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REAGAN

T he alley is dark as shit, only broken by the occasional flickering streetlamp that looks like it’s on its last legs. Just my kind of place—grungy, hidden from prying eyes. Perfect for getting into trouble, which I seem to have a knack for. My combat boots thud against the cracked pavement as I stride quickly, head down, minding my own damn business. Stupid? Maybe. Necessary? Definitely.

I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off tonight. The alley is too quiet—no drunk laughter or the usual shuffling of feet.

“Keep it together, Reagan,” I mutter under my breath, my fingers brushing against the switchblade in my pocket—a habit, a comfort. It’s just another shortcut home, one I’ve taken a hundred times. But the air smells like trouble, and I swear the darkness is thicker than usual, sticking to my skin. Like honey when I used to make my younger sister Reese tea to cheer her up.

I round the corner, and my heart skips a beat. I freeze as three tall figures loom ahead, tall and dressed head-to-toe in black like some wannabe ninjas straight from the TV. Shit. Why the fuck am I always finding myself in these goddamn situations?

Leaning against the brick wall of the alley entrance my heart thumps in my chest as I watch them dismount from their street bikes, kicking down their stands and throwing one leg over, moving in perfect unison like a well-oiled machine. Are they triplets? No one could be that perfectly in-sync with someone. The loud clang of their helmets hitting their gas tanks sounds in my ears. In the dark, I strain to make out their features, but it’s useless. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I could give two shits what they look like and when I think back on this moment, I prefer the anonymity of their helmets.

Something about their presence sends a chill down my spine, and not in a good way. They radiate violence, barely contained and bubbling at the surface ready to spill over. Something I’m so goddamn intimately familiar with. My instincts start screaming louder at me—run, hide—but I’m frozen, caught in their invisible grip.

My heart starts pounding double-time as I size them up, trying to gauge how much trouble I’m in. They haven’t seen me yet, too busy glowering at each other like they’re in some kind of pissing contest. Typical men.

Their presence is suffocating, and for a moment, I’m back there—sixteen again, sold by the man who should have been my protector. My body remembers: the fear, the powerlessness. But I’m not that girl anymore. I’m steel wrapped in skin, and nothing can break me. I’m already broken, and all my little jagged pieces were dipped into the fire and cauterized. I’m just a sack of flesh going through the motions.

I debate turning around and getting the hell out of dodge, but something keeps me rooted to the spot. A morbid curiosity has me following them as they slink through the alley away from their bikes. The smartest thing to do would be to leave and act like I haven’t seen shit, but sometimes I’m just a dumb bitch.

Just where the fuck are they going and what are they going to do when they get there?

They turn out of this alley and into another grimy one before slipping into a house door. I pause, waiting a couple of beats before creeping toward the small window about four feet to the right of the door they just entered and look inside. A plain kitchen with faded and cracked linoleum greets my eyes until I look further out of the open floor plan and into the living room.

Finally, I can get a good look at each of them, but it’s the way the one slips something to a couple of guys and ushers them downstairs that makes him the most intriguing. The other two are in front of the blond sitting on the couch. Does he owe them money? Did he offend them? I have so many questions. I wish I could hear what they are saying. My fingers poke at the window to see if it opens at all, but of course I’m not that lucky.

Black t-shirts, dark jeans, and black motorcycle boots encasing each of the guys. The only difference is their height, build, and their masks. The two have plain non-descript ones, but it’s the third that intrigues me the most. He’s got a Ghostface mask on. My center clenches because who the fuck hasn’t thought about fucking a guy while he wears a hot, creepy mask like that.

I can’t tear my eyes away from him—the one with the screaming mask sitting like a crown atop his head. His face is like stone, but his eyes are dark, unreadable, but they pull at me, drawing me into something I know I should avoid .

I may not be able to hear their words, but the thuds and grunts of flesh against flesh are visceral sounds that echo off the grimy brick walls. There’s a brutality to the way number one is beating blondie. My heart hammers against my ribcage, like a morbid drum line desperate to join the music. The excitement in my veins is like a shot of adrenaline straight to my pussy. It’s wrong, so fucking wrong to feel this way, but it’s there, nonetheless. A thrill at the sight of violence, blood and splitting flesh invades my system.

I’m frozen, caught between the impulse to flee and the perverse desire to witness more. I know I should leave. I’ve seen enough and being a nosey bitch will only lead to trouble. The problem is that this right here is the stuff my fantasies are made of. It’s what will help me come later tonight when I play it back in my head.

I can almost feel the next impact, imagine the burst of pain that must be exploding behind the guy’s eyes. My body tenses, but then I watch as the guy is dropped to the ground. The leanest one that just beat the ever-loving shit out of this guy pulls his phone out of his pocket and I can watch his mouth open as he answers it.

A different type of tension lines his body as he starts yelling into the phone, pacing as whoever is on the other line doesn’t answer. The line must disconnect because he starts yelling at the other two.

