Charles Weaver pulled into his reserved spot at the DreamWeaver underground parking garage and cut the engine. He didn’t see any other cars, but Angie had said she’d meet him there. Finally coming around, the little bitch. Even harder to tame than her sister. But he had broken her. And the wait had, in the end, made the chase more satisfying. He adjusted himself, then hopped out of his car with anticipation, locking it with a chirp.
“Oh, Charles.”
Her voice came out of the shadows of the structure. He smiled at the way she said his name. He couldn’t see a damn thing, but he liked this game. This was going to be fun.
“Angie?”
A figure materialized, wearing jeans, a hoodie, sunglasses, and black leather gloves. “That’s not quite the outfit I had in mind when you said you wanted to meet to ‘make up’. I expected much less.” He chuckled. “Come here, into the light. I want to see you. You’re not the first bitch to come crawling back after I put her in her place.”
“What did you call her?”
Charles turned to his right. Another figure was emerging from the shadows, the face obscured by a hoodie. What the hell? “Who is that?”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“Patricia? Angie, did you plan a menage-a-trois? You dirty girl. So, Pattycake, you’re back for more. You always were insatiable.”
“You and your twisted fantasies.”
A third woman? What was going on? Charles peered into the shadows and finally made out a figure in the dim light. “Dominique? What the fuck?”
Patricia started to circle him like a slow-orbiting planet. He swiveled his head to track her, the skin on his arms prickling. He’d been caught off guard, and he didn’t like the feeling.
“Pattycake, I’ll bet it still hurts where that car ran you down, doesn’t it, you fucking lush? Maybe if you weren’t day drinking, you would have seen it coming.” He laughed and felt a surge of power as it reverberated in the cavernous garage. He felt like he had the advantage again. “Jesus Christ, I can break you in half. All of you. With a flick of a finger. Don’t you dare fuck with me.”
“No one ever wanted to fuck you.”
He spun around. Angie had moved closer. What was she holding behind her back?
“And you’re never going to fuck with anyone ever again.”
“All right, this is bullshit. I’m out of here. And you all are fucking DEAD in this town.” He fumbled for his key fob when Patricia materialized on the other side of the car. She raised a baseball bat and brought it down on his windshield before he had time to even process it. “You fucking cunt! Do you know how much this car cost? It’s worth more than your fucking LIFE!”
“It’s not worth much now, is it?”
Charles whirled around to face Angie. She raised her own bat, gripping it with both hands, letting it hover over her shoulder like a champ. “This may not be a 1924 Rogers Hornsby, but I think it’ll do the trick.”
He looked to the security cameras for help. Where were the fucking security guards? He didn’t know their names to call out but he couldn’t bring himself to simply shout “Help!” surrounded by four fucking cunts.
He turned, left, then right, then pivoted to his rear. He was surrounded. Angie, Patricia, Dominique, and . . . where the hell had the fourth one come from?
“Who are you?” Charles tried to keep his voice level, in control. But a distinct quaver betrayed him.
“You don’t remember me?” She gave a low laugh. “You’ll remember me now.”
Four baseball bats raised in unison.
That was when he realized in a crush of terror that even if the assault was caught on camera, their faces covered by hoods, and the shadows of the garage would obscure their identities even more.
“Pattycake . . . ?”
“Don’t worry, Charles.” He could hear the smile in Patricia’s voice. “As I recall, you always took care of business, um, quickly. And we will, too.”
As Angie lifted her bat high above her head, she whispered, venom dripping for her lips, “This is for Scarlett.”
And they descended.