Текст книги "Seven Sons"

Автор книги: Lili St. Germain

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 6 страниц)

Seven Sons
Gypsy Brothers – 1
by
Lili St. Germain

Prologue

Confucius said, “Before embarking upon a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

 I planned to dig seven.

One

Sometimes I don’t think about it for hours at a time. Sometimes, a whole day will pass, and it’ll be there, under the surface, burning my insides with the brutality of its truth. My truth.

 And I’ll get home from my dead-end job in this dead-end fucking town in the asshole of Nebraska, and I’ll have almost made it through a whole day of not thinking about it, about my father and Dornan Ross and his sons.

But then I’ll do something without thinking, like undress to go to bed, or slide under the covers of my bed. And I’ll see the marks they branded on my right hip – seven horizontal lines, each stacked on top of each other, made by casting the blunt edge of a butcher’s knife into fire and then pressing it into my flesh. A line for Dornan Ross and a line for each of his six older sons. Notches on a bedpost. Scarred for a lifetime so that I can never forget. Some are thicker than others, some short and others long, but each one a devastating reminder of everything they took from me that night.

 Even if I stay in my stale clothes to avoid seeing my scars, I still can’t escape them. I never sleep well. I toss and turn, fitful and drenched in sweat, awakening from nightmares where they find me and turn the knife to the sharp side. Where they don’t just brand me – they cut me until I am dead, so I won’t talk to the police. I know things, see.  I know things that the police don’t, about purchased alibis and body disposal spots, about too many girls who went missing and too many men who kept too many secrets.

 I used to wish every day and every night to forget about my fathers murderer and what he did to us. Not anymore. Now I want to remember every tiny detail so that I can exact my revenge.

 Tomorrow is different. Tomorrow is my twenty-first birthday, the day I gain access to my secret inheritance. The several hundred thousand that my father managed to hide before Dornan framed him for the murder of a policeman and his family, a crime that Dornan and his eldest son committed as retribution for a drug bust that almost wiped the club out. It might be dirty money – my father wasn’t above money laundering and drug manufacturing – but it was his money. Dornan managed to seize control of the rest when he enacted his devastating betrayal.

 Tomorrow is truly my birthday, for I will become another person. Today my name is Juliette Portland, but tomorrow I will wake up as someone else entirely.

 Someone who will bring Dornan Ross and the Gypsy Brothers Motorcycle Club to their knees.

Two

I’ve never left the country before, but I’m not worried.  The night of my twenty-first birthday, I don’t party, but arrive in Thailand after a long and cramped flight from the U.S. I have lost time, and it is already morning in Bangkok. I travel directly to the hospital where I will be having my procedure – this isn’t a sightseeing holiday, after all. I’m not here for fun.

 I’m here to be reborn.

 The staff are efficient and discreet. I am admitted and the surgeon goes over the final computer-enhanced photographs which show what I’ll look like after.

 Before the surgery, I go into the private ensuite and strip down. I have a moment of unexpected sadness as I study myself one last time. I’ve already colored my strawberry blonde hair a deep chestnut brown, but apart from that, this is how I was born. I look exactly like my mother. Tall, skinny, no boobs, green eyes. A light smattering of freckles across my nose is the only thing I got from my father, and a laser is about to burn them off forever. My nose, once regal and thin, now sits crooked, thanks to Dornan breaking it six years ago. It never healed properly, and it is the main reason I cannot stand my own appearance.

 But now, standing here like this, so completely naked and alone, I shed a single tear. For my father. For the little girl I used to be, who had everything ripped away.

 I shed a tear because she is about to die, six years after she cheated death.

 I wipe the tear away and put on my blue hospital gown, tying it at the back.  Leaving the cubicle, I enter the room where my procedures will be performed. Twelve hours is all it will take to make me into a completely new person – a new nose, new skin, porcelain veneers on my teeth, fuller cheekbones, and new boobs. I wanted them to remove the scars on my hip, but the laser regimen would take months against all that messy scar tissue. Instead, I’ll get a tattoo when I’m back in the States.

 As I lay down on the operating table, a nurse hovers over me, a mask in her hand. Before she can lower it, the doctor motions for her to wait.

“Last chance,” he says to me. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” He is an excellent surgeon, and from what I have gleaned, a kind family man. Although he is Asian, he reminds me of my father. There is a patriarchal kindness in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time.

