My name is Jesse the Gentleman Kennedy.
Doctor. Fighter. Ghost.
My name is Skye the Skillet Jones.
Murderer. Manipulator. Protector.
My name is Cut Throat Curtis Mason.
Victim. Villain. Monster.
It’s time for us to reunite; to fight one more
battle and claim what should be ours.
Justice. Revenge. Freedom.
Are you prepared to fight with us?
Are you ready to join the Allegiance?
There was no bell, no gunshot to tell us to go; that wasn’t how Joe’s worked. It was all about the atmosphere – the tension and anticipation. It was all about instinct and right now my instinct was to kill. We circled each other and I assessed his movements to look for weakness. I couldn’t see one, until his rolled his wrist and wiggled his fingers.
Ding, ding, ding.
I crouched. He crouched. He lunged first and I caught him in a headlock; the first blow I’d given to a living object for months hit him directly in the ribs and forced out a strangled grunt. I hit lower, pounding punches all along one side of his torso, my rapid heartbeat matching the rhythm of each hit. He grabbed my waist and shoved me off, but I laughed and rolled my neck, calling for him to make his move. He did and I slapped his back as I moved to the side and sent him tumbling into the crowd. They cheered and pushed him back in. I smiled behind the mask. I was toying with him and riding a high I hadn’t felt in far too long. For the first time since Christmas I was in control and I was going to enjoy every second of kicking his ass. I knew I could beat him, and I could do it in seconds, but I chose to draw it out to keep myself distracted. He adopted the defensive position this time, but instead of going for the blow he was expecting, I squatted and took his legs from beneath him with the sweep of my leg. He tumbled to the ground and I stepped over him.
I gasped, my stomach sank and a sheet of chilling prickles covered my flesh. My heart began to pound with adrenaline, rising to lodge itself in my throat with a sense of fear I wasn’t expecting. Something was wrong. I lost focus as my real enemy’s face appeared in front of me, his black eyes laughing at me as my opponent swung and sent me to the floor with a right hook. I growled and tried to get up, but he mounted me and sent my head snapping from side to side with a flurry of punches. I took each hit, choosing to focus on what my instincts were trying to tell me. Fuck, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. It bubbled in my blood and told me things hadn’t gone to plan. Something had gone wrong. I threw my leg up, catching his back and he fell over me. Crawling across the floor, I grabbed him and felt the momentum switch again as a window of opportunity opened. The aggression, frustration and bone-chilling fear took over. I needed to be in Phil’s house in Kent. I knew Skye and Curtis needed me, I could feel it in my blood, and it filled me with haunting fear and searing rage. I pulled my arm back and hit his face, demonstrating how a real punch should be thrown. I’d punish this man for my failure. I’d punish him for every moment I’d spent feeling unworthy and every second of confidence I’d wasted, because it had been for nothing. I hit him again and again, until the skin on my knuckles tore and his lip burst open; his nose gushed, his eyes swelled shut and a violent purple bruise rose to the surface of his cheekbone. I was terrified, running only on adrenaline, because if I let the guilt and pain in, they’d cripple me; I’d snap and I was barely holding it together. I knew I could kill this man with my bare hands; the hands of a man who was supposed to prolong life, not cause the end of it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I called for Reuben to stop me. I knew I said it out loud, I knew tears fell and streamed and mixed with the sweat that dripped from me. I pounded the man beneath me with brute force. I knew he was finished and the fight was over, and I knew I was just feeding the crowd, giving them the sick twisted display of animalistic aggression they wanted. One that would give them the secret they wanted to sink their teeth into. That a man had been murdered in the seedy club where they embraced the urge to sin. I knew I should stop but I wantedto kill him. The instinct to protect by attacking wouldn’t cease. I called to Reuben again, and begged him to stop me killing him. I cried for help, but they fell on ears that refused to acknowledge my pain. My cries for control soon turned to sobs for what I’d done.
“Help them,” I breathed through the tears and the jaw-clenching rage that kept me going. “Help them!”
I stopped still, sat back and gasped for air. A torturous calm washed over me and the tension fell away. My heart began to slow so rapidly I thought it would give out.
It was over.
Rebecca is a London born and bred mother, writer and psychology student. She is the author of summer romance, Second Chance Hero, and the psychological romantic-suspense series, Twisted. An avid reader and lover of stories that keep you guessing, Rebecca writes tales that will challenge your perceptions and toy with your emotions. Rebecca’s stories invite you to open your mind and dig deeper into the meanings of the lives of each and every character you meet. She entices you into their world – to feel with them, to grow with them, to love with them. She asks you to become a part of them and allow them to become a part of you.
Rebecca would like to express her thanks to everyone who reads her stories, and would love to hear from you!