Where There's a Will: Part 2

 

Introducing a new series by my good friend HunkHunter. It is sexy, horror filled and an absolute splatter fest. Inspired by the 1970's movie Arnold enjoy the first 3 chapters before a new chapter is added each week. 

Chapter Two

Paul cleared his throat, his voice echoing in the looming hush of the parlor. He glanced at the embittered onlookers—each a living sculpture carved in muscle and tension—and raised his hand as if to gather their reluctant attention.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, his tone echoing off the paneled walls, “I’ll be locking the front door in ten minutes, as Arnold wished. After that, no one gets out, at least not without me knowing. My last responsibility before I leave—aside from ensuring the door is secured—is to monitor the estate’s security system overnight. Arnold stipulated that if you try to exit through a side door or a window before 7AM tomorrow morning, you'll have nothing to your name. That is the deal I agreed to, and I intend to uphold it.”

Without warning, Beckman—tall and stooped in his dusty butler’s uniform—shuffled forward. Though ancient in appearance, his voice cracked through the tension. “Dinner will be served in an hour. In the meantime, I suggest you make yourselves…comfortable. Within reason, of course. Mister Mortimer was quite clear that decency ought to be maintained.”

Gibson let out a rasping laugh, then took a swig from the bottle of cheap booze clutched in his meaty fist. He cast a roving, predatory glance across the room, sneering as he caught the eye of each man in turn. “Don’t get too cozy, fellas,” he drawled, his gaze lingering on Cody’s broad shoulders, Brent’s barrel-like chest, and Samson’s thickly corded arms. He snorted at Eddie’s poised stance by the mantel, then flashed a toothy smirk at Julian, whose dark eyes and bronzed skin seethed with quiet defiance. “If any of you want a cut of my share, you’ll have to prove yourselves worthy. And trust me, I don’t take kindly to slackers.”

With that, he shoved the bottle into the crook of his elbow, winked nastily at Charlie—who stood sullen against a far wall—and turned away. Beckman bowed silently, leading Gibson back into the long corridor that disappeared into the manor’s depths, both vanishing into the gloom. Their footsteps and muffled voices receded until all that remained was the crackle of the fire and the restless shifting of seven pairs of eyes.

Paul cleared his throat again. “I’ll be leaving in ten minutes. If any of you plan on walking out that front door with me, this is your last chance.” He offered an awkward shrug and gestured vaguely. “Arnold’s instructions.”

A heavy silence followed, then Ryley spoke up from his lounge chair. He had readjusted himself, his snug T-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of his taut midsection. The tension in his sculpted arms suggested he was ready to bolt or fight—no one could be certain which. “I can’t stand that bastard Gibson,” Ryley said, sliding a hand through his golden hair. “But for billions, I’ll tolerate worse.” His voice dripped with resentment, and his piercing blue eyes flickered around the room as though daring anyone to challenge him.

Charlie narrowed his gaze. At six foot-one and stacked with thick muscle, Charlie carried himself like a boxer primed for a bout. The lines of his tan sweater clung to each bulge of his physique, emphasizing his broad chest and powerful arms. “We all know Gibson’s scum,” he said in his low, accented rumble. “But bailing now would be a bigger mistake. If Arnold was right and one of us… did him in, I’m not letting the murderer collect that money without a fight. I’m staying.”

From the far side of the parlor, Cody tipped his chin up. He was a burly, masculine presence, large enough that the flannel he wore seemed stretched to its limit. His red hair tied back in a tasteful way, closely clipped on the sides, with a dusting of hair covering the top-mounds of his solid pecs that could be seen through the unbuttoned top of his shirt.  “I sure as hell ain’t backing down,” he growled, running a hand over the thick cords of his neck. “I had to put up with that old man’s shit for years. I’m getting paid for it, one way or another.” 

Brent, youthful in looks, whose chest filled out every inch of his letterman’s jacket, folded his arms. Veins snaked over his biceps beneath the taut fabric, and his brown eyes flicked from Cody to Charlie. “Agreed. My coach always told me to never back down from a challenge. We’ll see who cracks first, but it won’t be me.”

