when dead people stare.

---

I haven’t heard from the bitch for about a day now so I figure she’s getting along with the Holloway’s as well as a snake could possibly get along with a mongoose. I told her they could have all of it. Good old Bob never had anything I particularly wanted. I’m pretty sure this isn’t over, though. I think the will may have reminded a once fourteen year old boy by the name of Nick Holloway that ten years ago one Tracy Whitman broke his heart and fucked his grandfather to boot.

I didn’t bother to mention this to the bitch. I was antsy to be rid of her because the longer she stayed, the longer Brucks had to plan his revenge. He really didn’t like me ordering him to clean up the puddle of shit and blood on my kitchen floor. Now that she’s gone I’m half afraid for my life, but the other half is wanting to get fucked as hard and kinked up as only Brucks can manage. Or at least that’s how I feel until he brings in the dogs.

Then I’m feeling sick with fear, tied up over a barrel with the family jewels and ass cheeks slathered in peanut butter and high fructose corn syrup. Brucks is naked and he leans over me, deadly in his teasing. The dogs must be drugged. They’re barking like nothing else and I’m starting to shake.

I wish the bitch was here.

“Don’t think I don’t know how much you hate dogs, love,” Brucks’ voice is a hot wall of breath against my ear and I start to struggle frantically against the bonds.

“Brucks, don’t,” my voice is higher than it should be and I wonder if this time he’s going to take things too far. Maybe I tried his pride a bit more than I should have. Maybe I overstepped the rules of our tenuous arrangement. Brucks pulls out a gag and— one of the dogs lets out an alarmed bark.

The next thing I know all of them are twitching on the floor, Brucks included. There’s a man behind me and in his hands are two snazzy looking guns, each fitted with a type of silencer I’ve never seen before.

“Tracy Whitman, I presume,” his voice is steady with a hint of sandpaper. I crane my neck to get a good view of his impassive face.

“The one and only,” I toss over my shoulder. I try to reach up to salute but Brucks tied me down good. The man swallows when he sees the rope tied around my wrists and it hits me that he may not be as detached from the situation as he looks.

I laugh nervously, realizing for the first time that the turn in situation isn’t actually leaning in my favor but I figure if he wanted me dead he’d have shot me by now. Any lack of bullet holes riddling my flesh is always good.

“Sorry about this. Brucks here wanted revenge for having to clean up a dead man’s shit,” I say after an uncomfortable moment of silence in which his eyes stare only at the ropes binding me.

He then looks at me blankly, too blankly, and I narrow my eyes. His hand is shaking.

“Oh shit. The bitch killed your boy-toy didn’t she.”

The bottom lid of his left eye twitches.

“You sure know how to piss people off, don’t you.”

I let out a bark of laughter.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

---

“Tracy,” he says and his eyes are just like his grandfather’s. They love me, love me, love me and it’s sick because neither of them even knew the first thing about me when it happened.

“Nicky,” I let the corner of my lip twitch up for a split second and just as quickly I’m staring at the floor with blood dripping out of my mouth. Fucker has a mean backhand.

My kidnapper’s hold on my wrists tightens and I know he isn’t happy. Probably pissed that it isn’t him knocking me around instead.

“I’m going to tie you up and use you for a slave, you know,” Nicky smiles at me. “You’re going to love me Tracy.”

Goddamn this cat just creamed himself, that’s how smug he looks.

“The slave part doesn’t sound half bad if you’re as big as I remember. The love part, now that sounds horrifying.”

Nicky hisses and tangles his hand in my hair, using it to yank back my head. I close my eyes and dare to taunt him further.

“It’s funny that the part of me you really want is the part you’ll never get,” I laugh when he hits me again. The sting and throb makes me feel more alive and though I’m mostly made of pain I manage to continue with a blissful smile.

“What you have failed to realize, my dear, is that the part of me that loves doesn’t exist at all.”

To be honest, I don’t remember much after that.

---

“I am a fucking piece of work getting attached to you like this. Because of you I’m attracted to someone who acts like a glorified whore. Your mother killed my sister’s lover even though she didn’t fucking have to and you didn’t stop her so now my sister’s going crazy. This brings up the question why the fuck don’t I want to kill you? Tell me. Did you ever have a sister? Did you?”(2)

His voice is full of ire and I know he thinks I’m still unconscious otherwise he wouldn’t be saying this. He would be in control. My mouth doesn’t want to work but I force the words out anyway.

“ Never had a sister. But you don’t want to kill me ‘cause it wasn’t me made your sis go nutters. Or maybe it’s just my dev’lish good looks?”

“Fuck off,” he snaps out but it’s not in the truly emotive tone he was using before.

I lift my aching head and cast my eyes around. Everything hurts.

My kidnapper and I are sitting in a dark hallway, opposite each other. He’s got his head in one of his hands.

