Where There's A Will: Part 4

 

Chapter Four

Thunder still rumbled through the manor’s high windows by the time the six men stepped into the vast dining hall. Dim chandelier light glimmered across polished wood panels and caught the reflections of gilded picture frames depicting various Mortimer ancestors—most of whom looked as severe as the house itself. At one end of a table large enough to seat two dozen people, Gibson, Arnold Mortimer’s heavyset half-brother, lounged in a throne-like armchair. He had an open bottle of whiskey in his hand, and the smell of the liquor reached the men as they approached. At the other end, haunting and silent, stood a casket propped upright—Arnold’s corpse in the same crushed velvet suit he’d worn when first revealed in the parlor. The flickering candelabras made his embalmed face appear both waxen and mocking, and no one had an immediate explanation of how the casket had been moved here so quickly.

Charlie paused in mid-step, his sandy-brown hair falling over his sweaty forehead as he tilted his head to stare at the corpse. He hadn’t expected to face Arnold’s macabre presence again so soon. He was twenty-four, tall, with a muscular frame that generously filled out his tan sweater and black pants, a thickly muscled body honed by hours of exercise. His jaw twitched with tension. He glanced at Samson, who slipped in beside him, equally unsettled. Samson’s towering figure eclipsed nearly everyone else’s in the manor. At forty-two, he radiated a seasoned strength, the size of a professional bodybuilder, with dark hair peppered faintly at the temples and a thick pelt of chest hair visible at his open shirt collar. The lawyer exhaled and placed a steadying hand on Charlie’s shoulder, the move so brief and subtle that it seemed purely friendly—although they both knew it went far deeper than that. 

Eddie drifted in next, surveying the bizarre tableau of Gibson on one end of the table, Arnold’s corpse on the other, and the array of heavy silverware glinting along an embroidered tablecloth. Eddie was twenty-six, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist that tapered like a swimmer’s physique but packed with far more muscle. Jet-black hair was cut neat around his ears, and his striking blue eyes took in everything with an air of sober caution. His job had been that of Arnold’s personal trainer, but he moved now like a man prepared for a confrontation, especially with tensions so high. Still, he offered a cordial nod toward Gibson, aware that, in some twisted sense, he was courting the half-brother’s favor.

Brent entered next, the youngest at the table—only eighteen, but already endowed with a staggering musculature that made him look older and more imposing. He wore his letterman’s jacket, the sleeves straining around his arms, and his curly, light hair tumbled across his forehead with a boyish appeal that belied the raw physical power he possessed. His hazel eyes held a mix of awe and guarded ambition as he looked about the hall. He lived next door to Arnold on a vast estate owned by an absentee mother and father. What little attention he received from his parents, he got from his athletic prowess: Brent’s name was name etched into the recordbooks and legends of his highschool football field. The king star quarterback of the county, if not the state. Yet here he was on a night that demanded more than touchdowns and yardage.

Cody, the landscaper with flaming red hair and sharp green eyes, entered right on Brent’s heels. At thirty-three, his confidence had an almost theatrical flair. The achingly handsome stud stood broad and imposing, every muscle group bulging under his plaid shirt was honed from years of manual labor, sun exposure, and a robust sense of vanity in the gym. His large hands flexed at his sides, as though he were assessing the room for potential threats or chances to show off. He cut a glance toward Brent—a look that said he recognized him, a look that might have been more complicated than either was willing to share.

Last to enter was Julian, the Latino mechanic with a simmering temper that flared to life at the slightest provocation. Twenty-four years old, he had smooth, bronzed skin that displayed every ripple of dense muscle beneath his snug shirt. His dark hair was short on the sides, styled in a practical fade, while his intense brown eyes darted around the hall. He breathed heavily, as though the hush of the house and the looming corpse was all too claustrophobic for him. Julian had been impatient from the moment they’d arrived, and one could sense the frustration rolling off him like an impending thunderclap. 

Beckman, the manor’s stooped, cadaverous butler, emerged from the shadows near the sideboard. He gave no greeting, only a stiff bow that made his wiry limbs look like they might snap under the motion. His sunken eyes regarded each man in turn, then flicked back to Gibson, awaiting instruction. The entire room felt like a stage set for some twisted performance, with Arnold’s embalmed figure gazing out over them, silent but no less oppressive.

