Contest!

There is an amazing contest going on at Lauren's Crammed Bookshelf! Thee signed copies of Lonely Hearts Club! I almost bought this book but put it back at the last minute. Maybe because I was destined to win it!

Here is option one for my villains class:

Currently untitled because I can't come up with non-cliche titles.

There was a brief knock on the door before it swung open. A big man built like a refrigerator stuck his head in.

“Mr. Patrick, Drake is here with a package.” Mr. Patrick glanced at the clock and sighed.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Patrick. I already called.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harris. Show them in.” Mr. Harris nodded and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Mr. Patrick straitened his already perfect silk tie, and flicked imaginary dust off the cuffs of his Italian suit.

Before a flicker of impatience could cross his hard features, the door swung open again. Mr. Harris was back, but with two men in tow. The one behind Mr. Harris was a lean man. His arms swung in a twitchy motion at his sides. His eyes immediately inspected the fit man behind the desk, and then to the windows and vents in the room.

Behind him was a man who looked completely…average. Unremarkable. He was five feet nine, brown hair, brown eyes, enough muscle to be able to handle himself, but not so much that he would look intimidating. This man would never be remembered or noticed. The only thing about him that was distinctive was his eyes. They were calculating. He would look at a person the way people would look at a math problem or a bill when it was time to figure the tip. Human eyes shouldn’t be able to look like that.

Oh, and the gun in his hand trained on the man in front of him was pretty distinctive, too.

“Drake,” Mr. Patrick called genially, completely ignoring the quivering man, and Mr. Harris, whose hand was now resting on something inside his jacket. “Or is it The Drake? I’m afraid I was never clarified on that.”

“I don’t really care what you call me as long as I’m paid in cash.” His voice was even flat. Mr. Patrick chuckled and pulled a manila envelope out of the side drawer and tossed it to the man who caught it with his left hand without his gun wavering or taking his eyes off his target.

“If it isn’t all there, you will be hearing from me,” he said as he pocketed both the gun and the money.

“I wouldn’t dream of ripping you off. I hope we can do business in the future.” Mr. Patrick replied back, calm despite the thinly veiled threat. Drake turned and stalked out of the room.

Silence filled the room, pressing down on the quivering man, causing sweat to trickle down his neck.

“So, Nathan” Mr. Patrick said, “I hear you’re looking for extra money.” He clasped his hands together. The soft sound reverberated in the quiet room.

“Well, I mean, a man can always look for money, I mean, likes extra, but I don’t think, I wouldn’t say, you know, that I’m looking looking, you know? I mean if there was a twenty on the ground, you bet your ass that I would pick it up, pardon the language sir. Hell, even if it were a penny—” He stopped his rambling abruptly when Mr. Patrick raised his hand.

“Do we really need to play this game?” he asked, slightly exasperated, slightly amused.

“Game, sir? I don’t know what you mean.” Spots of perspiration were now obvious on his shirt and his voice had gone up a notch. Mr. Patrick didn’t look impressed. He glanced at the clock again and sighed. He nodded once to Mr. Harris who locked the door.

“Nathan, it really didn’t have to come to this. If you would have told me you wanted more money, we would have worked something out,” Mr. Patrick said as he stood and took his dark suit coat off.

“What…I don’t…” Nathan’s face was pale now. Mr. Patrick took off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. Mr. Harris came up behind the quivering man and secured him in place. Mr. Patrick neatly folded his white shirt and placed it on the back of his chair and approached the helpless man in his under shirt.

“This is very simple. You will tell me who you have been selling my secrets to. The only unknown is how many hours of pain you will endure first. And it would be in your best interests to tell me sooner than later. I have business to attend to tonight.” Mr. Patrick’s thoroughly muscled frame was covered in scars and bulging muscles.

“I swear Mr. Patrick, I know nothin’. Please,” Nathan’s voice was nothing more than a rough whisper at this point. His knees had given out on him and he was being held up by the restraining embrace of Mr. Harris.

******

The screams didn’t last long. The man was weak and soon he spilled his guts. Mr. Harris dropped the now unconscious man on the floor.

“I think that last swing broke his jaw, sir.” He sounded proud of his boss.

“Patch him up and put him in holding until I’m sure that’s all he’s told. And take care of the names he mentioned. Except for Ms. Day. Invite her to a meeting tomorrow. She will require a more delicate touch.” Mr. Patrick discarded his now blood splattered beater and pulled an extra from the closet and began to make himself decent again.

“Got it boss.” Mr. Harris opened the door and muttered a few words to the burly men standing to either side of it. They walked in and dragged the bloodied man away.

Soon after, there was a smart rapt at the door and a neat, silver haired lady entered.

“That didn’t take long. Pathetic man,” she said eyeing the bloody carpet.

“May I help you Felicia?” Mr. Patrick asked looking at her in the mirror as he tied his tie.

“Couldn’t you put tarps down first? Or at least have your men carry them rather than drag them? Now I’m going to have to get the whole hallway cleaned. Again.” She spoke to him not in the same tone of awe like the rest of his men, but rather the brisk and disapproving tones of a mother.

“May I help you Felicia?” Mr. Patrick said again.

“Penny called and left a message.” She walked over, carefully avoiding the soiled spot in the carpet and handed him a slip of paper. He read it with a small smile situated on his lips.

“Thank you. Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.” The sir was a bit sour in her mouth and she turned to leave.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Expect Ms. Day sometime tomorrow.” She turned to face him with a terse expression on her face.

“Any specific time, sir.”

“No, ma’am.” His face was stoic but his eyes were merry.

