Page 55 of Vipers & Roses

“Let’s go,” the other guy uses more force in his tone and seems

“We’ll be back if you don’t keep your mouth shut,” he says sternly, yet he’s half the size of the hulk, so I doubt he’d be strong enough to pull him off me. The hulk gives my throat one more tight, restrictive squeeze, and stars float behind my eyes, and I become lightheaded.

His grip is released, and I gasp, desperate for air. As he walks away, he hits me with a warning smirk that I won’t forget in a hurry. Backing away from them and my car, I run to the elevator, pressing the button several times before the damn door opens. Once inside, I slump over due to the lifeblood draining, making me weak and dizzy, and the movement of the elevator only adds to my giddy malaise.

When the doors open onto my floor, I stumble out, ill and frail, and make it back into my apartment just in time to vomit in the toilet bowl. As my body starts to empty and acid burns my throat, anger rises with such incredible velocity that I start banging my fist hard against the floor, over and over again. There is no pain yet, but there will be. As Gabe said, “Shock from trauma strikes after the dust settles.”

While wiping my mouth with toilet paper, I have only one thought hounding my mind: Til. I fill a tall glass with water, take several gulps to wash away the acrid taste in my mouth, and then step to my dresser.

Don’t do anything stupid, Rae.

“Who me?” I speak aloud as I crouch down to open the bottom drawer, take out my Glock wrapped in fabric, and take out the box of bullets to load it.

Then I opened the message on my phone from Cormac: I look forward to seeing you. What’s the ETA?

Me: Sorry, I can’t make it now. Something has come up.

I switch my phone off, open my door, and leave as a different person than when I came in, fuming and ready to cause damage.

The drive to my destination flew by barely without me knowing. I assume I stopped at all the red traffic lights, but I cannot remember.

It’s dark, but the lights are on, and as I climb out of my yellow Corolla, armed with Til, I have only one objective on my mind. To kill.

The gun is loaded, and my target is set. I raise the gun, close one eye, and squeeze the trigger. One, two, three, four.

Blood sprays from their enormous head wound as they fall to the floor, gasping for breath and then nothing. Dead. Gone. As I lower Til, smugly satisfied, I hear clapping behind me and turn to find the dark-haired thief congratulating me on my achievement with a dimpled smile.

Reality lands promptly, and I glance about, realizing I’m not where I want to be but at the shooting club. And Lyons is not dead by the wall, covered in scarlet. Instead, it was just a target.

“How did you know I would be here?” I ask Blake as he examines my target.

“I didn’t,” he answers. I just happened to be driving by when a yellow Corolla caught my eye in the car park. And I thought, well, I know a girl who drives one of those.”

“Oh, and you drive by here often at night?” I hit sarcastically. “Let me guess, you were on your way to break into a preschool.”

He narrows his dark eyes. “Roll out of the wrong side of the bed, did we? Is it due to your five roommates harassing you day and night? And I don’t rob preschools because they’ve got nothing worth having.”

“I lied about the five hot roommates,” I confess.

“No kidding,” he scoffs. “Shoot another round, and then I’ll take you home.”

“I bought my car,” I argue, “and you’re not my minder. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“I see that. Although you’ve got a bee in your bonnet that needs freeing,” he tells me. “And I didn’t mean your home. I was meaning my home.”

“Where do you live?” I ask curiously.

“Nearby. With a view of the river.”

“I prefer a view of the lake,” I tell him rudely.

“It’s dark, Rae. You won’t see either. Now, hurry up and release your pent-up frustrations so I can take you back to my place. I've got homemade pizza in the oven and cold beer in the fridge.”

“Homemade? You can cook?”

“Yeah, you think these hands are just for clapping,” he mocks, holding his hands up.

“Don’t you mean pickpocketing or gunslinging? It's okay to use your hands for clapping if you feel better,” I bite sarcastically.

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