Spiteful

Greetings, amazing readers! This is the Author Jasmine M! (Instagram for updates: Jxsmine_km.) And I'm here to tell ya..

This book is the sequel to Escape. If you’ve read my book, you’ll have no difficulty knowing who the characters are. If not, don’t worry—you can learn about them along the way.

Adios!

****

For those who don’t know me.

I’m Natasha. Natasha Rebel. The most intoxicated woman you’ve ever met. And the one you shouldn’t know at all.

I was hella sweet at first. Cared about what others thought. Gave my all just to make them happy. But now? Pfft. I'm someone who you'd prefer to stay away from. Not because it was in my nature to be this ruthless, but because someone made me like this. Heartless. Bold. Confident in no one but myself. Ruthless, like an assassin. And most of all... merciless.

We’ll catch up on that later. Let’s deal with this hot as* first.

****

“Natasha Rebel.” The chief officer of the NYC police growls my name for the hundredth time as I pass him a smirky smile. Me being here isn’t something new. I always have a visit with this baby daddy whenever I get busted doing something I shouldn’t have. But since I am not justice, I’m always charged for it. Well, almost charged.

“Do you know why you are here?” he continues, speaking angrily.

“Because you can’t resist this hot body?” I wink as he scoffs, hiding his face behind his hands. Oh, boy, do I get to him badly.

“Listen, Ms. Rebel.” And there comes the angry Daddy. “You were caught beating a 20-year-old boy with a baseball bat down the alley. Do you even know what his condition is right now?”

“And do you know why I was beating him?”

“All I know is he can’t see from his left eye now.”

“I have to do better than this next time.” I taunt as I lean backwards on the comfy chair I’m sitting on.

And this is the part where the chief loses it and bangs his fists on the table, making a blasting sound, surprisingly.

“Do you think this is some kind of joke? There won’t be the next time. You are not a police officer. You are not a judge. You are a citizen of this country. Whose job is to call the police when they see something bad or illegal happening with/to someone!

If you see a crime, you call 911! You call the police! Always!”

“Sure, can I go now?” I scoff. “Or do you want me to stay for a while?” I charmingly add.

And sure, I get it. The police work is amazing. What they do is more honourable than what any of us do. They endanger their lives every single day without thinking about who they probably leave behind.

And I do respect them.

But even if I were to call the police rather than beating the sh*t out of that 20-year-old pimp… who knows how many young girls would have been smuggled into another country?

“Sorry to barge in like this but...” and here comes another cutie, who is already in the room yet still ironically apologising for barging in.

It isn’t about why he rushes into the interrogation room without the chief’s consent. It’s the look. I know that skim all too well.

I glare at the guy as he walks past me towards the other side and whispers something into the chief’s ear. His impressions give quite the picture as to what’s happening.

His angry nature soon turns into disgust and forceful agreement. The chief takes a deep breath and finally asks the officer to leave.

“You are free to go.” The chief concludes, making me raise my eyebrows in shock.

“W-What?!” But of course. I shouldn’t be this surprised at all. Because I know who could’ve bailed me out this easy.

Ugh. D*mn you, Lucifer.

I don’t say anything, just quietly get up from my chair, stretch, and turn to the chief.

“Miss me.” Blowing him a kiss, I sway my *ss and walk out of the room before I hear him curse and grumble under his breath.

I don’t like acting the way I’m acting right now. But I guess being this way has its perks. And this type of conduct doesn’t just naturally come out. And it definitely does not come out because you think you like it and want to do it.

Like I said, I was sweet, tender, affectionate, and everything you’d want in your badass girlfriend.

But, only, he chose to break my heart.

As I walk further through the halls of the station, I encounter a room where all I hear are sobs—deep sobs of a young woman in her 20s.

I stay behind the door, of course, but lean my head in to hear clearer. Good thing it’s lunchtime for these guys—not many officers are around.

“Love, you’ve been here for 2 hours. This is a police station where you don’t have to be afraid of anything. You know you can tell us anything. Right?”

“You have to know that we can’t take any action if we don’t know what we’re about to deal with.” The female officer tries to convince the 20-year-old to feel safe. And she’s right, she is safe here.

But the look on her face is more than just terrified. She’s fearing for her life. I can see that.

Her sobs finally quiet down, as she bursts her body to stand up.

“You know what? Just forget I ever came here.” She blurts out and storms out of the room. Luckily, the woman doesn’t see me as I back myself from her view within seconds.

But it doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about her already.

Something about her makes me want to find out more. It can probably link up to the job I’ve taken. The job is to extract all those f*ckers who think blackmailing, recording, and trafficking young ones is a good thing for a living.

It would have seemed to them that it was. But not until I wiped out each one of them and all of those bastards soon started to leave the city in fear of ‘The Rebel’.

And that’s what I need to develop in them.

Fear.

Finally, making my way outside the station, I pull out the box of cigarettes from my pocket. But diverting my eyes around, I catch a glimpse of her… the one from the station.

She’s sitting with her back against the police car parked outside, crying her eyes out. Of course, she can’t see me—her hands do a great job covering her face like that... But… what’s wrong?

From the talk she had with the officer earlier, I’m sure she isn’t just afraid of something. She’s definitely afraid of someone.

And despite respecting the police, I know all too well that some corrupt bastards inform the ones she may probably want to hide from.

Deciding to leave her alone for now, I begin to walk away, when I hear her whimpers.

“What have I gotten myself into? I can’t tell her. They will kill her. Oh, what am I going to do now? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO NOW?”

And here goes my stone heart, melting at the sound of her cries. Releasing a long