Page 84 of By Sin To Atone

He glances at it, then at me, pale blue eyes narrowing in his fat face.

“You’re with that girl. With the blue hair.”

I narrow my eyes, study his features.

“Do we have business?” He sets the comb down and turns fully to face me.

“We might.”

He cocks his head, watching me. “What business would that be?” He shifts his gaze down to my hands, then back to my face. “Ezekiel St. James.”

The tattoo. Jericho and I have identical tattoos. It’s common knowledge.

“What business do we have?” I ask. “I guess I have a question for you.” He raises his eyebrows. I step toward him. “What makes you think it’s okay to shove your dirty, unwashed hands down a sixteen-year-old girl’s pants?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, and for a moment, I wonder if I got it wrong. But then, his expression changes. I see the instant it all clicks into place. Not that it matters, because I’d already decided I was going to do what I’m about to do. Whether or not he remembered what he did to Blue is irrelevant.

Hoxton’s face morphs, that mask of civility that was barely there dropping, the monster beneath surfacing. He reaches around back, under his jacket. I expect a gun, but he draws out a switchblade instead, pushing a button to release the knife and stepping toward me, his violence practiced.

But I’m no stranger to violence. When he slashes the knife through the air an inch from my face, I duck backward and grab his wrist. He’s strong, but so am I. And I have much more rage inside me than any one man should.

I keep hold of his wrist, slamming it against the mirror, hearing the glass crack, watching it splinter.

Blood from the back of his hand spills into mine and I do it again, slamming it hard enough to knock the knife out of his grasp. It clatters off the counter and drops to the floor.

He doesn’t need it though. This man knows how to fight. But so do I.

He slams a fist into my gut, and I stumble backward, but I’m up fast, dad taught me that, taught me to swallow the pain or there’d be more. Pussies always got more. A rage I haven’t felt in a long, long time takes over, that beast within wide awake and given free reign, autonomy over my body, my limbs not my own, but belonging to this thing. This animal inside me.

The killer inside me.

We’re on the floor. I taste blood, my own possibly. His? Likely. I pummel my fist into Hoxton’s face. He’s gotten soft, fat.

“Tell me. Tell me why you’d think putting your filthy hand inside a sixteen-year-old girl’s pants is acceptable. Precursor to your little dick following? Is that it? You like to rape little girls, you fucking pig? You fucking filthy, disgusting pig.”

He laughs and it throws me off. Something isn’t right. He fights back but he’s no match for my growing rage. For my years’ worth of fury. When his fingers close over the switchblade just above his head and bring it up to my face, I take hold of his hand and twist it, turn it, and, looking into his beady, evil eyes, I plunge the dagger into his gut.

Blood spurts across my face, covering my hands, my clothes. It’s warm and bubbling and Hoxton’s eyes are wide as he coughs once, twice, blood gurgling in his throat as I thrust the blade upward, cutting through flesh and fat and guts, disemboweling the bastard, feeling his life drain from him, spill all around him, the stain of it permeating every sense until all I see is red. All I smell is blood. All I want is blood.

A familiar sound breaks into the moment.

I sit back, drag in a breath. Try to make out what the sound is. I know it.

It’s my phone ringing in my pocket. I don’t reach for it, and it stops. I look down at the man before me. Arms and legs splayed. Head to one side. Eyes open. Blood trailing from his mouth, his gut.

“Fuck! Zeke!”

I look back at the door just as it slams open, and Jericho crashes inside the splintering frame.

He takes in the scene. I follow his gaze. Get to my feet. I walk to the sink and switch on the water. Jericho closes the door. It won’t stay though. It’s busted, the frame ripped apart.

I wash my hands, Hoxton’s switchblade clattering loudly against the porcelain sink.

“What the fuck did you do?” Jericho asks.

“He recognized her. It was a matter of time,” I say, tone calm. It’s mostly true.

“Jesus Christ. Look at you.” He looks down at Hoxton. No need checking for a pulse. He’s dead. “Stay here. I’m going to get the car. There’s an exit at the end of the corridor. Where’s your phone?”

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