Page 2 of Rebel Revenge

One bullet in the chamber.

Not enough for all three men who needed to die.

But enough for me.

I stared down at the gun, a tear rolling down my face. With a hiccuping sob, I put it in my mouth.

One tiny pull on the trigger and this could all be over. The dreams at night. The terror during the day. The constant self-loathing and misery, all gone in an instant.

I just wanted it all to stop.

Two framed photos sat on a wall shelf directly opposite where I stood, familiar faces smiling out from behind the glass. In one, my boss and best friend, Bethany-Melissa, or Bliss as we all called her, slung her arm around my neck. On my other side, one of her guys, Nash, rested his arm on the top of my head. The three of us beamed at the camera. It had been taken one day at work when we’d been bored, but I’d loved it so much I’d had copies printed for all of us. Nash had hung his on a wall in his office at Psychos. Bliss had taken hers home to the house she shared with Nash and her two other guys. I’d put mine there on the shelf beside the photo of me and my mom, the only other person I truly cared about.

Now I wondered if I’d put them there specifically for this moment. So I would see them while I held a gun and contemplated ending it all.

Slowly, I lowered the weapon, sobs turning to gut-wrenching cries ripped straight from my soul. I stumbled back to my bed, tucking the gun beneath my pillow. With the safety back on, touching it was the only way I could stop myself from shaking.

The nightmares resumed, but this time, they were almost welcome. They were better than the one I lived while I was awake.

At least I couldn’t put a bullet through my brain while I slept.

* * *

The disengaging of the lock on my front door woke me. My will to die instantly forgotten as instinct and self-preservation kicked in.

I was out of bed, gun in my hand, fingers trembling over the trigger before the handle even turned.

“I’ve got a gun,” I announced as the door swung open. “I’ll—”

The woman in the doorway propped one hand on her hip and stared me down with a look that somehow bordered on amusement, even though there was a deadly weapon pointed at her. “You’ll what, Bel? Shoot your dear old mom?”

I dropped my arm in relief, letting the gun clatter to the floor.

That had Mom flinching, but nothing happened. The gun lay silent.

Mom stepped inside, her stiletto heels sinking into the carpet. She squatted gracefully, keeping her knees together despite wearing formfitting cream slacks, and scooped the gun up from the floor. “What on earth are you doing with a Glock, Bel?”

I cringed at the nickname I’d always despised. “Please don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

Mom acted like I hadn’t spoken. Just dangled the gun from one of her perfectly manicured, talon-length fingernails.

I snatched it from her and spun on my heel, stomping back to my bed. I tucked the gun beneath my pillow once more then curled up on the lumpy mattress and pulled a blanket over me.

She followed more slowly, perching on the edge of the bed, the springs squeaking beneath her weight. She brushed back a strand of my crazy hair, her fingers returning to hover over my messed-up face. “Who did that to you?”

I burrowed farther into the blankets. “Does it matter?”

She sighed heavily in defeat. “I suppose not. This is where I should probably tell you to go to the police—”

I snorted beneath the covers. “I went to a clinic and made sure I wasn’t pregnant. But the men who did it? They’re from Providence.”

“Oh.”

The understanding was there in that one-syllable word. It was all that needed to be said. I was a woman from Saint View, the wrong side of the tracks. They were rich white men from the nearby upper-class neighborhood. The cops would sooner dress in drag and do a hula than take my word over theirs. Everyone from Saint View knew how it was. We handled our own business here, because the cops always came down on the side of the rich pricks who called Providence home.

There would be no justice for what they’d done. Not unless I kept myself alive long enough to carry it out.

I wasn’t making any promises on that one.

---