Page 76 of The Dollhouse

I stumbled to the front, to where the employees-only part of the Dollhouse was, pushing past the lockers and into the office, where I found my cell phone. I dialed Roman, and as I listened to it ring, I tried to think about what I’d say.

What if one of the girls was dead? What if Ruby didn’t make it? What if… what if that man had aimed a little higher and to the right and got me in the head instead? I didn’t want to die. I might not know a lot of things in this world, but I knew that much.

I glanced down at my arm. It hurt like a bitch, but it didn’t get me in the bone. It looked more like a superficial wound, but the hot agony searing up my nerves as a result was not superficial in the slightest. Blood oozed out of the wound, staining my sleeve, and I inhaled sharply when I heard Roman’s low voice on the other line.

“Zoey.” Just my name. My name was enough to make me want to collapse—so it was a good thing I was already sitting down.

“A group of men were just here,” I told him, breathless. “They shot up the place. I’m okay, but it looks like some of the other girls were shot.” And a patron or two, but the customers were the last thing on my mind.

“I’ll be right there.” And then he hung up, not saying another word.

I set the phone down, leaning back as I closed my eyes. My heart still beat fast, and the last thing I wanted to do was go back out there and check on everybody. I wanted to stay here, wait until Roman got here, and hand him the reins. And yet, I found myself getting up regardless, groaning as I got to my feet.

I went out into the club, found the lights were on and the music had stopped. The girls who hadn’t gotten shot were helping those that did, same with the clients. Some were on their phones, calling the police or maybe ambulances. I went straight to Ruby, going around the stage to the steps; crawling onto the stage would’ve been impossible with my arm. As it was, I cradled that injured arm to my body, using my other hand to apply pressure to the wound in her stomach.

That’s what you were supposed to do, right? Apply pressure, slow the bleeding, until professionals came and took over?

I met Ruby’s green eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” I said. And she would be. By God, she would be—and if she wasn’t, I’d find those men myself and show them a thing or two about shooting a place up. Come to the Dollhouse, hurt me and my girls…

Oh, yeah, I would make them regret ever stepping foot here.

Maybe there was a darkness in me, because right now something inside cried out for vengeance.

Carter

I should’ve stayed. I knew that. But how the fuck could I stay and act like everything was fine when the Dollhouse had just gotten shot up? I needed to go, needed to meet Roman there. Lola could fend for herself. She was a tough girl; she’d be fine.

Zoey, on the other hand? She wasn’t a fucking serial killer, so something like this was bound to shake her up.

I raced out of that club, moving faster than I ever had. I made it to my car, got in, and left, not looking back once. Leaving Lola in there, alone, would anger Richie, but I didn’t care. I didn’t fucking care. The only thing I cared about was getting to the Dollhouse and making sure my wild, pink-haired girl was alright.

My heart hammered in my chest as I drove, taking turns a bit too fast and blowing yellow-almost-red lights. I didn’t care. Let Richie be pissed at me. Let Lola find her own way home. Zoey was literally the only thing on my mind—going to her, making sure she was okay.

And, of course, finding the fuckers who dared to draw a gun in the Dollhouse and ending their miserable, pathetic lives. Because I would. I would find them, and I would kill them, and I wouldn’t feel bad about it at all. Sometimes people deserved a bullet to the head.

The Dollhouse was on the other part of town, on the outskirts, where the buildings were no longer skyscrapers, where the streets grew dimmer and the cars less fancy. It wasn’t the part of town where the rich and the suave took up residence, that’s for sure.

I couldn’t say how long it took me to reach the Dollhouse, but however long it was, it was too fucking long. Too long, and too much time left to myself, wondering how differently things could’ve turned out. Roman had said she was okay, but she was injured. What if things had gone differently? What if she wasn’t just injured, but dead?

Could I… could I lose her?

You know, I never believed myself to be the kind of man who fell head over heels for anyone. I liked to fuck, and I liked pussy, but I never, ever saw myself as a man who could be happy with one woman. I never cared. As long as I was getting it, I was fine. Roman was fine watching too, and I was more than okay with putting on a show for him. Being watched… not everyone could stand tall under pressure, but I definitely could.

But, seriously, look at me now, parking my car in two spots in the empty Dollhouse parking lot and practically throwing myself out of it, running to the Dollhouse’s wide-open doors, past the ambulances. I couldn’t even think straight.

Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. Had to reach Zoey, get my hands on her, make sure that feisty girl was okay. And then, once she was safe and sound, tucked away with that stupid boy Lake, Roman and I would find whoever did it, and we’d kill them. Kill them, torture them, make them regret ever stepping foot in the Dollhouse and shooting it up.

Hell, I wasn’t even sure if it was one man or a group of them. If it was one man, some drunk who thought he could try to take one of the girls home, it might be easier. It if was a group of them, they might’ve come to the Dollhouse for a reason.

I hoped, prayed that reason wasn’t Zoey herself, because if it was, then this mess was because of Roman and me, and what we did for the Luciano family.

When I entered the Dollhouse, I walked past a pair of paramedics who were rolling Ruby out on a stretcher. She looked pale, but she was conscious. Other paramedics were with a few of the other girls; I saw a few of them had gunshot wounds that weren’t nearly as bad as Ruby’s. They were getting their things together, taking statements, and then corralling them out of the room.

The lights were completely on, no music playing. The place looked very different from how it normally did—you know, on those nights when someone didn’t shoot the place up.

Roman stood just before the stage, his arms folded over his thick chest, a scowl on his face—as always. He spoke with two police officers, and I recognized them as two that were loyal to us. No bribery needed, at least. They’d help us look for whoever did this, if it was indeed someone lashing out at the Lucianos, at Roman and me.

The one person I didn’t see anywhere was the one person I was dying to. I walked right up to Roman, ignored the cops completely, and said, “Where is she?”

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