“Positive,” I say, gesturing for the nurse to lower the mask.

“You’re going to look beautiful,” the surgeon says, and a few moments later, everything goes black.

 It takes me two weeks to recover enough from the surgery to move around freely, and one month before I resemble a regular human being. I spend my time poolside at the most expensive hotel in Bangkok, attended by nurses who check on my healing wounds and waiters who serve me drinks with umbrellas.

 The entire time, I seethe inside, the same way I have seethed for the past six years. What was born as fear and grief has long since blossomed into hatred and rage. Five weeks after my surgery, I return to the USA, hail a cab at LAX, and direct the driver to Venice Beach.

 Finally, after six long years, I will have my revenge.

 It’s hot, and I can feel sweat beads starting to gather between my new breasts. It’s funny, I’m still getting used to actually having something decent on my chest. It kind of sucks not being able to sleep on my front, though. Once this is all over, I’m definitely getting them reduced.

 For now, I’m a DD cup. Because I know exactly what Dornan “Prez” Ross likes, and it’s brunettes with big titties and tanned skin. I am actually surprised that he even bothered raping me. The old me definitely wasn’t his type.

 I stand out the front of Va Va Voom, the strip joint owned and run by the club, just a few blocks from the Gypsy Brothers clubhouse. When my father was alive, Va Va Voom was actually an upmarket burlesque club. No lap dancing. No hookers out the back. No filth. Dornan changed all that after he had my father murdered.

 I push the door open, dragging my small suitcase behind me. It contains everything I’ll need for my burlesque show audition. Costumes, some props, my makeup. I have been dancing in my darkened bedroom in Nebraska for years, practicing for this exact moment in time.

 The club is dark and smells like stale beer mixed with cheap perfume, with an undertone of dishwasher steam. It’s Thursday. Several staff members mill around the bar at one end of the large, open club space, and attractive women in singlets and denim cut-offs practice their dance steps and gossip up on stage. The middle of the place is deserted, and I stand in the center of the cavernous room, my past throbbing in my head like a bullet wound seeping blood. I glance again at the stage and remember what happened there six years ago.

 “Come on, darlin’,” Dornan laughed, pushing me into the circle formed by six of his sons. The eldest, Chad, caught me by my shoulders and spun me around so that I was facing everyone but him. 

“Well, aren’t you looking mighty fine,” Maxi, the third brother, said, wolf-whistling his appreciation. His eyes raked up and down my body and I cringed, looking at the floor. He reached out and slapped me on the ass, making me yowl in surprise. I was terrified. I was fifteen.

“Do you understand why you’re here, darlin’?” Dornan asked me, malice in his black eyes. I shook my head, and returned my gaze to the scuffed wooden stage below my feet. I’d never been here before without my father, and even then I had only ever been here with him after the club was closed, if he needed to pick something up from the office upstairs or drop off a set of keys for whoever was closing up. 

 There was a video camera set up at the edge of the stage, pointed towards the circle of men. I smelled their sweat and leather and fought not to cry. 

Because, even though I was only fifteen years old and a complete virgin, I knew what came next. 

I shook my head no. 

Dornan laughed and squeezed my chin between his thick fingers, forcing my head up. He pointed to the camera and brushed a tear from my ashen cheek. He leaned in close so that only I could hear him.

 “Say hello to the camera,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m gonna make you a star.”

 I scan the length of the bar, looking for any familiar faces. Any of the Ross brothers or their bastard father. There is no one from six years ago. Just a lone guy, who looks about my age, polishing beer glasses behind the counter. I take a moment to appreciate his fine arms as I cross the room. He’s really tall, well over six foot, and hot to boot. His arms both feature full tattoo sleeves. His face is a study in contradictions. He has the sexiness and spunk of a man, with his large brown eyes, thick, beautifully shaped eyebrows and olive-toned skin. His lips are full and wide, and I think for a split second what they would be like to kiss. He has cut his dark brown hair close to his skull. All of this is juxtaposed with the look in his eyes that screams “boy”, a look of innocence and naivety.

 He looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not worried that he will recognize me. I’ve studied profiles of every active member of the Gypsy Brothers MC Venice Beach chapter and he hasn’t featured.

