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Yanking the splintered wood from my leg, I turned the weapon against my attacker, returning the gesture and stabbing him where he had me.
He went down.
One of the women tried to break a bottle over my head, and my arm flew out on instinct. I caught her wrist before the bottle made contact with my skull. Her eyes widened, and she trembled under my grip, dropping the bottle which I caught with my spare hand, laughing again as this made her whimper.
She was pretty and shrunk under my gaze as I licked my lips, flicking my tongue over my teeth. I could take her, but I wasn’t here for her. Not tonight. Although the ache in my pussy told me I’d need to deal with that aspect of my instinct soon, I wouldn’t be acting on it now, not when I was having so much fun with my current projects. I leaned in close to her ear, purring at the way she trembled. I bet she shook the same way when she orgasmed.
“Run, bitch,” I whispered.
She did.
In an attempt to use a move I had seen in a spy movie, while I failed to capture it with silver-screen grace, the next man went down with his head crushed between my thighs. By the time I had taken him out, the bar had emptied. The remaining men and women having fled, taking those injured and unconscious with them.
There wouldn’t be a club for them to come back to.
Cracking open the bottle the woman had tried to hit me with, I poured a portion over the wound on my leg. Strange. I frowned, unsure why it hadn’t healed yet until I found a few stray splinters still embedded in my skin. Hissing between my teeth, I removed them and gave the wound another splash of bourbon. I could almost watch as the remaining gash closed up, then I poured the last of the amber liquid down my throat.
Tasted like shit but burned so nice.
I vaulted over the bar and set about pouring bottle after bottle onto the floor and tables and snatched up a stray pack of cigarettes on my way out. Using a lighter to light a cigarette, I then threw it over my shoulder into the bar. The flames crackled to life slowly at first, burning on the spilled alcohol before spreading to the wooden furniture and eventually licking up the walls. It didn’t gain momentum as quickly as people seemed to think it did, but it also depended greatly on the bar’s contents and could change from small fires to raging inferno in a second. I’d learned the hard way a few weeks ago when I had casually strolled out and had barely made it to the door before the flames reached a particularly volatile pile of kindling.
It singed my clothes, which pissed me off.
I liked that jacket.
As I sat across the street, smiling and watching the building burn, I only wished I’d grabbed another bottle before leaving.
A drink and a show would’ve been nice.
