Strike Back Back On Novels & Stories

“Strike.” I hesitated. His golden eyes narrowed. “Strike me.” I swung, clumsy, too slow. He knocked the blade from my grip with a twist of his wrist, sending it clattering into the dirt. “Pathetic.” His voice was a growl, but not cruel. Sharpening. “Pick it up.” I did. My palms burned. My heart thundered. I swung again, harder, angrier. He blocked, shoved me back, his strength like stone.

he asks. I shake my head once. “No.” I move first this time. The strike I throw forces him to step back quickly, sand spraying under his boots. He blocks it, but I follow with another swing and another, pushing him across the circle until his back almost hits the wooden post. “Think,” I tell him. “Don’t just swing.” Micah bares his teeth. “Maybe I like swinging.” He throws a reckless strike toward my ribs. I catch it easily. Then I twist the blade out of his grip.

I went for it again slamming it barely as it swerves out of the way into the opposite direction and disappears. Bringing my car to a stop, I rested my head on the sterling wheel. My breath coming out in large puffs like I had just ran a marathon. There was hardly a doubt that they were Lester’s goons. So this is how he wanted to play. If he thought he was going to scare me into hiding, he was playing. I was not going to back down not until I had gotten revenge. I pulled out my phone and for some unknown reason saw myself texting Kendrick to tell him what happened.

Simpson clenched his teeth, dropping the last of his pretense. "Sandra, leave yourself a way out. I know you have connections with Jonathan. Come back and help me talk to him—get the rent reduced, suppress the public backlash, and we'll call it even. As long as you help me get through this, I'll pay you whatever you want!" So that was it. They didn't need me. They needed the resources behind me—the person who could put out their fire. I set down the glass in my hand. "Mr. Simpson, it's too late. Some things, once broken, can't be put back together.

I swore I heard a crack as his fist collided with Winston's jaw. Looking around trying to find something, anything that would get him off Winston. Looking around,I spotted a mop stick I hadn't seen tucked away in a corner. Picking it up, I smacked it into the back of Dante's head, masking him pause his punching as if he juts realized what he had been doing.

I slammed on the brakes and the steering wheel almost hit me in the forehead! S.hit, did I hit something?

Storm second away from breaking. Shit.

After thinking it over, I got in the car. It was late, and it was hard to get a taxi in the villa district at this hour. Zayden drove me to the hospital to get my scraped palms treated. By the time everything was done, and I got home, it was already past midnight. I thanked him. Then, unexpectedly, he said, “If you want to get back at Jason, I’m willing to help.” A bitter smile curled at my lips. “You are both in on it together. What revenge could there possibly be?”

The shock of it stole my breath but before I could protest, the first strike landed. His palm connected with my backside in a sharp resounding slap that made me gasp. The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and startling yet the sound echoed inside me like a drum. “Count.” he commanded. I froze. “What?” “Count Arielle. Or we’ll start over.” My pride fought but another strike landed before I could answer harder this time the burn spreading deeper. A moan slipped past my lips before I could choke it back humiliating and traitorous.

So I paste a smile on my face and bend down. When i reach a hand in and pull the file out, I realise it's stuck. The fuck? I yank on it once, but to no avail- I feel Ruben's leg grazing my thigh, and immediately shoot back up. "Thefile'sstuck." He laughs, but it's wolfish. A chill runs down my spine. "Try again, sweetheart." I swear my jaw's ticking when he says that, a challenging spark in his eyes. I hate this.