 “Can I help you?” he says, his deep voice like honey and butter.

 I plaster a fake smile on and stand a little straighter. My boobs are practically bursting out of my tiny singlet, but he doesn’t even give them a cursory glance. He isn’t pinging my gaydar, though, so perhaps he’s just a gentleman.

 “I’m looking for Mr Ross,” I say sweetly, delivering my words with a slight southern twang. One highlight of living in a shithole for the past six years is picking up the accent. I don’t want to risk anyone recognizing my voice. “I’ve got an audition.”

 “Wait here.” He turns, giving me a chance to appreciate his ass and…

 My heart freezes for a second when I see he’s got the Gypsy Brothers family crest on the back of his neck. The crest that’s reserved exclusively for the club president, his brothers, and his sons.

Oh fuck. Is he…?

 My worst fears are confirmed when he stops at the top of the stairs that lead into the office and shouts into the ajar door, “Pop! Some chick here to see you about a job.”

 Of course, it’s him. Jason Ross. Dornan’s youngest son. I almost choke as I remember the last time I saw him.

 The boy was screaming. Two of his older brothers held him firmly as he struggled futilely against them.

 “Are you going to take your turn, son?” Dornan addressed his youngest son. Jase had only been in the care of his father for a very short time – less than a year – and he had struggled to adjust to the MC way of life after his mother’s death. Everyone thought that Dornan had been the one to inject Jase’s mother with a deadly overdose of heroin – the woman had been clean for sixteen years, since she discovered she was pregnant with Jason and left the club life to raise her son in normality.

 I remember lying on the ground, splinters digging into my naked back, wishing I could just die already. Dornan and his six older sons had all taken turns – some, several turns – and my body was dangerously close to shutting down. I had been beaten within an inch of my life, I could taste blood in my mouth from where Dornan had broken my nose, and I was throbbing so badly between my legs it felt like someone was trying to rip me in half.

 I had never gone past second base before. It had been a gruesome and devastating way to lose my virginity –to have it stolen.

 I watched through blood-encrusted eyelashes as baby-faced Jase fought against his father, even as he knew he would pay dearly for it. 

 “Please, Pop, please don’t, they’re hurting her, please stop, STOP STOP STOP!”

 “Come on, son,” Dornan growled, and I heard the click of a gun being cocked. “Be a man.”

 Oh God, I remember thinking. This is it. They are going to kill me.

 I would have felt pity for Jason, had I not been close to blacking out from the pain. 

 I whimpered as something cold and metallic was forced between my chattering teeth. Dornan had his gun in my mouth. 

 I cowered in anticipation. This was it. He was going to shoot me, and I was going to die.

 “You better get your dick out and fuck this little bitch, or I’m going to shoot her in the face. Do you understand, son?”

 I was listening, but I was floating away at the same time. Little white spots started to appear in my vision as the unbearable pain began to recede.

 Jase lunged at his father and I heard a crash, followed by a scuffle and yelling. It was getting hard to hear, though. Everything was turning white and I floated away on that whiteness, relieved to finally be coming to the final moments of my suffering.

 “Pop,” I heard Chad say. “Pop!”

 “What?!” Dornan roared.

 “I think she’s dying.”

 “Bullshit.” Rough hands shook my body, and there was swearing and jostling as I was picked up and carried.

 The world turned white, and then it turned dark as I drifted peacefully away.

 When I awoke, the world was not white, but a depressing beige. The pain crept up and socked me hard in the stomach, winding me. I tried to sit up and failed miserably. Some of my ribs were definitely broken.

I felt a warm hand in mine and looked next to me, expecting my mother. Instead, I saw a nightmare that I thought I had woken from.

A scream died in my throat as Dornan gestured with a finger to his lips for me to remain silent. I never even considered defying him, I was so terribly afraid.

“The police would like to talk to you,” Dornan said gravely. “I told them my dear niece was going to need some time alone with family first.” I stared at him in disbelief, disgusted at what he was implying. Uncle Dornan, posing as a fucking hero in the wake of my father’s absence.

I tried to wrench my hand away but he squeezed tighter, cutting off the circulation and forcing a gasp from me.

“What are you going to tell them, Julie, baby?”

I slumped against the bed, defeated. “Nothing.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Nothing!” I said a little louder, and snatched my hand back as he released his grip.