His boot comes down hard, the sole slamming into the guy’s windpipe. There’s this sickening crunch that cuts through the air, and I know that I’m going to be thinking about it for days. The dude on the ground—it’s over for him. He goes limp like a rag doll.

“Fuck me,” I breathe out, the words barely slipping past my lips as I clench my thighs together. My heart’s doing double time, pounding against my ribcage like it wants out. Adrenalines got a chokehold on me, and I’m not sure if I want to break free.

For a second, just one messed-up, twisted second—I picture myself in there, throwing punches, jumping onto Mr. Tall, Dark and Twisted. It’s a heady thought; control, dominance, something I crave but never admit out loud. I can almost feel the weight of someone under my own boots, every stomp an assertion of my own strength. Heat coils low in my belly at the fantasy, dark and vicious and mine.

Damn it, Rae, what the hell are you thinking? But the question’s rhetorical because deep down, I know exactly what I’m thinking. It’s like staring into an abyss and finding it staring back, recognizing a part of yourself that’s just as feral, just as hungry.

I shuffle, trying to alleviate some of the pressure in my core when my boot connects with a heap of trash, and the racket it creates is like a goddamn dinner bell in the silence of the alley. Shit. The sound ricochets off the walls, a roar of my mistake. I freeze, heart sinking, as the guys halt their talking and three heads swivel toward me.

“Fuck,” I whisper out loud. Like I said, I’m a dumb bitch. I should have never come down here. Like Alice in Wonderland following the damn white rabbit.

Time’s a bitch, stretching out like some sick joke, each tick echoing louder than the last. My eyes lock onto that screaming ghost bastard who stands there like death’s own warden. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to decipher the puzzle of my existence from where he’s standing. There’s curiosity there, but mostly fucking danger.

I don’t think twice. The instinct to run, to survive, slams into me like a freight train. My boots slap the pavement, pounding out a desperate rhythm as I flee from whatever hell I’ve stumbled upon. I can feel my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest, each beat screaming to put more distance between us.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, cursing the adrenaline that’s both my savior and tormentor. It’s like it’s not enough to witness something so fucked up—I have to get caught, too?

The cold November night air whips past me, cutting through the thin fabric of my band tee and the flannel I wear. But I barely register the chill—it’s nothing compared to the icy dread coiling in my stomach. I refuse to be caught and made a spectacle of. I’d rather kill myself. I navigate the maze of alleys moving closer to campus. I just need to get somewhere that I can disappear into a throng of people.

So fucking stupid when so much is on the line. Reese flashes in my mind. My little sister, seventeen and blissfully unaware of the monster lurking in our father. He’ll sell her soul for a dime and power. Not while I’m breathing. She’s the one pure thing left in my life, and I’ll be damned if I let history repeat itself.

I gotta get my ass out of here.

Every step of boots is fueled by the need to shield my sister from the darkness that’s already stained my own hands. The pain the hard leather gives me keeps me focused but fuck I wish I had sneakers on. I dodge a stray cat as it scampers across my path; it hisses as if I’ve just annoyed the ever-loving shit out of it.

“Fuck you too, kitty,” I snarl, but there’s no heat in it. I’m too wired, every sense dialed up to eleven.

I’m so close to getting my sister free. I’ll burn down the world before I let him touch her. I’ve danced with devils before—I’m not afraid to do it again .

I can almost laugh at the twisted irony. Me, Reagan St. Pierre, the girl who makes a mockery of rules, now playing guardian angel. If that’s not fucked up, I don’t know what is. But maybe that’s just it; we’re all a little messed up, trying to find a scrap of redemption in the chaos.

I push my long legs to go harder, faster, until the burn in my thighs feels like sweet punishment. There’s a sick part of me that craves the pain, the rush. But the stakes are too high, and I’m not looking to cash out early.

My lungs are heaving, each breath a ragged tear through the air. I’ve been running for a few blocks, but it’s not just the cold biting at my heels—it’s the prickle of a thousand eyes, the sense that they are tracking my every move. It’s like I can feel their gaze, heavy and unrelenting against my skin. It makes me itch, my flesh feeling too tight.

The neon lights of the bar strip flicker in the distance, slicing through the alley’s darkness. The thumping bass beckons from one of the brick buildings calls me. Two more steps and I’m there, my combat boots slipping on something slick—don’t think about what that might be—as I bulldoze into the throng of sweaty bodies.

“Move!” I growl, not caring who I elbow aside as I shove my way through the crowd. Hands and bodies brush and grope, but I keep my switchblade tucked away—for now. No need to start a brawl when I’m this close to blending in.

“Excuse you,” some guy slurs, his beer-sloshed breath hot on my neck.

“Fuck off,” I snap back without missing a beat, ducking under his clumsy attempt to grab my arm. I don’t have time for this kind of bullshit tonight.