“Welcome, welcome,” Gibson drawled, lifting the whiskey bottle in a half-toast. “I see you’ve found your seats... or at least, you will find them. I hope none of you mind that I invited my dear brother to attend as well.” His laughter was mocking, cold. “He so loved to be present for every family dinner.”

A dull hush followed. One by one, the men took their places around the table, trying to keep their eyes off Arnold’s casket. Charlie carefully positioned himself at a midpoint—close enough to Samson for comfort, yet not so close as to arouse suspicion. Eddie picked a seat on the opposite side, offering a charming nod at Gibson, who merely gave him a slow, scornful once-over. Brent, with a brisk flick of his letterman’s jacket, slid into a chair near the center, while Cody tossed himself down in the seat across from Brent, crossing his muscular forearms over his chest as though spoiling for a contest. Julian, still radiating impatience, sank into a seat closest to the door.

Brent’s eyes darted to the standing casket, a light film of perspiration on his brow. “How’d you… I mean, who the hell dragged him in here?” he asked, voice wavering between bravado and revulsion.

Charlie cut in, voice tight. “You and Beckman do that on your own, Gibson?”

“Does it matter?” Gibson replied, smirking. The overhead lights gleamed off the sweat on his thick neck, highlighting every roll of flesh under his chin. “Old Arnie here wanted to join us for dinner, so I made sure he’d have the best seat in the house.”

Julian’s scowl deepened. “Creepy as shit,” he muttered, shuffling in his seat, eyes looking down the length of the table, falling upon the solitary, empty chair. All the men had given it a glance. It was not lost on them that Ryley—once the designated “pool boy” and perpetual show-off—was missing. A flicker of disquiet spread among them, though no one spoke it aloud. Thunder grumbled again, closer now, and the candelabras wavered with the faint draft that seemed to haunt every corridor of this estate.

Beckman, moving with the dutiful solemnity of a funeral director, brought out the first course: a quartet of silver tureens, ladling a steaming concoction into shallow bowls. Shark fin soup, so it appeared, with an aromatic broth that flooded the air. The men shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether to trust what was in front of them, or whether to show politeness and eat. Given the circumstances, politeness felt precarious. Charlie stared into the swirling soup, faint lines of tension bracketing his mouth. Brent poked at the surface of his portion with a spoon, looking torn between teenage hunger and deep-seated suspicion.

“Tonight,” Gibson announced to no one in particular, “we dine in the shadow of our dearly departed, Arnold. He always had peculiar tastes.” He lifted his whiskey bottle and downed a gulp in a way that let them see his thick jowls tremble.

A sudden burst of static erupted from the center of the table, causing everyone to jerk in unison. An antique tape recorder, squat and ominous, hissed for a moment before Arnold Mortimer’s recorded voice floated from its battered speaker. It was that same aristocratic, half-British drawl, laced with cruelty.

“Welcome, gentlemen, to my funerary dinner,” Arnold’s voice purred. “I do hope the atmosphere is suitably… joyful. I thought it best that I join you, even in my current state, so we might share fond memories of our time together.” A sardonic chuckle followed, crackling through the speaker. “Then again, perhaps fond is not the correct word for your recollections.”

A jolt of awkwardness settled on the group, with each man glancing warily from the corpse in the casket to the tape recorder. Eddie’s jaw tightened. Brent fiddled with his napkin. Samson’s hands went rigid on the arms of his chair. Julian muttered something under his breath in Spanish, the words hissing like steam from a vent.

Arnold’s voice continued. “You may have noticed that poor Ryley has departed us prematurely… left in something of a flash, you might say.” More crackling laughter rattled the speaker. “His vanity was always his undoing. I suspect he found it difficult to share the spotlight. Pity, I rather enjoyed his antics by the pool.”

At that, a hush fell. Charlie’s gaze landed on Samson, and he saw the faint shift of dread in the older man’s eyes. Everyone else exchanged uneasy looks, wondering if the achingly hot Ryley had truly fled, or if something far more sinister had happened. No one dared speak his name, not yet.

Gibson knocked back another swig, setting the bottle onto the table with a thud. “You hear that, you worthless lumps of muscle?” he jeered. “Arnold thinks Ryley couldn’t handle playing second fiddle to all of you. Maybe it’s true. Maybe the guy just ran out like a coward. Might’ve been the smartest move, come to think of it.” He shrugged, but the sneer on his lips suggested he relished their unease.