“Good,” he said, standing up and straightening his leather cut. “I’d hate to have to do to your mother what we did to you.”

I cringed at his not-so-subtle threat and shuddered as he planted a kiss on my forehead. “Don’t act like the victim,” he whispered in my ear. “I know you loved it.”

He plastered a fake smile on, tossed a bunch of flowers on the bed next to me, and left the room.

It was the last time I saw him.

And, ironically, the thing that had burned at me the most, more than the betrayal, was the reasoning. I wanted to know why. But then, Dornan murdered my father two days later, shot him in the head at point-blank range with a shotgun. Blew his head clean off. 

After that, after Elliot told me my father was dead, I stopped wondering why.

 Jase comes back down the stairs, taking them two by two, as if he’s in a hurry to be away from the office. He returns to his spot behind the bar and picks up his polishing cloth. “He’ll be down soon.” I don’t answer straight away, and he looks at me from beneath those gorgeous black eyelashes that I used to tease him about. I must look dreadful, because he jerks his head up and frowns.

“Are you okay?”

I nod my head slowly, gripping the bar with both hands.

“Are you sure?” He lifts the cut-out section of the bar counter and comes around to where I am, a glass of iced water appearing in his hand as if by magic.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says, placing the water on a cardboard coaster in front of me. He brings a bar stool over and sets it down behind me.

I take the water and the seat gratefully, my entire body suddenly aching and tired.

 You knew there was a chance you would see him. You knew this was part of the deal.

 I shrug and take a sip of water, attempting to pull myself together. If my plan is going to work, I have got to keep it together.

 “It must be the sun,” I say, smiling innocently. “I’m not used to this heat.” I hope he doesn’t ask me where I’m from. Nebraska is even hotter than California. I feel my story already beginning to crumple under the weight of its artifice.

 “Well, take it easy,” he says, going back to his side of the bar.

 “Thank you,” I say meekly, the words tasting like bitter lies on my tongue.

 Dornan appears a short time later at the top of the stairs, whistling loudly. “Come on up,” he says, beckoning to his office beyond. I look around, unsure if he is even speaking to me.

“Yes, you. Hurry up, I ain’t got all goddamn day.” He disappears past the doorway and I slide off my stool. I take a deep breath. This is my moment of truth.

 This is my one shot to get onside with Dornan and bring this motherfucking family to its shattered kneecaps.

Three

He is somehow less frightening than I remember him, and I have to remind myself that I’m taller and stronger than I was when I was fifteen. Back then, I was still so young. Plus, I’m wearing ridiculous heels which make me even taller. Dornan sits behind a desk – my fathers old desk – and sifts through paperwork, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m standing there. I use the time to take in my surroundings. Nothing special – a generic particle-board desk, a dead pot plant, a couple of tall metal filing cabinets behind the desk. The only item that looks expensive is the painting on the wall, a beach scene that looks like it’s from Hawaii or someplace equally beautiful. It doesn’t fit in with the room at all, and I wonder if it once belonged to my father.

“Looking for the safe, sweetheart?”

I snap my attention back to Dornan, who is smirking as he pounds numbers into a calculator with his long, thick fingers.

“Looking for the stage,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. My entire plan hinges on him hiring me as a dancer for the club. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to go to plan B. Which I haven’t thought of yet.

 He leans back in his chair and surveys me properly for the first time. I wait patiently, knowing that I tick all of his boxes – brunette, tanned, big tits and young enough to fuck and employ without getting arrested for employing a minor in the club. I bat my eyelashes and study his face. He is older now, but still bears the strong features that made each of his seven sons unmistakably his. He had no daughters, and that could only be a small mercy fate had delivered.

 “What’s your name, darlin?” he asks finally, apparently satisfied with my looks. He is still just as blatantly attractive as he was six years ago. Black hair. Wide, sensual lips. Three days growth on his face that makes him look tough and rugged, but not unattractively so. My stomach sinks as I realize that I was wrong, that he and Jase are actually strikingly similar in looks.

 “Astrid,” I answer, feeling like my heart is about to pound out of my chest.

 “Not your stage name,” he says, looking irritated. “Your real name.”

 “Samantha. Sammi.”

 He looks unimpressed. “You twenty-one?”

 I nod. “Twenty-two, actually.”

