Page 55 of Femme Fatale
He stepped in close, close enough that the heat from his chest brushed my arm. He took out another smoke and offered it. I took it suspiciously. “You’re a quiet one,” he said. “Most girls I meet in this town won’t shut up.”
“I’m not most girls,” I said.
“That’s what Dex said about you.” He smiled, white and wolfish. “He says you’re trouble.”
I let him look at me, let the silence stretch, and then I said, “What do you want?”
He reached up, tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, real gentle. His fingers were callused, knuckles scraped fromsomething recent. “Just a conversation,” he said, but his eyes flicked to the dark behind the bar, and I caught it. A little flinch, a plan forming.
I almost laughed. They’d picked the wrong woman for this.
But I played along. “Okay,” I said, letting him lead me into the shadow of the dumpsters, out of the wind. “We’re talking. Talk.”
He hesitated, then leaned in, breath warm and sour with whiskey. “How long you been running with the Harlots?” he asked. “You and your friend?”
It wasn’t a real question. He already knew. Dex had probably been watching us since we walked in.
“Long enough to know better than to follow strangers outside,” I said.
He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But you did.”
I thought of Zeke, the way he used to tell me to never back down, never let them smell the fear. I smiled at Mike, big and bright. “Maybe I wanted to see what you’d do.”
He stared at me, and for a second, something passed between us, a moment of respect, or maybe just mutual recognition. Then his hand came up, slow, tracing the air near my shoulder, not touching yet.
“You got scars,” he said, voice almost soft. “I like that.”
“You want to see how I got them?” I said, stepping in so the toe of my boot scraped his. “Or are you just going to keep making small talk until your friend comes to ‘save’ you?”
The laugh burst out of him, sharp as a slap. “Damn. You are trouble.”
He moved fast after that, hand on my hip, mouth coming down on mine. I let him, for a heartbeat. His lips were chapped, the kiss rough, but I’d had worse. I waited until he relaxed, then bit down on his lower lip, just enough to make him yelp and pull back, cursing.
He touched his mouth, blood on his thumb, and stared at me with something between admiration and hate. “Bitch,” he said, but there was a smile in it.
I dusted off my jacket and turned to go. “Better luck next time.”
“Wait,” he said.
I exhaled hard, watching the smoke coil up and vanish. "So what do you do, Mike? When you’re not making small talk with girls in bars?"
He didn’t answer. His eyes darted left, then right, and I felt the hair on my arms stand up. That old, familiar feeling. The air was thinning, danger prepping itself for a stage dive.
“Nothing that pays well,” he finally said, but his voice was off, the smile gone slack.
It happened fast. Two men stepped out from behind a white van parked at the edge of the lot. Not swaggering, not stumbling. Just moving, fluid and deliberate, their boots silent on the busted concrete. Both wore canvas jackets, buzzed hair, hard faces. I pegged them as ex-mercs, the kind that drifted into Vegas because they’d run out of wars to fight overseas.
Mike dropped his cigarette. "Selam," he said, and the word was Turkish, not a greeting but a command.
The taller of the two barked, "Now," and before I could even flick my smoke, Mike’s arms were around mine, pinning them to my sides. I stomped his instep, but he was ready, twisting me sideways so my blow skidded off his shin. I spat, aiming for his eye, but missed and got his cheek instead.
The other men rushed in. The short one grabbed my left wrist, the tall one my right. They yanked my arms up and back, the sockets popping like champagne corks. I kicked, caught the tall guy in the nuts, and for a second he doubled, air whistling through his teeth. I used the moment to whip my head back andcrack Mike square in the nose. There was a crunch, hot blood spraying, and he yelped, but didn’t let go.
The shorter one pulled a zip tie from his pocket and looped it around my wrists, cinching it tight. The plastic bit deep, plastic teeth gnawing my skin raw. The taller one, recovering, wrapped an arm around my throat—not choking, just holding, like a leash.
I was still cursing, writhing, when Mike produced a rag from his jacket. "Open up," he hissed.
I clamped my mouth shut, but the tall one pressed my nose until I couldn’t breathe, and when I gasped for air, the rag jammed in, tasting of motor oil and bleach. I almost puked, and they would have loved that.