Arnold’s recording continued: “Gentlemen, please indulge in my gastronomic generosity. This may be the last time any of you have the opportunity to swallow something so freely given from me. Bon appetit!” 

Beckman approached from Gibson’s left and gently lifted the tureens away, readying the next course. The butler’s hands quivered faintly from age or from something else—it was hard to say. A moment later, he returned with wide platters bearing small lumps of pinkish-grey matter. The steam carried an unfamiliar scent that made some of the men wrinkle their noses. Even Samson, typically stoic, leaned back in distaste.

Cody prodded at the morsels with his fork, green eyes flicking up to Beckman. “The hell is this?”

Beckman inclined his head in that silent, ghostlike manner. “A popular dish in Cantonese cuisine, sir. One of Mister Mortimer’s favorites.”

Charlie swallowed thickly, a ripple of revulsion tightening his throat. Something about it looked… unsettling. Brent leaned forward, curiosity piqued, but when he saw the color drain from Charlie’s face, he scowled and pushed the plate away. The spiced aroma hovering around the dish did little to mask a subtle, organ-like tang.

Gibson snorted. “What’s the matter, kiddos?” He stabbed a piece with his fork and held it up, letting it jiggle in the candlelight. “Never tried monkey’s brains before?” When none of them moved, he chuckled, half to himself. “Lucky for me, I’ve got a taste for the exotic.”

He bit into the morsel with savage relish, wiping a thick dribble from his chin. A chorus of uneasy groans rippled around the table. Julian muttered another curse and shoved his plate away entirely. The candlelight caught the angles of his strong jaw and the flaring of his nostrils, accentuating the restlessness in his stance. He looked ready to spring from his chair at any moment.

“Well,” Gibson said around a mouthful, “if you don’t want it, that’s fine. Just means more for me.” The half-brother’s eyes sparkled with a cruel mischief as he seized upon the chance to wield even the meal as a weapon. “Eat or starve, boys. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Cody, the cocky landscaper, let out a forced laugh and turned in his chair to face Gibson more directly. “Maybe I’ll try a bite,” he said, flexing the thick cords of muscle in his forearm for emphasis. “I can handle it… I can handle a lot of things.” His green eyes held a subtle flirtation, and he made a show of lifting the spoon to his lips. Across the table, Brent’s hazel eyes narrowed, the high school QB noticing the interplay. Cody parted his lips to taste the dish but paused theatrically, glancing back at Gibson. “Better be worth it,” he murmured. The words dripped with innuendo, and the older man raised a brow.

Nearby, Eddie Powell exhaled slowly, as though bracing himself. He was no stranger to exotic proteins—bodybuilding diets sometimes led to strange culinary experiments, though usually not this strange—but that wasn’t the source of his hesitation. He could see Cody angling for Gibson’s favor, practically pressing his large frame forward, shoulders shifting to display the breadth of his torso. Eddie’s own muscular chest was impressive in its thickness, and a primal competitiveness stirred in him. “Hey Gibson,” he ventured, “maybe we ought to discuss your half of the inheritance, if you’re… open to persuasion.” His voice was measured, almost businesslike, but there was a subtext to it, a seductive edge that indicated he was playing a game more than making an earnest request. 

“Yeah, Gibson,” Brent chimed in, a note of challenge in his voice. He shrugged off his letterman’s jacket, exposing the swollen contours of his biceps and shoulders under a tight T-shirt. Despite being only eighteen, he was truly gifted with an incredible body: thick traps, deltoids like cannonballs, and cobblestone abdominals stretching the limits of the shirt fabric. He placed a hand deliberately on his own swollen pec, letting it rest there, his fingertips subtly dragging across the broad curve. “You know, I’m already set to play college ball, but maybe with a little financial backing, I could do… anything.” He shot a glance at Cody, as though to stake his claim. Then he turned back to Gibson, a self-assured grin lighting up his youthful features. “I bet I could impress you. A real wholesome guy like me, high school star quarterback… just finishing up the year. Still growing, too – in all the right places. Don’t see that every day, do you?”

Gibson barked out a laugh. “Wholesome, are you? I find that awfully hard to believe.” He eyed the interplay between Brent and Cody, catching the tension like a cat discovering cornered mice. “If you’re such a perfect golden boy, I gotta wonder, Brent,” he said, leaning forward. “You still a virgin? Never got around to sowing any wild oats?”

