The onyx demon the bosse.., p.1
The Onyx Demon (The Bosses of Bane Book 1), page 1
The Onyx Demon
B.J. Irons
Spectrum Books
Copyright © by B.J. Irons
Artwork: Adobe Stock – © prideneprovskiy, mates, Amphawan, donfiore, Photocreo Bednarek
Cover designed by Spectrum Books.
All rights reserved.
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-915905-19-2
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Spectrum Books, except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are fictitious.
First edition, Spectrum Books, 2023
Discover more LGBTQ+ books at www.spectrum-books.com
Contents
1. Ace
2. Maxwell
3. Maxwell
4. Ace
5. Maxwell
6. Ace
7. Maxwell
8. Maxwell
9. Ace
10. Ace
11. Ace
12. Maxwell
13. Maxwell
14. Ace
15. Maxwell
16. Ace
17. Maxwell
18. Ace
19. Maxwell
20. Ace
21. Maxwell
22. Ace
23. Maxwell
24. Ace
25. Maxwell
26. Ace
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I hope something happens. I’m restless as the devil and have a horror of falling in love and growing domestic.
-F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
Chapter 1
Ace
(Age 16)
You should take advantage of being a Bettencourt. Anyone would kill to have that name. Why not make the most of it and do whatever the hell you want? If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone tell me this or something along those lines, I would be able to pay my own tuition here at Amplestone Academy. And believe me, the cost to go to this secondary prep school for even one year is more than the yearly mortgage on some of the luxury condos on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
Only the most privileged of children from the wealthiest families across the country have the opportunity to attend Amplestone. The only prerequisite to be admitted was that your family net worth had to be over fifty million dollars. If you weren’t recognized by Forbes, then you could kiss your chances at getting into Amplestone goodbye. But the school does hold a prestigious reputation for getting every student into an Ivy League school. I’m not sure if that’s because of its academic accolades or because of the money spent to get into here. I highly suspect the latter.
Luckily, I had my own boarding room to myself. All the other boys at Amplestone were required to have a roommate, but my father pulled a few strings and, likely, a hefty check for them to make an exception for me, which I was completely grateful for. My persona was that of a lone wolf. It wasn’t difficult for me to make friends, but I just never had a strong motivation to be social or to get involved in sports or have sleepovers and try to sneak some of your parents’ alcohol without it going noticed, as most other boys my age did.
However, my adopted brother, Leo, who was two years older than me, was the complete polar opposite. Boys and girls flocked to him. He had that magnetism and charm about him that made everyone drawn in. They wanted to be a part of his world as a Bettencourt, and Leo was never afraid to garner the attention and work a crowd. My brother was never one for just a small circle and tight-knit group of friends. No. It wasn’t enough for him to be a big fish in a little pond. He wanted to be the blue whale in the vast ocean.
But I could understand why that was the case for Leo. Growing up, he was never a Bettencourt and, from what I gathered, he slept on the streets with his biological mother, who was a junkie. My father, Magnus, stumbled upon her as he got out of his limo one evening years ago. The woman tugged on the fabric of his coat to get his attention as he approached the door to an exclusive nightclub. She held the hand of her malnourished seven-year-old son as she begged him for cash and cocaine.
Instead of giving her exactly what she wanted, my father had an alternative proposition for the desperate woman. It was bad enough that my father was a ruthless businessman and CEO, but to strike up negotiations with a drug addict living on the streets? Magnus Bettencourt knew no bounds. The city was his company playground, and the man loved making a deal. It was practically an art form to him. The world was his blank canvas, and he was its Picasso. And just like Picasso, Magnus Bettencourt turned people ugly and deformed. He was known to get his way and stomped on the faces of all those around him, not caring who he ruined along the way.
As for Leo’s biological mother, she too was a victim of my father’s obsession with casting everyone to play Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice.
“I tell you what, my dear. I’ll give you ten-thousand dollars in cash, but on one condition. You give up the boy to me.“ He knew exactly the end result of this entire situation. The woman’s psychological dependence and withdrawal would triumph in the end. She handed off her child to the megalomaniac, rationalizing that she was doing her moral due diligence in giving her child a better life by handing him off to this tyrannical stranger, one she could never possibly offer it. And so, the junkie disappeared into the foggy night, a small ant in the colossal city that was New York, never to be seen or heard from again.
Ever since that night, no one in our family has ever spoken of Leo’s former mother. He was immediately thrown into our family, welcomed with open arms, even by my mother, Vira Bettencourt. He was distant at first, but then came around to the rest of us in a matter of weeks. Such is the malleable mind of a naïve adolescent.
