#c ollie
The pain ripped through him like a bolt of clarity, clearing his mind of his muddled thoughts for a split second. It was cleansing, almost, and refreshing; without his fury and his hurt and his confusion muddling his thoughts, he was able to be rational—but the moment lasted for just that, a moment. And in that moment he realized that he might have been a fucking idiot.That still didn’t change the fact that Sandy had fucking stabbed him, though, and that was definitely something to get angry about, if nothing else. Sticky warmth trickled down his chest, staining his shirt. It was difficult to discern where his skin had actually been pierced, but that wasn’t the issue at hand, nor was the glass that was suddenly in his hands as he crashed into Sandy’s desk and landed badly on something, probably a tumbler. What he was most concerned with now was the only question he could think of, the one thing he needed before he could go, before this could be over.
Sandy’s goons appeared out of nowhere (by this he was not surprised: if he were in Sandy’s position much of the same would be occurring), but he was ready. He jerked his hand out of the one man’s grasp and elbowed him in the nose, sending blood spurting onto his rolled-up sleeve. Using all his force he jerked the other one into him, then changed directions and sent his fist hooking into the man’s jaw.
In the moment that bought him, he returned his attention to Sandy. The letter opener scraped harshly against his collarbone as he ripped it out of himself—oh, so thatwas where it went—and held it against Sandy’s neck, throwing his weight into crushing Sandy against the wall once more.
“Look,” he said, his voice shaking a little with exertion, “Just answer one question, and I’m out of here. One question and you’ll never have to fuckin’ speak to me again.” He paused for a moment, catching his breath, then: “Is the baby yours?”
Sandy watched as Oxford broke free from the grasps of his guards. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind Sandy was commending him for his escape. His guards were no slouches, and being able to so much as distract either of them was impressive.
But the thought was minute. Really, more than anything, his rage was winning out over any other emotions. How dare this man come into his business and cause all of this commotion. Did he come to The Stingray and cause such a fuss? If he was feeling a bit more rational, he’d point that fact out to Oxford. But his biggest focus right now was getting the man out of his fucking club before he killed him.
There was anger simmering behind Sandy’s eyes, but no fear, as Ollie held the letter opener to his throat. As if that would fucking stop him. Sandy grabbed the thing from Ollie’s hands, before pushing him far enough so he could throw a punch. He put as much force as he could muster behind it, hoping that it broke the fucker’s jaw, and when he heard the crunching of bone beneath his fist, Sandy started to feel a little bit better.
But only a little.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” he shouted, his guards finally rising to their feet again. About goddamn time. “Your Lombardi bitch getting pregnant doesn’t have shit to do with me! It’s not my fucking fault that your dick wasn’t enough for her! Now get the fuck out of my office, do not come back, and if you do I swear to God I will kill you where you stand.”
Ollie was tired of his encounter with Sandy already, and he was rapidly losing his patience. Normally he would have been able to quell the wrath he felt, suppress his own emotions, but not now, not today. Not like this. Today he was feeling violent, and for once he actually felt the freedom to act on what he felt.
The explosion with which he rocketed into movement surprised even himself. One moment he was several feet away from Sandy; the next, his fingers were curled in the collar of the pimp’s shirt, strong-arming him from his chair to the wall. His arms pressed Sandy against the wall with a determination he hadn’t felt in ages, his breathing coming quick and shallow.
God, he was angry.
“Too slow,” he said, a twinge of amusement marking his tone. “I’m tired of the games.”
A part of him feared that Sandy wouldn’t react, would try to reason out of it, but he sure hoped not.
As soon as Oxford grabbed him, Sandy’s body went ramrod straight. He hardly felt the impact of his back hitting the wall, or anything except the rapid beating of his heart against his chest. Tempting Sandy McKenzie’s rage was one of the least intelligent things a person could do, largely because Sandy McKenzie ceased to exist once his anger got the best of him.
Sandy only existed in the most base of his senses; the sound of blood rushing through his ears, the smell of sweat and liquor. Sandy was all too aware of it in moments like these. And he was also extremely aware of the goddamn letter opener that was still clutched between his fingers.
Oxford was saying something but Sandy couldn’t have cared less what he said. His arm rose upward quickly, jabbing the letter opener as hard as he could into the man’s collar.
Blood gushed forth quickly, coating the once white collar of his shirt. Sandy jabbed the opener in further as he pushed him back, sending Oxford falling back onto his desk.
His guards, God bless them, were throwing open the doors as soon as the sound of breaking glass could be heard. They were on Ollie in a second, looking to their boss only after the potential threat had been somewhat secured.
“Get him the fuck out of here,” Sandy hissed, his eyes locked on Ollie’s as he spoke. “And if he tries to come back in, I’ll fucking finish him off myself.’
