Falling for the Predator

Chapter 1- A Fresh Start

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Mike POV:

Fully clad in pyjamas, I crept quietly down the stairs, reaching the bottom in record time without making a sound. I had done this before, many times. I could hear the tinkling of laughter and the hum of conversation coming from the living room, muffled by the menacing oak door that blocked my path, guarding the secrets held inside. But I didn't care about the door; I cared about UNDER it. I slid down, planting my ear on the floor, listening in. I could hear my mother and Brett's wife muttering whilst clearing plates whilst the man himself and my father 'discussed business' as they called it. I was part of the family too, I thought. Why wasn't I involved?

Suddenly the door whooshed open, as my mother opened it to go to the kitchen. I was caught off balance and off guard, falling against where the door was, clattering against the floor of the living room. All eyes were now on me. I risked a glance up and saw my father sitting nearest to me, his cheeks ruby red, his breathing heavy. Lining the other side of the room sat several lower rank 'businessmen', whilst next to me resided the boss, Brett, his striking face eyeing me with a mixture of surprise and amusement. Lastly I saw my mother standing over me, plates still in hand, her eyes full of shock, and pity for what she knew was going to happen. My father stood up in rage, red with anger. Daddy didn't take stress well, Mummy always said. He'd warned me about this before, more than once. I winced as he leapt off his chair and yanked me up, and I closed my eyes. It made the pain more bearable with my eyes shut, I found, it was like a bad dream. My mother scuttled off to the kitchen. She never got involved.
But the blow I expected never came.

Instead, my eyes peeled open to reveal Brett, now standing and holding my father's hand back, halting the strike. My dad looked outraged, but quickly backed down under the boss' steely gaze. Everyone did. He stepped back and sat back down as Brett knelt down to my level and...laughed.

'Well, if it isn't our own little James Bond!' he exclaimed, rustling my hair and chuckling at his own poor joke. He turned to my father, who was now frozen to his seat, waiting for the boss' next move. 'We got a future star in this one.' My dad said nothing. A moment of silence ensued. Brett glanced back to me, looking me square in the eyes with those green pearls of his, piercing my soul, and grinned. 'I'll make something out of you yet, kid. Just you wait.'

The first thing I did after getting out of prison was go to McDonalds. Not the most important thing on my to-do list, but my stomach was pining for something other than slop as food, and I was too weak to resist. The golden arches loomed over me, like a protective emblem, shielding me from the harshness of the real world, bringing me in from the cold. As I scraped together the vast (tiny) wealth lining my old battered jean pockets and followed the smell of processed meat, I paused, and took a look at myself in the window pane by the door, wanting to see what Mike the criminal now looked like. I had to say, not too bad. I was about 6'2, and I had spent my free time inside well, filling out the shirt that once consumed me entirely, but the once wavy chocolate brown hair had descended into chaos, matted, slightly overgrown and awkwardky shaped. You had to do your best with stolen shears and sharpened brushes when you were inside. My deep blue eyes looked more grey now too, as if 2 years in a prison had dulled me, worn me down, and the bags under my eyes dragged my face down slightly, giving me a gaunt look that reminded me of a dead body. I shook these thoughts out of my head and walked into the fast food restaurant; dwelling would get me nowhere, especially as the queue was building up. 'I AM gonna change', I thought to myself. I passed an old lady, shawl and all, who took one look at me and grabbed her purse like her life depended on it. It probably looked like it did from her angle. I almost snorted out loud. Life didn't give second chances, once a criminal, always criminal. The sweet old lady was a casual yet daily reminder that I was fighting a hard battle against social stigma, and I was losing. They don't make it easy for you, do they?