Page 55 of Jolt's Vengeance

Aggie thinks she's walking away, but all she's doing is proving how perfect she is for me.

That attitude of hers?

It's a damn turn on, and she doesn't even realize it.

I light up a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I contemplate my next move.

One thing's for certain—this isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

Aggie can run all she wants, but sooner or later, she'll have to face the truth.

We're inevitable, her and I.

And I'm more than ready for the challenge of proving it to her.

CHAPTER NINE

Aggie

I trace my fingers over the smooth granite countertop, cool to the touch despite the desert heat.

My emerald eyes stare back at me from the mirror, another way my maternal grandmother's genes come straight through.

I've done my best to distance myself from those memories of my childhood, but not because of my grandmother.

Because of my birth father, or sperm donor—bleaching my fiery red hair to a pale blonde, burying my accent under years of American influence, even if it doesn’t always work out.

But some scars run too deep to ever truly fade.

"Get it together, Aggie," I mutter to myself. "It's just a party. You've faced worse than this."

Worse like the memory of my father's fists raining down on my mother's bruised and bloodied face.

The sound of her desperate cries echoing through our tiny house back in Scotland.

The helplessness of being a wee lass, unable to do anything but watch in horror as the man who was supposed to protect us became a monster before my eyes.

That was the first time I understood the ones who were meant to protect you could ruin you.

I shake my head sharply, banishing those thoughts to the darkest corners of my mind where they belong.

That was a lifetime ago.

I'm not that scared little girl anymore.

I finish applying a coat of deep red lipstick—my armor for the night ahead.

My phone buzzes with a text from Trevor:

Can't wait to see you tonight, babe! ;)

Babe?

I’m not his fucking babe.

I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck that way.

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