Pleasure doing Bussiness (Whip 3) ✔️ SAMPLE

Chapter 4

NIKLAS

"This is what changed." the man says before opening the door and motioning for me to go inside.

I do, but not before noticing that Mr. Jones has chosen to stay behind, standing at the threshold of the room, one foot still outside, as if preparing to bolt any second, his eyes wide and unblinking making him resemble a scared little animal, a fact that almost makes me break out of character and laugh out loud, something that thankfully doesn't happen.

I internally roll my eyes at his unnecessary theatrics and proceed into the room, before stopping in my tracks.

The garage is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from an old window at the other side of the room, dust bunnies and odd pieces of old furniture and boxes littering the obviously rarely used room.

But what stands at the center of the room is what has me reconsidering my opinion of the scared man standing behind me.

A plastic, life-size doll is hanging from the ceiling, a noose wrapped tightly around its throat.

A cheap, blond wig, one you can usually find in a dollar store, is glued to its head, the nails on both hands painted in blood red. She's dressed in pink, sexy underwear that leaves little to the imagination, something I've never had and never wish to see again.

But the worst part of this deeply disturbing scene is the face of the doll, its features almost unrecognizable, so blurred together they are. It's apparent that someone has burned the face off, leaving in its wake a misshapen horror.

I take a step closer once I've gotten over the shock of seeing such a thing.

It looks even worse up-close, the smell of burnt plastic still clinging to the air around the doll, making my stomach churn unpleasantly.

I start to turn, a question for my possible employer on my lips when something at one of the side walls catches my eye.

The room is dark, without any kind of artificial light, since the small, lonely light bulb that's hanging from the ceiling next to the horror doll, is broken.

Which is probably why I've missed it when I first came in.

The wall is white, or it used to be years ago, the paint now chipped and peeling off, the color more resembling grey than white.

"Master..."

Is written across the wall, in big, bold, red letters, the color an enormous contrast to the said wall, making the word stand out even more.

I frown and come closer, my nose wrinkling as a horrible stench hits me before I reach for my phone and turn on the flashlight.

"Blood?" I ask, even though I already know the answer, and as the man's quiet "yes" drifts to my ears, I simply nod.

"Animal?"

"Most probably." the man says as he finally steps inside and stands beside me, a look on his face saying how much it's taking him to do so, as his eyes still wander to the doll every few seconds before coming back to me.

"My housekeeper is the one who found it. She is the only one who comes here regularly, as I use this as storage and she needed something from one of the boxes."

"That must have been a shock." I blurt out without meaning to, but something about the man's obvious discomfort makes me wish to ease it just a little. Which is completely out of character for me, and something I decide not to dwell on for too long.

Mr. Jones snorts humorlessly and nods, turning around and motioning for me to follow him.

"She was alone when it happened, I was still at the Club. She called me, sounding completely frantic that I barely understood a word of what she was saying. But as soon as I got home, I understood her reaction." he says as the two of us enter the house again.

He makes a beeline toward the liquor chest, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and pouring a tall glass which he drains in one go, before turning to me, an eyebrow raised slightly in offer.

I respectfully decline even though I want nothing more than to take it, already imagining the burn of, what looks like high-quality alcohol, sliding down my throat, but this is a job interview and I'm a professional.

Besides, everything about this man and his situation is already throwing me off my game, the alcohol being the last thing I need if I'm going to keep my head straight.

Mr. Jones turns back around and pours himself another glass, taking a smaller sip this time before taking a seat and throwing his head back with his eyes closed.

It's the first time since I arrived that I've gotten to see the man behind the mask; the real Michael Jones. And the best word to describe him if someone were to ask me in this exact moment would be, exhausted.

The man is obviously at the end of his strength, something I suspected as soon as I saw him despite his smile and big talk, but now it's there for all to see.

It's in the dark marks beneath his eyes, in the small frown perpetually plastered between his brows, and in the rigid line of his jaw, clenched so tightly that I'm not sure how he has managed not to break his teeth by now.

"Did you call the police?" I ask after a few moments, as a thought that the man has fallen asleep goes through my mind, not that I would blame him. He obviously needs to rest.

He sighs and then sits up straight, crossing one of his legs over the other, a mask of nonchalance back in place in a matter of seconds.

"Not yet." he says, taking me by surprise.

"And why not?"

"I called in a favor with a friend of mine that has a private laboratory to come in and take a sample of everything and then I called you. I wanted you to see everything before I called the police. I... I just... I knew that something like this would happen as every new letter came, each crazier than the one before, and told them and they didn't do anything. What if she had done something to someone? What if she'd hanged someone instead of that fucking doll? If I had called them first, they would have taken everything as evidence and I wanted insurance first. After all, I was an attorney before this whole Club business, and I know how these things work."

I nod as the man finally runs out of steam, slumping back against the cushions and draining his glass.

He then sets it on the table and looks at me, his tired eyes pleading for something, something I'm not even sure he knows what yet.

I want to look away, the man's gaze making something long forgotten swirl inside my chest, but I can't.

And so, I find myself extending my hand without a thought as I say "So, when do I start?"