Leo and I became inseparable, being only two years apart in age. He took on the protective big brother role fairly well up until our teenage years. Then his mind became more preoccupied with other things besides me. Popularity, friends, money, girls. All the things hormonal teenage boys crave permanently remained in the forefront of his mind. They took the passenger side of his Rolls-Royce while I became indefinitely stuck in the backseat.
Needless to say, our relationship became strained, until there was one instance that I was sure would bring us closer together. All it takes is one family tragedy and loss to make you rethink life and reevaluate your priorities. My dear loving mother was rushed to the hospital when I was thirteen. She had fainted in the shower one morning. The loud thud of her crashing down onto the polished honey onyx tiles made our housekeepers panic and rush into her bathroom to find the source of the ruckus. Carmina, one of our longest staffed employees at Bettencourt Manor, let out a shriek that would even put the Sirens to shame.
Everyone paused what they were doing and found their way to standing in the hall just outside my parent’s bedroom, watching as my mother was carried away once an ambulance was called. Our limo followed in pursuit of the white box on wheels that flashed blaring red lights in circular patterns with my mother inside. It was my first time ever seeing a paramedic vehicle in person and for some reason I could not help but think of Christmas. The flaring red lights instantly made me think of a certain red-nosed reindeer, or even a bright glittery bow wrapped around a pristine pearl box. Was I being morbid for thinking such things? I honestly didn’t know.
But ever since that horrid night, I inherited a habitual pattern that became practically innate to me. Whenever I was in a dire or unfortunate situation, I found myself trying to think of the most pleasant of thoughts. Maybe it was a defense or coping mechanism I used to shudder at the pain and anguish I was taught never to show. And so, I carried this custom with me from then on out, refusing to let anyone ever see me in a sad or angered state. I was a chipper kid who was well mature beyond his years. Perhaps it was my pride at stake or maybe even me declining to play into a fear of being viewed as weak and vulnerable, but I learned to always grin and bear the suffering.
After countless tests, biopsies, and referrals from general practitioners to eventually oncologists, our family received the terrible news that my mother was diagnosed with stage IV ovarian cancer. It was then that I felt the motivation to research all that the doctors had spoken of in layman’s terms to explain to my family the physiological nature of my mother’s body. T.N.M. It was a pneumonic only those who have had cancer, and those who were closely affiliated with a loved one who suffered from it would know all too well. Our lives would never be the same again. And it was only three months later that my mother passed away. The loving matriarch that held this dysfunctional family together was no longer with us. That knot that held the Bettencourts in place would soon unravel, making the love we shared loose and limber. But nevertheless, the Bettencourts were still a firm solid rope at the end of the day. Although we would all grow to shun emotional ties with one another, we would all still share a protective bond that would hold us together for the rest of our lives. Such is the nature of the Bettencourt family name. If you were of the bloodline or shared the last name, then you automatically earned the insurmountable amount of loyalty that that very name brought with it.
I sprinted to my room as the day was coming
As for me, there was no better time than to make my way down to the cafeteria to grab dinner. I could make quick work of grabbing my meal to-go and speed-walk my way back to my dormitory to remain unseen and unheard.
While I sat criss-cross applesauce on my black Turkish cotton comforter, I held Gabriel, a worn out stuffed lion, in my lap. It was a toy my mother gave me when I was just an infant. Lions were her absolute favorite animal. They represented pride, power, and all things that were majestic. It was no surprise that she named my brother Leo when my father brought him home.
As I devoured my hoagie I’d grabbed from the cafeteria, I browsed through an online forum on my laptop. Ever since my mother’s passing, I needed an outlet to express my feelings. Of course, I could not speak to anyone about it, nor show any signs of stress or turmoil. So, the next best option I could find was creating an anonymous account on wecanstandagainstcancer.com. I’ve read through countless stories of family members expressing their grief and the obstacles they’ve faced in having loved ones who are either fighting the good fight or who have tragically passed from it.
These stories have resonated with me. Their words were so powerful, a weapon of their own kind, more so than any forged sword known to mankind. Every syllable felt like a piercing blade, digging deeper and deeper into my flesh until it tugged and pierced at my heart with the heaviest of blows. I held a connection with these men and women, who bravely spewed their stories to an unknown audience of strangers. Yet the comments and feedback they received were nothing but heart-warming and caring. This was a world I wanted to be a part of. One where I would easily want to be seen in. For now, I would just remain heard. This forum was where I opened myself up at. It was the therapy I needed, yet I denied the need for in my real life. The experience was cathartic. As I vigorously stroked my fingertips against my keyboard, sharing my current feelings and moods from today, I felt a tear slowly trickling down my cheek as it often did on a daily occurrence, making me feel even the slightest bit closer to my mother.
