Page 30 of Vicious Butterfly
“You’re late, sir,” my assistant, Ethan, says. “I’ve brought your hand towel and program.”
Ethan insists that I have a hand towel and program, as if this is something other than what it is: a shady underground establishment. Not illegal enough to be shut down, but definitely questionable enough to be on a few radars. We spread rumors that death is a possibility—and it is—but we try to avoid that. It’s messy and not worth the ticket sales in the long run.
I roll my eyes. “Ethan.”
“I know you think I’m being extra, but you have an image to maintain,” he says.
So many images to maintain. I look him over. He’s medium height, blond, with a thin frame, always dressed in navy blue, with a pink, white, or pastel green tie. At a glance, he doesn’t fit in here, but once you get to know him, it makes sense.
“Wait until you see these new teams, you’ll love them. And read my program, you’ll love that, too. I spent an extra-long time in that new graphic design platform you let me subscribe to with company money.”
Today ran longer than I wanted, but at least I got here for the tail end of the first period. Not that I was able to watch much of it when people kept approaching me on my way in. At least there’s time during the intermission to get situated. I need a drink. Several drinks.
“I don’t rememberlettingyou do anything with my money. You don’t ask me, you just spend.”
He shrugs. “Oops.”
“And why would I care about what you do on some design platform?” I say, helping myself to a much-anticipated glass of champagne. “You work for me; you should be impressing me.”
He has the fucking nerve topshawme. “You would be lost without me, literally.” His eyes shine with something cunning.
See? He’s a devious sonuvabitch. One of the first things he did when I promoted him to my assistant was remove editing access to my calendar. I should have fired him immediately, butsomething about that impressed me. It was ballsy, and I admired him for it—he bought himself job security. At least so long as he doesn’t do something particularly egregious. If I wanted to, I could have someone hack into my calendar app. For now, it works. I don’t want access to it, and he knows all my quirks, making sure to book it in the way that pisses me off the least. Okay, his ability to make my life easier might buy him some job security as well.
Fuck, fine. I guess I have to say something nice about his stupid program to keep him happy. It’s not like I’m ever going to allow him to leave, even if he wanted to, but putting him in a bad mood is best avoided. I look it over. Huh. I do like it. I love a good font.
“How did you get that effect with the crackle?”
“Pretty badass, huh? I’ll never tell. Enjoy the game, boss. There are promising new teams this season.” He leaves—probably to watch the game with whoever he’s planning on fucking after it—and I sip my champagne. At least I can learn the team names through his programs. Looks like we’ve got The Headbashers vs. The Voiceless tonight. Ridiculous. They take the name thing way too seriously. People come to see violence. Blood. No one cares about the names.
“Sir,” one of the security guards says. “You have a guest.”
I turn enough to see Clarence’s handsome face. He’s older than I am—in his forties—but still a lot younger than Uncle Jasper was, and he doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. Uncle Jasper met his end at seventy-two. He snatches a glass from my champagne table and sits in the other leather chair beside me.
“Who let you in here, Clarence? I have to know who to fire. This is still my establishment, and you were explicitly banned.”
“That’s exactly why I’m here. To remind you that you don’t own any of this, yet.”
He likes to think that because he holds the deed, this place is his, but I’d like to see him try to take it from me. He doesn’t have the army or the balls. Even if he went the legal route, it could take him years, but the legal route’s a bad option for him. He’s too culpable. Doing that would be a special kind of stupid.
I knock back the champagne and grab another glass. “I own this more than you do, so unless you’ve come to give me my fucking money, you can get the fuck out.”
After Uncle Jasper’s demise, Clarence refused to turn over the betting portal. By the time my team cut off his access, he’d already siphoned off half a million dollars of my money.
“Not your money. My money.” He has the audacity to help himself to another glass of champagne. His leather chair creaks with his movements.
“I’ll wring it out of your fucking skin if I have to.”
He ignores my threats, but his voice shakes. He’s not a criminal like my uncle was or like me. “Also,myhockey colosseum. I’ll burn this place to the ground before I let you have it,” he says.
Over my dead, rotting body will Clarence ever have this place. I laugh long and mockingly.
“Go ahead. Burn it down,” I challenge, sitting taller, smirking.
The anger simmers on Clarence’s face.
“You never will,” I say with all the confidence in the world. “Didn’t you listen to a word Jasper said? Love is weakness, Clarence. You know how much he loved this place, you know how much he loved the games.”
After his fighting ring was shut down, Uncle Jasper learned from his mistakes, and he created this. He didn’t do it by himself, of course. My blood is sewn into the walls. But it meant as much to Jasper as it did to me. The one venture we agreedon. He loved the money, sure, but blood on the ice got his pulse racing.