“What happened?” I ask and it comes out rough. My lip splits open again and blood starts to trickle out. He looks up and when he sees the blood dripping off my chin he crawls over to me. He wipes my face with his sleeve and stares at me with his indifferent face. He shifts his hand and pushes back my bangs.

“I got jealous.”

“What?”

“I got jealous of Nicky Holloway.”

“What the hell does that have to do with us sitting in a deserted hallway?”

He shrugs with one shoulder.

“When I get jealous, people die.” The way his eyes are boring into mine, I believe him.

“Have you ever been jealous?” he asks, now watching my hand. He brushes a thumb over my knuckles and it feels hella good compared to the rest of me.

“Never found anything worth being jealous over,” I reply truthfully.

“Do you think you ever could?”

“Maybe.”

“Is it true?”

“What?”

“What you said to Holloway about not being able to love.”

“I think so, yeah. But maybe it’s ‘cause I never found nothin’ nor nobody worth lovin’.”

He takes my bleeding bottom lip in between his and holds it there, trembling for fifteen seconds like he’s doing something freaking sacrosanct. He pulls back and avoids my eyes.

“ ‘M not your mum but I know it always felt better when mine used to kiss my cuts and bruises.”

“Your ever kiss with your mum like you just kissed me?” I ask with a laugh. Part of the chuckle is for him and part is for the image of my scary ass bitch of a mother bending over, looking like she’s going to kiss, but then baring her fangs and taking a bite out of some little kid’s scraped knee. Priceless and probably close to reality.

“Well, no,” he frowns and shuffles over to lean his back against the wall next to me. He’s staring at the shadows on the ceiling but I know he’s really thinking of how he just laced his fingers with mine.

“So is Nicky dead?” I ask to lighten the air. I’m getting uncomfortable with the speedy way my heart is beating in my chest.

“Mhmm. A lot of people are.”

“Are a lot of those dead people dead because of you?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“Money mostly. Killing’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“You didn’t ever think of flipping burgers?”

He chuckles, gives my hand a little squeeze and rests his head against the wall.

“You ever kill anybody?” he asks.

“No. I’m usually the one people want dead.” An awkward silence descends.

I think for a moment and snap my fingers when I think of something to make me sound less lame, “I did get framed for a murder once. Would’ve gotten fifty years if I hadn’t disappeared.”

“Shit,” he breathes. “You must suck if you’re bad enough for someone to successfully frame you.”

“Alright asshole. That was a low blow,” I grouse while I peer around. “What’re we waiting for anyway?” My mouth starts to throb so I run my tongue over my teeth to make sure they’re all there.

“To die,” he pulls away from the wall. It’s smeared with blood. “I give them about an hour before they find us but I don’t know if I can live that long so it doesn’t matter. Not to me anyway.”

“You got a name?”

His face registers surprise for a split second before its back to impassive.

“Sure Trace. I have a name.”

I ignore the way he shortens mine because I’m not sure I want to admit that him calling me Trace instead of Tracy makes me feel more like the man I know I could be.

“Well, what is it?”

He smiles just a little bit at the corners.

“Charles.”

“Well then Charles,” I grunt and strain to reach under the back of my shirt up to my shoulder blade. “I know it’s a little soon, but I’d like you to meet my mother.”

“It’s not too soon,” he squeezes my hand again. “I would be delighted, really. When is she coming?” he asks and it takes me a moment to realize he’s serious about the delighted part. Boy is he in for a surprise.

I grunt at him again, too focused to reply. The process is made difficult because I’m using my left hand. Sweat starts to prick at my skin and I can feel the pulse in his fingers with my right. I find the place the bitch implanted me with a fucking button made of fake skin, just in case I ever got kidnapped again. Personally I think I’m a little old for such measures, but at the time she’d made me a deal that I couldn’t deny. I press the damn thing and wiggle my finger around until it recognizes my prints. It heats up and then cools way down, just the way she said it would.

I relax and turn my face to find him watching. I’m surprised when I realize I like the way he stares at me.

“She’ll be here soon enough. While we’re waiting for death or my mother—who’s not much of an alternative,” I admit and suck in a breath, “I wonder if you’d like me to kiss your bullet hole. My lip feels a hell of a lot better and I figure it would be downright rude not to return the favor.”

He’s smiling full this time and I unbutton his shirt. When I discard it on the floor he leans forward with a hiss. He’s bandaged the hole up with a torn undershirt and I notice that the arm on this side is limp. I slide the sticky shirt down. His muscles tense like he’s expecting a blow but when I kiss the bloody well that springs up from both ends of the hole, one running almost black down his shoulder and the other just below his clavicle, he lets out a sigh and relaxes. I pull the bandage back over it and he leans back again.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. The copper taste isn’t terrible and I decide I want more.

“Hey Charles?” I scoot closer to him and link my fingers with his once again.

