Page 11 of Sweet Vengeance
We can’t have that.
Tiernan gives us more information—there should only be two of them, hiding out. They’re pussies who abandoned their crew when they got in trouble with us.
The house is a tiny, dilapidated cabin. Dean kicks the door in, and the two men on the couch immediately try to jump over it and run outside.
I grab one by the hair, pull him back, and punch him in the face. Rory helps me with him, both of us beating the motherfucker’s ass, their guns on the table, out of reach. Dean and Tiernan are on the other one.
We make quick work of them, making them scream and cry, then taking bloody photos of them. In the end, Tiernan shoots one of them. Rory goes for rock, paper, scissors with me for the other one, but I let him pull the trigger. I’d do it in a second, wouldn’t hesitate, but I don’t get the same thrill out of it he does.
“You should have let me have one of them,” Dean says.
“Soon,” Tiernan promises. I know he’s trying to hold out as long as he can because he loves Dean and doesn’t want him to have to go down that road any earlier than he has to, but Dean is tough. He can handle it.
“That was fun.” Rory grins.
“You’re such a feral fucking gremlin,” I tease, wrapping my arm around him and laughing as we return to the car.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ollie
The first twoweeks of school, I’m working on settling into my new classes and figuring out a schedule, getting back into the habit of juggling school, studying, and working. I’m a pretty good multitasker, and I’m good at organizing my time, so once I get the hang of things, I slide easily into my groove. That doesn’t mean I’m not tired half the time, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m very used to functioning off very little sleep. This is the sacrifice I make so my dreams will come true.
It’s a Monday, which happens to be one of my busiest days. I had several classes, then walked straight to work. I got here early, found a quiet table and did some homework, and now I’m starting my shift. We’re short-staffed—Chuck, one of my coworkers, having called in. That sucks for me because he brings me back to my dorm sometimes. I don’t have a car, and I don’t like the idea of wasting my wages on ride shares, so until the weather gets too cold, I try to walk or get a ride with someone.
Everyone in Ashford decides they want pizza today, and we don’t stop moving all evening. Chuck was supposed to work late, and my shift manager, Chet, asks me to stay instead. I probably shouldn’t. That means I’ll be walkinghome at midnight, but I also don’t like to leave people hanging. Plus, the extra money won’t hurt.
By the time I get off, I’m regretting my decision. I just want to get back to my dorm, climb into bed, and not get up…well, until first thing tomorrow morning because I’m not the type to lie around too much.
“Thanks for staying tonight.” Chet waves as he opens his car door.
“No worries.” I set my backpack a little higher.
He gets into his car and drives away, and I head toward the road to walk my tired ass back to campus. Jeez. He could have offered me a ride.
This part of Ashford is already quiet. It’s not an area where people from school go to party, and it’s mostly older businesses—a furniture store, antiques, and things like that.
The fresh September air feels good on my skin after spending what seems like the last one hundred hours in a hot kitchen. I smell like pizza sauce and cheese, which is slightly tamer out here.
There’s not a lot of streetlights, the night feeling darker as I keep going. Just as I’m about to round a sharp curve in the road, I hear a quietumpfin the distance, followed by what sounds like a different voice laughing. I take a step, then another, planning to keep going and mind my own business, but just seconds later, there’s a, “No, please don’t,” and then the very obvious sound of someone being hit.
My pulse spikes, my palms getting sweaty and my heart going too fast. The noise continues, along withhell yesesand “Hit that motherfucker,” from more than one laughing voice. It’s probably idiots from campus, drunk or high and then pissing each other off, but what if it’s not?
More laughter comes, and I’m now able to distinguish three voices. I scan the parking lot across from me, but there’sonly one car there, toward the back, beside the building. The sounds are coming from around the back of the dark building.
When someone cries out, I start running toward whatever is going on. I’m not a fighter. I’ve never hit another person in my life, and I’ve never been hit either, but I sure as hell can’t keep going as if nothing’s happening.
My stomach rolls with nerves, and I feel like I’m going to throw up as I hurry toward them. When I round the corner, there’s a man on the ground. He looks in his sixties, maybe even older, while three guys who are a lot bigger than me stand around him, kicking and laughing at the old man on the ground.
“Hey! Stop that!” I shout, my voice shaking. For some ridiculous reason, Cillian pops into my head, and I recall him making fun of it the last time I saw him. “Leave him alone!” I tell them, trying to sound scarier than I probably do.
The second they turn on me, my mistake becomes clear. My hands are trembling, breaths coming out in sharp, panting sounds as I pull my cell out of my pocket. It’s probably something I should have done from the beginning, but my first thought had been to see what was happening and try to stop it.
The three men run at me. I fumble my phone, trying to open it and call 911, but all I can do is randomly push whatever pops up on the screen before the first punch slams into my cheek. My glasses fall off. My phone tumbles from my hand, the people in front of me blurry because of my terrible eyesight.
It’s not until the second hit comes that I realize how much it hurts. My whole head throbs, this burning sensation radiating up my cheekbone and into my skull.
I swing my arms, try to hit three moving targets, but it’s not much use. I get a few hits in, but before I know it, I’m onthe ground, trying to wrap myself into a ball to protect my head.
