Page 26 of Rebels & Rejects

I take my time, pushing through the crowd and squinting into the dark corners of the room, looking for anyone that resembles Chad. I come across several possibilities, but when I get close enough, I realize they aren’t him and continue on my hunt. I’m not sure if it’s the music or knowing I’m getting closer to my prey, but I can feel the need for bloodshed humming beneath my skin, like a visceral reaction to the shitstain’s close proximity. It heightens my senses and seems to draw me across the room as if some baser part of myself instinctively knows where he’s hiding.

As I move into another room which is set up like an upscale theater, with its red, velvet, circular booths, all facing a stage, and golden table lamps that give out a low light, I spot my next victim, lounging in the middle of the room as he watches two naked women putting on a show on the stage. As I focus on them, I realize it’s basically a live porn performance.Whatever helps him get his rocks off, I guess.

I grab a drink from the tray of a passing waitress, sniffing the glass.Damn, they have the good stuff here.There’s none of the harsh scent of alcohol. Instead, all I can smell is vanilla and oak. I almost feel bad as I empty the mini tube of benzodiazepines I crushed up earlier into the glass and dip my finger into the liquid, mixing it in with the alcohol.

With the drink in hand, I approach Chad, sitting alone at his table. “Enjoying the show?” I ask in a husky voice, holding the glass out for him. My words snag his attention as he gives me a once-over before reaching out to take the drink, bringing it to his lips.

He swivels the whiskey around his mouth before swallowing, giving a casual shrug in response to my question.

“Perhaps I can help you find something more suitable?” I offer in a seductive purr.

His eyes rake over me once again, making goosebumps rise along my skin. “I’m after something... specific.”

I raise a brow and quirk my lips, leaning into him in such a way that makes my tits squish together, threatening to burst out of my bra. “I can beanythingyou want.” The words taste like vomit in my mouth, but whatever gets the job done.

He gives me another long, assessing look before knocking back the rest of his drink. A thrill of excitement pulses through me as he empties the glass, handing it off to someone before gesturing for me to lead the way.

I notice a hallway lined with doors on my perusal through the club, so I lead him in that direction, knowing they could only be there for one purpose. I find the hallway with ease, and as I stride confidently along it, I note the red light that’s activated beside some of the doors, obviously indicating that they are occupied. Finding an empty one, I open the door and step in, feeling his presence behind me as he follows me in. The loud click of the latch signifies that I finally have him alone as I do a quick scan around the room, taking in the plush king-sized bed occupying most of the space, as well as the wall of various sex toys, whips, paddles, and handcuffs—kinky—before I spin in my heels to face him.

Before I can plant my feet again, I’m knocked sideways, stumbling from the shock of the blow. My cheek smarts from the crack of his hand across it, and I can feel the sting of a split lip. He descends upon me while I’m still trying to comprehend what the hell just happened, knocking me back with another punch to my cheek.What the fuck? Is this what he gets off on?Apparently, it is. As I glance up at him, I can see the hungry look in his eye. He enjoys the power he gets from beating on a woman; he feeds off the high. It’s fucking disgusting.

He lifts his hand to strike me again, but before he can do so, a strange look crosses his features, and he stumbles to the side.

“W-what the... whuts happenin’ to mee?” His words begin to slur, the drugs finally taking effect, and he collapses to his knees at the end of the bed. Both benzodiazepines and alcohol are central nervous system depressants. They make you drowsy and uncoordinated, and in high enough doses, can repress your respiratory system—at least, that’s what a quick internet search told me before I bought a little baggie of Xanax off some kid who hustles on the street corner down from Strip Tease.

I watch impassively as Chad slumps against the bed. His eyes repeatedly drift shut before fluttering open, like he’s struggling to stay awake, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest gives away the difficulty he’s having breathing. I wasn't entirely sure how many pills it would take to finish him off, so I ground up as many as I thought would dissolve in a drink. Looks like I’ve gotten the concoction just right, though.