Ollie nearly rolled his eyes at Sandy’s words. He had completely missed the point, apparently—although Ollie knew he hadn’t exactly been the clearest about it. Maybe it was more fun to be cryptic, or maybe he was still holding out hope that Sandy would admit it before he had to put everything out on the table.Apparently he would have no such luck.
“This isn’t about Francesca, McKenzie!” he said, his voice at a near-shout. He was rapidly losing patience with the pimp. As he let that sink in he drew closer, knowing full well that Sandy had grabbed a knife. He didn’t care; he’d had worse. He’d been shot and stabbed and punched and threatened and none of that had phased him, and if Sandy thought he was going to be the man to break Ollie, well, he had another fucking thing coming.
"This is about you and me.”
He clenched his jaw, preparing himself for what was ahead. This was probably going to hurt, but it was worth it. He had to stand his ground—couldn’t let others thing he was easy to mess with. It was now or never.
“You say I can’t come in here and threaten you, yeah?
So prove it.”
This isn’t about Francesca.
Then what the fuck was all this about then? Oxford had no other reason to feel such hatred for him, after all. Hell, until before that bloody Valentine’s ball they’d been on pretty decent terms. So if it wasn’t about Francesca, then what? How the fuck was he supposed to appease a man who couldn’t even call forth the right words to voice his complaints?
"What the fuck about us? There’s nothing between us, Oxford, nothing.”
Sandy had half a mind to call in his guard, and if their argument got too much louder, the guy would coming running anyway. But sometimes Sandy needed to handle his own problems, and Ollie Oxford was quickly becoming one of them.
He leveled Ollie with a warning look, his lips drawn into a thin line as he spoke. “You are going to tell me what the fuck your problem is in the next five seconds or you are going to leave, one way or another. Now, make a fucking choice.”
The lack of a reaction from Sandy was frustrating, although he hadn’t known what he’d expected—was Sandy really the kind of man to get bent out of shape or to show his cards? Still, Ollie continued ahead anyway. If he had to be blunt, he’d be blunt. So fucking be it.“The whole thing with Francesca. I was incredulous at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. She came to me outright—outright begging for my forgiveness, and that’s when I knew it was true. She wouldn’t have fought so hard if it weren’t true.”
The images that came to mind pained him: of Francesca, tears streaming down her face, swearing her love. It wasn’t entirely true that she’d begged… in the end, she’d been the one disgusted with him. But he supposed that was the price of protecting oneself and one’s assets. His attention had to be focused on one point at all times, or he’d be trampled beneath the heavy feet of the city he so cherished. He couldn’t afford to divide his attention with things like family and love. Her disgust was really the best thing for both of them.
The thought didn’t make the gaping hole in his chest feel any better.
What would make him feel better, he suspected, was punching Sandy in his smug fucking face. He’d have to be patient, though, or surely his message wouldn’t get across.
"What I’m tryin’ to say here is that you used me as your patsy, and that doesn’t sit well with me.” He drew nearer to Sandy, rounding the man’s desk without getting too close. He didn’t want to start anything yet. “Are you so fucking incompetent that you can’t compete with me like any normal businessman would?”
Okay, so maybe he was a little impatient to get to the part where he got to release the tightly-coiled aggression in his stomach, but was that really such a crime?
It appeared that whatever had transpired between Ollie and Miss Lombardi all but destroyed what remained of the man’s fragile psyche, because he was rambling. Every word that came from his mouth was nonsensical to him. Half-formed thoughts were passing his lips and Sandy couldn’t be arsed to figure out just what it was all supposed to mean.
But then Ollie was closing in on him, and Sandy was feeling far less patient than he had been a few moments ago. He did not want to come to blows with Mr. Oxford, and certainly not in his office, but he’d be damned if let himself be threatened in his own establishment. There was a letter opener sitting on Sandy’s desk, and he did not even attempt to conceal his movement to grab it.
“I didn’t use you as anything, Oxford, and if I wanted to I could destroy you. I don’t know what is going on in your head, and to be truthful, I couldn’t care less, but you will not come into my business and threaten me with this sort of hostility without repercussions.”
Sandy did not move from his seat. He didn’t need to. Ollie was a larger man, but if push came to shove, he could finish him off without having to leave his chair. “You do not want to go down this road, Oxford. Use your fucking head. I don’t want your bitch, I never have, and the sooner you realize this the happier we’re both going to be.”
Ollie followed Sandy wordlessly, as he really had nothing to say that wouldn’t start something he was prepared to deal with in public. The muscles in his shoulders tensed the closer they got to Sandy’s office, knowing what was ahead. Knowing that he might be able to get his answers—or at least some resolution.“Not a social call,” he replied, surprised at the ease with which the words came out. Maybe he still had some semblance of his characteristic ability to hide his emotions left after all. Then again, maybe not. It all depended on how this meeting with Sandy went.
