Free 122 Rules by Deek Rhew Page A

alcohol-addled brain processed the change. Then he shook his head and laughed again. “I just thought we could play, princess, but you’re turning out to be a fun little tease. I knew it. Deep inside, you’re just a whore.” He seemed to sober for a moment. She could see the predator that lurked just beneath the surface when he locked eyes with her and said, “Just. Like. Mom. Now why don’t you be a good girl and put the bat down? We both know how this ends.” He reached for her.
    Before her dad became a permanent resident of Alabaster Cove Cemetery and her mom a drunken slut, Monica had been something of a softball prodigy. With superb hand-eye coordination, uncanny reflexes, and a natural athletic ability, she almost always put the ball over the fence no matter what the opposing team threw at her.
    This swing would have left her old coach breathless. Nothing had been lost in the year since she’d last stepped up to home plate.
    For a split second, she stood back on the diamond, cleats on her feet, dirt-streaked uniform, the smell of fresh cut grass. Her lean muscles remembered the familiar movement—the same pull and coordination, the same wicked swoosh as the thick end of the bat arched gracefully through the air.
    But the similarities ended there.
    The satisfying crack of wood on leather was replaced with a blunted, branch-snapping thwack .
    Her swing caught the 250-pound drunk just north of his left ear. He paused as if in quiet contemplation then dropped like a sack of wet cement, blood immediately pooling beneath his ruined head.
    She stared wide-eyed at the small clump of scalp with a few bloody hairs sticking out that clung to the end of the bat, then dropped the vile chunk of wood, and started screaming.
     

 
     
    10
     
     
     
    Susan woke with a start and sat up. The cry that had started in the nightmare pierced the night.
    “Are you okay?” Peter asked, placing his hand on her lower back. She had to force herself to not shrink away from his touch.
    Wake up, girl. You are with Peter and safe. He won’t hurt you. Her sweat and tears had soaked them both, and the blankets beneath.
    “Nightmare,” she replied and reached for the cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand. Her hands shook with such fierceness that she dropped several before Peter took them from her.
    He pulled one out, placed it between her lips, and lit it. “It sounded like hell,” he said. “You were talking in your sleep. I couldn’t tell what you were saying, but the longer it went on, the worse it got. I thought you were angry, but then you started crying. I was about to wake you up, but you screamed and about scared the crap out of me.”
    “I hate that dream. I have it all the time.”
    “What happens in it?”
    The lunar light spilled in through the window, casting shadows around the small room. In the darkness, his skin glistened with her sweat. She could tell him she couldn’t remember the details or that she didn’t want to talk about it. But then again, there were people listening.
    The night before, Peter had taken her out on his motorcycle, driving way beyond the city limits into the desert. Her first taste of freedom had been sweet as they sailed past cacti and armadillos. She’d pounded on his jacket, yelling, “Faster, damn it, faster!” He had indulged her, until the wind and the vibrating engine were the only things that existed in the universe.
    After they’d come back to her place, she’d put on a good show, laughing and chatting, then later she’d been very vocal in her passions. Not that all of it had been for display. She felt better, freer than she had in years. Plus, Peter had certain skills and talents that she appreciated.
    She’d imagined Crew Cut listening to their antics, jotting down notes in a large yellow legal pad, which he would then turn over to Jon. The little prick would file a report full of her moans and gasps of pleasure. But she’d been doing that for months; if they really