The Heights Crew Series

Vengeance is NOT my middle name.

It’s in my blood.

It’s tattooed on my skin.

It’s with me 24/7. The thing that drives me.

It’s also what brings me to Rawley Heights. No one would willingly come here otherwise. But me? I don’t have a choice.

Here, everyone fears the Heights Crew mafia. Crime. Sex. Murder. Dangerous men with dangerous attitudes.

And they’re exactly who I need to get my vengeance from.

I have my work cut out for me, but don’t worry, they have no idea who they’re dealing with.

I’m counting on it.

Prologue

The atmosphere in the old, abandoned warehouse pricks my skin. The giant, industrial room is alive with electricity. Like it has its own heartbeat for the damaged, raucous crowd. I stand at the edge, aware every single person in this room thinks I’ll get my ass kicked tonight.

A smile flickers across my face, but I hold it back. Cockiness isn’t part of the plan…yet. Instead, for those who even glance my way, I feign an air of scared-out-of-my-ever-loving mind, even though I’m comfortable in places like this. Places with an undercurrent of weed and BO. The sweet scent of sweat a haze over it all. The people here thrive off of fights, and so do I.

They just don’t know it yet.

Brawler approaches me, and I pretend I don’t have a lady hard-on for him. I also pretend I’m nervous as shit. “Is it…is it soon?” I ask.

He tips his head toward the fight currently going on in the makeshift ring. The bigger dude has a huge gash over his brow. Blood leaks into his eyes, but his opponent doesn’t go easy on him. Instead, he tries to open the cut up further with two quick blows, but the bigger dude blocks each one and retaliates, the sight of his own blood making his attacks almost feral. Once he’s seen it, he can’t contain his madness. He delivers blow after punishing blow to the bridge of his opponent’s nose until blood splatters everywhere.

Brawler smiles at the carnage, an evil glint in his eyes. “As soon as Rascal takes care of that guy, you’re up.”

I move my head from side-to-side, cracking my neck before staring down at the stained floor. Dried, crimson circles mar the floor at my feet. Like most other underground fighting venues, they’re not ones for cleanliness. It doesn’t bother me. It only adds to the animalistic nature of it all.

Brawler claps me on the back with a devilish grin. That same look is common in places like this. If you’re not the predator, you’re the prey—and everyone fancies themself a predator. “Chin up, Kyla. I have a feeling it won’t last too long.”

He walks away, his demeaning laughter coating me in his wake. I don’t know why his amusement at my upcoming demise thrills me, but it does. I can’t wait to prove him wrong. I can’t wait to prove everyone wrong. I stare after his retreating, muscled form, my mouth watering for him.

That’s not a part of the plan though. Definitely not part of the plan. I can’t get mixed up with any of the Heights Crew.

Not when I plan on ruining them all.

I slip into the shadows where no one can see and start warming up. Through the gaps in the crowd, I spot my opponent Cherry, so named because Rocket was her first. Or at least that’s what I hear. Anyone and everyone in the Heights has a nickname with a story. Why hers is attached to Rocket taking her virginity, I don’t know.

Cozied up in the corner, a hand turns her chin. Her lips part, staring at someone in the shadows. I can’t see his face. I squint, trying to place him without even really seeing him, but I only make out the color of his shirt, partial chest, and a leg of his jeans.

I know who I want it to be though.

I shake my head, focusing on the present. I have a fight to prepare for. Lunges, squats, and tuck jumps are my friend as I limber up. I windmill my arms around, loosening my shoulders, and then crack the knuckles on every one of my fingers and shake them out. The background is just that: background. I tune out the sounds of the current fight and the crowd to mentally prepare myself for what’s about to go down.

I’ll have to take a few punches. I already know this. It’s the only way to make it convincing at first, but then I’m going to switch the tables on Cherry. I’m going to be the worst nightmare she won’t ever see coming. Because in that ring, it won’t be me and Cherry, it’ll be twelve-year old Kyla wanting vengeance on everyone and everything that has to deal with Big Daddy K.

Fuck that murderer.

I let the rage seep deep into my marrow. I let it fill me, my hands already clenched to fists. My body turning to steel like iron-clad armor.

“Kyla,” Brawler roars.

I turn, purposefully loosening my fists and looking at him like a deer in the headlights. He shakes his head like he might even feel bad for me, but in the next second, all that vanishes when his predatory smile comes out to play again. He crooks a finger at me, and I step toward him in my oversized shirt and joggers. “You’re up.”

I make a show of letting my gaze wander, stopping to stare at the unruly crowd perched on wooden crates. The square slats of wood stacked on top of one another like poor men’s bleachers.

Brawler sighs as he takes me in. He lowers his lips to my ear, whispering, “Just turtle up when she comes at you.” He gives me a wary once-over, like he’s afraid I might get seriously hurt.

“But—”

He cuts me off. His momentary lapse in better judgment now gone. “It’s your funeral, New Girl.”

I bite my lip, but in my head, all the taunts, all the petty bitches and dicks from Rawley Heights flit through my head, and I know I’m about to get my revenge on them. After tonight, I won’t be the object of their utter humiliation and bullying, I’ll be their goddamned Princess for real.

The sick satisfaction fills me, and when Brawler pushes me toward the empty circle in the middle of the room, I stumble forward. I must look like a blithering mess and that part wasn’t even faked. I really did trip over my own feet. That fucker has big hands and more power than he knows.

Unless he does know, and he’s just being a dick.

Come to think of it, I’m sure he knows, and he definitely means to be a dick.

