Thread: The Point of No Return (The_PG&Malicious Lullaby)

Pratt Xander Ellison III woke slowly as he always did at five in the morning. From the bedroom of his multi-million dollar penthouse he watched as the first rays of morning sun drifted over the city skyline. The lines of blazing light sliced through the big bay windows that overlooked the busiest and most happening part of the city. They drifted slowly throughout the room until settling, it seemed, on the figure sleeping next to him. A slow grin spread over his handsome face as the memory of how they met, how he seduced this new 'flavor' as he had overheard his secretary discussing with a worker bee at the firm. Then how they'd partied, and fucked popped into his head. The grin grew larger and he lifted the covers that were currently hiding what he had explored late into the evening the night previous. The cool air rushed over creamy skin, and goosebumps spread rapidly enough to wake his prize. She blinked, clearly confused, before remembering. An embarrassed smile crossed her pretty features, one that Pratt returned. Back ta sleep luv, He said softly in what remained of his clipped Irish brogue. It had mostly disappeared like the rest of his ancestry. He did not have red hair, or freckles on his face, over the generations they had faded away. So to was the accent, but that was the one thing that Pratt clung to with typical ferocity and ease. It made him stand out, the ladies loved it, and men thought it made him friendlier than he truly was. The fact was, it was hardly a brogue, it more sounded like a high classed British politician trying to pander to those in the north. Fortunately Americans did not have a very good ear, and Pratt knew better than to try and pretend in front of anyone who actually was from the 'old country.' It was something or someone like his great-great-great-great grandfather who had come over in a boat. Five or six generations ago, even Mr. Ellison II was not sure, and Pratt's father had also taken pride in his heritage. For the son, he took as much pride in it as was useful, and that was enough. The distraction for last night fell back asleep, and Pratt shifted out of the bed smoothly. The lightest of ache's was behind his eyes, but that was another part of his heritage that his own body clung to without any conscious thought, he could drink most men and almost all the ladies straight under the table. The next day was never painful for Pratt, simply more annoying or less. Today was more. Last night had come with a bit of a meaning behind it, drinking to forget, and drinking to loosen up, he had been tense, but it would all be over today. That fookin reporter! His mind snarled as he slipped into the shower, having been nude almost the entire previous evening. The hot water eased both muscles, the ache behind his eyes, and the ache between his legs. Then it finally began attacking the remaining bits of guilt and anxiety that had settled into his gut. By the time the shower was finished and Pratt was mid-way into his morning workout routine the feelings were entirely smashed. He was eating when the sexy... Hairdresser? No, that was the other night. This one was a college student, she majored in Art? Art. Now if only I could remember her name... Jessica? Amber? Michelle? Katie? Ashlynne? Kaitlyn! Mornin to ya Kaitlyn, how'ja sleep? The sleepy nod was followed by a yawn, and then a rather meek question, Bathroom? Just down te hall der. Dey'll be some grub on ta table. Yer gonna have ta let yerself out, but teh butler, Jimmy, he'll letcha out. I'm off fer the job. She seemed rooted in the spot, torn between a question, shame, and hopefulness. Pratt crossed the kitchen and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. I'll be callin, don'tcha worry. With a wink the only living Ellison went to the bedroom and dressed for the day. A custom tailored three-piece suit that fit his shapely, six-two frame with all the trimmings was waiting, fully pressed and wrinkle free. He dressed and finished the look with a three thousand dollar watch bearing his fathers initials engraved on his wrist. Heading out the door, he took the private elevator to the private parking garage where his driver met him. Mornin Georgie ole boy, how's the games lookin fer the weekend? The man, shorter, older, and twenty times tougher than Pratt gave a shrug and launched into a diatribe about one of the only two things he was passionate about football. The other thing was keeping his boss on-time, and protected. Pratt knew both of these things, and kept the man well-compensated for his loyalty, it was hard to find loyal people. Pratt's father, Mr. Ellison, Pratt was just Pratt or Mr. Pratt, never Mr. Ellison, knew a great deal about loyalty. He was loyal to a fault, and between his intelligence and loyalty had risen as quite the star in this start studded cities law firms. It was only natural that his son was much of the same. Pratt's loyalty was unquestioned by those that either sought his favor, or were sought for a favor of his own. This and his own cunning intelligence was why he was the youngest senior partner in the entire city, at thirty-one he held one of the most prestigious positions in one of the most prestigious firms in the entire world, let alone city. His fathers legacy was the ember that lit the sons own powerful aura in the city, but everyone knew that it was a combination. Pratt was no frat-boy riding on his fathers coat tails. He was a passionate and devilishly clever attorney. He had worked for both sides of the law, toiling for a few years as a prosecutor for the local DA before jumping to the cushy job that was waiting him. In the courtroom he was a wizard of manipulation, seduction, and power. Just to prove it to himself he had done research, and all of the essential duties outside of the