Page 132 of House of Cards

“Fu—!” The rest cuts off as all the air is driven from his lungs. His head connects with the corner of the wall. I hear his head crack against the rough bricks.

Fuck, Ifeelit.

I expect him to go down, but the waste of human skin has a thick skull. He bounces off the wall and tries to run. Latching onto the back of his faded denim jacket, I hurl him against the wall again. Rain drums on the top of my head, my face, my hands. My suit is soaked through, my hair plastered against my skull.

A spotlight looms almost directly above us, casting Dylan’s terrified face in harsh relief.

But that’s not why the world goes white.

A numbing impact jars repeatedly through my body.

Rhythmic. Soothing.

Something much warmer than the biting rain sprays against my cheek, my nose, my glasses.

I blink, white turning to red. Then pink, as the rain cleans my glasses.

My eyes slowly focus on Dylan’s face.

A tremor races through me when I see the blood. The split skin and chunks of flesh. Bone, wetly gleaming.

Fuck.

Dylan makes a damp, spluttering sound that might have been a plea. Hard to tell through his ruined lips.

The air feels like concrete when I stand, resisting me as I stagger around. I’m panting for breath, pulling as much rain water into my mouth as I am air.

Troy is nowhere in sight.

I take off my glasses, drag my hand down my face, and put them back on just in time to see the kitchen door burst open to a handful of security guards. They swarm around Dylan, forcing me to back up so I don’t get in their way.

They lift him by his clothes, his head lolling limply down as they hurry down the alley.

Fuck knows if he’s still alive. Where they’ll dispose of his body if he isn’t. Unlike Zoey, he isn’t my problem anymore.

I hold out my arms, ball my blood-soaked hands into fists.

But the rain is letting up, refusing me the courtesy of cleansing my sins.

Zoey

How am I not dead by now? My brains should be splattered across Smith’s deluxe marble bathroom floor. But here I am, impersonating hotel staff as I dodge death like it’s a competitive sport.

My ill-fitting stolen uniform is looseandtight…and in all the wrong places. I’m well aware that I don’t belong here as I weave through the casino’s kitchen. Then there’s the bag of chips I tied to my belt, and the room service girl’s keycard digging into my palm, a constant reminder of the limp body I left behind.

Every nerve ending in my body pulses as I slip between glaring cooks and anxious servers. Someone keeps yelling, “Hands!” and I’m not the only one who flinches.

“Hey, you!”

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack bone. I spin on my heel to face the source of the voice, mutely pointing a thumb at myself.

“Yeah, you.” A sous chef points at a tray of appetizers. “Room seven.”

When I just keep staring at him like a deer in the headlights, he snaps his fingers at me. “Fuckingnow!”

I nod, ducking my head as I hurry past him to scoop up the tray.

Just act like you belong. Like Smith doesn’t own every fucking inch of this place. Like he couldn’t snap his fingersjustlike that sous chef and have you dragged back to his hotel room by your hair.

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