 “You got ID to prove that?”

 I nod, sliding my fake ID out of my back pocket and handing it to him. I fight back the urge to flee as my fingers brush against his.

 He leans back in his chair and studies the small rectangular card. I know he is looking for signs it’s a fake. He holds it up to the light, turns it over in his palm, and scrapes his thumbnail along the edge.

 “It’s real,” I say. He doesn’t respond.

 “What’d you say your name was, again?”

 “Sammi. Samantha Peyton.”

 “Two first names?” he says dubiously. “Who has two first names?”

 I smile. “I don’t know, Mr. Ross. It is a little strange.”

 He smirks, the closest thing to a smile he’s cracked since he called me up here. “Well, Sammi two-first-names Peyton, what kind of job are you looking for?”

 I can’t believe I’m saying this. “What kind of job do you want me to do?”

 He drops the smile. “I’m a busy man. Let’s cut to the chase. You dance?”

I nod.

“You do private dances?”

I nod.

“You do anything else that sets you apart from the other hundred girls who come here each week looking for a job?”

I smile wickedly. “I can dislocate my jaw so my mouth opens real wide.”

He laughs and slaps the desk in front of him, sending the papers spilling over the side.

“I like you,” he decides. “So why here? I mean, I’m sure you know about our… reputation.”

I try to look young and helpless. “I just got out of a bad relationship,” I say. “Back home in Texas. I could use the protection you offer your employees.”

He sucks on his lip, mulling that over.

“Your ex,” he says. “Is he a member of any rival motorcycle clubs? A cop? Links to anyone I should be aware of?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“You positive about that?”

I nod. “Yeah. He’s just an asshole who thinks he owns me.”

He nods, apparently satisfied with my act. “You wanna dance first or fuck first?” he asks casually.

I grin from ear to ear, because I’m in. And I know it.

“Mr Ross,” I say, leaning over the desk so that my tits are inches from his face, “after I fuck you, it won’t matter how well I dance.”

 Dornan slides past me as he shuts and locks the door, making sure to brush his hardness against my ass as he squeezes past.  There is plenty of room behind me and it’s completely unnecessary that he even needs to touch me as he walks past, but he obviously feels the need to assert his domination over me. He stands behind me as I face the desk and I can feel his warm breath on my shoulder.

“Turn around,” he commands, and I do. He’s standing so close to me, I can feel the heat radiating from him in the already stuffy room. His pupils are dilated and he’s clearly excited by me.

“Shirt off,” he commands, and I oblige, whipping it over my head so that I am wearing nothing but my tiny cut-off shorts and a scrap of lace that cost way more than a bra of that size should. I unhook my bra and let it fall to the ground between us.

“Nice,” he says, cupping a breast in each hand. “Not real, though.”

I shrug. “I doubt any of your dancers have real ones.”

He smirks, and I shudder inwardly. I’m going to make you a star.

“Shorts,” he says, tugging at the frayed denim that hugs my thighs. It is at this moment that I panic.

Oh, fuck.

My hip bone. The scars. I really hadn’t been expecting to have to screw him right here in the office, not today. I had expected to come in, talk business, and come back to audition at night when the stage was set for the rest of the dancers. I know what will happen if he sees it.

He’ll kill me.

And this will all be for nothing.

He can see my hesitation and steps back.

“You sure you can handle this kind of work?” he asks me, obviously unimpressed.

I smile tightly. “Of course. I just wasn’t expecting it to be today.”

“You gonna fuck better next week?” he asks impatiently.

“No,” I say quickly. I turn around, shimmy out of my shorts and panties so that I am completely naked, and place my palms flat against the desk. I turn my head to see Dornan watching me with what appears to be a mixture of lust and intrigue.

“I was just thinking,” I shrug, flashing him a wicked grin, “I should show you my best stuff straight off the bat.”

He laughs and slaps my bare ass with his open hand, squeezing a handful of flesh.

He leans close to my ear, tugging a handful of my long brown hair, forcing my head back. “What do you want from me?” he asks quietly.

I think of how he ruined my life, how he ripped my father from me, how he took my virginity and shared it with his equally sick bastard offspring. I think of the past six years, of staying hidden, of fearing for my life, and I set my jaw squarely.

I want to make you suffer.