courtroom, and he had done them well. Now though, he did not trifle with anything that did not require his direct influence. He had junior partners, lawyers, and aides to do all that work, and he hoped one day one of them would shine as brightly as he had. But it was the power that he desired above anything else, and power he had. While he was loyal, it was just the letter of the law that he was loyal to, never the spirit. This had given him power, influence, and control in ways that were hardly measurable. Not being tied to any sense of justice or duty that was not written in black and white enabled Pratt to help those outside the law with effectiveness that defied most belief. In turn, their power and influence enabled him to be even better at his job. Rumor had it that he was gunning for a seat in congress or even the Senate, but Pratt would tell no one his plan. If they knew what he wanted, someone would try to stop him, and that would make things difficult for everyone. We need ta stop over at Jesse's taday Georgie, Pratt said, suddenly remembering his half-brother himself. Yes sir Mr. Pratt, A glance outside told Pratt that Georgie was already heading that way. With a shrug he apologized, and then his mind turned to his half brother. Jesse Xavier Henrietta was his brother from his mother, and not his father. Pratt had never forgiven her for his middle name, somehow she had convinced his father to do it, and once she was out of the picture. Divorced because of the event that occurred nine months before his half-brothers birth. She had taken it all out of Jesse, giving him the oddest set of names Pratt had ever heard outside of the ghetto. Of course Pratt had not known about his brother until Jesse's sixteenth birthday, and the the death of their mother if you could call her that. Jesse's real father had died years before from some Mafia related incident, incidentally one of the crime syndicates that since Pratt had put behind bars. His half-brother had been quite involved in the family by then, and as Pratt placed the Italian wanna-be's behind bars he made sure that his half-brother stayed far away from an iron home. Six years his senior, Pratt had already been a noteworthy prosecutor, and made sure one of his aides bungled the case. Now Jesse lived in a comfortable home, with an imaginary job that made him entirely legal, a consultant with Pratt's own law firm. The truth was that he was a consultant. On death. Jesse was no serial killer, but he had a penchant for violent outbreaks that could result in death. Pratt had found a way to harness this energy into something productive, making sure that when Pratt implied to any DA, attorney, lawyer, politician, or what have you that his clients meant business, they meant business. It was the closest that Pratt ever got to actually breaking the law, but his brother was also intelligent and had an Ellison like loyalty. Generally all Pratt had to do was mention a name and a reason, and the job was done. It was a mutually beneficial relationship that worked very well for the both of them. And that was the way they both liked it. Georgie shot a text to Jesse as they drove down the street, and pulled around to the alleyway. Jesse then slipped into the back seat adjacent to Pratt. Mornin Jess, He preferred Jess, for some reason. Good morning Pratt, what have you got for me today? Just ta usual, a gift fer our mutual friends. The ones from the last time? Them's de ones. Okay. Same time next week? Ya bet, bud, Until then. After the meeting with Jesse the rest of the day passed rather quickly for Pratt. Meetings followed meetings until the lunch meetings that were again followed by meetings until the dinner party and more informal meetings. It was rather late when his phone rang, and since it was Morgan he figured it was just a confirmation or cancellation for the next days meetings. But when he heard her trembling voice and the reason behind it, he felt a rush of both guilt and immediate relief since he knew it was coming. He told her that he would meet her there, and drove the car himself since he had already let George go with instructions to place a few particular bets down for himself. The BMW's large eight cylinder enabled him to arrive faster than the detective, though slower than both the ambulance and first responding officers. Standing just on the outside of the yellow caution tape he waited for the detective to arrive. A man he knew rather well, especially the man's proclivity for the younger but not entirely illegal members of the opposite sex. The detective was Bruce Ferguson and was underneath Pratt's influence. Spotting him at the scene, he hurried over to inquire Mr. Pratt, what are you doing here? Well, ya see Detective Ferguson, I had a relationship with Miss Rogers, and my secretary was also a friend of both Miss Ferguson and the one who found her, Miss Martin I think was her name. She, my secretary, Mallory, is on her way down and asked if I could be here... I obliged, but detective, it would be nice if I could... Hmm, not be seen? Pratt of course meant the soon-to-arrive reporters, and the detective understood. He motioned to the nearest officer to allow Pratt inside, and the two hurried up to the apartment. Miss Jones? Pratt said softly, touching her visibly shaking shoulder. I'm Mr. Pratt, Miss Joyner is my secretary. She is on her way, and asked me to be here. If there is anything I can do... He trailed off, his hand rubbing very softly, just to remind her that there were people here that cared about her. The scene just behind the frightened woman was bloody, but Pratt ignored it, his focus drawn to the woman in front of him. He had met her once, he thought, and he wondered why he had not chosen her over that bloody inquisitive reporter. If he had just done that, none of this would have happened.