BOSSY BROTHERS: JOHNNY

  Contents

  Bossy Brothers: Johnny

  DESCRIPTION

  CHAPTER ONE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TWO - MEGAN

  CHAPTER THREE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER FOUR - MEGAN

  CHAPTER FIVE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER SIX - MEGAN

  CHAPTER SEVEN - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER EIGHT - MEGAN

  CHAPTER NINE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TEN - MEGAN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TWLEVE - MEGAN

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - MEGAN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - MEGAN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - MEGAN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TWENTY - MEGAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - MEGAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - MEGAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - MEGAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - MEGAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - JOHNNY

  CHAPTER THIRTY - MEGAN

  EPILOGUE - JOHNNY

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  BOSSY BRIDE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOSSY BROTHERS BOOK THREE

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Design: JA Huss

  Cover Photo Sara Eirew

  Copyright © 2019 by JA Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-950232-15-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  DESCRIPTION

  When my father ‘died’ five years ago I took over the ‘family business’. But when I say business, I really mean secret society. Or cult. Or militia. Hell, let’s keep it simple and call it the mob.

  It’s just not that mob.

  It’s much darker, much dirtier, and much more dangerous than any old everyday mob.

  And I was perfectly fine with my role in life for a long time. But now my brothers are involved and I need to get them out.

  Enter Megan Machette.

  When I found her helpless, nearly-naked, and chained to a wall on an island prison I had no intention of being her Prince Charming. But then I found out she had a dirty, dark, dangerous secret that could solve all my family problems.

  I was just going to use her. Play her. Tell her everything she wanted to hear.

  I never planned on baring my secrets to her in a midnight confession and I certainly never expected her to see past the dark filth inside my soul and find the man underneath.

  But she did.

  She wasn’t supposed to be the princess I wasn’t looking for.

  But she is.

  And now I will do anything—even use her evil secret to take down thousands of people—to save my brothers and get what I want.

  Her.

  Bossy Brothers: Johnny features a prince saving his princess from a life of hell, one or ten romantic gestures from a tattooed bad boy, swimming with glowing dolphins in the Bahamas, and secrets so deep everyone almost drowns. Bossy Brothers: Johnny is book three in the series and can be read alone but should be read in order.

  CHAPTER ONE - JOHNNY

  Secrets are seductive.

  Learning them, knowing them, keeping them. Every bit of it is about seduction.

  It’s all lies. We know it’s all lies, they know it’s all lies but no one cares because everyone gets paid. Everyone gets rich. Everyone gets power.

  And power is the only thing that matters.

  I learned this about power a long time ago.

  It’s not about manipulating people, or buying things, or controlling political outcomes.

  Power is all about the ability to live the life you choose.

  When you have enough money to tell people no and walk away for the simple reason that you just don’t want to do something? That’s power.

  But here’s the really fucked-up thing about power—you never have enough. Because saying no to other powerful people? Yeah, it’s not that easy. It comes with consequences.

  I’d call it ironic but irony almost implies there’s a joke in there somewhere. And there’s no joke hiding behind the seductive secrets I’m keeping.

  Anyway, it’s not irony. It’s cynicism. It’s a dose of truth. It’s finally coming to terms with experience and swallowing that bitter pill of realism. Accepting that you’re nothing but a tool they use to make the machine’s wheels turn.

  I should write that down. It’s kinda good.

  Right now I’m on a sixty-six-foot Neptunus yacht speeding through the Caribbean towards a private island owned by the Way, hoping that Charlotte Kane is there, or was there, or there’s some less-powerful dumbfuck on that island who can point me in the right direction. Because I need her. This feeling that she’s the key, that she holds some truth inside her that can illuminate my way through this darkness I find myself in—it’s strong.

  And it’s all I’ve got.

  The Way does a lot of business in the Caribbean. Most of what I know about it happens in the Cayman Islands and the Bahamas and revolves around the money. But I’ve heard rumors about the private islands they own and I have GPS coordinates for one of them, so that’s where I’m heading first.

  They do things on these islands. I’ve heard those rumors too. And most of what I’ve heard revolves around exclusive brothels, invite-only private auctions, and, of course, drugs. When there’s this kind of money being made drugs are almost always involved.

  But I’ve been to this one before a long time ago. I came here with my father and uncle when I was about to turn eighteen and I stayed in one of the bungalows while they went off to some other island for an auction.

  I wasn’t told what was being sold at the auction, and they didn’t come back with anything, so it’s possible they were just lookers, not buyers. But Charlotte was there with a few other Way teens too. I guess, maybe, it could’ve been considered some kind of vacation. Some kind of special Way summer camp. Because for three days we did shit like that. Scuba diving, and boating, and bonfires at night.