He groans weakly before vomiting all over himself. He tips onto his side, crashing against the ground, not giving a shit that he’s lying in his own vomit, and I patiently wait until his chest stops moving before I jump into action. When he’s finally lying unmoving, in a heap on the floor, I give it another minute while I wipe the trickle of blood from my chin, wincing as my tongue glides over the already swollen cut on my lip before I pull open the door to the room, stepping into the hall and screaming, “Help! HELP! He’s not breathing. Please, someone help!”

It takes a second, but eventually, doors start to swing open, and people spill into the hallway, drawn by curiosity to know what’s happened. As the hall fills with people, some just standing there peering into the room, while others move toward a very dead Chad, I melt into the crowd and slip away, rushing toward the back entrance of the club. A slight smile of achievement curls up the corner of my lips as I reach the door leading into the back hallway, but it’s wiped clean when I crash into a hard chest.

A smalloomphescapes my lips as the air is pushed out of my lungs, and my hands clasp onto a set of muscular forearms to steady myself. Blinking, my eyes take in a crisp white shirt and black tie before they crest over a smooth, angular jawline, high cheekbones and pitch black hair before meeting steely chocolate-brown eyes.

“Uhh, sorry,” I stutter, swallowing around a sudden lump in my throat. I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder. “I think there was, ehh, an accident or something. Someone needs help.”

His eyes dart over my head, looking toward where I just came from.

“I’ll handle it.” His gaze drops back to meet mine, narrowing as they take me in. “Do I know you?”

My eyes roam over his face, and it takes me a second, but recognition hits me like a semi-truck, knocking any remaining oxygen from my lungs. How the fuck did I not realize it at first?

“Emm, I don’t think so,” I croak. “I’m new.”

I move to take a step back, away from him, wanting to put some much-needed space between us, but his large, coarse palm comes up to grasp my face, his fingers pressing firmly into my cheeks as he leans down to study my face. My heart rate skips a beat, thinking he’s figured out who I am, but after a second, I realize he’s examining the cut on my lip. His face pinches, a predatory look flashing in his eyes as they move up my face, stopping on what I imagine is the beginnings of a bruise on my cheek. At the realization, his fingers loosen on my skin, but I swear I can still feel the zing of them, even after he’s let me go.

He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance to say whatever is on his mind before more calls for help, the voices becoming more alarmed with each passing second, drawing his attention to the chaos behind me. He straightens up, giving me a final frown and quizzical look before he takes off down the hall.

I’m frozen in place as I watch him go, seriously shocked at who he is. I mean, I’ve got no idea who he is. But I know who he isto me. He’s older looking than the last time we met, but then that was eight years ago, and we were in a dark alley. Not to mention that he was pointing a gun at my head, so no wonder I didn’t immediately recognize him.

As he disappears, I blink out of my shock, and remembering where I am, I slip out an emergency exit door at the side of the club and disappear into the night. The cool air whips across my face, blowing the fake brunette strands in all directions as I sprint the few blocks to my bike. I shove a pair of pants over my outfit and toss my wig in the duffel bag, pulling on a leather jacket before securing the bag across my back. Not wanting to waste any more time, I swing my leg over my baby and tug on my helmet before giving the engine a rev and taking off down the street.

The cold air bites my skin, mixing with the adrenaline still flooding my body and making me feel alive, as I let out a loud whoop that is quickly swallowed by the wind. Damn, there’s nothing quite like the thrill that comes from killing a scumbag like that. Anger licks along my skin, heating me from the inside out as I run my tongue over the cut on my lip, remembering the sting of pain when he hit me.

Once Raven is parked in my garage, I take out my burner phone and fire off a text to Chad’s wife, letting her know the job is done before I rifle through the compact side unit where I keep some tools for the bike, and a bottle of cheap whiskey, strictly for occasions like tonight.

I pull off the lid with a pop and knock back a mouthful. Images of the man from tonight clash in my head with long-buried ones from eight years ago. The way he’d looked at me tonight was so similar to then. That ice-cold gaze that froze me in place, his chiseled jaw that looks like it’s been carved from stone.

He said he’d handle it when I mentioned there was a problem, so he must work for the Antonellis in some capacity. Hitman plus club manager? That’s an eclectic mixture of skills. But then who am I to talk—stripper and avenger of battered women—those two things hardly go hand in hand.

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