Page 4 of Trigger Happy Ending

A shiver runs down my spine. Enough.

Self-pity is a virus, and that’s an infection I don’t need.

The Cleaner bends down, scooping up my lacy black thong. He dangles it off his pointer finger. “Are these yours?”

I blink a few times, try to bring myself back to the task at hand. I dissociate often. Mainly when I think of my mother. Grief never really goes away; you just learn to live with it.

“Angel?” The Cleaner lifts the lacy thong higher, eyebrows raised, like I owe him an explanation. “This little number. Yours?”

“Yeah.” I rummage through my duffel bag and fish out a black cap. “So?”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with them?” he asks, deadpan, but I can see the smirk playing on his lips.

Tugging on my hat, I stomp over and snatch the panties from the Cleaner’s hand, mumbling “perv” under my breath. I stare down at the dead Texan. He’s still strapped to the chair. Parts of his skull a crater of bone and brain. It’s a grisly sight.

“How are you getting rid of the body?”

The Cleaner sizes up the corpse. “He’s a big boy.”

“Understatement.”

“Considering his size,” he muses, adjusting his glasses. “Acid bath, probably.”

“How very Breaking Bad of you.”

He grins. “Or maybe I’ll chop him into little pieces and burn him.”

My stomach turns at the thought. I’m not sticking around for either of those options.

I crunch down onto my knees and lean over Texas, proceeding to rip the gag ball from his mouth. His head lolls back, mouth agape.

I stuff my thong between his teeth.

I’m a sucker for performance art.

“Burn them with him. He can taste me in hell.”

Chapter 2

Raine

I’m in a feral mood. And that was before I rode through miserable-as-hell weather to the place I despise the most: The Agency’s headquarters. Hidden deep in a Massachusetts forest, sits the Agency’s private estate. Made of stone, it’s cold and gothic. Like a place ghost hunters would have a field day in. It might almost be beautiful … if not for the grotesque gargoyles crouched along the roofline. Demon-faced sentinels, watching who comes and goes.

Years ago (when I called this hellhole home), I swear I saw one of those stone pupils shift. Whether it was covert surveillance (probably) or something genuinely paranormal (I’d prefer this option if I’m honest), I’ll never know. Both are entirely plausible.

Killing the engine to my Ducati, I rip off my riding gloves and remove my helmet. My eyes rise to the manor that looms before me.

My mom would roll over in her grave if she knew the Agency ended up raising me in this hell. Even though she was an operative herself, she never wanted this life for me. I should have run the day I found her dead on the floor in our apartment, but I had nowhere to go. No one to turn to except the Agency. I was too young, too vulnerable, and too fucking sad to know better. And as the saying goes, you’ll choose a familiar hell over an unfamiliar heaven every single time.

Although I did try to run once. Only once. Never again did I attempt an escape after the punishment I received. My eyes drop to my scarred wrists, little flesh bracelets, a permanent reminder from the second worst day of my life.

I press my fingerprint to the scanner, and the front doors click open, revealing a familiar lobby. The interior is the opposite to what one might expect when looking at the manor from outside. Black-and-white checkered polished marble stretches across the floor. Twin staircases unfurl on either side, curling upward, vanishing above to the second floor. I purposely stomp up the stairs, taking two at a time, leaving muddy footprints behind. I ignore the few operatives who pretend not to see me. They pass with their heads dipped, faces downcast.

I didn’t want to speak to you assholes, anyway.

Strutting deeper down the carpeted hall in the east wing, I arrive at Door 03, knocking once. There’s no answer, so I take it upon myself to enter the room only to find it empty.

“Of course he’s not here,” I mutter to myself as I flop into a leather chair facing Agent O’s desk. Nothing to do but wait, I guess. It’s a classic O tactic. He will keep me waiting to serve as a reminder of who is in control, which—surprise, surprise—is never fucking me.