I shrug. “They were being dicks.”
They surround Henry, disarming him, gripping him under his armpits. “What the fuck is this, Kline? You asshole.”
Kline rolls his eyes. The guards remove a shouting Henry. All hollow threats. None of them will ever come to fruition. What I failed to tell Kline is that his time with Henry has an expiration date. I’ve sentenced him to death for what he’s done to Ryan. When I’m better prepared, I’ll be back to do that.
“Now give me the goddamn key to those chains.” I can’t stand Ryan chained up like that another second. If he’s in chains, it should be because of me, not because someone’s trying to take him from me.
“Do it, Clarence,” Kline wheezes. He should lie down.
“He was supposed to suffer,” Clarence says.
“He will. He’s going to have to explain everything to his brother, isn’t that what you wanted?”
Clarence mutters to himself as he makes his way over to Ryan. I don’t like it or trust it.
“Give me the key, Clarence,” I demand.
Clarence moves fast, his arm around Griffon’s neck, firearm shoved into his mouth. Ryan’s fingers clench and unclench. He looks to me, he looks to the Clarence and Griff situation.
Fuck.
Mother fucking Christ.
Clarence has never touched one of those. Has never even wanted to look at one of those. But this is the day he chooses to become a fucking gunslinger? Guess I’m just that special to him. And I can’t believe it. He wins. This is the ultimate checkmate. I have to give him whatever he wants, and that might not even be good enough. He might decide to shoot Griff anyway, even once he has what he wants.
“Okay, Clarence. I hear you now?—”
“Do you?” he shrills, kinda crazed. “Because I’m not sure you fucking do.” He takes the safety off. Not good. The man is shaking. Any small nudge could set off that gun, and then it’s brain salad a la Griffon.
“What do you want? You want me to sign divorce papers? Promise to never see Ryan again? C’mon, you name it, it’s yours so long as you take that metal out of Griff’s mouth.”
“You’re lying.”
Yeah, I am. He could get me to sign divorce papers, but I’d just marry Ryan again, which would kinda be awesome. How did he know, though? Am I not selling the performance? Man, all my acting skills went out the door when I met Ryan.
“You want something. What is it?” I press.
“Did you kill him?”
“Kill who?”
“You know who I fucking mean!” His voice is all high-pitched and unhinged. I should probably try to de-escalate this if I don’t want him accidentally shooting Griff.
“You want to know if I killed Jasper.”
“Yes.”
That is a prize. I’d planned on taking that one to my grave. I couldn’t tell you why. It was just too private. Too personal.
This whole time, Luke’s been in the background, watching, keeping quiet, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. He’s too high on the chemical cocktail they gave him, fluttering between a glazed sort of consciousness and passing out. Now, his steel gaze centers on me. As far as Luke knows, Uncle Jasper died of pneumonia.
My heart pounds.
“Take the gun out of his mouth, and I’ll tell you.”
“You’ll tell me now,” he says, shaking, the barrel rattling against Griff’s teeth.
“Tell him, Tate. Please, just fucking tell him,” Ryan pleads, the tears never ending. His face is red, a total mess.