  I’d met Charlotte before, but not any of the other kids. Two boys my age, two other girls as well. It’s almost like we were paired off.

  But here’s the thing about Way kids. We know what’s up. We might not know specifics, but we feel it. And there was no way any of us were getting involved with each other while we spent time on that island. Not a chance in hell that we’d pair off and shack up. We barely talked to each other. Everyone was quiet, and introspective, and suspicious of each other. Like we were all spies. I was spying on them, and they were spying on me, and at the end, if anyone said something inappropriate or did something crazy, we’d be punished.

  That was fine with me because I’m a loner anyway. And thinking back on it now, I think they were all loners too. Even Charlotte, who, in just a few short years, would make a name for h
erself as an out-of-control socialite.

  Charlotte could be here. If not on this specific island I have coordinates for, then possibly one of the others owned by the Way. I don’t know where any of the others are and even though the Caribbean is mostly ocean, there’s more than seven thousand individual islands that make up more than a million square miles of land mass.

  Needle meet haystack.

  But I have to start somewhere. If I didn’t have this one island as a starting point, it would be an impossible search. But I do have this one clue and she did go missing in the Straits of Florida so… here I am.

  Charlotte Kane is the key. I know it. It’s more of a sick feeling in my gut than anything specific, but I have learned over the years that a gut feeling is always worth listening to.

  I have kept tabs on her over the years. It’s part of my job. Her family is one of my Contributors. It’s my duty to keep them in line and Charlotte turned into a wild card once she turned twenty-one. Always partying and being seen. Always in the tabloids for her outrageous exploits—kind of like Jesse, now that I think about it.

  I don’t know if she’s important in the grand scheme of things, but from my experience with the Way, when women go missing there’s usually a reason. I don’t like to think about it too much because my mother was one of those missing people. But we’re long past the point of self-imposed ignorance. Too much has happened this summer to pretend the endgame isn’t in play. Too many deviations from the status quo to believe that this is just business as usual.

  They are suspicious of me.

  They are maybe even tired of me.

  The Boston family. Always going off script. Always a problem. I know that’s what they think of us and I can’t help but feel that our time is up. That they have someone else waiting in the wings to come take my place.

  Which would be fine. Great, actually. If I thought I was getting out alive.

  But no one gets out alive.

  There’s things in play, and plans in motion, and people doing things.

  Secret things. Dark things. Evil things.

  Secrets, I decide, are the real key, and Charlotte has some. Maybe not the right ones. Maybe not the exact ones I need. But she has some that I don’t and I want them.

  I can accept the idea that I’m doomed. That there’s no future with Johnny Boston in it. But I can’t take everyone else down with me. I didn’t work this hard fucking up Jesse’s prospects and keeping Joey away just to let them get swept up into the life I’ve been living.

  So I need Charlotte. I’m holding on to that idea with an unreasonable sense of desperation.

  I tell myself that I’m not being seduced by her secrets, but that’s just another form of self-imposed ignorance, I guess.

  I’m tired of doing my job. I’m tired of being in the dark.

  I want out of this fucking mess and I want to take my brothers with me.

  The only way to do that is to answer all the fucking questions by getting all the fucking secrets.

  Charlotte has only been missing for ten months so there’s a good chance she’s still here in the Caribbean and a small chance that she’s actually here on this island.

  But as the yacht approaches the dock I spy light gray smoke curling up from the interior forest, indicating that a clean-up job was recently completed, and realize my small chance just slipped away.

  They know about that shit-show meeting the Contributors whipped up out at the Kane Estate. They know the natives are restless. And it’s obvious now that they knew I was coming.

  Of course they do.

  They know what I’m up to the same way I knew what the Kanes were up to. Spies everywhere. Making sure we all do our jobs, keeping all their good little soldiers in line.

  I keep my approach and pull the yacht up to the dock anyway. The smoke could be a ruse. I can’t see any of the outbuildings from the shore because of the thick interior jungle. The only things I can see from the dock are the boathouse—empty—and the maintenance shed. Both still standing, neither showing any signs of distress.

  I jump up on the deck with the line, quickly tie up the yacht, and then shade my eyes with my hand and look around.

  There’s a really nice beach here. Long, and wide, and white. So clean and white you know this sand was recently shipped in. But there’s a smell in the air. A really sick, foul smell that immediately warns me to rethink my plan.

  I’m not the type of man who takes kindly to warnings, so I walk down the dock, jump onto the sand and decide to hit up the main house first.