Brent’s cheeks darkened. He stumbled for words, all that bravado dissolving in an instant. 

“That’s—why would you—how” he began, but the question fell flat. His gaze whipped around the table, noticing Cody’s mocking grin, and he clenched his fists at his sides. “That’s none of your business, man,” he muttered, but the defensive note in his tone exposed his answer well enough. 

Cody snorted, savoring Brent’s discomfort like fresh blood in the water. Meanwhile, Gibson cast a knowing smirk around the group. He had lobbed the question to see who might flinch. “Interesting,” he said smoothly. “You two wouldn’t happen to know each other well, would you? I mean, Brent, you lived next door to Arnold ... and you--” he said, turning to Cody, “--were Arnold’s landscaper, always out there cutting hedges and planting azaleas. Plowing, regularly. At least, according to my brother – when he was around” He paused, eyes sparkling with malice. “Surely you two never… crossed paths? Never found an errant football landing in the gardens from our strapping young jock-stud here? Never thought to give him a little… discipline for his mistakes?”

Cody looked away for a split second, and Brent dropped his gaze, lips pressed tight. The recognition between them was blatant. Julian’s temper flared, and he slammed his spoon down. “You people are all insane,” the Latino mechanic growled. “None of you even care about that missing prick, Ryley, do you? It’s all about money and… and flirting.” He wrinkled his nose. “You think I’m staying here to dance around like some fool, hoping to catch Gibson’s eye? Screw that. I’ll find the other half of Arnold’s fortune by myself. Then I’ll walk out of here a millionaire without ever having to stoop to—” He jabbed a finger toward the plate of monkey’s brains. “—this.” 

Before Gibson could retort, the tape recorder sputtered again. Arnold’s disembodied drawl echoed through the hall, rattling the silverware on the table. “Now, now, boys, it’s hardly polite to bicker at the table. This is, after all, a night to remember me by.” A sarcastic laugh trickled through the speaker. “But if you’re finding the conversation too stimulating, perhaps you’d prefer to retire to your rooms. I’ve left each of you a little… something to consider. A token of my generosity, let’s call it, though you’d do well to remember the threat I made earlier. Don’t get too carried away in your vices. I’m watching you, even from beyond the grave.”

Julian let out a snarling curse in Spanish and abruptly shoved back his chair. “I’ve had enough of this. You can all sip your soup and giggle about who’s got the biggest dick, or who’s sucking off that fat fuck for his fortune, or who’s screwing who.” He stood, throwing his napkin down. “Half of the fuckin’ money is in this house. I’m gonna find it on my own. I don’t need any of you.” With that, he stormed from the hall, the echo of his footsteps reverberating until he vanished into the corridor.

A hush settled as Beckman reached to collect Julian’s untouched plate. Gibson’s gaze lingered on the empty chair, looking momentarily amused at the display. “If he thinks he’ll accomplish anything alone, good luck to him,” Gibson remarked, swirling his whiskey bottle. “There are worse fates than being the first to wander these halls at night.”

Charlie felt his pulse throbbing at his temples. Between the stress of Arnold’s last testament, the presence of the corpse, and the sudden shifts in alliances, he was close to unraveling. He caught Samson’s eye. The big, dark-haired lawyer nudged Charlie’s foot under the table—an unspoken signal. “We should leave too,” Samson murmured, his resonant voice pitched low so only Charlie could hear. “No point in sitting here any longer, and I need to check something in Arnold’s study.”

Charlie nodded, standing with a stiff attempt at poise. He lifted his chin toward Gibson, offering a halfhearted smile. “We’ll take our leave,” he said. “I, uh… need a moment to process all this. Good night.” He paused, aware that Gibson’s gaze was appraising him in a lazy, insinuating way, as if to say, How well did you know my brother? But Charlie only mustered a tight-lipped nod and retreated.

Samson rose as well, his massive shoulders rolling dramatically upwards, emphasizing his imposing size. Where Charlie was leaner, Samson was all power and bulk, the lines of his suit straining slightly at the chest and arms. Together, they slipped out without waiting for further comment. Gibson watched them go, swirling the whiskey around in its bottle with a feral grin. 

