Chapter 2

As I turned to flee the party, I crashed into a body I was intimately familiar with. David's arms wound around my waist, providing me with a very welcomed distraction and band of steel protection. I pushed my self into him as close as I could get. Typically, I wouldn’t want to be seen as a weak female, but the protection and comfort was absolutely necessary this time. The hit to my ego would have to be put on the back burner this once.

"Hey babe. Why were you running out of here?" Taking in my frantic body language, his posture becomes ridged.

"Did somebody bother you? Just point out the douche and I'll take care of him." David very seriously threatened.

The comfort I needed was very quickly ripped away, and my ego came out to play. I roughly removed myself from his arms and punched him hard in the shoulder.

"What the fuck was that for?!" He roared while rubbing his shoulder.

"That was for assuming I couldn't defend myself. You know damn well that I can, and will beat any one's ass that needs it. All that was, was me wanting the comfort of my boyfriend, but again you take things too far and can’t even give that to me." I narrow my eyes at him while being vaguely aware of the fact that we had drawn the attention of the whole room. I knew I was being a bit irrational, but my emotions were on high alert and all it took was one small misstep to set me off.

Without even sparing a glance I knew the entire room was filled with silent shocked witnesses. David wasn't the type of person any one wanted to cross paths with let alone hit and yell at.

David was my boyfriend of the last year. He was three years older than me and also happened to be the leader of the notorious gang The Blood Hounds or TBH for short. The Blood Hounds are the top gang in the Midwest. Nobody did them wrong and lived to tell the tale.

I should know.

I'm the head of security of sorts. I suppose a more accurate term for me would be 'the muscle'. If anybody refused to pay us for their drugs, prostitutes, gambling debts, etc. I was sent in. There wasn’t many jobs that I wouldn’t take on. Provided they were legit. I did have hard lines that I wouldn’t cross, and that was made known as soon as I was contacted.

I had a sort of reputation, shall I say, around the area. I was known as cobra because I would go in as quiet as a snake, then when they least expect it I would strike. If I didn't want my presence to be known, then it wasn't. I'd done more jobs than I can count where I entered and exited without anyone being the wiser, except the body on the ground of course.

When nobody else could get some one to pay up, I could. I was known for being ruthless and using any and every tactic known to man to get our money.

The only thing I refused to do was involve the family. Ninety percent of the time the family had no clue what was going on, so naturally I couldn't take it out on them. It was immoral and wrong.

I realize what a conundrum that is considering I kill people or brutally harm them for money, but that's just the way my conscience rolls. In my mind, they knew who they were dealing with when they approached asking for favors. If they didn’t run the game of risk then they should not have came knocking. Always, and I mean always, have an exit strategy.

I wasn't always this tough and hard. I used to be gentle and caring, but that was before my life did a complete one eighty. I found myself living in hell on earth at the young age of seventeen.

Once my brother left it was like he took the good loving part of my parents with him. It started out like normal; my brother called at least four times a week and came back on the weekends. My parents were their same old loving annoying selves, but as time progressed the phone calls and visits were spread apart by weeks. Until one day the phone calls stopped, and the visits never happened as planned. My parents took it really hard, and did not cope well with the fact that their oldest completely cut off contact.

I'm not exactly sure how my parents got it stuck in their heads that it was my fault he stopped all communication. I had nothing to do with it, and I couldn't figure why he stopped either. The only reasonable explanation was that they had dipped into severe depression and needed somebody to blame. I, of course, being the perfect target as I was the only one there to take out that frustration on.

They adored Devon; he was the prodigal son after all. Even though it was me who held a perfect four point grade point average, it was me who held a perfect attendance record, and it was me who received enough scholarships to pay my way through the in state college. School was never Devon’s area of expertise, but that didn’t matter to them.

Once Devon stopped talking to us my parents took a plunge into alcohol and drugs. When they were high or drunk they used me as their punching bag or sometimes their cutting board.

Things just progressed from bad to worse as time went on. I was going to school in long sleeves to cover up the bruises or slices they made up my arm. The majority of the time I'd have to walk hunched over from my ribs being fractured or bruised after being kicked multiple times. I was just thankful that I didn’t have to worry about attempting to cover up injuries with physical education any more, as gym was only offered to fresh man.

I learned really quick that in order to make it without being severely beaten I needed to make myself scarce. The least amount of time I was in that house lowered the chances of them catching me. On the few times I was at my house it was a race to safety. The moment I opened my front door I ran for my bedroom closet. I got lucky and discovered that the entrance to the attic was in there, so I made myself a little pallet up there and that's where I spent my time at home, and I refer to it as home very loosely. One shouldn’t feel absolutely terrified to be at the ‘home’. Home should be a place of love, comfort, and joy.

Mine was the polar opposite.

One particular night my Dad came home from work early, and while I was running to my room he caught me. That was the worst night of my life. I could smell the alcohol on him and was fairly certain there were stronger substances in his body. There was no limit. He just kept going and didn’t stop. It was like he was completely oblivious to the near fatal harm he was causing me. Let's just say that I was lucky to make it out of there alive. I drug myself as far away from that hell hole as I could; vowing to myself that if I made it out alive I would never go back there.

Laying there in the park, just across my backyard, watching my blood pool around me was the single most horrifyingly scary moment of my life. I truly thought I was going to die lying there by the swings I grew up playing on. There was so much blood, and I could hardly keep my eyes open.