Page 48 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

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 loose and tight…

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. “Fucking now !”

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 fingers just like that sous chef and have you dragged back to his hotel room by your hair.

Like you don’t have a midnight deadline to save your brother’s Ricky’s life.

My plan was to slip out a back entrance somewhere, and since I was already wearing a uniform, stealing through the kitchen seemed a safe bet.

Silly me forgot how many people would be here, and how most of them would assume I’m on duty.

My stomach churns as I push through the swinging doors toward the service corridor. Sorry Room Seven, but as soon as I can dump your tray somewhere inconspicuous, I’m outta here.

It better happen soon, before I lose every shred of courage I still have left. Before the clock ticks past midnight and Elonzo decides Ricky isn’t worth keeping alive anymore.

A busboy gives me a double take as I pass him in the corridor, his eyes narrowing when he glances down at my tray. “Where you going with that?”

“Oh, thank God!” My voice cracks a little as I shove the tray into his chest. “Get this to room seven, stat!”

“What the—?” He glares at me, grabbing the tray on instinct while I have to force myself to let it go. “Hey! I’m on break!”

“Fucking now!” I yell, before whipping around and speed-jogging the other way before he can call me back.

“I’m reporting you, Kate!” he shouts, but thankfully, he doesn’t chase me down. I glance down at the name tag still attached to my breast pocket and lay my hand over it for a moment.

Damn it. Sorry, Kate.

I’m tempted to go back to the kitchen and make another try of reaching that big red EXIT sign above the back door, but if that sous chef spots me, I’m done for.

No choice but to keep going.

Another employee pushing a big laundry cart appears around a corner up ahead, disappearing through a set of doors. I follow him into the hot, damp laundry.

The hum of massive washing machines fills the chemical-scented air. Most of the masked workers have their heads down, focusing on their tasks.

Damn. If this had been my first escape route, I’d be in the clear already.

I spot another EXIT sign above a distant set of doors. I force myself to walk instead of running, so I don’t draw attention. It helps that every step feels like I’m wading through quicksand. The faster I want to move, the slower I urge myself to go.

Ricky is an idiot, and a liar, and his gambling addiction is probably the reason I’ll die young, but I’ll never be able to live with myself if I let him be tortured. Even if it means Smith will make me wish I were dead when he finds me.

I push the exit door open and reel back when I see how hard it’s raining outside.

Well, I’d say this night couldn’t get worse, but that would be tempting fate. I push my shoulders back, squinting as I step into the pounding rain. My arm goes up to shield my face, but I change my mind and clap my hand over my nose a moment later.

Jesus, it fucking stinks out here.

I crowd against the wall beside the laundry’s exit door, trying to find my bearings before venturing away from its pseudo-safety.

The smell is coming from the nearby row of dumpsters…which is the only cover available in this huge, rain-soaked courtyard.

And if Smith is watching…

Forcing myself not to hurl, I reluctantly hurry over to the stinking containers, one hand over my nose, the other cupped against my forehead to keep the rain out of my eyes.

It’ll take Ricky decades to repay me for all the shit I’m going through for him.

I feel so fucking exposed, but thankfully it doesn’t take that long to reach the dumpsters. There’s not enough space to fit behind them, but I crouch low and hope the dark and the rain will do a good enough job of shielding me from any prying?—

“Who’s there?” comes a man’s voice. Aggressive. Slurred. A pair of red flags my feminine instincts immediately interpret as danger.

I edge backward, hoping to retreat into the shadows at the start of the row of dumpsters before the invisible man spots me, but my foot connects with an empty soda can.

You’d think, with all the pounding rain, that its metallic clatter wouldn’t echo through the alley…but it does.

“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. Smith is a 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 painful oomph as 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. And accurate . 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.

All I can see is a malformed silhouette as he huddles over me, like a demon from someone’s nightmare.

My future nightmare.

“No!” I shout, furiously slapping at his hands. “No, no, no!”

It’s too easy for him to fend me off. A single backhand, and I’m reeling, barely conscious, as he drags my pants down my thighs.

I gather all the air in my lungs for a desperate, “Help!”

Because my savior is where? Around the corner, just waiting for my signal so he can intervene?

Silly, silly me.

All my yell does is let water into my mouth until I’m choking. On rain water, on my own panicked sobs.

I feel myself becoming untethered, floating somewhere far away from these stinking dumpsters and this wretched demon.

But that all ends when the guy Smith canned punches me in the jaw. There’s no actual pain at first. Just a sharp whine and an almost tangible flash of white light across my vision.

Then it hurts. But I have other things to worry about. Like the hands on my body, and the disgusting sensation of warm, wet skin slipping against mine.

He was trying to punch me out, but all he does is drive home the reality of what’s happening.

“No!” I scream, using every ounce of strength to push against his chest. He reels back, but for barely a second.

I’m ready, though. Soon as he’s in reach, I claw out with both hands, aiming for his bloodshot eyes. He rears back again with a snarl. But I know I’ve only bought a few seconds.

“Stop!”

My assailant freezes, his head whipping to the source of the voice. His eyes widen, and he releases me so suddenly I collapse back to the ground.

“Fuck this,” he yells as he scrambles to his feet, hastily doing up his fly.

He bolts away, heading for the alleyway I’d been so desperate to escape into. I lie there for a second, watching him, still too shocked to pull my clothes back into place. Still thinking he’s going to turn around and come back to finish what he started.

Then someone blocks my view. Someone big and brawny.

Someone familiar.

Troy.