Page 20 of Vengeful Lies

Dutton removes his hand and makes his way to the stairs that lead up to the second floor, but I don’t have it in me to follow like some good little girl.

I make a point to look away and lift my chin in a dignified manner, still able to feel his scorching gaze pinning me in place.

This might be his domain.

He might think he owns everyone.

But he doesn’t own me.

He certainly doesn’t control me.

So, I do what any sane girl does when she’s drawn the attention of a monster.

I make my way toward the bar.

I’m not sure why I continue to put myself in these situations. Admittedly, I had so much fun following him and learning about who he was, but I didn’t think the tables could turn so quickly. I mean, technically, I should have, knowing who this man is. I clearly underestimated my target, and that was a foolish thing to do.

When I reach the bar, I intentionally lean against it, bending over, fully aware that from his angle, he’ll be able to see the bottom of my ass beneath the skirt. I choose to work with my assets because they’re just as powerful as any weapon.

He may be better at this game than me, but he’s a man, and I am a woman in a short skirt who is used to getting her way.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I don’t bother turning to look at the man offering to buy me a drink. I couldn’t care less about him. If I wanted a drink, I’d buy it my fucking self.

“You want a drink or what?” he says impatiently. This time, I do turn to look at him. His thin lips are pulled back in a sneer, and his hair is so slicked back by gel that I wonder if the tightness of it is affecting his features. He’s clearly trying way too hard to impress. Little does he know he’s failing, especiallyregarding how to speak to a lady. I try not to laugh at that thought.Me? A lady?

I don’t even waste my breath on him; just simply shake my head no as I turn to get the bartender’s attention.

“Fucking skank,” the overconfident asshole seethes.

“What did you just say?” I ask, now turning to give him my full attention. He looks me up and down, making me feel dirty with the action.

“What, you think you’re too good for me? I offered to buy you a fucking drink, not ask you to suck my cock, you rude cunt.”

I scoff at him.

“First of all, I would never suck your cock, and I pity any woman who does. Second of all, ‘cunt’ is a lovely word, so don’t use it as an insult when it’s a cunt you want. Unless you prefer the sausage, that is,” I snap back, angling my head to the side and waiting for his reply. He spits in my face. The second that filth touches me, my body works on reflex, reaching out for the half-empty glass on the bar. I smash it across the side of his face, and it fractures into a dozen pieces. He doubles over, barely catching himself, shocked. Then, with great satisfaction, I watch as the anger takes over like he can’t believe a woman hit him with a glass to his fucking ugly-ass face.

“That’s no way to speak to a lady,” I tell him calmly. Glass litters the floor between us, and I shake off a small piece that landed on my boot.

His hands ball into fists, and the shock of what I just did now hits him hard.

“You fucking bitch!” He lifts his hand, ready to hit me, and my body hums with delightful anticipation. I’m going to fucking ruin this guy. But as he goes to swing, another hand catches him by the arm.

The newcomer’s wrist sports a very flashy watch, and his forearm is covered in ink. While I don’t know every tattoo the man has on his body, I know those hands belong to Eli Monti.

“I think it’s time you leave,” Eli says. “My men will show you out.” He nods to the security guys who have followed him to the bar.

The dumb fucker hasn’t even noticed who’s speaking to him, his gaze pinning me with a glare. I confess I feel his frustration since my fun has been cut short.

“How about no. Remove your hand so I can teach this bitch how to treat a man—” The idiot pales as he finally looks up at Eli, recognition dawning on him.

Eli casually steps in front of me, twisting the guy’s hand as if to shake it. He brings the man into what looks like an embrace from behind as he whispers something into his ear. The man grunts in what looks like physical pain as a vein pulses at his temple. He nods frantically at whatever Eli is saying.

“I’m—” The man gasps. “I’m s-sorry.” He barely gets out the words.

Eli releases him and shoves him as if he’s no more than filth. The man stumbles over his own feet, but as he tries to stand, I realize he’s holding his stomach. I look down at Eli’s hand, where blood glistens on the knife he’s holding.

“Is that my knife?” I demand angrily. I’ve been wildly pissed that I lost it the night I threw it at him.

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