During my Latin class the following day, one of the office secretaries interrupted the lecture. My eyes lifted from my paper and pencil to the front of the room where Mrs. Davinko, a petite woman with thick-framed glasses and a tight black blouse and skirt, stopped midsentence. Her hair was tightly pulled back into a bun. She leaned over to accept the whisper from the woman. “Mr. Bettencourt,” she then called out. All eyes darted over to me with wonder. It was the most attention I’ve managed to get all year long, yet I made it my mission to avoid such a spotlight since my very first day here at Amplestone Academy.
“Your presence is requested in the counseling office,” Mrs. Davinko revealed.
“Ohhhhhhhh!!!!“ all the students exclaimed, going from a low-pitch sound to a shocked high-pitch biting noise.
“Hush!” Our Latin teacher warned them. “Now back to male nominative and genitive verb rules…”
As everyone returned their gazes back to Mrs. Davinko, I quietly closed my binder and laptop, slowly shoving them into my book bag. I didn’t bother to zip it up, in fear that the noise would somehow distract everyone to glancing back in my direction. Ducking my head, I made a beeline for the back door of the classroom and softly closed it behind me as I made my exit.
Why would I be called down to the counseling office so suddenly? That was never a good sign. Immediately, the worst of possible fates struck my mind with a deep impact.
Did Leo get into another fist fight? Was he brutally hurt this time?
Was it my father? Was he in an accident?
Had I been found out? Did the IT guys here at Amplestone somehow gain access to my internet search history and discover my account on wecanstandagainstcancer.com? Did they review all of my posts and this was meant to be some sort of psychological intervention?
In any case, I knew this impromptu visit to the counseling office meant something awful. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The remains of my protein bar from breakfast this morning began to slowly rise up the length of my esophagus. It was at that very moment I was second-guessing my immediate walk to the office. I debated on stopping to visit the restroom to upchuck my light morning meal, but knew that this was just a fleeting feeling and would eventually subside once I figured out what the deal was.
As I made my way to the front lobby of Amplestone Academy, I entered the main office doors. My eyes glanced over the white marble desk, where the secretary who came to my Latin class was eyeing me down menacingly. I gulped heavily when my blue eyes met hers. Scratching the back of my blonde hair with nervousness, I approached her. “Ummm. I’m here to see the counselor,” I softly uttered to her, wondering if she even made out a single word I had said.
Her wrinkly finger pointed towards the back of the office. “Yes, Mr. Bettencourt. Mr. Preston has been waiting for you. You can head back. His door is open,” she informed me.
I nodded. “Thank you.” My hands squeezed the straps of my bookbag tightly, the redness in my knuckles becoming almost inflamed by how hard I was gripping on to them. Each step I took toward Mr. Preston’s office sent a chilling jolt throughout my body the more I neared his domain. Soon, I found myself within his open doorway, lightly tapping on the side doorframe to gather his attention.
The man abruptly stared up from his computer once he recognized me. He shot out of his chair, approaching my direction. “Ah! Mr. Bettencourt. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sorry to have had to pull you out of class so suddenly. Hopefully, I wasn’t interrupting anything too important that you were learning?”
I shook my head as he patted me firmly on the shoulder. Mr. Preston was a colossal man at six-foot four-inches. His muscles tugged and flexed against his tawny brown dress pants and white button-down shirt. It would not surprise me if he was once a former pro-wrestler in his former career. Although his physical being was intimidating, his tone and personality were not. They were completely the exact opposite, with how warm and inviting he was, with his sincere smile and caring nature.
“No. You didn’t interrupt much,” I responded.
“That’s great to hear,” Mr. Preston added, before softly shutting the office door from behind to give us privacy as I stepped further into the room. “Please, have a seat,” he offered.
“Okay…” I removed my backpack from over my shoulder and placed it on the ground beside me, slumping into the chair directly across from Mr. Preston, who had his hands folded together, each finger interlocked with the other. He leaned over his desk, just staring at me with a blank expression on his face.
I knew this was going to be bad, whatever it was that he had to share. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have drastically changed this quickly from a man who was thrilled to see me to one who now had a stone-cold expression on his face.
“Mr. Bettencourt, I’m sure you’re wondering why you were called down here?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess so.”
“Well, some of your teachers have expressed some concerns about your well-being,” he bluntly stated, getting right to the point of the matter.
“My well-being?” I repeated aloud, not quite understanding where this was coming from.
“Yes. They are worried about you, this being your first year here at Amplestone Academy and all. Whenever they assign you to collaborate or speak with other students in class, they claim you sort of shut down and just keep to yourself, not contributing much. Tell me, Ace, do you have any friends here on campus?”
This was much worse than I had imagined. I did not know my teachers thought this about me. I assumed I was covering my tracks with my lack of socializing fairly well, but apparently, this was not the case at all. They were able to quickly dissect me and bring it to the attention of the lead counselor at Amplestone.
