Page 103 of That Girl is Trouble

“Exactly like that,” the man with the woman on his lap says with a laugh. He gives one of her breasts a squeeze. “House rules. When you run out of chips, only way you can buy your way back in is with… a different kind of chip.” He examines me for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then, with a sneer, he says, “You know I like a good pair of tits, Rossi. Show me what I’ll be working with once I clean the floor with you tonight.”

My gut drops when the meaning of his words hits me. Shit. Shit. I’m here because Rossi’s using me as a bargaining chip in his sick little game of frat-boy poker.

His hold on my thigh tightens, as if he expects me to run, and he pulls me closer, his hot breath hitting my cheek. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. I won’t lose.”

Fuck. This.

I squirm and reach for the glass tumbler to Rossi’s right. The second I make contact, I swipe it towards us so it spills on both our laps.

He curses and jumps up, and I stumble back as his face morphs from smug to angry.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rossi,” I say, bringing my hand to my mouth, feigning embarrassment. “Let me—let me get something to clean you up.” I spin on my heel and pull the door open, snatching my bag from the ledge in the process. Then I practically sprint through the main room towards the stairs.

I expect the soundproof door to be locked, but it pushes open easily. I take a wrong turn as I try to navigate back to the foyer, and by the time I right myself and make it to the front door, Rossi is right behind me.

He grabs my arm, his grip bruising, and snarls. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

I dig through my bag until my fingertips skim the gun. I don’t grip it or pull it out. That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? Shooting him? It’s a hard thing to swallow, thinking about what that would mean. Maybe he’d live, or maybe he’d end up like Jesse. Pale skin, vacant eyes looking at me but not really seeing me, red staining the floor.

Just a scratch, Kitty.

That thought sends chills through me. The war in my head makes me hesitate too long. Long enough that he rips my bag from my arm and pulls me into his chest.

“You dare fucking embarrass me like that?” he shouts.

My heart batters so hard in my chest I can’t help the shake in my voice when I speak. “I am not some whore you can play away in a fucking poker game, Rossi. Are you insane?”

His responding laugh is ice cold. “You work for me. You work at my club. My kindness was a courtesy. Nothing more. That ring around your neck is a signal to every person here that they can’t touch you unless I say so. Wearing it is a privilege. One you just spat all over. You are a whore, Katherine. An ungrateful one.”

With all the strength I possess, I knee him in the groin, and he releases me as he stumbles back with a pained grunt. “It’s Kat,” I grit. “And don’t ever fucking touch me again.”

Rossi recovers fast and swings for me, and I don’t manage to dodge the backhand he throws at my face. My teeth clack together as black spots dance in my vision, and I lose my balance as I stumble to the floor. He snakes his fingers in my hair and tugs hard. A shock of pain radiates to my scalp, my ears ringing as I try to recover from the hit.

I scream, but there’s no one here to help me. My bag is still lying well out of my reach. The loaded gun at the bottom, my lifeline, too far away to cling to.

With ease, he drags me across the white marble floor and back towards the soundproof room.

I fight. I scratch his hands and kick out and yell louder, but he doesn’t let up.

“I told you, sweet Katherine,” he says, teeth gritted, his fist tightening in my hair as he twists my neck and forces my gaze to his. “I like impressive and beautiful things. You managed to impress me. Once. And you’re very beautiful. I’ll give you that, despite the attitude.” He points his finger in my face. “Which means if I want you, I get you. If I want to fuck you, then you’ll spread your legs like the whore you are, and you’ll let me. If I want to gamble away your pussy, then that’s my right, because you belong to me now. And don’t you worry. I’ll find something extra creative to do with your whore mouth.”

A blast of cold air whips around us, pulling Rossi’s attention from me. He loosens his grip a fraction, allowing me to dart a look at the front door. It’s open now, the cold air still filtering in, but instead of thick trees and expensive cars and the black November night, a set of angry eyes greets me. Then the tattoos come into focus, and then the sharp jaw and a face that’s twisted into something angry and dangerous and absolutely fucking terrifying. The sight makes my pulse thrash against my eardrums so violently it dulls the pain in my scalp.

Axel fucking Donovan.

Axe lunges and tackles Rossi to the ground. The grip on my scalp jerks painfully for an instant, then releases, taking a chunk of hair with it. Preacher appears behind me and pulls me to my feet. With a gentle but firm grip on my arm, he tugs me towards the door, but I shrug him off and grab for my bag. My focus is zeroed in on Axe, who’s pummeling fist after fist into Rossi’s face.

And it doesn’t look like he’s going to stop. It doesn’t look like he’s in control.

“Axe!” I yell.

But he doesn’t let up. Blood splatters across the white walls and the white floors and all over Rossi’s white shirt.

The bouncer from the floor below is suddenly in the mix. He grabs Axe by his collar and throws him against the wall before reaching behind his back. My stomach drops. I know what that means. I know what he’s grabbing for.

Preacher jumps him, and the gun the bouncer just retrieved from his waistband goes flying, then skids across the floor. Everything kind of slows for a second when Rossi crawls towards it and wraps his hand around the grip. He raises his arm, taking aim at—

No.

---