But he had a feeling it wouldn’t go over very well.
“Just business.” He neared Sandy’s desk and turned around, regarding the pimp, who was still by the door, with a calm gaze.
“I hear yours is going well. Nice place you’ve got, the Siren. And your girls seem to be doing just fine,” he continued, purposely avoiding the subject. He wanted to build up to it, see if he could find any recognition in Sandy’s eyes before he got to the meat of the problem that had brought him into Sandy’s domain.
”I was actually thinkin’ we could coexist pretty effectively, maybe even mutually benefit from our two businesses. I was kind of looking forward to it, seeing as you’re an extremely reasonable person with reasonable business practices.” He laughed. “That what I thought, anyway.”
His agitation was starting to show a little, the muscles in his jaw becoming more clenched as he spoke on. “Tell me, Sandy, was it—was it part of some kind of master plan or was it more of an accident? Inquiring minds want to know.”
Ollie was posturing, and Sandy didn’t have the time. Whether he was attempting to lure him into a false sense of security or something else, he couldn’t be sure. But either way, Sandy wasn’t impressed with the tactic.
He took a seat in his chair, looking nonplussed as Ollie spoke. If the man meant to spark some sort of emotion from him, it wasn’t likely to work. He had no attachments to Francesca Lombardi or him. The stunt at the Valentine’s Day ball had been nothing more than that – a stunt. But if Mr. Oxford wanted to believe it was something more than that, so be it. It wasn’t his problem if the idiot allowed himself to get bent out of shape over nothing.
When Ollie asked his question, Sandy didn’t really know how to answer. The man had given little allusion to what aspect of that incident he was referring to.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be blunt, Mr. Oxford,” he said, looking completely unfazed by Ollie’s cracking facade. “Because I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
I’ve been expecting you.That phrase alone grated on him, making him grit his teeth. Of course Sandy had been expecting him. They’d had this appointment with eachother for a while, apparently, though Ollie hadn’t known it until recently. It had taken a visit from Francesca and a lot of thinking to confirm it, but now that he was here, there was no going back.
He regarded Sandy with cool interest, not wanting to appear too bent out of shape. It wasn’t like him to show his emotions so plainly; he wasn’t doing as good a job as usual of hiding what he felt and he knew it. That fact irritated him endlessly, but there was little he could do to fix it. He needed time, mainly, and the company of people whose senses were not quite so keen as men like Sandy’s were. He had rarely sought stupidity in the past—he preferred to keep himself intellectually stimulated whenever possible—but now, in his weakened state, it was difficult for him to maintain the usually-seamless facade he’d grown so accustomed to wearing in more sophisticated company.
“Same as they ever were,” Ollie replied, lying through his teeth. He was certain Sandy could tell, but he found himself rapidly becoming less concerned with pretense. He eyed Sandy’s drink for a moment, waiting for him to make a dent in it before continuing.
“I was hopin’ we could talk, if you have a moment to spare.” He looked around, eyes scanning the faces of the men and women around the Siren. “Preferably in a place where there are fewer ears to hear what is said.”
To say that Mr. Oxford was bent out of shape would’ve been a grievous understatement. Upon their previous meetings, Sandy had always noticed that Ollie could affect a calm demeanor as easily as himself. But he was in quite a state, that veiled anger probably not quite as veiled as Ollie would’ve liked. He was upset, for reasons that he could only assume had to do with Francesca, and Sandy had to admit that he found some vague sort of amusement in it all.
When had Sandy ever given Ollie the impression that he wasted time on romance? Certainly, he had women on his arm more often than not, but that was the thing of it – you saw women, plural, never the same one. Really, his choice of date was as much an accessory as the tie he decided to wear on any given day. Why would someone like him have a need for one woman, when he could have as many as he fucking wanted?
The logic of that clearly was beyond Mr. Oxford’s comprehension in his emotionally weakened state.
It didn’t surprise him that Ollie wanted privacy for his little temper tantrum, but Sandy was loathe to give it to him. Sandy knew exactly how this would play out – he had stolen enough women from less-competent men that it was practically old hat. They would go someplace private, Ollie would give him a few harsh words about “taking his dame,” and then Sandy would carry on with his day. There was no need to tell an already-angered man what a boring fuck his wife was, or if he was pleasing his girlfriend perhaps she wouldn’t be so easily swayed into his bed. It was all but implied.
Only a man who had nothing to offer couldn’t keep control of a woman. Sandy controlled over thirty. There was nothing else to be said.
But Sandy still had some small measure of respect for Ollie, so he nodded his head in response to his request. Finishing off his scotch quickly and cleanly, Sandy rose from the bar and led the man back to his office.
He unlocked the door, allowing Mr. Oxford to step inside first, before closing the door behind them.
“So, Mr. Oxford, I’m going to make the assumption this isn’t a social call.”