Eddie Powell, silent for a moment, then shifted in his seat. He leaned forward, making sure to arch his broad chest subtly so that it appeared even more imposing beneath his open-collar shirt. “So, Gibson,” he said, drawing the half-brother’s attention with a confident gleam in his blue eyes, “if you’re looking for someone who can… demonstrate real dedication, maybe you and I should talk privately. I can show you a few advanced training techniques in my room, later on, if you’re interested. Old Arnold was quite fond of how I… pushed my limits.”

At that, Gibson snorted in amusement, though his eyes roamed Eddie’s heavily muscled torso with unabashed interest. “You’re the personal trainer, huh? Arnold mentioned you once or twice. Claimed you could bench half a ton, or some nonsense. Sounds exaggerated.”

Eddie’s lips quirked in a self-assured smile. “You’ll never know if we don’t try.”

Still seated across from Eddie, Cody gave a provocative roll of his shoulders, raking a hand through his fiery red hair. “That’s all good and well,” he said, addressing Eddie in a mocking tone, “but I doubt you’re the only man here who knows his way around a weight rack. I could give Mister Gibson more than just a training session.” Then Cody turned to Gibson, letting his gaze wander down the open collar of his own shirt, then letting his hand drift to the prominent, lengthened bulge in his well-fitted pants. “Landscaping isn’t just about petunias and lawnmowers, you know. It takes stamina. Grit. Muscles to spare.” He winked, an overtly suggestive gesture. "A lot of dirty work."

18 year old Brent, who had been watching this interplay with mounting annoyance, let out a disgusted snort. “Oh, please,” he said, standing abruptly. Even at eighteen, he stood well over six feet, with a broad-shouldered thickness that dwarfed some men in their prime. The letterman’s jacket he’d placed on the back of his chair now fell to the floor, leaving him in a fitted T-shirt that showcased every ridge of his carved torso. A faint sheen of sweat glimmered at his collarbone, a testament to the tension of the evening. “Mister Gibson, you don’t need to be messing around with these guys,” he said, voice brimming with bravado. “They’re all talk.” He drew in a breath and squared his shoulders, chest lifting proudly. “But me? I’m the real deal. A high school football star. A champion in the making. I might be young, but I can offer something none of them can.”

Gibson cocked his head. “Oh, is that so?” His tone was full of dubious amusement. “And what’s that, star boy?”

Brent’s lips parted, but he hesitated, shooting a sharp glance at Cody, who met it in return, his eyes narrowing. Brent mustered all his nerve, ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “You asked if I was a virgin,” he said, voice firm though tinged with embarrassment. “Maybe you should find out for yourself in the gym. No one else here can say the same, I’ll bet.” He left the challenge hanging in the air, the kind of statement that made both Cody and Eddie stiffen in a burst of competition and surprise. It was scandalous, taboo, and precisely the sort of lure to pique Gibson’s twisted interest. 

For a moment, the tension thickened, each of them picturing the scenario: the broad, inexperienced Brent offering up that final piece of innocence in exchange for the possibility of a fortune. Cody shook his head and he gave a low chuckle. Eddie’s jaw tightened, though he flicked a questioning look at Gibson as if to say, Well? But Gibson only let out a rumbling chuckle, tipping the whiskey bottle toward Brent in a mocking gesture.

“I do like the chaos,” he said, almost purring. “Tell you what, boy. I’ll clean up here first—I’m sure Beckman doesn’t need me underfoot—but we’ll see about that little… proposition of yours. I might just take you up on it.”

Brent feigned confidence with a half shrug, standing up, bending to retrieve his jacket. “Fine. I’ll wait for you in the fitness center. Don’t keep me waiting.” He swung his jacket over his shoulder, letting his T-shirt ride up over the chiseled ridges of his midsection, then turned and stalked out of the dining hall without a backward glance. His footsteps echoed for a moment, then faded into the corridor. 

A palpable hush settled on the group. Cody, seething, shot Gibson a dark, sideways look. He stood and left the room in silence, his discomfort palpable. In turn, Eddie got to his feet with measured calm, offering Gibson a final look that said, You know where to find me. Then he, too, walked out, leaving the half-brother alone at the table with Arnold’s casket for company. The macabre sight was made all the more eerie by the flickering candelabra and the haunted expression plastered on Arnold’s dead face.

