Page 6 of Savage Rule

We keep colliding into each other and when we do, our fighting does something to me that closely resembles an orgasm. I get off on fighting Gunn Sinclair. Which means, one day, I won’t be able to stop myself, too far gone in the climax of the battle to stop. And I’ll kill him.

Another text comes in. This time, it’s the one I was waiting for.

Gideon: 878 It’s time.

My lips tug up slightly in a rueful smile as my stomach tightens. I go to the vanity and grab the bottle of antacids. The directions say to take two, but as a precaution, I pop four.

Heartburn. Comes with the job.

I peer at my reflection in the mirror and wink. “You look good, Scar.”

Because I decided to go out whether or not the hit was a go, I’m already dressed to party. Black leather pants, easy to wipe off and oddly comfortable. A black leather corset because it’s sexy as fuck. And a black sheer turtle neck under it to cover…

It’s difficult to bring myself to finish that thought. To keep my gaze ahead and not look at the record of sins that hide beneath my blouse. So, I straighten my spine, fluff out my short blond locks and touch up the black cat eyeliner and red lip.

“You look good,” I repeat, suddenly not quite as confident.

Then, from my luggage, I pull out the jar of pennies Gideon made me collect months ago. Asshole. He knew how tough it would be to find 2009 pennies. It was a task that could have been delegated to anyone else, but just for his own amusement, he mademedo it. My fingers smelled of copper for days.

Taking four even though I’ll only need two—but better safe than sorry—I tuck them into my pocket.

On the way to the door, I slip into my boots. They’re not high heeled—that wouldn’t be practical—but they come up my leg high enough to hold both my five-inch blades. That, coupled with the push dagger tucked between my breasts and the steel pins in my corset, I’m armed enough to take out more than one man tonight.

“You are strong. You are powerful. You are a badass.” I give myself the pep talk on the way down the curved staircase to the first-floor reception. “You are strong. Powerful. Badass. Fucking badass.”

“Goin’ out at this hour, Miss Holland?” Sherry, the older woman at the front desk, asks using my preferred fake name. First, she glances at her watch, then scans me over her reading glasses with obvious disapproval at my outfit.

Badass goes right out the window under her scrutiny and I fight the urge to scurry backwards.

“I’m meeting a friend for drinks,” I lie to her with a nervous smile. What is it about these little old ladies that’s so intimidating? “I won’t be out too long.”

“That’s what you said the last time you were here, and you didn’t come home until three in the morning.”

Damn! How does she remember that? It’s been at least six months since the last time I visited the Quarter. I really should find a new place to stay, one that doesn’t employ a grouchy senior as a night clerk.

“It’s only eleven, Miss Sherry. And I’m a grown woman, so it’s…” I trail off when she purses her lips. “I really should get going.”

Before she can say anything else, I step out through the narrow double doors and into the balmy night.

La Maison Rougeis located on a quiet section of Dauphine Street. I turn onto Conti, and walk toward Bourbon. The closer I get, the louder the sound of Jazz and pedestrian chatter and the scent of delicious food and alcohol.

A grin spreads over my features as I take it all in.

Ah, New Orleans. Be still my heart.

One day, when I’m old and decrepit, I’m going to live here. Maybe I’ll find a job as a tour guide. I know enough about the city, been here plenty of times. Or maybe I’ll do what Miss Sherry does and find a night shift somewhere to terrorize young tourists as entertainment.

My smile falters. The chances of making it to old age are slim to none. People in my line of work don’t tend to live very long. In fact, at thirty-one, I’ve surpassed my expiration date.

But I don’t let it get me down. For one, if Fate had had a say in it, I wouldn’t have even made it into adulthood. Yet here I am. No sense in wasting time bemoaning what might not be.

Standing on the corner, I stare down at the merriment that is Bourbon Street. Fuck yes, I was made for this. The crowd of people pushing against me, the revelry, the sin, the lights and music. Every bar I pass has a band, their song like a fucking siren beckoning me to come inside. Have just one drink. One dance. One sexy glance.

Then the next place does the same.

Go inside. Have some fun with them, the little she-devil that likes to hang out on my shoulder whispers into my ear.

“Not today, Satan!” I say with laughter. Well, not yet anyway. I got a thing to do. “But I’ll be back to play,” I add when she whimpers.

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