Page 33 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

“What do you need from him, by the way?” Luc asks, turning back to the quiche.

The muscles of his back bunch and shift under his skin as he reaches up into the cupboard for plates and then back into a separate drawer for silverware. Watching him work in a motion of domesticity is strange. It does funny things to my insides. Gives me cravings and images in the back of my mind I’ve never had before. I shove them away, though, before he turns back to me with a plated slice of quiche in hand.

“Information,” I repeat, feigning casualness as I take the plate and fork from him. “All corrupt businessmen keep track of their competitors. Bennington and your father are no different. He’s got videos of some of his crimes as well as others on my list. I plan to use them to lure him out and kill him. Once that’s done, I’ll use the evidence he collected to ruin the lives of a few others on my list.”

“Abel has some connections with media companies,” Luc offers helpfully, “and Dash is his boy. He’ll do whatever he can.”

I nod as I stab the edge of the quiche with my fork and spear some into my mouth. My stomach rumbles in need as I swallow. It’s piping hot, but actually pretty good—full of eggs, veggies, and a crispy outer layer. I devour my plateful as Luc starts in on his and when I’m done, I walk around the island and set it into the sink before wiping my hands on my borrowed boxers and lifting my phone once more.

“I don’t want to make Dash nervous,” I say, “but I’d like it if we could get a hold of him before the next Eastpoint game.”

Luc frowns around a mouthful of quiche and swallows before answering. “That’s this coming Friday,” he says. “Why before then?”

I look up from my phone and smile, but it’s far from a look of happiness. No. I know if I were to look in a mirror right now, I wouldn’t see a normal smile, but one full of deviously violent intentions.

“Because,” I say, “that’s where I plan to kidnap his father.”

15

MICKI

Any therapist would saythat it takes a brave person to admit their weaknesses, but that’s assuming the person has a choice. I know what taking someone’s choice away from them makes me. It makes me a damned monster, but if it takes a monster to kill one, then a monster I’m more than happy to become.

I don’twantto hurt anybody, but life isn’t always about doing what you want to do. Doing what’s necessary needs to come first. Besides, my wants have been denied for so long anyway, what’s the difference in waiting just a little bit longer?

Luc is obviously unaware of the insidiousness that resides within the Bennington family, but I’d bet my life on the fact that Dash knows. Men who like to hurt others for fun—who like to fuck them and break them—don’t start out with high class whores. No. Those types of men always start closer to home and then they grow until they’ve outgrown their first victims and they need a bigger high. Who would be the closest vulnerable target to a sadistic man without morals but his own son?

Club Outsider, now under the new management and ownership of Dean Carter, has changed a lot. It’s no longer Club Outsider, but Club Urban. As I step inside, I get my first real look at the place. The whole of the club is big and open and industrial in design. The bottom floor is a massive open space with long bars set against the walls. Luc’s hand lands on my lower back as we move past what I assume is the dance floor. It’s clear he knows the place well enough. He steers me towards a staircase.

I wasn’t exactly old enough to come here back when I still lived in Eastpoint, but my mom had been. Before she met Thomas, she’d briefly worked as a tabletop dancer and shot girl. She’d bring me along as she got ready for work until whoever she’d convinced to watch me could bother to show up and pick me up. Those times feel so far away, like they’d happened to someone else.

“The lounge on the second floor is private,” Luc says, bending so that his lips are right next to my ear. “Dean’s asked the employees to stay away for the time being.”

I glance around the cavernous space. The club hasn’t even opened yet for the night. The only people in sight are the bartenders and shot girls as they clean the club and set up for when the lights will go down and the rich kids of Eastpoint file in.

“This shouldn’t take long,” I reply.

I have every expectation that as soon as Dash understands my plan, he’ll be more than happy to help. If I were him, I’d take my advice and assistance without a second of hesitation. Getting rid of the phantom that haunts him isn’t possible. Once a person has been pushed to the brink of hell, they’ll always remember the pit. Removing the person who did it to him will finally allow him to heal. I have to think of it like that or else … I’m just like them.

Luc doesn’t say anything in response, but his hand remains on my back as we make our way up the narrow staircase to the second floor where there is a large open room with several couches, lounge chairs, and a minibar along the backside, across from a wrought iron balcony railing. As predicted, the whole gang's here. The somewhat casual air of conversation that I’d heard from the stairs comes to a halt. All eyes land on us—or rather onme.

My target looks up as Luc and I enter. His expression closes down when before it had been open and even friendly. I almost feel bad about what I’m about to do. Almost isn’t good enough to make me stop, though. Tossing my hesitation into the boiling pits of hell, I stride across the room. Luc’s hand leaves my back as I head towards the circle of couches and chairs where the group sits.

Dash Bennington is a handsome boy. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Chiseled jaw. High cheekbones. He could pose for GQ if he desired. He must get his coloring and looks from his mother because, surprisingly, he doesn’t look anything like his father. It doesn’t hurt that he’s from a wealthy privileged family and has the body of a linebacker. Broad, wide shoulders and massive biceps. No one could possibly guess the things he’s been through from looking at him now.

No one but me that is.

The thing about damaged people is that they can’t hide from their own kind. Like can always recognize like. It’s hard not to. We look into someone’s eyes and we see ourselves in some way, shape, or form. We see the barely repressed anger, the hatred of a world that didn’t protect us when we were at our most vulnerable, and we see the determination to keep surviving regardless. Plus, there’s something that non-damaged people lack. Caution.

Caution is something that Dash Bennington has in spades. It’s there in the flicker of his gaze as he looks to Luc and then back to me.

“New girlfriend, Luc?” His tone is casual, but he keeps his gaze on my face. I can tell he’s trying to figure it out—who I am. What I’m doing here. Why a stranger has been let into the private sanctuary only reserved for Eastpoint heirs and their closest confidants. There’s a host of questions in his gaze, and I’m afraid I’m the only one who can provide the answers.

I take a seat across from him and cross my legs. His gaze drops to the red heels I grabbed from my luggage once I finally got it moved to Luc’s place, and then returns to my face. Luc’s body passes in front of me as he bends forward and snags an empty glass on the table in the center of the group. He pours himself a few fingers of the amber liquid sitting in the decanter before he, too, takes a seat within the circle.

I look at the liquor but think better of it. It would be all too easy to take a drink and pour another after, and another and another. If I want to keep things moving as they are, I need to remain stable. I need to remain sober.

“You could say that,” Luc finally answers, “but she’s really more of an old girlfriend.”

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