Eddie snorted, peeling himself away from the fireplace. The blue eyed hunk looked at the rest of men with cool calculation. Flickering firelight caught the sharp angles of his cheekbones and highlighted his close cropped black hair. “Heh, good luck to all of you. I’ve seen how quickly men fold once you dangle enough temptation in front of them.” His expression was equal parts humor and disdain.

Julian, the only Latino in the group, spoke in a measured, low tone that belied the tension rippling through him. His dusky brown skin glistened slightly in the fire’s glow, and a snug polo did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders nor the powerful chest beneath. “Where I come from, you don’t walk away from an opportunity like this. Even if it smells like a trap, I’m no coward.” A slight accent colored his words, giving them a melodic edge. He met each man’s gaze for half a second longer than necessary, a silent warning that he wasn’t to be underestimated. 

Samson shifted in his seat, resting a forearm as wide as some men’s thighs on the armrest. At six-foot-five, the huge hunk was an imposing presence. His tailored suit clung to his chiseled frame. The taut fabric of his blazer emphasizing the massive expanse of his chest. His face was stoic and unreadable. “I’m staying too. I’ve poured a lifetime into working for that old man. I'm not going to leave empty-handed.”

Pool-boy Ryley clicked his tongue, leaning forward so that his long-lashed eyes swept across the group. “Well, look at us. All big and bad. Let’s hope we last the night without choking one another to death.”

A momentary hush descended, thick with electricity. As though responding to the tension, the storm outside rumbled anew, sending a flicker of lightning through the tall windows. The men shifted, each conspicuously aware of the size and power of the others, each harboring private suspicions—and private ambitions.

Finally, Paul cleared his throat. “So… you’re all staying?” 

Not a single man spoke up to the contrary. Instead, they exchanged hard stares, each evidently resolved to test himself—and his rivals—against whatever grisly game Arnold Mortimer had set in motion.

Paul exhaled shakily and loosened his tie. “Your funeral,” he muttered, perhaps darkly amused at his own choice of words. “I’ll head out then. The door will lock automatically in ten minutes. Try not to kill each other before dinner, gentlemen.”

With that, he offered a cursory nod and turned on his polished heel. He was followed by his two assistants. The footsteps of all three men echoed across the parquet flooring as they disappeared into the corridor, the imposing front doors groaning behind them as the night swallowed them whole.

In the parlor’s tense silence, seven sets of muscular shoulders seemed to rise and fall in unison. Somewhere in the corridors, Beckman’s voice could be faintly heard, an ominous undertone to the crackling fire and thunder. Soon, they would dine in Arnold’s lonely halls, overshadowed by the promise of unimaginable wealth—and haunted by the specter of a killer in their midst. 

Ryley made a show of stretching his long limbs and sauntering to the door, the hem of his tight T-shirt riding up just enough to expose a glimpse of his taut abdomen. “I need a tan,” he announced nonchalantly, his honey-blond hair framing his face in a way that drew more than one lingering gaze. “There’s a fitness center in this mausoleum—figured I’d use the tanning bed.”

No one bothered to respond, though a few pairs of eyes tracked his exit. One by one, Cody, Brent, Eddie, and Julian drifted out as well, muttering about checking the second-floor rooms or grabbing a drink before dinner. Their heavy footsteps reverberated through the corridor until, at length, Charlie and Samson stood alone in the parlor.

The fireplace crackled, its glow illuminating the dark wood paneling and throwing dancing orange shadows across the two men’s imposing forms. Outside, the thunderstorm raged on, an occasional bolt of lightning highlighting the tension etched in their features.

Charlie leaned against the massive oak desk, rolling his shoulders beneath his tan sweater. The thick knit clung to his muscular torso, every flex accentuating his strength. “I can’t believe this,” he hissed under his breath. “Half the bloody fortune’s going to that pig Gibson, and I’m left fighting for scraps. We had it all planned, Samson. You told me old Mortimer would hand everything to me—his nephew.” He nearly spat the word, his accent curling the syllables.

