Original Justice (Justice Brothers Book 4)
Original Justice
Suzanne Halliday
Contents
Original Justice
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Acknowledgements
Original Justice
A Justice Brothers Novella
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Suzanne Halliday
ORIGINAL JUSTICE A Justice Brothers Novella
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This book is meant for mature readers who are 18+.
It contains explicit language, and graphic sexual content.
Edited by editing4indies.com
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Formatting By Champagne Formats
For everyone who wishes Bendover was a real place
This one is for you
1
Sometime in the past …
Smoke
When I was eleven years old, my parents were shot and killed right in front of my eyes. The bullet aimed at me missed my heart by only an inch. In the twenty-five years since that day, I wished the guy’s aim had been better at least a thousand times.
Most of the time, I don’t think about what happened, but when a cold snap is in the air and the leaves begin falling to the ground, it all comes rushing back.
Until the moment when everything changed, nothing had been out of the ordinary that morning. We had no clue, no glitch in the matrix to cause a foreshadowing of what was coming. It was simply a normal fall day, not long after the start of sixth grade, and nothing was more pressing on my family’s Saturday agenda than hanging out together.
This is the part of the story where I mention Jeremy because hanging out at home involved him too. My brother. He was sixteen at the time. Just five years older than I was.
My mom had this thing about weekend breakfasts because she hated how crappy we ate during the weekday rush. Our neighbor Sandy gave Mom a recipe for a breakfast casserole. I remember preparing it the night before because it was the first time my mother sat on a stool and drank tea while I stepped up to read and follow the recipe. It was always fun times in the kitchen with Mom.
That morning, Dad grabbed his World’s Best Dad mug, filled it with coffee, and headed out to the garage. He liked to tinker with a classic 1970 Chevelle SS muscle car—a project my mom teased him about by pointing out that nothing was wrong or needed fixing.
I was at the breakfast table drawing with markers, and the casserole was in the oven when Mom yelled up the stairs for Jeremy. He answered like an asshole—that was what I remembered most about my brother. That he was a straight-up asshole.
Mom hollered back. I could hear in her voice that she was nearing the end of her rope. Kids were good at identifying these things, so I assumed Jeremy knew he was being a dick and didn’t care. That was the other thing I remembered about him. He just didn’t care.
When he stormed into the kitchen, an argument broke out. It usually did. Jeremy liked to argue. Liked to say horrible things to everybody. He called Mom a bad word. She freaked and slapped him across the face. That was when Dad came running in from the garage.
My memory gets wonky after that. I recall what happened through a gossamer fog with muted and opaque edges, offering no hint to the underlying subtext. In the center of everything was a tight ball of angry colors, swirling and tumbling in my vision. A sound filled the air. Sort of like the booming noise a space shuttle made in the seconds after lift-off.
I don’t know what I did or what I said. My memory is a blank slate. I only know where I was in the room from reading the police report.
Suspect’s sister, age eleven, found alive with a gunshot wound to the chest in the doorway to the dining room.
So what happened? Did they struggle? Was I trying to run away?
At Jeremy’s trial, the prosecutor said he flew into a manic rage fueled by crystal meth and had a violent argument with his parents. He then took a handgun later proven to be stolen and bartered in several drug transactions and murdered his parents in cold blood. Oh yeah, and he aimed a gun at his sister’s heart and pulled the trigger.
My name is Domineau Rivera, and I’m a survivor.
Interrogator
“Aw, come on, Julian. Cut it out.” Roman batted his cousin’s hand away as the jerk tried to force him to smell his fart.
“Beef stew!”
“You suck.” He chortled. Launching a vicious kick in retaliation, Roman sent a hearty thwack to Julian’s thigh before falling over backward and landing on a pile of laundry.
They would turn eleven this summer. Julian, a few days before him—a fact that his shithead of a best friend and cousin lorded over Roman from the time they could both speak.
In a repeat of last year’s away camp experience, he and Julian got shipped off to the Wild West a week after school let out. And they’d remain at the Dusty T Ranch until the end of August. Fun times!
They spent their first week getting into the groove—getting to know the ranch hands and other campers, understanding the daily schedule, and learning some safety and first-aid basics. Except for one unfortunate incident when one of the older boys decided to take a whiz against the barn, things had been going great.
Damn. As far as Roman was concerned, watching some fifteen-year-old get handed his ass by a grizzled old cowboy with leather skin for disrespecting the ranch was tons of amusing. And Julian agreed.
Actually, they agreed on most things. That was what happened when brothers—their dads, Augustus and Claudius Bishop —had sons within hours of each other. He and Julian grew up together and shared a unique bond that was more sibling than cousin.
And oh, dear god—did they ever know how to find trouble!
Julian reached a hand down to Roman and helped him off the laundry pile. They were supposed to be cleaning their cabin and getting ready for the day ahead. It wasn’t even seven thirty in the morning, and they’d already had a busy hour.
