I open my eyes. He’s close, staring at me, but not with a deep connection—like he feels sorry for me. I can’t take it. “Let me go!”
He does. But he’s still too close.
“Leave me the fuck alone!”
And then it happens, so fast it’s a blur. Something loud pierces my ears, the front door is thrown open, and a shadow fills the room. Ben springs to his feet and reaches for his gun, but my father is already pointing one at him. I hear a click, see a flash, and then hear the bang. I see Ben’s tall body jolt. His warm blood splashes on my skin. Another bang, another jolt, more blood. And again. Bang. Jolt. Blood.
Then nothing. My ears ring. I see black. Ben’s lifeless body falls on top of mine.
JoanWick
Ben
Present Day
Five Years Later…
Islam the door on a drunk Ernie, then tap the roof of the car that’ll be taking him home. Just as the cab turns onto the street, a familiar vehicle pulls onto the lot, honking incessantly. My brother blinds me with his high beams before he skids to a stop less than a foot away.
Parker gets down and bleeps his locks—four times. His horn, like him, is obnoxious and loud.
I cross my arms. “Done?”
“Yeah.” He grins, then does it again.
“You are aware that Charlie’s the baby, right? She’s supposed to be the most immature one of us.”
“A man’s brain doesn’t fully develop until he turns twenty-six, so I’ve still got some time to fuck around before I get old and rationality kicks in.” He shoves his key fob in his pocket. “What are you doing out here?”
“Just got Ernie into a cab.”
Everyone in town knows why Ernie’s a drunk, and where I’m from, we take care of each other. A couple of hours outside DC, Matchbook isn’t a one-horse town, but it’s not an overpopulated city, either. On the north side, you’d find million-dollar homes, and on the south, farmhouses on generational land.
Bar Someday and Lawless Protection Agency are in the middle, right in the heart of the town.
Parker gives me a quick once-over, his eyes sharp. “Everything okay? Your knee all right?”
It took a solid year and a half to recover after being shot, but I’m lucky to have survived.
Now my days consist of client interviews, recon, and briefings with the team since I’m not in, what I consider to be, peak physical condition for personal protection.
And my nights are filled with running a bar.
Is that how I want to spend my time? Hell no. But I need to stay busy to keep my mind off what I’m not able to do and what I did to put myself in this position.
Like Parker, who just returned home after three weeks on assignment. While he was off guarding a movie star during her press junket, I was stocking shelves, slinging drinks, and breaking up bar fights.
I lift a shoulder. “Yeah, Park. My knee’s fuckin’ great. Life is sweet, and the future is blinding bright.”
“You know I’m always here if—”
“Don’t.”
“Fine.” He sighs, and I despise that look on his face, the one that says he feels sorry for me.
I don’t need my little brother’s pity to remind me that I’m a broken man. I see him when I look in the mirror, I feel his failure every time I take a step, and I taste the regret when I swallow pills that do nothing for the physical pain.
Another two cars pull in, and I remember that I still have a job to do and pride to manufacture. “I gotta get in there.”
