Page 131 of House of Cards

That being said, more and more people seem to not be in their right minds lately. It’s like everyone just thinks they can do whatever the hell they want, and fuck the consequences.

Zoey. Nathalie. Me.

Dylan.

Dylan.

I escorted him off the premises…but what if he came back?

I adjust my glasses, check my watch again. “Fuck it. I’ll handle this.”

“That’s not protocol.” Troy’s expression remains neutral, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

The heavy door slams against the wall as I push through into the service yard, my shoes splatting over the wet concrete. It’s almost as loud out here as it was in there, the rumble of the hotel’s HVAC units competing with multiple hissing air vents. The hotel’s laundry room leads out to this area too, but the cloud of fabric softener can’t compete with the stench of rotting produce, despite the drumming rain.

Even at night, most of the courtyard is well light by the spotlights reflecting off the puddling rain.

I have a perfect line of sight down the alley, but the rain cuts the distance I can see in half. Rain that’s now splattered againstmy glasses, blurring my vision even more. But it’s obvious the narrow delivery road is empty.

A muffled sound pulls my gaze to the end of the row of dumpsters. The top of a young man’s head bobs above the last container’s lid. A nearby spotlight shines on the side of his face, making it easy to see the snarl twisting his face.

I recognize him immediately.

Dylan. The piece of shit I fired earlier.

He ducks down out of sight, his back still turned to me. There’s what looks like a spray of broken glass nearby, but it’s hard to tell through the rain.

At first, I think he’s bending to pick up another bottle or something from the shadowed ground in front of him. Until his head bobs up again as he veers back from a hand clawing at his face.

There’s someone else in those shadows.

Someone smaller.

Someone desperately struggling to get away.

“Help!”

Zoey is fucking everywhere.

Even now, I hear her voice in that frantic plea. It’s impossible, of course. But logic doesn’t stop the thought that it could beherfighting off Dylan slashing into the primal core of my mind where instinct lurks.

Rain stings my face as I sprint forward.

“Stop!” Troy yells behind me, but my blurry vision is already tunneling from the rage building in my chest.

Troy’s yell alerts Dylan before I’m even halfway to the dumpsters.

He takes one glance over his shoulder, spots me, and makes a beeline for the alley, yelling something that could have been, “Fuck this.”

I should have let him go.

Should just have let himfuckinggo.

But the darkness inside me prevails, like it always does.

I bank to the right, barely keeping my balance as my dress shoes slip on the smooth, wet cement. Dylan’s trainers have a much better grip, but I have the advantage of pure, unbridled fury.

Just as he takes the corner into the alley, I body-slam him into the edge.

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