Page 74 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

Avalon’s brows scrunch together and a small v starts to form on her brow. I laugh at it and unable to help myself, I lean forward and brush my thumb over the small shape. Like a big sister … or the mother I know I’ll never be.

“You deserve to forgive yourself, Avalon,” I say. “For what you did to survive. No one can fault you. Not even yourself.”

A beat passes and Avalon’s brow eases slightly. She turns her head away and I drop my arm. “You’re a fucking bitch, Micki,” she mutters. “You’re damn lucky I don’t beat your ass.”

I snort. “As if you could, kid.”

She lifts a hand and offers me the bird. I laugh again. How she does it, I don’t know, but if anyone in this world can survive the darkness of the human race, it’s her. Oh, how I wish I had her courage and light. How I wish I could turn back the clock some days just to spend more time with her. It’s never enough.

I bend down and pour another two shots, shoving one towards her as the liquid spills over the rim. “A toast! To not forgiving those who don’t deserve it,” I say, lifting my glass, “and to finding peace in fucking up the ones who hurt us.”

Avalon chuckles at that and lifts her own glass. It’s not the most graceful toast, but fuck if the whiskey doesn’t go down easier as the words linger between us.

It’s the truth, after all. Forgiveness is for ourselves and no one the fuck else.

30

MICKI

Whoever saidthat no one drinks an entire bottle of vodka for fun was a goddamn liar. Avalon and I finish the whiskey before we break into the lounge’s personal bar. Vodka. Rum. Hell, we even end up downing an entire bottle of champagne by the end of the night.

We’re both lying with our backs to the couch cushions and our bare toes pointed towards the ceiling as the blood rushes to our heads, laughing over dumb bullshit, when two tall figures appear over us. I’m the first to look up.

“Well, well, well, would you look at that,” I slur as I nudge Avalon with my shoulder. “Someone called us a couple of Chippendale dancers.”

Dean’s expression remains passive even as he arches a brow at that statement, but at least I get a snort out of Luc. That’s all I wanted, anyway. Dean can remain a dick as long as my Luc laughs. Avalon hiccups and then dissolves into another round of laughter which of course makes me snort hard enough to burp.

“I think you’ve had more than enough tonight,” Luc says with a shake of his head.

“Does that mean no dancing?” I ask as he reaches for me. Firm hands grip me under my armpits and I’m gently lifted and flipped over until my ass hits the seat. The whole room spins and I gasp for breath, only stabilized once Luc reaches forward and lets me latch onto his forearms as he keeps me still.

“I doubt you’ll even be able to walk to the car much less dance,” he says.

I shake my head and then immediately regret it as the room begins to spin again. “No,” I finally manage to get out. “Not me—you.” I try to point at him but there are multiple Lucs and I’m not sure which is which so I end up waving my finger across all three.

Luc chuckles again and goddamn it, but why is it so hot? What is it about a man with a deep baritone laugh that makes me want to climb his bones? Or maybe it’s just him. Yeah, that makes sense. Because if I’m being for real, he could have one of those sad snorting high pitched laughs and I’d probably still want to ride his dick.It’s a nice dick, after all.

“Thank you, I think so too.” I don’t realize I’ve said that last bit aloud until Luc actually replies.

“Fuck.”

“Not right now, pretty girl,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

“What about—”

“Don’t worry about Ava,” Luc cuts me off as he lifts me from the couch and suddenly the whole room goes sideways as he sweeps his arm under my knees and scoops me against his chest. “I’m sure Dean can handle her.”

I glance over his shoulder as Dean does just that—lifting Avalon from the couch with about as much effort as it took Luc to lift me. “Football players are so fucking hot,” I mutter as I wrap my arms around Luc’s neck.

He glances down at my upturned face. “The only football player you need to look at is right in front of you, pretty girl.”

I grin and slip one hand back down from his neck and slowly make my way down his chest. “Can I do more than look?” I ask.

Luc stiffens against me as he marches down the stairs and, once we get to the bottom, he hefts me higher against his chest. “Maybe when we get home,” he replies.

He carries me through what looks like an empty club, and I realize that the music is off and the lights are on. There are only a few employees left mopping up spilled drinks from the dance floor and wiping down the bar counters. They avoid our gazes as we move through the nearly empty building and make our way into the parking lot.

“Awww, no motorcycle?” I ask as I spot the Porsche.

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