  There are six bungalows here that will also need to be checked, just to be sure. Plus a few other… containment facilities.

  When I spent those few days here almost fifteen years ago for Way Kid Summer Camp I explored the whole place. Most of the secrets this island was keeping were in mid-construction and there were no people being detained down in the underground bunkers. But even a kid knows that the only reason you build cells deep below the earth is to keep people there.

  And even if I didn’t figure it out while I was there, my father told me things when I got home. He said, “Johnny, forget everything you saw on that island. Forget every face, forget every building, forget every question you asked yourself while you were there. Because the things that will happen on that island in the coming months will stain your soul. And you don’t want any part of it.”

  His words were kind of poetic. Not something my father was known for. And they stuck with me all this time for that very reason.

  I’m conflicted about my knowledge of this island for two reasons. One—secrets are seductive because knowing them makes you special. And that’s how they trap you. They make you special. They give you money, and a tall building to call home, and bank accounts filled with billions of dollars. But it’s just a trap and nothing more. Just a way to lure you in and keep you prisoner. No. I’m not locked up in an underground cell. But I might as well be.

  And two—I kept that secret and never told anyone so that makes me one of the bad guys.

  That’s another trap. How do you ask anyone for help when you’re part of the problem?

  I have nine days before I need to be back in the spire of the Bossy Building collecting white envelopes. I won’t make Joey do that for me. I can’t, actually, make Joey do that for me. It would send so many bad messages to my bosses.

  Nine days. That’s it. That’s all I can afford. I need to find Charlotte, put this plan of Brooke’s in place, and get back there for the final money-making ceremony. Because I have already decided I’m done. I’m not gonna do this anymore. One way or the other I’m cashing in and checking out.

  We’re probably all gonna die.

  But fuck it. Everyone’s gonna die eventually. Not even those above me can cheat death.

  The sandy path that leads up to the main house is just as pristine as the beaches, signaling that the upkeep of the island was recent and its demise unplanned.

  Yup. They’re on to me.

  I grab my Kel-Tec from the small of my back, check the chamber and the magazine, and then take a deep breath, holding it in for a moment before letting it out. At this point the signals are clear. I’m not expecting anyone to be here. Not alive, anyway. So I don’t spend another moment dwelling, just walk forward and try my best to be alert, impartial, and logical.

  The house is a big traditional plantation-style home and even though I can’t see most of it, I know the wide, covered porch wraps all the way around from my previous visit.

  I don’t need to go inside or even walk around the porch to check for people because it’s clearly been burned from the inside out. The once-yellow exterior is now charred with black and most of the porch is gone.

  I keep walking.

  Down the path about a quarter of a mile I come to the first of six bungalows. Or what’s left of it. Mostly just embers in the dirt. A few thicker beams still smoldering. Producing the light gray smoke that curls up into the bright mid-day sky.

  It’s a
long walk to check every single bungalow, but it has to be done. So I take my time. Enjoying what I can of the quiet, almost-peaceful atmosphere. Pretending, the way I always do, that things are cool. Just fine. Just another day in the life of Johnny Boston.

  Each bungalow is like the first. No bodies to speak of. Either they evacuated everyone before they wiped it clean or they’re somewhere burnt and buried under the blackened, charred remains of the small houses.

  No real way to tell without getting my hands dirty and that’s not why I came.

  I’m looking for Charlotte, after all. She’s only good to me alive anyway. And if she’s alive, then she’d be in the hidden facilities underground. Checking the bungalows is just a precaution to avoid an unnecessary surprise.

  Or possibly I’m just trying to put off the inevitable. Because what does my life look like when I’m done here? Do I really think I’ll earn the fairy-tale ending? Really?

  I don’t think that. I know there’s nothing waiting for me even after I get out. But I want Jesse and Emma to have a chance at a future. I want to give Joey time with all three of his lovers. And right now this island is my only clue so I’m gonna check it thoroughly.

  I don’t like the underground facilities. They creeped me out that day I saw them unfinished and now that I’m back, they creep me out even more.

  All those years I’ve kept that secret.

  How many people did they hold down there?

  I tried not to think about this island after I went home. Did my best to do as my father asked and just forget. My sanity depends on forgetting. I’m sure everyone who’s heard of my reputation would argue that I’m not really sane anymore, but it could be worse. They don’t know that, but I could be a lot worse if I didn’t learn to forget.

  I have deep-rooted coping mechanisms in place. My mind is a building, much like the Bossy. A maze of convoluted pathways and different floors, and elevators, and hidden stairways. A place that requires a map to find your way around. Well-guarded with the best security protocols in place.