“I’ll pencil her in.” It was hard to tell, but the corners of her mouth may have twitched a bit a smile, but she stalked out of the room before anyone could enquire.

“Ready, Mr. Patrick?” Mr. Harris asked, holding his boss’ coat. He nodded and slid into it.

“We just have to make one quick stop.”

*******

The sleek black car pulled into the drive of an impressively large house, or rather mansion might be a better term for it. The gate swung shut as Mr. Harris opened the back door. A soft whinny could be heard coming from the stables and ducks were randomly roaming his yard. Mr. Harris escorted Mr. Patrick to the door and just before his boss slipped inside, Mr. Harris caught his sleeve. He looked up at the burly man, one eyebrow raised in a question.

“Don’t tell her it’s from me,” he said gruffly as he pressed a small teddy bear into the other’s bruised hand. He nodded and shut the door quietly behind him.

Mr. Patrick walked through the quiet, but immaculate house. There weren’t many lights on, but he guided himself through the shadows with ease. He stopped in the kitchen for a moment.

A woman sat at the table, the glass in front of her sweating onto the table. She didn’t acknowledge his presence. She hadn’t really looked at him since the accident. He shrugged out of his coat and left it draped across one of the chairs because he knew it annoyed her, and set his brief case on the table. At least it used to.

He walked to the cupboard and pulled a bottle of amber liquid out of the back and poured a generous amount for his wife. He kissed her on the forehead and pretended not to notice when she flinched. He pulled the bear out of coat pocket, grabbed his brief case and left the room, the bottle still beside her.

He walked down more shadowy halls lined with famous paintings, some even bought legally. His eyes lingered on a particularly beautiful ballerina picture. He avoided the photographs. At the end of a hallway, light spilled out from under a door.

He knocked quietly below the princess slippers attached to the door and peeked in.

“Hi, Daddy.” The girl’s voice was little more than a whisper. He came in the pink room and walked carefully over the toys—dolls, animals, building blocks, and the G. I. Joes Mr. Harris picked out for her last birthday—and made his way to the overly frilly canopy bed.

The girl was hard to pick from all the animals and dolls pilled on her bed. Her face was pale and porcelain, with delicate features and glassy green eyes. Her father carefully stepped over the wires and cords leading to the beeping monitors and to the little girl.

“Hi, Penny.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly, as if he were afraid she might break.

“Did Leesha tell you?”

“Yes, Felicia told me.”

“Did you get it?”

“You’ve been getting a lot of toys lately.” He tried to keep his voice stern.

“But aren’t I worth it?” She batted her little eyelashes at him. He sighed, knowing it was useless trying to hold out against her. He snapped open his brief case and pulled out a thin book and passed it to her. She gasped as she took in the beautifully illustrated cover and ran her hand along the Princess’ dress.

“What’s the words mean?” she whispered reverently.

“The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” he read, pointing to the words as he said them.

“I haven’t heard that one before. Could you read it to me now?” Just then a soft knock came at the door and a woman in nurse uniform came in.

“Is now a good time?”

“No,” Penny said petulantly.

“Be polite,” he said and kissed her on the forehead again. He slipped the bear to her as he stepped out of the nurse’s way.

“A Teddy!” she squealed.

The nurse chuckled as she checked the numbers on the monitors.

“Is it from Harris?” Penny inquired.

“How did you know?”
“The teddy has a tattoo on his arm.” This made them all chuckle, but Penny soon began coughing. The nurse listened to her lungs and told the slight girl to lay back and breath slow and deep. She checked that the IV ports were clean and tested the mobility of her legs. She made some notes on the clipboard in her hand and left the room. Mr. Patrick followed her out.

“Daddy,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back.” He shut the door behind him and turned to the nurse, hidden in the shadows. “How is she doing?” he whispered.

“Her lungs are a bit wet, but are much better. But her legs…she still doesn’t have control over anything from her bellybutton down.” She placed a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry but the treatment isn’t working.”

“We’ll find another.” His voice was firm, sure.

“Of course,” she said gently. “And your wife…”

He sighed. “I know, her drinking is getting worse, but I won’t force her into a clinic if she doesn’t want to go.”

“Don’t and you’ll wake to find a dead body in your house.”

He nodded, knowing it was true, but not knowing what to say. Not knowing if he would care if she did.

“I’ll put her to bed once she passes out.”

“Thank you.” The nurse nodded and turned to go back to her quarters. He turned to go back into the room, but something caught his eye—his reflection in the glass of a picture hanging on the wall.

It was just after Penny’s first ballet recital. Her cheeks were flushed the same pink as her tutu from the excitement. His wife’s hair was done up in curls and she clutched her daughter close in one arm and her husband in the other. They were all smiling. They were all happy.

They were a family.

He looked back to his reflection. His face was more lined and he looked haggard. He didn’t sleep well anymore. Without the comforting warmth of his wife next to him in bed, nightmares kept haunting him.

It was the same each night: the sound of bullets roared like a beast. Bullets that were meant for him. Bullets that missed their target and ripped into his daughter. The way his heart shattered, it felt as if they had hit their mark.

He turned his back on the picture and faced Penny’s door again. He pulled himself together, reminding himself that since that day, he has reorganized crime and that nothing like that would ever happen again. He would get them before they got her.

He returned to his spot by Penny’s bed and picked up the book and began to read.

“Long ago and far away, at the edge of a humble village, there lived a young farmer named Peter.” He clutched the book so tightly that his bruised hands screamed in pain, but he embraced the pain, knowing that the pain he caused kept Penny safe.