“I’m hungry. Aren’t you?” he asked.
A pair of socks rolled into a ball sailed by his head from Julian’s perfectly executed pitch.
“Don’t start, you little wuss,” his cousin griped. “Breakfast isn’t until eight fifteen, so suck it up, buttercup.”
Roman had a different scenario in mind that did not involve waiting. “Break out the tin of cookies, or I’m telling Uncle Auggie that you got caught jerking off in the shower.”
Julian smacked his head. “Did not!”
“Did too,” Roman countered.
Stomping to his trunk at the foot of his bed, Julian took a key from his pocket and popped the latch. He glanced back at Roman and scowled. Then he swiveled and hurled something at his head. A small package of Oreos hit his cheek.
They sat on Roman’s bed and destroyed the whole package in one sitting.
“Hey, can you believe old Baker is gonna show us how to handle his whip? Man, it was so awesome when he cut that book in half. He says he can take off a rattler’s head with a flick of his wrist.”
Roman’s brow arched with interest. “That is so cool.”
“Check this out. It’s an old storybook about Zorro. That guy had whip skill out the ass.
”
“The mask is kind of cool,” Roman muttered. He flipped through a couple of pages and stopped at the image of the slashed letter z. Anyone could learn how to fix a tire, but this stuff was next level awesome.
“He has a trophy.” Roman tossed the comic in Julian’s lap.
“Who does? Zorro?”
“Don’t be a doofus. Baker. He won a trophy in a bullwhip cracking contest.”
“No shit,” his cousin said with considerable awe. “Well, I can’t wait to see what he teaches us. Don’t you think this place is great?”
He laughed and stuffed the last two Oreos in his mouth. “I’d rather be here than pushing a lawn mower at home.”
After quickly grabbing the rest of his dirty clothes, Julian pulled the string on his laundry bag and shoved it next to his bed. “Come on. Let’s go to the stable. Maybe we can help saddle the horses.”
Roman jumped up and bolted for the cabin door. He tripped Julian as he tried to push past and run outside, making sure to slam the screen door in his face.
“Last one to the end of the path has to clean the bathroom!”
“Boys! Settle down. This ain’t gym class.”
Roman eyed the weathered cowboy who was trying to maintain control over their group. He, Julian, and Tony Baloney—some kid from New Jersey who talked like a mobster—gathered in a half-circle around a telephone pole stuck in the ground behind the barn.
“Now pay attention. Before you get the bullwhip to sing, you have to learn to respect the equipment. One wrong move can mutilate and even kill.”
They watched the old cowboy take position and unfurl his whip. Roman studied the knobby end where it lay on the dusty ground. He bet that thing hurt like the dickens.
“First things first. You wanna throw the bullwhip horizontally nice and easy. Too much power and you’re just a dick. The object is to wrap it around the pole. Watch and learn, boys.”
With a slight movement, Baker pulled his arm back and swung the whip. It sailed through the air and neatly wrapped around the pole.
Tony sniggered. “Can I do that to my sister?”
Baker’s reaction was swift and furious. He grabbed the disrespectful jerk and tossed him on his ass.
“You never use the whip on a person. Understand?”
He stepped back and let the whip fly. It snapped and cracked, landing on Tony’s thigh. The kid yelped and scrambled away far enough that he could stand.
“That hurt!” he cried.
“You’re damn right it did, kid. But it only hurt as much as I let it. That’s the secret of the whip. You decide. A warning crack usually works, but if it doesn’t? How you wield the lash determines if it’s a glancing blow or the type that tears flesh and puts a man on the ground.”
Julian whistled. “Wow.”
“Does it always make that sound?” Roman asked. “The cracking.”
“Control is more important than the sound effects. We’ll work on your basic throw and then add targets. By the time you leave, the bullwhip will be your ally. Treat what you learn accordingly.”
He kept hearing Baker’s words in his head as they went through the lesson. The guy was brilliant and knew his stuff. Tony was an idiot, but he and Julian were naturally competitive and pushed each other.
They were walking back to their cabin when Julian announced he would teach bullwhip someday. Maybe as a college course. Charge people a ton of money too.
The rest of the summer was a blur of Wild West experiences, but what he’d always remember most was a gathering during their last nights at the Dusty T. Roman watched in fascination as Baker and another cowboy put their whip skills on display. It was the first but not the last time he’d see master whip handlers do some amazing stuff like slash watermelons into perfect segments.
As a reward for taking the lessons seriously, Baker gave him and Julian junior whips. It felt like being awarded an Olympic medal, especially since Tony got nothing.
Roman decided then and there to study and learn as much as he could about the whip and its uses. Julian did too.
Not bad for a boy’s summer!
