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“And I said stop talking.” He eases back enough that I can see it plain in his face—the menace that he’s been trying desperately to keep a hold on. His eyes peer into mine, cold and reproachful. His jaw tenses as he’s quick to anger.
Those cracks in the facade have split into a wide open chasm. No more pretenses and no more pretend. He’s lured me into his lair. The real Quinn McGuire can reveal himself.
He moves to plant more wet kisses all over me.
The party favor is taking longer than I anticipated to hit him. He’s larger and weighs more than his victims; the same dosage won’t hit him as quickly. Quinn typically has his victims so blitzed out of their minds by this point, they can barely object. If they do, he merely holds them down like he’s doing to me, and presses on anyway.
Eight women and counting. I won’t be his ninth.
It’ll be the opposite. He’s going to suffer for what he’s done.
When he comes close for more kisses, I snap up and headbutt him dead center in his face. His hands fly up to his nose and his eyes water. A pained howl rumbles from him, the hit so hard and jarring, he’s thrown off for a second.
I use it to my advantage. My arms free, I throw up my elbow and strike him again. A second direct strike to his face. I buck my hips and throw him forward until he’s tumbling over me and toward the sofa armrest. Then I’m rolling out from under him and onto my feet. He’s finally on the uptake, twisting around to launch himself at me. I anticipate the move, easily dodging him.
“You fucking bitch, you knocked my tooth loose!”
He spins around and tries again—he charges at me like a bull bounding toward a matador with a red cape. I shift to move out of the way a second time, but he seizes hold of my arm and swings me against the wall. My body collides with it with enough force I’ll probably wake up with bruises on my torso tomorrow.
But I don’t panic. I don’t lose my cool. I wait for my next opening. It comes as he raises his fist to strike me in the face. I hold up both arms to block his hit and then knee him in the groin. I follow up with kicking out his shin. He drops to the floor with a loud thud. His eyes wide and his face painted red with his own blood, he hasn’t learned his lesson.
He still seems to think he can win. I’m a couple steps ahead of him, grabbing my wristlet and digging inside.
He pushes himself onto his feet, slightly woozier than only a couple seconds ago. Either my hits have disoriented him or the party favor he drank in his tequila sunrise isfinallydoing its job. Possibly even a combination of both.
He throws himself at me. I’m too quick for him. Once again, I’m moving out of the way. Until he cheats and throws a lamp at my head. I duck only for him to crash into me and slam me into the wall. We drop to the floor and he uses sheer brute strength to keep me under him.
“You should be knocked the fuck out right now,” he spits. His grin spreads and reveals blood staining his teeth and gums too. He doesn’t seem to notice how his words slur. His eyes loses focus, his pupils darkening. The drug really is taking affect. He presses down on me with his body weight to rub his dominance in. “It’s okay . . . it’ll be hotter this way. I’ll knock you out myself.”
He raises his arm and backhands me and then clenches a powerful hand around my throat. He’s not going to get any further. I’ve already reached into my wristlet and grabbed my syringe of Sentophyl. My emergency escape hatch of sorts.
When consumed orally, Sentophyl takes up to an hour to work. When injected directly into someone, it works instantly.
As he squeezes my throat, I jam the syringe into his thigh. He growls and hits me again.
“What the fuck did you just . . . did you . . .” he slurs. He sways on top of me before tipping sideways, landing hard on his shoulder and side.
I slide myself out from under him and roll him over onto his back. His eyes go vacant and his mouth hangs open, bloody drool leaking out. He isn’t a pretty sight with the deep bruise on his nose and gash on his chin.
Injuries I caused him.
He stares up at me, dazed and speechless, incapable of doing anything. He’s lost total control of his body. Just like the women he’s brutalized.
Desperate gurgle noises leave him as he struggles to speak.
I smirk at him. “What’s the matter, Quinn? Didn’t you say to stop talking?”
He gurgles in answer, putting forth maximum effort to speak to no avail. Even a singular word proves impossible. His tongue lolls at the back of his throat and he begins choking on his own spittle.
I spend a few victorious seconds watching him before I move on. The moment isn’t about ego or gloating about my success. It’s about making him suffer for the crimes he’s committed. The legal system failed to do so, so why shouldn’t I take matters into my own hands?
“Good night, Quinn,” I say sweetly. I knock him out cold and begin setting the scene the authorities will find sometime in the future.
Quinn McGuire’s tragic overdose.
* * *
I’m riding a high the entire trip back into Northam. It’s the dead of night, the subway terminals almost empty. At one point, I’m the only passenger on my subway car. I barely notice, my serene smile touching my lips. I’ve changed out of my club attire and into a comfy hoodie and leggings (spare clothes I make sure to keep in my extra apartment in Easton). The subway train lurches to a halt at the Centennial Village stop.
