Retribution by Gemma James Page A

bottom had taken the brunt of his rage, but every inch of me showed evidence of his cruelty.
    “Is this why you’re hiding in that bottle? Did your conscience finally claw it’s way out of the grave?” I wouldn’t look away or back down. I wanted . . . no, I needed him to acknowledge the line he’d crossed. I tapped my foot and waited. “Dammit, say something!”
    “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?”
    “Are you?”
    He sprung to his feet, so unexpectedly that I jerked back. “I’ll never be sorry for fucking you in front of him.” He hurtled the bottle against the wall, and the sound of shattering glass competed with the warning going off in my head. I shrank away as he advanced, but he grabbed me anyway. His hands dug into the bruises and welts. “I’d do it again and again until he gouged his fucking eyes out.”
    “Let go, you’re hurting me!”
    “Then stop me.” He caught me in his vice-like embrace, and his mouth crashed onto mine, his tongue infusing my taste buds with the bitterness of rum. I struggled until every ounce of strength seeped from my bones. Finally giving in, I sagged against him and submitted my mouth.
    He tangled his hands in my hair and tilted my head back, and I was helpless against the lure of him, split down the middle between logic and need.
    With a groan, he pushed me away and staggered back a few feet. “Go home, before I fuck you again, and no amount of crying or begging will stop me.”
    “Why are you holding back now?” My voice cracked. “What’s so different?”
    He collapsed to the floor and buried his head in his hands, and he said nothing. I told myself I hadn’t glimpsed a seed of remorse in his expression, that he was an ice cube underneath all that anger, incapable of feeling anything real. Problem was . . . I didn’t believe it. I’d been ready to let his actions shatter whatever I might have felt for him, but then I’d walked into his disaster zone and seen the image of a broken man.
    “If there’s a speck of humanity in you, Gage”—I reached up and removed the collar—“you’ll do the right thing.”
    The thin strip of leather drifted to the floor, and still, he said nothing. I dressed, and his silence followed me up the stairs and out the door.

2. D ROWNING
    I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten drunk, but that’s exactly what I was, and the culprit was a continuous supply of some fruity drink I found too easy to consume. It was like drinking Kool-Aid, only better. Kool-Aid didn’t give me this amazing floaty sensation; weightless and free. I didn’t have to think or feel.
    Who was Gage Channing? Who was Ian? Who the fuck was I?
    A persistent hand landed on my thigh, and I had to stop and think about who it belonged to. Oh, right . . . the guy who’d bought me the last round of drinks. What was his name?
    Kyle?
    Kevin?
    I settled for calling him “Guy.” Did it matter if I remembered his name? Likely not. Nothing mattered, which was how I wanted it. Guy’s hand inched upward, and I was thankful for the ugly sweatpants I wore. He leaned in, and his beer breath overwhelmed my senses.
    “Wanna get outta here, baby?”
    I shook my head and stumbled to my feet, experiencing a sudden and urgent need to use the restroom.
    “Hey, darlin’, where’re you goin’?” he protested.
    I broke into laughter and had no clue why. “The lil girls’ room. You can’t come.”
    “Aw, that’s not fair . . .”
    His voice faded as I hobbled toward the bathroom. I pushed the door open and stalled at the sight of my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a zombie from a horror flick with bloodshot eyes and traces of mascara on my cheeks . . . right . . . I’d given in to a crying jag earlier. I should’ve stuck with bawling; drinking only made me look like hell, and in the end it was a temporary fix anyway. Tomorrow morning I’d feel just as miserable, if not more so. But I didn’t indulge in alcohol often, and if Gage