Ninja
“Stop fidgeting.” His mother coldly stared at him without blinking. It was a little freaky.
Drae frowned. All he did was put his hand in his pocket.
“Desireé,” she snarled. “Sit up straight.”
He looked at Desi and made a face.
A photographer bustled about while Hillary St. John treated the poor guy like a dog. It was just the way she was. He and his sister were used to it.
Today’s family fiasco was the annual group portrait—a wintry scene taken during the height of summer. He thought his mother nuts for caring so much about a dumb picture.
His mother cared about a lot of dumb things. And she did an excellent job of harping about dumb things all the time. Her dumb things obsession covered a lot of territory and helped make her a total bitch.
Drae liked the word bitch. It was his new favorite—mostly because it suited his mother so perfectly.
None of her bitchiness or dumb thing obsessions included her kids, though. For as long as he could remember, his mother had been nothing more than a shadowy figure who rarely got involved and took zero interest in him or Desi.
Drae thought he might have cared when he was a little kid, but he was thirteen now and not a crybaby. Hillary St. John was a bitch. Plain and simple. Besides, he was way more interested in his dance teacher’s boobs than whether his mother would be joining them for dinner.
“Where’s Daddy?” Desi started to get antsy. Drae shifted back and forth on his feet and scowled. Their father being late or showing up when he pleased was normal.
The matriarch of the St. John family pursed her lips and ignored Desi’s question. With a starchy look at the photographer she snapped, “Perhaps one of the children and I.”
The photographer hesitated. Desi looked like she was gonna cry. Drae wanted to grab his Game Boy and find a corner to crawl into. Instead, he kept a protective hand on his trembling sister and let the hassled photographer move them through a series of traditional poses.
His mother’s perfume burned his nose and left a nasty taste in his mouth. It was a smell he associated with enclosed spaces—weird, but what could you do? When he was told to put a hand on his mother’s shoulder as she sat and he stood next to her, Drae reached out in fear. She recoiled from his touch.
Arthur St. John burst into the room, barely looked at any of them, and barked, “Where do you want me?”
The photographer pointed and then quickly shuffled him and Desireé into a standard portrait pose.
It was over rather quickly after that. The patriarch of the St. John clan had little interest in or time for his family. As it was, Drae was sure his mother was only there because this was her stupid idea and she had it on her calendar. The minute the family obligation was over, they’d split faster than an atom.
“Let’s go bother the cook,” he whispered to his little sister as their parents walked away without a backward glance. “She said we could eat a whole pan of brownies if we wanted.”
“Can I have whipped cream?” she asked.
In his head, he thought she could have any damn thing she wanted. As the spare to his official status of St. John heir, Desi got the chewed-up end of every stick. And it pissed him off. So he struck back at his cold, unfeeling parents by finding little ways to screw with them. Hanging out in the kitchen with the cook was just one of those ways.
“Sure. Two squirts.”
“I love you, Raygun.” She giggled.
He cocked his head to the side and looked at her with a smirky grin. “I have a new word for you. Ready?”
“Is it a bad word?” He heard the defiant hopefulness in her voice. Yeah, Desi was definitely his sister.
“Of course.” He chuckled.
Making their way to the kitchen, they walked down a long hallway decorated with priceless art that he hated.
“Okay. Here g
oes. Bugger.”
Desi laughed. “Bugger? That doesn’t sound bad.”
“It’s British slang. My English tutor says it all the time.”
“What’s it mean?”
Desi might be younger than he was, but that didn’t mean he would make stuff up. Enough fake crap went on around them without him adding to it.
“It’s a not very nice way to describe grown-ups having sex.”
“Oh. Do you think Madonna buggers?”
He didn’t know but was kinda sure buggering would be an interesting way to express yourself.
“You crack me up, kid,” he answered. “Come on. Let’s run. I’m hungry.”
“Ah, Raygun!” she screamed and took off at high speed.
He let her have a decent head start and then ran after her. He laughed when she started squealing. His parents might suck, but Desi was beyond cool.
The Major and the Counselor
“No, no, no. Try it like this.”
Alex studied Parker as he took one of the cherry bombs they stole from the Villa and inserted it into the hole he carved out in an orange. His friend pushed him back a few steps and pulled a lighter from his pocket.
“Get ready to run,” he said.
Alex nodded and watched carefully while Parker held the flame close to the fuse. It sparked and then started to burn.
“Run, you dumb fuck!”
He moved as fast as his legs would carry him, ducking behind an old barrel. They were miles from the Marquez villa at an old cabin they discovered one day while riding their mountain bikes.
Laughing like dumbasses, they huddled for safety and shot up with shouts of excitement like Jacks-in-the-box when the firework exploded and sent pieces of the orange flying through the air.
“Get the peanut butter,” Parker drawled. “Let’s pack a toilet paper tube with it and stick in the cherry bomb.”