At the Masquerade, if he’s still breathing, I’ll end it all.
My brother must’ve given it to him good if Rusty hasn’t left his side. My anger intensifies, remembering walking in on that shitstorm. My brother only got off because of me. Not that loser whose ass didn’t even look that great, but me. I run ladders in my indoor gym, never leaving Kenji home alone after that fucking experience. I had to burn my bed, sheets, my favorite comforter, and all my pillows. He knew what he was doing when he decided to use my room and bed. It was his mental game of chicken. For once, it worked. He won. It unnerved me for months. I slept in the spare room, unable to be in there without knowing what he’d done, or rather who.
It’s why this bet even came to fruition. Rusty can’t live after having my brother in my presence. Until he died, he’d haunt me. Being a Grim has perks. We’re the Reapers in the Society, we clean up, make people disappear. It’s my duty to uphold the job, since my parents are never around and it protects my brother from this life.
When KJ won, he went with me to get his name on my chest. Even picked the exact spot on my chest. Fucker. In response, I’d done him one better. From left to right, across my torso, his name resides in massive gothic letters.
My legs flex as I bend to touch the imaginary line of the ladder, shooting in the opposite direction to continue the pace. My heart beats more rapidly, but I’m sure it has more to do with my intense desire to kill Johnson than it does with the exertion. Aches dance along my hips, sweat paints even inch of me, but I don’t stop. The only noises in my gym are my heavy breathing, the random fuck I hiss, and my feet squeaking as the rubber marks the floor.
By my fifth ladder, I feel no less angry. If anything my body that’s shaking with adrenaline wants bloodshed. Six days. Six days. Six days. Six days. That’s it. Then I’m taking my win and my brother with me.
“Wager?” he asks in trepidation.
I smirk, wanting to see his face when I reveal what I want this time.
Does he even remember what he signed up for? His gamble versus mine? I’ll win. I’ll kill Rusty myself. That’s the only true way to get his disgusting greasy face from my memories. He’s drilled into my mind, stitched onto my temporal lobe, refusing to detach until his life seeps from him. Seeing him breathing, a heart still beating after what he took… it makes me want to slaughter his entire family and drink the blood as he watches idly, crying like the baby he is. Why no other fucks of KJ bugged me is beyond me. Only Rusty. He pisses me right the fuck off.
The murder, our bet, it’s not like KJ wouldn’t get away with it. The illegal things we’ve done are broken laws that everyone is unlikely to get off scot-free. Yet, we do.
My relationship with KJ hasn’t been an easy one. Twins are meant to be inseparable, which we are… kind of. Things got twisted a while ago, and it seems I can’t untangle myself from those kinks.
The sound of the door sliding open has me stopping midsprint. When I peer over there, my brother stands. His arms are folded across his chest, and he’s wearing casual non-gym clothing. He doesn’t work out with me anymore. The last time we did, it didn’t go well. For either of us. Treading lightly as my feet move of their own accord, I’m right in front of him. His face isn’t happy, the scowl he rocks visceral, slicing into me like a blade, burrowing as deep as bone.
“The mistake was thinking we could overcome Rusty. Looks like we were both wrong.”
We’re less volatile separate.
Sad, when you think of how close we once were.
“What do you want?” I grump, pushing away from him, heading for my water bottle. As soon as I pop the cap and start to take a drink, he’s smacking it out of my grasp. The plastic catches on my lip, making a coppery tinge to touch my tongue.
“Bet is off,” he announces like he makes the rules.
Wrong. This has always been my game. You back out, you lose your life. Once, it may have been a joke, but with how much my soul sings for retribution, not even Kenji is safe. That’s not true, my mind rebels. I’d never hurt him. Without him, I’m nothing.
“The fuck it is,” I bark, gripping the front of his shirt. My chest—bare as a baby’s ass—brushes against him. The sweat dripping down me wets his shirt, making it stick to me as our space is near laughable. “It ends with blood, Rischio. You know the rules.” It’s a bitter antagonization, one I hope he feels deep in his bones.
“It’s off,” he bites back, pushing off my chest. “No more bets. No more of this shit.”
A chuckle, low and depraved, leaves me. It’s so self-deprecating that I can’t breathe from its intensity. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll make sure to get it done. You know the wager. I’m not willing to let you out of it. I’ll win. You’ll be fucking mine.”
His face morphs a moment, flashing something like sadness. “I don’t have it in me. I’ve tried to come up with all the ways to do it. I can’t.”
“Don’t be a pussy,” I mock, hoping bullying him into it will work. But with how he holds himself, I’m almost certain forcing him to do this will ruin us. Mentally taking a step back, I inhale
