Page 59 of The Vipers and Their Vendetta

Fuck. Nothing is going right. It’s like that fucking curse the Preachers put on us is actually coming to fruition.

In a moment of rage, I grab it off the easel, the paint running down the canvas into a blurry mess. I toss it to the ground. Withrain pouring off my eyelashes, I give a roar of anger and stamp my Christian Louboutin clad foot through the canvas.

CHAPTER 22

Vani

“Hey, there you are.”

An arm hooks through mine, and I can’t help but jump. The memory of Zane holding a knife to my throat is still fresh in my mind. I even had to wear a high-necked top to hide the tiny stab point, especially as a bruise has formed around it, too. I don’t want to have to answer any awkward questions.

But it’s Angelica, and I force myself to relax. I’m walking to the cafeteria for a coffee and not in the mood for being sociable.

“Hi.” I paste a smile on my face. “How are you?”

“Good. You want to come to the bar later? Friday is nineties night. The others are coming, too.”

“The others?” My damned brain just flashes the Vipers into my head. Can’t I think of anyone else?

“Yeah, Faith and Jarena. We could do with a girls’ night, right? Let our hair down a bit. All this studying and no fun makes for a dull existence.”

My existence is anything but dull right now. In fact, I could definitely do with a little boredom. It’s as though I’ve been in a storm—blown and buffeted in all directions, while all I’ve been able to do is hold on. Speaking of storms, the weather is terribleright now. A heavy rain drums the college windows and roofs, and a wind has whipped up and is howling around the turrets.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I could do with a quiet night in.”

“You can have a quiet night in when you’re thirty and old. Right now, we’re young and gorgeous and deserve to enjoy ourselves.”

I can’t help but laugh. Maybe it would do me good. I’m also drawn to hanging out with them because they knew Reagan. Even if they didn’t know her particularly well, they’re still the closest thing I have to getting to know her.

I wonder if Reagan had any other friends. Was there anyone else she was closer to? These are the sorts of things I can ask the girls tonight. Finding out that Reagan has died doesn’t mean I’m just going to forget about her, no matter what kind of threats Dean Rossi throws at me. Maybe I’m not supposed to be talking about her, but I’m sure Angelica and the others won’t rat me out. They understand I can’t just put her out of my mind. I have to know the truth behind what happened to her, what was going through her head in her final moments.

And if anyone—such as the Vipers—was behind her death.

I flash Angelica a smile. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I need to enjoy myself more.”

“Awesome. Eight p.m. in the bar? Dress to impress.”

I’m not sure that’s going to happen since I’m still hiding rope and knife marks, and not to mention the bruises and scrapes I still have from the crash. I also don’t own a lot of sexy dresses and that type of thing, firstly because my father would have a shit fit if I wore those around the club, and secondly because I’m just more comfortable in my jeans and a tee. I’m still moving tenderly from the insane sex session I had last night, too, but I do my best to hide it. Honestly, I look like a fucking mess right now. I imagine what my dad would say if he saw me, and myheart crushes a little. He’d be absolutely livid, and he’d whisk me away from this place—and these people—immediately.

I haven’t seen the Vipers yet today, and I hope it stays that way. While I still haven’t given up on my plans to get revenge, I’m aware I need a rethink.

What Zane did to me last night terrified me, and his message made it clear that he understood exactly what I was trying to do. It means splitting them up is a no-go.

There must be other ways I can get at them.

We need space, while I think about how to get revenge.

I have to accept that no matter what I do or say, they’re never going to believe me, just like I don’t completely believe them. They hate me, which includes them sending me shitty messages, and they’re toxic. Still, it frustrates me that they don’t believe me when I’m telling the truth. I hate myself for letting them get to me when they might have killed Reagan, but the fact is that they do.

Getting myself worked up, I think back to how Lex supposedly cared more about his car than my sister when she died. Who does that? A fucking sociopath, that’s who.

And Saint with his clothes… An idea comes to me suddenly. Theirthings.They love their stuff, all the materialistic crap they are into. Both the twins do. How about if I fuck up Lex’s car, and then destroy Saint’s preening closet of clothes?

It’s about all they seem to care about. Materialistic shit. That makes them seem even more psycho. Although, it’s not entirely true, is it? Saint does have his paintings. He loves those as well.

The fact that he feels he has permission to paint me makes me angry today. I don’t want him to depict me for himself, taking my body and making it his.

That is my way to get the twins back, for sure. Ruin their things. But which ones? Lex’s car? Saint’s paintings? They’d have no idea it was me, and I bet they underestimate me enoughto think I’d never do that. Stupid little Vani, with her soft heart. Yes, I doubt they’d suspect me.

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