I lose myself in the mass of gyrating bodies, letting the heavy scent of sweat and spilled alcohol fill my nostrils. It’s disgusting, really, but it’s cover. And right now, I’ll take whatever I can get. With each step further into the belly of the beast, I feel my pulse begin to level out. Just have to keep moving, keep hidden.

“Hey, watch it!” A girl stumbles backward into me, her drink splashing across the both of us.

“Sorry,” I lie, not giving a damn about her stained shirt as I sidestep and push onward. This place is a pit—a perfect pit to get lost in.

“Reagan?” someone calls out, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Whoever it is, they can find me later. I purposely chose “Bleachers” to slip into instead of “Whiskey’s Place”, two doors down. Even if they follow me in here, it’s just another barrier for them to come back and find me again. I have no connection to this place except the proximity to my job.

The layout is similar on all of these buildings, so it’s easy to find a back entrance to an employee’s only area.

I slip into the room; the door creaking behind me. The air is stale, tinged with the smell of cleaning chemicals and something musky and raw.

“Fuck,” I whisper to myself, catching my breath, before I realize I’m not alone.

My eyes adjust to the low light, and there they are—a guy and a girl, wrapped up in each other. They’re fucking hard against the stacked boxes of liquor, oblivious to my intrusion. Every thrust, every moan, echoes off the concrete walls, filling the tight space with their wet, sloppy sounds.

I should turn around. Should leave. But I don’t. I’m already on edge, adrenaline still pumping from the alley. Watching them, I feel the pulse between my legs again, a reminder of how horny I am.

I feel my lips curl into a smirk. My gaze locks onto them, taking in every detail—the way his muscles ripple under his sweat-slicked skin, the arch of her back as she clings to him. They’re both pretty, easy on the eyes and he’s obviously got a good dick because those moans of hers aren’t fake.

“Hey,” the guy grunts, pausing mid-thrust. His eyes meet mine, dark and intense.

His girl peers over his shoulder, drinking me up from the tips of my boots, up my ripped fishnets, shorts, and the flannel tied right up underneath my tits. “You wanna join?”

“Not this time, babygirl,” I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm and desire. “But I’m gonna watch. So put on one helluva show like a good girl.”

The girl giggles, a sultry sound that sends shivers down my spine. “Your loss,” she purrs, but there’s no real disappointment in her tone. She knows she’s got an audience now, and that’s enough.

They resume, even more fervent, and I lean against the wall, crossing my arms. The heat in the room rises, mingling with the scent of sex and sweat. This is my favorite way to kill time.

“Fuck, yes,” the guy growls, his voice guttural and raw as he thrusts harder into the girl beneath him. Her moans rise in pitch, echoing through the small room like a siren call. I move a little bit further into the room and lean against the wall, crossing my arms tighter across my chest, eyes fixed on their bodies. Perfect position to watch both of their faces and to watch his cock slip in and out of her tight little cunt.

The girl’s nails dig into his back, leaving angry red trails that catch the dim light. She arches her back, pressing her breasts against his chest, her whimpers becoming more desperate with each movement .

“That’s it, don’t hold back,” I tell them, feeling the tension between my legs intensify. They both get off on my words.

“Please,” The pretty little redhead begs, but it’s not him she’s talking to as her eyes drill right into mine. The guy glances at me, catching my eye with a smirk before focusing back on the girl.

“You’re missing out, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening. “We could’ve made it real fun for you.”

“Trust me, I’m having plenty of fun just watching,” I shoot back, my tone dripping with sarcasm. But there’s no denying the heat pooling in my belly, the way my breath hitches every time she gasps or he groans.

Their movements become frantic. The girl’s cries turn into screams, her body shuddering violently as she comes. The guy follows soon after, his muscles tensing as he spills into her, a low, satisfied grunt escaping his lips.

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything settle back onto my shoulders. The show is over, and reality starts to creep back in. The couple disentangle themselves, panting and sweaty, casting glances my way.

“Enjoyed the show?” the girl asks, her voice still breathless.

“More than you know,” I reply, pushing off the wall. “But I’ve got places to be.” I pull my hair up into a bun before slipping off my flannel and tying it around my waist. I rip my shirt off so I’m only in my black push-up bra. That should be enough of a change just in case the three musketeers are still lurking. Here’s hoping they just gave up.

“Let me know if you want a repeat performance,” the guy tells me with a wink.

“Count on it,” I say, flashing a grin that’s more wolfish than friendly. I turn and slip out of the room and back to the bar’s main area.

I push through the crowd, ignoring the leering looks from drunken patrons, and step out into the cool night air. The chill bites at my exposed skin, but it clears my head.

I walk quickly, keeping my head down, my thoughts a jumbled mess of lust and violence. By the time I reach my apartment, I’m exhausted but wired, nerves frayed. I lock the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment, letting the silence wash over me.

I really need to get a better fucking hobby, but first let me go pull my rabbit out and give myself an orgasm thinking about that deviant fucking bastard.