Page 89 of Montana Falls
If they didn’t hate me by the end of the night, then I would be thoroughly surprised.
It was my mission to hurt them.
Chapter Twenty Nine
The club was dim, save for the faint, flickering neon lights casting ghostly glows across the room. The curtains had been shut the other night and nobody had opened them, so all the sunlight was trapped behind the thick velvet, making the entire place feel a little eerie.
My breath came out shallow and quick as I stood there, gun aimed at my head, life in someone else’s hands.
Retta’s eyes darkened as I said my name, but she said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. I wanted her to say something, anything, but she stayed stone-faced.
My heart pounded in my chest, blood roaring in my ears.
She took a step toward me, calm, deliberate. The gun in her hand didn’t waver. There was something terrifying in her stillness, her calculated control. I hated her for it.
“You really are just like all the other Montana’s aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I bared my teeth in a smile. “I am like all of them from my looks to my soul. The same way you are just like your daddy.”
She fucking trembled at that. A shiver of pure hatred and disgust rolling throughout her body.
“I’m nothing like that monster.”
“Yeah? Then why did you let Elaina take Misha?” I pushed, desperate to piss her off and give myself an opening to get the gun. “You let your brother’s wifetouchhim.Hurthim.”
Talking about it made me sick to my stomach and angry. But I kind of hoped it would do the same to Retta, so I kept going regardless of how much I hurt myself.
“You let your brother order his men to do the same things to me.” I spat. “I was a kid, and you let themtouchme. You let them put their hands on my skin and-”
For the first time in my life, I went into graphic detail about one of the worst nights of my life. I described every touch, every feeling, every ounce of agony and horridness that had happened to me the night my mama died.
I told Retta everything that happened and blamed her all for it, purely out of spite and because each word hit her like a blade, making her flinch.
“I didn’t do that.” Her voice broke as she violently shook her head. “No. No. No. I wouldnever. I would-”
And then I saw it—a tiny opening. She had let her guard down just enough for me to move and her gun wasn’t aimed at me, but at the space beside me. Without another thought, I lunged at her. I tackled her with everything I had, my body crashing into hers, both of us tumbling to the ground. We hit the floor of the stage hard, the impact jarring, but I didn’t care. I was tooangryto care. Too fucking lost in my grief, trauma, pain, and everything else to give a single damn about what happened to me so long as I won in the end.
We rolled across the floor, fighting, grappling for control. I was far more skilled than she was, and I was clearly stronger. But she wasrabid,almost with her fighting. She played dirty and didn’t give a fuck about anything other than winning, so it wasn’t as easy as I would have liked to pin her.
Even when I smashed her head against the ground, trying to hold her beneath me so I could wrap my hands around her neck, she just took the blow like it wasnothing.Like she didn’t even feel it. The shock of it made me stutter, and she shoved me hard. I stumbled back, losing my grip and slamming down onto the stage, cracking my head against it hard enough that I saw stars.
In that moment, she moved—faster than I could react—and grabbed the gun off the floor. She straightened, the weapon now trained on me, her eyes cold as ever.
“Kneel,” she commanded, her voice eerily calm.
I glared at her, my chest heaving, my body shaking with anger. I was still on the floor, but I refused to obey. I refused to kneel forher.
“No,” I whispered, then louder, “No.”
I forced myself to my feet, every muscle in my body screaming in protest as the world span and my brain felt like it throbbed, but I stood tall. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me weak. If I was going to die, I would die standing.
In that moment, a strange sense of calm washed over me. I thought of my daddy. My mama. The two people who had shaped me, raised me, made me who I was. It felt like they were here with me now, their presence warm and steady, like a hand resting gently on my shoulder. I could almost hear their voices, whispering promises, praise. Telling me to be brave.
“I’m not afraid,” I said softly, meeting Retta’s eyes. “I’m not alone. If I die today, I’ll see my parents again. I’ll see Uncle Mal. I’m not afraid of that. Oryou– I won’t ever be afraid of you again.”
My throat tightened, and I felt the tears well up in my eyes, spilling over. I closed my eyes for just a moment, feeling the weight of everything crashing down on me. In my mind, I heard my daddy’s voice—be brave, angel—and I took a deep, steadying breath.
The sound of the gun’s safety clicking off echoed in the silence. I flinched, instinctively bracing for the shot coming my way any second now.
