04-07-2022, 05:18 AM
Chris smiled politely at Mrs. Brennan’s doting attention on him and him alone. Smiled genuinely when he heard that cough behind her. He shook his head and sighed, supposedly in remorse.
Oh, God. He was so giddy about what he was going to get a peep at next, it was almost hard to contain. Here he thought the oily fucker had just old-man croaked early from too much America.
“Those two were gin and tonic. It’s like losing an uncle.”
He hoped each and every one of his uncles got a nice rope around their necks, too. Actually – he hoped they died in new and exciting ways – what kind of boring burr went over and over to the same whore when there were so many others to trample sample?
“Thank you,” he sighed with a practiced, appreciative smile – the same smile he’d been taught for gifts he didn’t want.
What would really be a gift was some alone time with that body … was he pliable yet?
Even when Levi and Mara’s gazes turned to the cough, Zechariah kept his eyes carefully trained on Mara. God knew what Chris was getting up to, but last funeral he had brought Zechariah to? He had … touched the corpse and then touched his hand afterward. Ew.
“Lyle’s little friend here has been wandering amiss,” Chris said, sympathetically, like he’d just brought back their lost dog. “I think he wanted to say a few words.”
Speaking to Malachi directly was a rather novel development; the third person hinted direction likely felt far more familiar. Besides – how better to get Mrs. Brennan to ignore what Chris was up to than imply she might have to listen to the orphan?
His stroll was casual … but the way his eyes searched Lyle’s neck before all else was telling. This sharp bitch couldn’t fight back now, could he? Had he found his senses beginning to slip, and done the world a favor with the old rope? Or had someone else … helped him along? Chris looked at Lyle’s wilted body the same way most of his lessers looked at prime rib.
It would have been better if he were younger, but--… nah, Lyle was too big a target. Then he eyed the successor next to him. Let his gaze meander over Mrs. Brennan, then Levi. Not one of them gave a living fuck about Lyle … except, perhaps, the orphan.
He looked the orphan dead in the eye, and touched the grotesque bend in Lyle’s cold, powdered neck.
“How did it happen?” he murmured, fingers still on the dead neck.
Oh, God. He was so giddy about what he was going to get a peep at next, it was almost hard to contain. Here he thought the oily fucker had just old-man croaked early from too much America.
“Those two were gin and tonic. It’s like losing an uncle.”
He hoped each and every one of his uncles got a nice rope around their necks, too. Actually – he hoped they died in new and exciting ways – what kind of boring burr went over and over to the same whore when there were so many others to trample sample?
“Thank you,” he sighed with a practiced, appreciative smile – the same smile he’d been taught for gifts he didn’t want.
What would really be a gift was some alone time with that body … was he pliable yet?
Even when Levi and Mara’s gazes turned to the cough, Zechariah kept his eyes carefully trained on Mara. God knew what Chris was getting up to, but last funeral he had brought Zechariah to? He had … touched the corpse and then touched his hand afterward. Ew.
“Lyle’s little friend here has been wandering amiss,” Chris said, sympathetically, like he’d just brought back their lost dog. “I think he wanted to say a few words.”
Speaking to Malachi directly was a rather novel development; the third person hinted direction likely felt far more familiar. Besides – how better to get Mrs. Brennan to ignore what Chris was up to than imply she might have to listen to the orphan?
His stroll was casual … but the way his eyes searched Lyle’s neck before all else was telling. This sharp bitch couldn’t fight back now, could he? Had he found his senses beginning to slip, and done the world a favor with the old rope? Or had someone else … helped him along? Chris looked at Lyle’s wilted body the same way most of his lessers looked at prime rib.
It would have been better if he were younger, but--… nah, Lyle was too big a target. Then he eyed the successor next to him. Let his gaze meander over Mrs. Brennan, then Levi. Not one of them gave a living fuck about Lyle … except, perhaps, the orphan.
He looked the orphan dead in the eye, and touched the grotesque bend in Lyle’s cold, powdered neck.
“How did it happen?” he murmured, fingers still on the dead neck.