“Yeah?” he looks up at me and I nuzzle the underside of his jaw with my nose. A sound comes out of him that makes me think he just choked on his spit.

“You okay?” I kiss him.

“Yeah,” he replies staring at me, unreadable. The air between us is heavy and full of tension. It’s not rushed and it’s hella terrifying how soft and careful we are. I’m afraid to jostle him but it’s not hard to get lost in the way that his chest rises and sinks beneath me.

I pull back for a moment and his eyes are glazed.

“I think I could find that part of me for you, Charles.”

“What?” His question is breathy and low. I steal another agonizing kiss to build up courage. Once I’m brave again I pull away.

“The part of me I told Holloway I didn’t have. I mean, I don’t have it. Not right now. But maybe I could find it?” I’m not used to being tentative like this.

The hand that works pulls me down and his lips crush, harsh and demanding against mine, taking all they can reach. He’s trying desperately to undo my pants with his one hand but I brush his fingers aside and start to push his down instead. We’re both breathing hard and hot. He grabs my face and tilts it up, gaze full of desire. Then something changes. His eyes slip shut. I shake his good shoulder but his head just lolls to the side.

By the time the bitch gets here I’ve got him laid on his back with his feet propped up on a pile of clothes. I have my face plastered against his neck, pressing hard to find the faint pulse. I don’t let go until her cold nails dig into my skin and rip me off.

“Who’s this?” she nods to his body, painstakingly laid out on the floor.

“My boyfriend, Charles.”

“About fucking time you grew a heart.”

“About time you shut the fuck up and help him,” I retort—voice too high, too thin—and I can feel the panic starting to eat away at me. What if she can’t save him in time? She’s just staring at him with her cold eyes.

“Please.”

Her gaze snaps to mine and she smiles quicksilver.

“On one condition…”

---

“Oh my god,” smack, “Tracy.” Smack, smack. Your boyfriend is,” smack, “so cute,” my idiotic bimbo of a cousin is chewing gum and gushing about Charles at the same time. It makes me want to shoot something. Preferably some of the cheesy as fuck Christmas decorations. Seriously. What the hell does a unicorn piñata have to do with Christmas?

That’s right. Nothing.

Charles coughs into his fist. His face is expressionless but I can see the amusement in his eyes. I snarl. Charles is not cute. He’s ruggedly handsome or maybe even sexy-dangerous. Not fucking cute.

“Get your own, douchefuck,” I snap.

She fingers the freaking cute piece of metal strapped to her thigh and continues to chew her nasty ass cud with eyes narrowed in my direction. For a second I think she’s going to draw on me but in an instant she snaps it out and points it at the woman who somehow materialized at my side.

From the quick glance I get of this mystery woman—before I realize there’s something cold pressed to my forehead—I can tell she looks suspiciously like Charles.

“Charles, your sister is about ten seconds from lodging a bullet in my skull,” I warn but he shrugs.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tell her to move that fucking piece of metal away from my face?” I hiss.

“Shut up, asshole,” the woman spits but she’s distracted by her stare down with my bimbo cousin. I hear the tell-tale whistle of my mother’s favorite toy before the woman falls over onto the floor, a tranquilizer dart sticking from her neck.

Yes, the bitch has arrived.

Mother dearest sidles up to us and gives me a triumphant quicksilver smile. Her concussion inducing toy is nowhere to be seen but I note that the old bazooka is still propped up against the wall by the grandfather clock. It’s even still got the bubbled marks on it where the bitch used to measure my height with a blow torch.

How sweet.

“Hello, son. Hello, Charles.”

Her suit is still made of stone, I swear, and her nails are mirrored claws.

“Hello, Mrs. Whitman. Thank you for sticking to your end of the bargain. You already know that I’ve kept mine,” Charles nods to her and her icy eyes are looking mighty satisfied. My curiosity is like a cat and it smells something fishy.

“What’s this bargain?” I demand. Charles swallows but doesn’t answer. The bitch nails me with her eyes.

“I let his sister live and you get a man who isn’t afraid to ask your father if he can marry you. I think it’s a fair deal, don’t you?”

“What!?” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth but don’t be fooled. A string of curses follows, just about as speedy as light. I growl but I can’t glare because there’s a ring on my finger and Charles is kissing me everywhere and as much as I hate her she’s not worth missing this.

Once a bitch, always a bitch. There’s nothing more to it.

A/N: A sorta-kinda Freak-of-Spade’s challenge thing. Don’t think it was exactly official. I just did it because Jason Compson is the ultimate bad guy and I love to quote him. As a somewhat random aside, god I would so fuck Quentin.

Quote 1) Jason Compson from William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury.

Quote 2) Quentin Compson from William Faulkner’s Sound and the Fury.

Oh, and it's fucking stupid that FP doesn't support superscript.