Kings of Chaos (Dirty Broken Savages #1)(45)

But now there are these four men in my life, getting under my skin. My back twinges a little when the thin cut pulls, and I think about Knox and what we did last night.

It’s weird to be thinking about anything but the job. To have people in my life.

I used to go days without talking to anyone. I even had a one-night stand with a guy once and didn’t say a single fucking word to him.

But now I go downstairs in the morning and they’re all there. Sitting around the table, joking and shooting the shit. Doing fucking card tricks and wolfing down eggs like they’re going out of style. It’s weird, and I don’t like it.

I had a routine. A life I was used to. Where I rolled my ass out of my shitty, lumpy bed when I needed to and then had cereal or toast and went about my day. None of these conversations in the morning or dealing with Ash wanting kisses.

Well, whatever. It’ll be done soon. That’s what I have to remember.

It’ll all be over soon. They’ll be out of my life, and I’ll be out of theirs. And on top of that, I’ll be free of my demons. Every man on the list will be dead, and I can finally move the fuck on with my life. Whatever that looks like.

I drag in a deep lungful of the slightly smoggy air and nod to myself, reaffirming myself in my mission. This is all that matters. Anything else is just a distraction.

I’ve got my target, and I’ve got my spot.

It’ll all work out.

So I take the rickety metal stairs down from the roof, hitting the pavement and heading for my car so I can get out of here. On the way back to the street where I parked, I see a woman walking quickly, her heels clacking on the sidewalk as she power walks away from a man in a hoodie and jeans that seems to be following her at a fast pace.

Her hair is blowing around her face in the breeze, and she doesn’t even reach up to brush it out of her face. She doesn’t turn around to look at the guy, and her tense, worried posture makes it clear she wants to get away from him as soon as possible.

“All I’m saying is you’re too pretty to be walking around here by yourself, baby,” the guy croons. He’s not slurring his words, and he doesn’t look like he’s high or anything, which means he’s just a run-of-the-mill shithead who can’t take no for an answer and doesn’t have anything to hide behind as an excuse. Not that it would be different if he did. An asshole is an asshole whether he’s sober or not.

“I’m not interested!” the woman shoots back, not turning around.

The man doubles his pace and catches up to her, reaching out to grab her arm and bring her to a stop. “You need to hear me out,” he says. “I’m trying to help you, and you’re being a bitch. That’s why bad things happen to women these days. Because you won’t stop for a second and let a nice guy help you. Let me give you a ride home, gorgeous. You won’t regret it.”

“I said no,” she shoots back, tugging her arm out of his grip. “Leave me alone, please.”

It’s the please that makes me fucking sick. I can see she’s angry and scared, and even so, she still feels like she has to practically beg this fucker to leave her alone.

The guy narrows his eyes, and I can see the anger there, too. The rage at being rejected when he thinks he’s God’s gift to women or some shit. He pulls back like he’s going to hit her or grab her again, but before he can, I’m across the street and grabbing him myself, yanking him hard away from her.

He didn’t see me coming, and I have the element of surprise on my side, so he stumbles back, and I have a chance to draw my knife and press it against his side, wrapping one arm around his chest from behind.

“No is a complete sentence, asshole,” I mutter to him, making sure he can feel the point of the blade pricking his ribs through his hoodie. “If a woman tells you to fuck off, then you should just do that. Because when you don’t, bitches like me have to step in, and trust me. You don’t want that.”

“What the fuck?” he splutters, trying to turn around so he can see my face.

I dig the knife in just that bit deeper, cutting through his hoodie so it meets skin. I think about how good it felt to jam a blade into that guy’s leg last night. How it was exactly what he fucking deserved, and how this fucker could be in the same boat.

I drag the knife down lower, cutting through more of his clothes and letting it bite through his skin. I can tell from the pathetic little whimper that it hurts, and I roll my eyes. “You’re not so tough now, are you? You’re only a big, brave predator when you’re chasing someone who won’t fight back. But when someone does? Then you want to go crawling home with your tail between your legs. Pathetic.”

It would be so easy to keep cutting. To make an example of this asshole and leave him in the middle of the street for everyone to see. But the woman is watching with wide, frightened eyes, and I only wanted to prove a point anyway.

So I shove him away from me, letting him go. As soon as he’s free, he turns and runs off, stumbling over himself to get as far away as possible.

“Thank you,” the woman says, sounding breathless. “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t sure if I should run or try to fight him or what. I didn’t know what he’d do. Thank you.”

“It’s whatever,” I tell her, brushing her thanks away. I didn’t do it because I wanted her praise or gratitude. I did it to send that fucker a message. “Assholes like that are a dime a dozen.”