Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew

Rain slashed against the tinted windows of the limousine, a rhythmic drumming that matched the pounding in Avery Preston's temples. She didn't move to open the door immediately. Instead, she sat in the climate-controlled silence, staring at the neon sign of the Vanguard Club blurring through the wet glass. Her fingers, manicured to a pale, harmless nude, trembled slightly in her lap.

It was a practiced tremor.

"Mrs. Garrison?" the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. "Do you need an umbrella?"

"No, thank you, Charles." Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. It was the voice everyone expected from her. The voice of a woman who was slowly fading away, consumed by nerves and a constitution too fragile for the harsh realities of New York City.

Avery pulled her coat tighter around her throat, stepping out into the deluge. The cold dampness bit at her skin, but she didn't hurry. She adjusted her posture, hunching her shoulders just enough to look small, defenseless. The bouncer at the velvet rope took one look at her pale face and the expensive cut of her soaking coat and unhooked the barrier without a word.

She stepped inside.

The bass hit her chest first, a physical thud that vibrated through her ribs. The air inside was thick, a cloying mixture of expensive cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and the metallic tang of spilled alcohol. Avery navigated the crowd, keeping her eyes downcast, playing the part of the terrified wife searching for a wayward relative.

The bartender, a man with tired eyes and a heavy beard, didn't need to ask who she was looking for. He simply jerked his chin toward the far corner of the room, a VIP booth shrouded in shadow.

Avery walked toward the darkness.

Glass crunched under her heels. The sound was sharp, distinct even over the music. She stopped at the edge of the booth.

Brandon Garrison was sprawled across the leather banquette like a fallen king. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing a chest sheen with sweat. His knuckles were split open, fresh blood trickling down his fingers to stain the pristine white tablecloth. He was laughing, a low, guttural sound that had cleared the immediate area of anyone sane.

A waitress, terrified and holding a dustpan, tried to approach the mess of shattered tumblers on the floor.

"Leave it," Brandon snarled, not looking at her. He waved a hand aggressively, sending a half-empty bottle spinning off the table. It crashed against the wall. The waitress flinched and scurried away.

Avery took a breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned. She stepped into his line of sight, clutching her purse to her stomach as if it were a shield.

"Brandon," she said. Her voice wavered perfectly.

He froze. The laughter died in his throat. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, the pupils blown wide. He looked like a man who had been running for days, or perhaps hunting.