Gibson reached for the whiskey once more. Outside, lightning flashed across the windows, illuminating the corpse in a harsh, brilliant glare. For an instant, the casket seemed to vibrate with the thunder, and if any of the men had remained to witness it, they might have sworn Arnold’s grin widened in the candlelight. But Gibson merely snickered, lifting the bottle to his lips. “You certainly knew how to pick ‘em, Arnold,” he muttered to the still figure, taking a deep gulp. “They’re all losing it—falling over themselves to please me. And that was your plan, wasn’t it, old bastard?”

From the corner of the room came Beckman, carrying a towel and a small metal tray, presumably to clear away the half-eaten bowls of soup and plates of that ghastly “Cantonese” delicacy. His back bent in a subservient angle, and his pale face reflected the gloom of a man who’d been in service far too long. As he approached, Gibson leaned back in his chair, content to watch the half-lame butler gather the remains of the dinner. 

Lightning flared once more, painting the windows in a dazzling, momentary brightness. The entire hall crackled with tension, as if the storm itself were conspiring in Arnold’s final game. Gibson rose, adjusted the belt around his thick waist, and ran his tongue across his teeth. “Well,” he muttered, “time to see if that strapping Brent kid really has something worth offering, or if he’s just blowing smoke to keep up with the others.”

He paused in the threshold to address Beckman, who remained bent in duty. “Clean up here, watch the others, do whatever it is you do. You so much as sense trouble and let me know, got it?” Beckman gave a short, obedient bow, the tray balanced skillfully in his spindly arms.

With that, Gibson disappeared into the hallway. The hush that replaced him felt heavier than before, like the air had thickened to the consistency of molasses. Only the faint crackle of the fireplace at the opposite end of the room punctuated the quiet, casting a wavering glow across Arnold’s casket.

His mind ran over the possibilities of the next hour. Brent had essentially offered him something no one else could: that final piece of innocence, if the kid was telling the truth. What a twisted bit of fortune. Cody, Eddie, Samson, Charlie—none of them exactly an angel, all too ready to use body or mind for wealth. Gibson chuckled to himself, remembering Brent’s expression when asked about being a virgin. The stammer, the flush in his cheeks, the tight press of his lips. If he was lying, it wouldn’t matter much, not if Gibson got the fun he anticipated out of it. If he was telling the truth… well, all the better, for the sadistic satisfaction of deflowering the local golden boy. No wonder Arnold loved collecting them, he mused. All these prime specimens of youth and muscle, twisted around his finger.

He reached the door to the fitness center and pushed it open, stepping into an airy, modern space that contrasted sharply with the manor’s medieval gloom. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off polished equipment. Mirrors lined the walls, and beyond a partition of frosted glass was the tanning suite where Ryley had last been seen. Gibson paused, glancing that way, half expecting to see some sign of the flamboyant blond. A faint odor lingered, maybe from overheated electronics or something else. But Ryley was nowhere to be found, the tanning bed door sealed shut. Beyond the frosted glass was only darkness.

He scanned the room. Rows of treadmills, racks of weight plates, squat racks, a set of benches. Then, near the far corner, a wide open space with thick gym mats on the floor—cleared for stretching or more physical forms of exertion. And there, next to one of the racks, stood Brent, wearing sweatpants and that same tight T-shirt, arms folded across his monstrous chest. His jacket lay discarded on a bench behind him. The overhead lights caught the golden highlights in his sandy-brown curls, lending a near-halo effect around his head, though the expression on his face was anything but angelic. The kid looked determined, anxious, and keyed up all at once, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Brent’s hazel eyes shot up the moment Gibson stepped through the door. The younger man swallowed visibly, though he tried to mask it with bravado. He squared his shoulders, letting his pecs stand out in sculpted relief, the short sleeves of his T-shirt hugging the contours of his arms.

“You came,” Brent said, voice low, a smirk on his youthful face. Gibson saw a massive, bulge hanging loosely down one leg of the young stud's sweatpants. The kid was obviously huge everywhere.

Gibson smirked, letting the door swing shut behind him. “What can I say?” He held up the whiskey bottle and took a slow pull, eyes pinned on Brent the entire time. “You made a pretty enticing offer, kid.”

“Yeah,” Brent managed, his bravado starting to swell. “Well… I’m not like the others. I’ve got a lot to prove.”

A wave of thunder seemed to shake the windows above, rumbling through the floor. The fat slob took another step forward, scanning Brent’s imposing figure in open appraisal. The tension in the air was thicker than the storm-laden clouds outside. “Then let’s see if you can prove it,” Gibson said, his voice steeped in sardonic amusement.