Page 110 of Trigger Happy Ending

And I’m going to take it, drink it, bathe in it, and enjoy every fucking minute.

I drag my fingernail over Derek’s jaw one more time. I will enjoy this one.

“We should have ended him at the roadhouse, huh?”

Soren’s voice startles me. He’s holding a steaming, fresh cup of coffee, trying to pass it to me. I don’t take it. I’m not used to having someone around when I’m spiraling into that cold, calm place that makes killing someone easy. But more than that … I don’t want him to see me coming apart.

He sets the cup down on the island, next to the laptop. “You got access to the CCTV?”

I nod. "I've also got the location and floor plans of the Raptors' clubhouse."

"How?"

"Smyth."

"You're planning something?"

“Yep.”

He exhales sharply. “Raine—”

“Don’t tell me to leave it.”

He stills. “I’d never tell you that.”

His eyes soften, and I hate it. Hate the understanding there. He knows this road, he’s walked it. He unleashed hell for his brothers, and I’m about to do the same for Cherry.

“She was my only friend.”

He leans over the kitchen island and sucks his chain into his mouth for a beat before letting it fall. “That’s not true,” he says quietly. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

My pulse stutters. Friends. Lovers. Enemies. Partners in crime. I don’t know what we are. It doesn’t matter anyway. We're over. Which is just as well. Anyone who’s ever gotten close to me ends up dead. These feelings are madness, and now more than ever, I understand that attachments are weaknesses.

So, no. We’re not friends. We can’t be friends. Not if he wants to live.

I glare at him, my mind grasping for something bratty to say. But I’ve got nothing. I’m drained.

“This isn’t about us,” I say finally, pushing the words between us. “It’s about Cherry. And doing what I should have done weeks ago.”

Soren rakes a hand through his hair, his gaze heavy on me. “You got a plan?”

I nod.

Anxiety claws at my throat, tears at my skin, drags its nails down my fucking spine.

Like he can sense my unease, he leans over and runs his thumb pad over my bottom lip. His eyes darken. “Tell me all about it,” he demands. “And then let’s go kill these motherfuckers.”

***

“You ready?”

I nod once and slide my black balaclava over my face. Soren does the same, his violent eyes locking with mine for half a second.

The Raptors clubhouse was once a warehouse, built from steel and concrete. The imposing two-storey building sits ominously on the banks of the Hudson, its exterior washed silver by the midnight moonlight. A row of windows cut across the upper level, several hanging wide open. The corrugated walls are tagged with fading graffiti, and eight Harleys sit parked outside the chained roller door.

Nothing about the place feels inviting.

Which suits me fine.