Striker: A Dark Bully Romance (Redwood Rebels Book 1) by Rachel Leigh (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

door with his legs floating off the ground. “You’re gonna break my damn legs!” he shouts.

I retract and give him some leg room. “Get them back in the fucking vehicle now or I’ll shatter every bone in your body.” My adrenaline is pumping so vigorously that I feel unstoppable, like I could do just about anything to this man and fail to feel even an ounce of remorse.

Once his legs are back in, I close the door all the way. “Crack the window,” I demand. He rolls it down, leaving about two inches of open space from the top. “Surprised to see me?”

“My leg, Talon. I think it’s broken. I think I need to go to the hospital.” He cries out like a fucking pussy.

I hold my composure and keep my tone casual. “Don’t worry, in just a minute, you won’t feel a damn thing.” I lean closer to the window and his eyes hover over the top through the open space. They’re still just as empty as they were the last time I saw him. Soulless and harrowing. “Do you remember that time I broke my arm? I was eleven years old. Fell out of the tree house and laid there crying while Blakely ran inside for help. You stumbled out the door about twenty minutes later—drunk off your ass. You walked over to me, lingered over my body, then you kicked me in the side and told me to toughen up.” Fire radiates through me and my chin begins to tremble out of anger.

“Did you track me down and come all the way here just to revisit the past?”

My jaw locks. “You’re a fucking monster. You beat the shit out of me and Mom. And while I'm not her biggest fan, she didn’t deserve a goddamn second of it. You verbally beat Blakely down and you turned our house into a living hell. You killed a woman and you’re still roaming free and trying to shack up with teenage girls.” My words keep spewing out with no self-control. “And let me tell you, it’s taking everything in me not to chop off your dirty dick and shove it up your own ass.”

Taut brows and a pleading look lurk in his expression. With menacing eyes, I stare him down. There is so much I want to say, but he’s not worth the breath. I had every intention of drilling my demons into him before he took his last breath. But now, now I can see it would be a waste of time.

I glance over to Tommy and give him a look of approval. Seconds later, he’s grabbing the gas can from the bed of the truck. Snapping my right glove at my wrist, I quip, “Roll it down.”

“Get lost, son.” The window begins to slide up, but my hand grabs the handle and wrenches the door open. My entire body is numb as my hands wrap around his neck and squeeze with as much force as my body will allow—which is everything I’ve got. “Toughen up,” I grit through my locked jaw. The tips of my fingers dig into his skin while my thumbs press against his Adam’s apple. “I’m not your fucking son. Your life was so damn boring that you thought you’d take on a family to terrorize. Congratulations, you succeeded. You did this to yourself, always remember that.”

I’m not even sure when he stopped squirming and fighting to free himself from my clutches. It was likely the moment right before his eyes bugged out and the gurgles stopped. I don’t even know if the bastard is actually dead and I don’t care—he will be.

I give his limp body a shove and when his eyes remain open and I don’t see any movement in his chest, I’m convinced he is, in fact, dead. Nothing can begin to explain what I feel in this moment.

I’m free.

That sums it all up. I’m free, and he can’t hurt me anymore.

The smell of gasoline sweeps through the air as the wind blows. Taking the can from Tommy, I douse the interior and pour it all over Mike Porter’s dead body. “Fry mother fucker,” I whisper into the small space of the car before I draw back. I don’t even look around to see if there are people nearby. I wave for Tommy to get back, and once he does and is at the truck with it running, I pull out a box of matches.

My hands shake as I look down at the matches, but I savor every moment. Feeling as if this brief moment in time is the sole reason that I exist. Everything I’ve been through and the constant up-hill battle has brought me to this point. It’s my destiny to rid this man’s death grip on society.

This is for Blakely.

This is for Mom.

This is for Robin Scott.

This is for every soul this man has burned.

I pull a matchstick from the box. Swiping it across the striker, it ignites and offers me a sense of warmth. The fire inside me burns. I stare at the stranger through the flame then give it a toss. When it’s in mid-air, I whisper, “This is for me.”

Strike a match. Watch em’ burn.

Then I run like hell.

I’m hauling ass through the parking lot when Tommy pulls up beside me with the window down. “Get in now!” he shouts.

He’s leaning over the seat, trying to open the door for me, while the truck is still creeping through the parking lot. I pull it open and jump inside. Burning rubber, he rips out, but I watch in the side mirror as the flames engulf the vehicle. Crimson and burnt orange flickers of light fade into the distance, and I exhale a drawn-out breath.

“He’s really gone,” I say. At least, I think I said it out loud. Adrenaline is still rushing through me, and I’ve never felt this alive in my life.

“Regrets?” Tommy asks, as he leans forward and checks for traffic, before turning onto the main