“I want you to make me a star,” I say sweetly. I want to bury you alive, you murdering fucking asshole.

He grins. “Now that I can do.”

I turn back to the desk and take a deep breath.

“Well, come on, then,” I say, grinding myself against his hardness. “Before I change my mind.”

I hear a zipper, and feel his fingers as they explore my pussy. “You don’t get to change your mind with me.”

 I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my lip, tasting blood as he spits on his hand, using it to lube his cock. I tense as I feel the tip of his shaft press against my opening.

 I moan in pain as he shoves his cock deep inside my ass and groans loudly.

“Thought you liked it this way, sweetheart,” he says, his balls slapping against skin as he gains speed with his strokes. Each time he pulls out, he thrusts back in with such force, I want to cry.

“I love it,” I whisper, hating every second of it.

 I force myself to keep up the act, thankful that he won’t see my tell-tale branding, and vow to get a tattoo to cover my stupid fucking scars first thing tomorrow morning.

 I gasp as I feel a finger press against my clit, and despite my hatred, my traitorous body responds, melting like butter in the midday sun. I suck in a breath as he continues to pleasure me, and I feel my inner resistance fraying and weakening with every swirl of his fingertip. My ass is a cataclysm of pleasure and pain, and the way he is thrumming his fingers against my clit is making me dangerously close to coming.

I am defenceless against his skilled hands as he brings me to the crest of climax, a bitter war waging within me.

Because it shouldn’t feel this good.

I moan, bucking my hips against his as my body betrays me completely, greedy for that climax, eager for release.

“Baby girl,” Dornan moans, as I explode into a million pieces underneath his deft fingers. That must turn him on, because just as my core clenches and I come, Dornan pulls out of me, stays completely still for a moment, and then groans that groan, pushing my face against the desk and spilling hot cum all over my lower back.

 I force myself to stay perfectly still, my legs shaking slightly because I’ve been on my tiptoes, my cheek pressed against the cool desk, because if I don’t, I’ll scream. I’ll scream and claw at his eyes and try to rip them out.

 And I can’t. I can’t just end it all, especially now that I’ve let him inside me again.

 He puffs, catching his breath, his hands still loose around my hips. I lean awkwardly over the desk, mindful that if I stand up straight I’ll make a mess on the floor. Dornan reaches for a box of tissues on the desk and wipes his sticky fluid from my skin.

 “Thanks,” I murmur, turning around to face him, my arm precariously covering my hip. He definitely looks more relaxed than when I first arrived, though he looks tired, too. Too many late nights. Too much blood on his hands. Too many innocent lives, ended at his will.

 He strokes my breasts, seemingly absent-minded. I want to push him away, to grab the silver letter-opener from his desk and jam it straight into the family crest on the back of his neck.

 “You can clean up in there,” he says, pointing to the bathroom that adjoins the office. “Take a shower if you want.”

 I’ll be taking a shower. The hottest fucking shower ever to burn your touch off my skin.

 “I’ll be quick,” I say, high-tailing it into the bathroom with my clothes still held over my torso, covering my scars. I close the door, fighting an inner battle as to whether I should lock the door or not. In the end I don’t, but I pull my shorts on immediately, not bothering with the shower. I immediately feel better once they’re zipped up and the marred flesh on my hipbone is covered. I grab a towel from the shelf and run it under the faucet until the water is warm, adding a squirt of soap to the material. I wash my back as best I can. I just need to be presentable enough to get back to my hotel before I give myself third-degree burns in the privacy of my own shower.

I put my bra and t-shirt back on and look at myself in the large mirror that hangs over the sink.

 A complete stranger stares back at me, so different I wouldn’t recognize her as me. Juliette had shoulder-length blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes. The girl I’m staring at has dark brown hair that skims her ass, thanks to extensions, bronzed skin, thanks to hours lying in a tanning bed, and dark blue eyes that still reflect the tiniest hint of hazel that the contact lenses can’t stifle.

 I miss being Juliette. But I feel invigorated by my new appearance at the same time. The anonymity it affords me is something I underestimated when Dr. Lee and I were going over my surgical rework plans. I’m on an adrenalin high; having just screwed Dornan, my ass is throbbing but my spirit is elated.

 I did it. I fucking did it. I fooled him.

 He has no idea who I am.