Page 7 of The Gentleness of Rage

I took in his suit, his open shirt with a gold medallion, and his ornate wristwatch. Brice could not have been taller than five foot six.

“No. No. No. I say no. This is rape, end of story. You couldn’t pull me on your own, you have to force me. Some man you are,” I snapped as my nerves overspilled.

So much for sweet.

Brice scowled and motioned to the two guys next to him. “Strip her and pin her down face first.”

The men moved forward, and I jumped up and raced around the rear of the sofa. Brice chuckled as each guy took one end.

Panic-stricken, I flinched as one seized me, and I screamed. He slapped me, and I grabbed his balls and twisted them as hard as I could. His scream matched my previous one.

Brice’s eyes opened wide, and he gazed in surprise as his bodyguard collapsed. The other guard caught me from behind and dragged me over to the table.

I kicked, clawed, and yelled as he shoved me over it and pinned my arms down. The other man groaned and rolled around the floor.

“You’re gonna pay for that bitch,” the guard said, slamming my head on the table.

I kept fighting even though I was dazed. My head slammed a second time, but I continued screaming.

Hands were at my hips, yanking my uniform shorts and panties down. My legs were kicked open, and a hand rubbed between my thighs, and then my pussy was roughly grabbed. I kicked backwards and connected with a shin, and Brice swore.

“Hold that bitch down!” he howled.

“Let me the fuck go!” I yelled. I screamed again as I felt a cock placed between my thighs. In horror, I bucked as Brice sought my entrance.

Then the door was kicked open, and moments later, Brice was yanked off me.

The bodyguard was ripped from me, and I stumbled away from whatever was happening. I tripped over my shorts, which were hanging on one leg, and gazed up into the horrified eyes of Slate.

Chapter Two.

Slate

This was a shithole, Slate decided as Rage entered the strip joint. Jingle Jangles was the epitome of a sleazy strip club. The girl on stage danced without enthusiasm, and Slate recognised the dead look in her eyes.

“Lock this fuckin’ place down,” Drake ordered. “Only Washington’s are allowed entry or exit.”

Rage spread out, taking phones from punters and corralling everyone into the main room. The dancer fled from the stage with some sense of self-preservation left.

“She was taken out back an hour ago. You’re too late,” a female voice whispered, and Slate looked at the waitresses huddled together.

They stared back, scared.

Men had been creating a fuss but stopped when they realised who they were facing. Some security personnel fought back but were incapacitated. The rest, on seeing what happened, came peacefully. In total, Slate saw about one hundred people gathered.

“Get the dancers,” Drake ordered Hunter and Ace. “Slate, Jett, Fish, Gunner, Rock, you’re with me. Start kicking in doors.”

The first door Slate kicked open nearly made him gag. Handcuffed to the bed was a woman, naked and spaced out. Her ankles were cuffed, forcing her legs wide.

“Shit,” Jett said.

“We’re going to need ambos,” Fish muttered as they booted a second door and found a badly beaten woman. Her punter was hiding in the room, and Rock marched him out. The guy kept offering money to let him go, and Rock flattened him with one punch before dumping him in the main area.

The next four rooms opened to similar scenes, girls drugged out of their mind… and then we heard her.

A female was crying and fighting, and we ran up a flight of stairs towards her voice. The screams were louder here, and without hesitation, Drake kicked in a locked door.

A guard pinned a woman on a table, her lower body exposed. Another stood between her legs, his ass showing. A third guy lay curled up on the floor, clutching his balls.

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