Page 31

And if I can’t unleash all of my deep-rooted anger and blow someone’s brains out, I need to fuck them out of someone. After that blatant rejection, the need is even more pressing.
We each deal with the grief in our own unique way.
I eradicate the sadness by inflicting harm on others.
And Papa has his own sick tradition, one he’d never shared with me, but one I know of only through Alexi.
Maybe because it reminds him that I watched the horrors unfold without stopping any of it.
But the fact that he shared something so personal with someone other than me…dammit, it stings.
Really fucking badly.
Just one more source of rage to battle.
I pull open the door and walk into the darkened lounge. The wall sconces give off a dim glow, and I blink back the tears for what seems like the millionth time this week. These emotions have taken hold and just will not let me go.
I need more vodka.
And then some cock.
A combination that makes everything better…numb, at least.
I run my fingers through my hair, combing through the knots caused by Rocco’s demanding fingers…fingers I wish I’d felt in so many other places before he went and grew a vagina.
Fucking yo-yo…I’d like to string him up and show him what that would really feel like.
I swipe under my eyes and clean up my dark eyeliner. It makes my eyes look almost clear. Soulless. Like there’s nothing to hide.
Ironic.
And quite the opposite.
The lounge door slams open and loud, obnoxious voices float over to the mirrored area where I’m fixing myself.
“…fucking whore…grabbed him…pushed me away…so hot…gone…”
The bitching is followed by a smattering of laughter and then the main grumbler starts in again.
“If I see her again, I’m gonna fuck her shit up!”
Yeah, that came across loud and clear. A tiny smile tugs at my lips as I swipe on some more lipstick and pucker for my reflection.
Oh, yes. Please, please, please! Make my fucking night!
The promise of a bitch brawl suddenly has me hotter than a stiff cock.
Why the hell is that? What in the hell is wrong with me?
I wait, my pulse thudding in my neck. Oh, the urge to pummel is so damn strong!
High heels click on the marble floor and stop suddenly. I bite the inside of my mouth, fighting back a surge of gleeful laughter.
Then I wait for what I know is coming.
Because bitches like that always get booze muscles. She probably took a self-defense class once and thinks she can bring me to my knees with one stupid sweep of her stick-like leg.
She may be tall, but if she attacks, she’s damn stupid, too.