Samson stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his solid frame. Though he was dressed in a tailored suit befitting his role as Arnold’s lawyer, his powerful chest and arms filled every inch of the fabric, hinting at a body honed just as much by iron as by intellect. “Keep your voice down,” he growled, sparing a glance at the closed parlor doors. “I was sure the documents we drew up would stand. Arnold had agreed—I swear it. But at some point, he must have changed his mind.”

Charlie’s jaw set. “Or he found out I’m not really his nephew.” His eyes flickered with anger. “I knew pretending to be a long-lost relative was risky, but that old coot fell for it at first… until I guess he didn’t.”

Samson exhaled, exasperated. “We could still salvage this. If Gibson suspects you’re not who you say you are, we just need to discredit him first. After all, half of that fortune is up for grabs—some of it was supposed to be yours, some of it mine. That hasn’t changed.”

Charlie leveled his gaze at Samson, brow furrowed in mounting frustration. “So we just do what, exactly? Scheme behind everyone’s back while they’re prowling around for the hidden treasure? Or wait for them to self-destruct?”

Samson moved closer still, until the scent of his cologne—woodsy, peppery—mingled with the faint whiff of smoke from the fireplace. His voice dropped to a low rumble. “It won’t be the first time we’ve played the game, Charlie.” There was a charged pause; the air around them grew thick, weighted by unspoken promises and a familiar, animal-like pull. “And if someone did murder Arnold, that means we’re dealing with more than just a bunch of money-grubbing hunks.”

Charlie’s eyes flickered with a mixture of desire and frustration. He laid a hand on Samson’s suit lapel, the thick cords of muscle in his forearm shifting beneath the sweater’s sleeves. “We can’t let them see us together too often,” he muttered, though a quiet hunger warmed his voice. “I can’t have them knowing how close we really are.”

Samson glanced around warily, unaware that behind them hung a large portrait of Arnold Mortimer in a gilded frame—its eyes removed, replaced by living eyes peering from the secret space beyond the wall. Neither Charlie nor Samson registered the faint shift behind the canvas or the nearly soundless intake of breath from whoever spied on them.

“All the more reason,” Samson murmured, “for us to stay… discrete. At least, in public.” His gaze roamed over Charlie, taking in the bulge of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the tension in his jaw. Despite the flickering candlelight and the thunder rattling the windowpanes, an undeniable current of raw energy pulsed between them—less gentle romance, more heady need.

Charlie ran his tongue along his lower lip, a half-smile curling across his features. “When will we talk next?”

Samson allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk upward. “Later. After dinner, come to the west wing’s guest suite, the one at the end of the corridor. We can figure out the details… and maybe let off some steam.” His voice dropped on the last words, sending a hot thrill through Charlie’s chest.

Charlie tilted his chin in acknowledgment, his eyes glittering with equal parts challenge and desire. “Better be worth it,” he whispered, “for all the trouble we’re in.”

Samson leaned in just enough for a brief brush of contact—shoulder against shoulder, the faintest press of chest on chest, feeling his formidable bulge push into the hard muscles of Charlie's leg —then stepped back, clearing his throat. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he said, voice low with that same edge of possession. 

Behind them, the unseen observer kept perfectly still, heart pounding. The slit where Mortimer’s painted eyes had been offered a narrow view of the two men, whose broad frames nearly filled the vantage point. Each was so consumed with the moment—and each other—that neither sensed a gaze trailing their every move.

After one last charged look, Charlie turned and strode toward the door, the thunder masking the sound of his footsteps. Samson lingered for a heartbeat, inhaling sharply, before he, too, slipped into the corridor. The parlor fell silent then, the only movement the flame dancing in the hearth and the portrait’s hidden watcher, shifting slightly behind the wall, as they departed from their vantage point.