Page 134 of House of Cards

“I see you.”

A figure lunges into view. Drenched street clothes, bloodshot eyes, a damp cigarette clinging to his lip like he forgot about it. He staggers closer.

“Who’re you?” He squints at me, then down at the name badge on my uniformed shirt. I catch a whiff of recycled booze wafting from him when he says, “You ain’t Kate.”

My throat tightens. “I’m new.”

“Bullshit.” He snatches off the magnetic name tag before I can stop him, and my heart sinks right along with the strip of metal backing that falls down the inside of my shirt.

I find a sliver of courage hiding under a couch in my hindbrain somewhere, and pull it out by the scruff of its neck. “Because you know everyone who works at the casino?”

“I did.” The man snarls at me. “’Til that prick Smith canned me.” He stabs a thumb toward himself. “Me!” he roars.

Oh, good God.

I force a swallow, meekly raising my hands. “Look, I’m sorry you’re having a shitty day. Smithisa prick. But I’ve got to get home, so?—“

“Shift over so soon, huh?” the man mutters, eyeing me with narrowed eyes. Somehow—some-fucking-how—he spots the bag of chips dangling from my belt. “What’s that you got there?”

Fuck etiquette.

Fuck trying to diffuse the situation.

This guy’s a nuke, and his timer has seconds left on the clock.

“None of your fucking business, asshole!” I break into a run, but I barely get a yard before he grabs the back of my uniform and drags me back.

Air leaves my lungs in a painfuloomphas he tosses me against the nearest dumpster with a clang that echoes in my skull.

“You chicks get away with fucking everything,” he spits.

I try to slap away his hands, but for a drunk dude, he’s really fast. And strong. Andaccurate. Kinda like he’s done this before.

One hand grabs my arm, wrenching it up behind my back as he twists me around and slams me back into the dumpster. The other slides around and starts groping at my tit like he’s checking for lumps.

I gag more for the stench of booze from his breath than the smell of rotting food when he leans in to murmur, “Bet they won’t even do anything if I told them. Cos that’s fucking fair?”

I twist my body, kicking at his shin, but he just grabs the back of my head and slams it into the top of the dumpster lid.

Stars explode behind my eyes, my body going limp for a moment before I can rally my muscles to struggle again.

“Stop fighting, bitch,” he hisses, pressing his body against mine. “Jus’ collecting my severance package.”

When I feel his hand drop lower, feel it rummaging near my backside like he’s working down his fly, nausea swells through me as my body locks up in horror.

This isn’t happening.

It’s. Not. Fucking. Happening.

I hold my breath and let my legs go weak, dropping all my weight down. Dylan’s grip tugs through my hair, but thank God for the rain and his insistence on getting his dick out of his pants, because he loses his grip just enough so I can yank myself free and dodge away.

But I’m still not fast enough.

He grabs me, shoves me into the corner between the dumpster and the brick wall, and forces me to the wet concrete so hard my skull cracks against the paving.

Jesus, that hurts.

I think I yell or scream, but my senses are in overload, so I’m not keeping track anymore. The wet rain stinging my face, the scrape of concrete, the burn of fabric as he tries to rip my pants down.

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