Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,3

hard to find in Montparnasse yet I’m beginning to feel like I’ve climbed each and every one of them. My body’s fatigued yet my thoughts have calmed. Paris seems to do that to me, crank me up then soothe me over.

Maybe it’s because like me, Paris has a dark side. The concierge back at my hotel in the Latin Quarter says that beneath this light, bright city of lovers, this pastry-loving heaven are les Catacombes. Tunnels built centuries ago dug eight layers deep and running four hundred miles beneath the streets of Paris. A hidden labyrinth lay beneath the streets of Montparnasse.

Yeah, if a small town like Shelby has secrets—TORC being one of them—then Paris no doubt has its far share of them.

The cobblestone sidewalk disappears as I reach the end of the street. I pause to take a final bite of my pastry before turning the corner.

Call it a dumb-blond moment, my sweet tooth, the loneliness that’s seeped out of my soul all day like a bleeding heart, whatever the reason, I make a critical mistake and am caught off guard.

My goody bag falls to the ground as I’m grabbed by two men. I manage to nail one in the balls before a handkerchief is placed over my face.

Chloroform, shit. Fisting my fingers, I punch my attacker in the temple then rip the hanky from my face. Stars begin to twinkle before me but I ignore them, body-slamming my assailant, taking him down to the cobblestone sidewalk, then feeding him the chloroform-laced material.

Lights out for you, Charlie.

But I’ve taken too long, the effects of the chloroform addling my abilities. The second man’s had time to recover. He’s pissed, and as I’m pulled up onto my knees, he places a knife to my throat.

I’ve got a pitiful history with knives, so it stands to reason I’d die by one.

“Why you’ve been poking your nose into our busy-ness?” he demands in a heavy accent.

“Please,” I faux-beg in a weak, so-not-me voice, “I have something for your boss. A . . . gift.”

The Prick rustles about behind me. Then, the knife is gone and he goes quiet. Thinking things over? Wow, that damsel-in-distress bullshit truly works.

I gasp loudly as I’m hauled to my feet and jerked backward, my body brought up tight against a firm chest. Muscled and strong . . . unlike the big-bellied man I’d tackled. Glancing down, I study his still unconscious body lying on the cobblestone pavement.

One for me, one for . . . I struggle within his firm hold, trying to twist around enough to lay eyes on my savior.

Or . . . my executioner.

Shit.

I twist and turn, kick and—when all else fails—bite him in the arm. Paris begins to spin, my movements growing more sluggish by the second. Bringing my heel back, I try to kick him in the balls. But as if he’s anticipating it, he shifts slightly so my foot connects with his thigh.

I hear a low chuckle.

Then, it’s bon nuit, Paris.

Shelby

One year earlier

Some people say revenge is sweet. Delusional people who talk the talk but never walk the walk. People who haven’t a clue what it feels like to have your world ripped apart, with you scrambling to find a Band-Aid large enough to secure all the shattered bits back in place.

Revenge is the salt on your tongue from the hailstorm of tears you’ve shed. Acidity churning like grease inside your gut when sorrow overshadows your desire to eat. An overwhelming bitterness after you realize the world isn’t made up of flowers and rainbows and honest, smiling faces. That despicable things happen even to the kindest of folk. Inexplicable things that turn your life to shit and forever sours your soul.

A motivating force stronger than worry, sadness, or guilt.

Or fear.

I should be afraid. Shaking in my worn and weary cowgirl boots along with the rest of the five thousand long-term residents of Shelby, Okla-fuck-me-over-homa.

Revenge also requires patience—something I’m sorely lacking in but remind myself frequently of.

Like . . . right now.

A shrill, off-pitch whistle pierces the air. I jerk in surprise, wincing as my head connects with the fallen tree I’m hiding beneath. The bird’s either swallowed a tequila worm or has fallen off a high perch and is whistling his last tune.

I’m not the only person who’s taken notice. The Prick patrolling the compound I’ve been spying on drops his cigarette and takes off running, allowing me the much needed alone time to wiggle out from where I’d hurriedly taken cover less