Page 73 of Bedding Rose
My blood boils at the fact that I’m justthat girlto them. Someone nameless. Passing. I’m furious that it took them so long to figure out which crime was so horrific that it deserves this sort of punishment, that I’m not seared into their brains the way they are in mine. I should haunt their thoughts. I should be branded into their skulls. They should have trouble sleeping on a bed with someone they love. They shouldsuffer… they should suffer all of that and more for what they did.
All my life, I’ve held in hatred. I’ve turned loathing inward. Blamed myself for things that others did. But now, staring at them, it’s as if a dam inside of me has burst and all those years of hatred come flooding out.
I wish I hadn’t promised to stay back. I wish the bat was in my hands.
Fuck it.
I break my promise and quickly stride over to Angelo, holding out my hand. He stares at me for a long second, before relinquishing the bat and taking a step back.
“When you treat people like objects, you’re going to get the same done to you,” Angelo warns.
I hardly hear him. The hatred inside is so intense, it can’t be contained. It bursts out when I hit the bag for the first time, awareness zinging up my arms all the way to my clenched jaw. But the hit feels good, and the terrified pleading of the fuckers beside me feels even better.
I swing again. And again. Hitting with all of my strength, not counting my strokes, not listening to Mint’s fake screams, but relishing the sounds of the two suspended men begging me to stop while I ignore them, just like they ignored me.
I am fury made flesh.
I hit until my arms burn and my fingers ache where they grip the bat. I hit until I realize my jaw is starting to lock up and my hip hurts from twisting. I hit until the anger pouring out of me lessens to a trickle.
I’m breathing hard when I stop, the bat falling limp in my hand.
Angelo dashes forward to scoop me into his arms and pull me away from the swinging feed bag and carefully pries the bat from my fingers. Mint lets the bag fall to the ground with a thump, as though a body is hitting the floor.
I watch in grim satisfaction over Angelo’s shoulders as the dangling boys curl inward as much as their bindings will allow. Their shoulders rise nearly to their ears as they anticipate what’s coming next.
They think the same is going to happen to them.
Good.
Bastardos.
I want this night to be a horror for them. I want them to second-guess themselves for years to come. I hope they can never walk into a bar showing a baseball game ever again. I hope they can’t throw a ball to their future sons—if they have any. I hope their triggers are everywhere and they have to walk quickly, eyes cast down, so they aren’t chased by their personal demons.
I draw in a slow, deep breath and realize that fear has a scent. It’s urine mixed with a strange sour sweat that’s worse than a male locker room. It’s got a darker undertone, I’m discovering—with a warped sort of pleasure.
I smile up at Angelo, though I’m certain he can’t see my expression in the dark with my balaclava on. But his gloved hand comes up to cup my covered cheek and I know he knows—the same way I know he’s smiling back down at me.
We share a moment until I take a step back and nod, signaling for him to proceed, because this night isn’t over yet.
“Your turn,” Angelo’s mechanical voice comments.
“Look man, Nick already had her in there—” Number one starts making excuses for himself.
“Save it. Unless you want the same treatmenthejust got.” That makes Number one seal his stupid lips.
“Let them down,” Angelo instructs Mint before he walks over to the duffel.
As Mint turns back on his voice-changer and then lowers the two men carefully, so that just their tiptoes touch the ground, Angelo digs through the bag and retrieves three objects, objects he had me carefully select earlier this week.
I watch him as I try to catch my breath and slow my racing heart.
He’s so calm and collected and sexily sure of himself as he says, “You’re going to get to choose an item. You won’t know what it’s for until after you’ve chosen. Choose wisely.”
My heart hammers at my chest as Mint unfurls some of the rope surrounding Number one’s hands. Angelo snatches the guy’s right hand and drags each item across his palm: sandpaper, a cheese grater, and garden shears. “Choose. Item one, two, or three,” he orders.
“One,” Number one’s choice is exactly what we predicted it would be and I have to bite down on the chuckle that threatens to spill from my lips. Like rats in a maze, turning exactly where we want them to go.
Angelo turns and stares at me and it’s as if I can hear what he’s thinking, our connection a strong vibration through the air.Pathetically predictable, aren’t they?
