#brian tee

He’d had many names throughout his life; Francis Xavier Quinn, Julius McCabe and so many others he barely remembered the name his parents had picked when he was born. Not that he cared much; his parents were both high as a kite the day he came into the world, and they’d been high as a kite the day he’d ended their miserable lives. He was almost sure the name they’d given him was something nonsensical, some random word they found on the back of a cigarette packet, or maybe the name of some washed up musician they listened to as they shot their veins up with heroin.

He knew from an early age he could only count on himself, and that suited him just fine. It made him stronger, smarter, more ruthless. He had no problem taking what he wanted from others; after all, if he didn’t, someone else would. He used fear, coerce and control to get what he desired, using people like the puppets they were before discarding them in the dirt. He was successful, rich beyond his wildest dream and with the snap of his finger he could have whatever he wanted. But it was never enough for him, he was always craving more. No matter how much he took from others, his empire never felt complete.

He was feared equally by his employees and victims, grown men cowering before his feet as they begged for their lives. They were pathetic, barely worth the energy it took to pull the trigger that ended their existence, and he never once lost sleep over those he murdered.

Sometimes however, a softer approach was needed to get what he wanted. He’d never been one to bother with emotions, he never stayed with anyone long enough to connect. He knew that some men could be swayed into a business deal by something as simple as a pretty face and soft, supple skin. That was where you came in.

He’d met you while you were waitressing at some dive bar in Ohio, the stress of the world mounted on your pretty little shoulders. You were up to your eyes in credit card debt, and your landlord was threatening to evict you due to unpaid rent. Your lowlife boyfriend gambled and drank your hard-earned money away, and he knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse the offer he made you.

“One small job,” he smiled as you served him another beer, your bright, innocent eyes so filled with curiosity at the handsome, chiseled stranger. “I’ll make you more money in one week than you’d make in a year.”

It was an offer you simply couldn’t refuse, and so you joined him on his next job. He dressed you in designer outfits, had you dripping in diamonds and draped over some conglomerates lap as you schmoozed him. You’d never been a good flirt, but your target didn’t seem to notice through the haze of whiskey and cocaine. You knew what you were doing was wrong, but the cheques your handsome business partner handed you was more than enough to keep you coming back.

For a while, the arrangement worked, but soon he found himself despising the men who did nothing to earn your attention. He watched in disgust as their fat, rubbery fingers caressed your curves while you smiled sweetly and lit their cigars. He listened to you laugh at their terrible jokes, mop the sweat from their clammy brow and trail your finger across their fleshy jowls. He knew your business relationship was over the day he dressed you in a custom red Dior dress. The fabric clung to you, accentuating your breasts in a way that made his cock ache in his Armani suit. This was the kind of shit that made men weak, that distracted them and left their empires open to others. He couldn’t afford to lose what he’d worked so hard to achieve.

“We’re done here,” he growled, throwing you your coat and a wad of cash. “Get the fuck out.”

He didn’t want to explain why he’d cut you out, didn’t want you to know that his body ached for you in a way it never had. That night, instead of using you to get secure a deal with a Russian gun runner, he threatened his wife, watching with deadpan eyes as his adversary pissed himself while he begged for her life. He didn’t listen to the man’s pleas, shooting her before his very eyes.

You’d riled him up, gotten under his skin in a way no one had before. You’d awoken desires he’d worked hard to keep hidden, had ingrained yourself on the very fabric of his brain.

He wanted to make you pay for making him weak, to fuck you until you screamed his name and then leave you high and dry. He wanted to make tears run down your pretty face as he fucked your throat, wanted to tie you down and punish you for making him feel.

He turned up to your apartment with the intention of teaching you a lesson, but instead found you arguing with your piece of shit boyfriend on the street outside. He’d been so sure you’d left him, but you were weaker than he’d thought. But as he listened to the man who was supposed to love you, as he heard him hurl insults at you, his anger shifted.

He was no longer angry with you, but with the man who dared to think he could treat you like dirt. He followed your boyfriend all the way to the bar, hiding in the shadows until he stumbled out at closing time. It had been so easy to kill him, his knife slicing through his neck like butter. He left him bleeding out on the street behind a dumpster, just like the trash he was.

As for you, he needed more time. He couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to fuck you, or kill you for making him feel.