Cherry enters through a gap in the crowd like the queen bee. She has on a cherry red robe as if she’s an actual boxer showing up for her title match. A guy in her corner even slips it off her shoulders for her. A skimpy sports bra and shorts round out the ensemble, but I can’t stop staring at the cleavage she’s showing off. Is this a fight or a wet t-shirt contest?

She throws her arms in the air, and the crowd roars. Mostly man sluts hoping she’ll slip a tit. I bet they’re looking over at me thinking that’s the only excitement they’re getting out of tonight.

They’d be wrong.

I stop myself from jumping up and down, the way I get rid of pre-fight jitters. Instead, I toe the ground and do some basic stretching. I’m talking hands over my head, twisting this way and that. Basically, the kind they taught us in Kindergarten, so everyone thinks I look like a dumbass newbie.

Cherry sneers at me. “This is what you get for coming to the Heights, Bitch.”

I’ve had to tone down my snarky ass for days. My tongue is practically salivating to talk back. I can’t wait until this fucking fight is over, so I can verbally eliminate all these fucking wannabe thugs.

“Aww, do you need to run back to Mommy?” Cherry snickers, an exaggerated frown playing over her pouty lips.

My blood boils. This bitch’s mom is probably doped up on crack right now. Or spreading her legs downtown. She probably never had a mommy to console her…

But I did. She’s just fucking dead.

Bitterness makes my body flash hot and cold. My gaze zeroes in on Cherry’s perfect, upturned nose. I stare straight at it, imagining what I’m going to do until Brawler breaks my concentration. He steps into the middle of the ring, looking back and forth between us. His lips move, but a rush of nothing but rage overwhelms me.

This bitch mentioned my mom.

A raging storm kicks up in my brain. A swirling mess of devastating wind and waves roar between my thick skull and ears until he steps back and yells, “Fight!”

My plans have left the building.

I rush her. Her eyes flare with anticipation, but she isn’t that good of a fighter. I’m fast and skilled. I slip under her lame ass attempt at punching me, pop back up, and give a good right hook to her fucking ribs.

The crowd gasps. The moment lingers in the air, suspended. Sure, Cherry’s not their number one fighter. Everyone knows that. I was a gimme to her. Someone she could steamroll through to climb ahead in the rankings. Well, good fucking luck after this, you dirty fucking hoe bag bitch.

I grit my teeth, punching the same spot two more times until she cries out. Her sharp squeal brings me back to reality. I step back. Trying to dampen my initial reaction, my mouth falls open in abject horror. I really do have to stick to the plan. I drop my hands to my waist, making my eyes round.

“You cunt,” she seethes.

She lunges for me, and I let her. She gets in two good punches to the side of my face before I veer around her, bringing my forearms up to block. To my right, Brawler eyes me. Maybe he saw my initial attack for what it was. A deliberate, skilled offense.

Cherry’s fingertips dig into my shoulders before pulling me down, landing a solid knee to my gut. Mouth next to my ear, she says, “You piece of fucking trash. Bitches like you don’t make it in the Heights.”

I look over her arm, scanning the crowd again until I see him. There. Exactly who I needed to make sure was watching as I do this.

Now that I have his attention, I push past her hold, slip under her arm, and lock my arm around her outside forearm. I hold her in place, battering the side of her head with hard-hitting blows. Every time she tries to squirm out of it, I move with her, keeping out of her reach while she’s well within mine.

She’s not so talkative anymore. Now that she’s getting her head beat in.

I trip her and throw her to the ground. She lands on her back and stares up at me, round eyes meeting mine. Her skimpy bra has inched lower, showing the top half of her areola, but she’s not giving a shit about that right now. She runs her hands over her face, wincing when it meets the cut I’ve given her over her eye.

My stare moves up, catching on the most important person in the room. He glares at me with dark eyes, and I shed my oversized shirt, wiping my face with it before throwing it on the ground while he eyes me.

The crowd nearly trips over itself before the comments start flying and the decibels double from the roaring and clapping. They didn’t expect this from me. Not the fight, and not my body. My sports bra and low-slung joggers show off my toned physique, which I’ve kept under wraps from the thugs at school. I needed to play this my way.

I like being the underdog as long as I come out on top, and I will come out on top.

Cherry tries to scramble to her feet. Real fear dancing in her eyes.

I kick her, and she sprawls out again. When I move in, she tries to kick me in the face, but I throw her feet to the side and pounce on her, elbowing her in the forehead. In this moment, I don’t even care that Brawler’s in the room or Cherry or any of the other fuckers I have to go to school with every day. This is about me. This is about my plan. About my vengeance.

Next thing I know, I’m being pulled off her. The tangy, copper taste of blood coats my mouth. I reach up with my fingers to touch my lips and realize it’s not mine. It’s Cherry’s. I spit the shit out and look up to lock gazes with him.

“Fucking shit,” Brawler mumbles behind me, his fingers tightening around my upper arm.

I blink, staring down at an unmoving Cherry. She’s not dead. I don’t think, anyway. If she was, it wouldn’t matter to me. I have one job here at Rawley Heights, and she was in my way.

He doesn’t even spare her a glance before stepping over her feet to make his way toward me.

Well, happy fucking day to me. The game is on.

*PRINT BOOKS ONLY

Digital Signature is for customers outside the US who still want a signed copy, but do not want to pay shipping from the United States. These copies ship from a printer in the UK. They have a page digitally signed by E. M. Moore.

Signed By Author is for those who want a personally signed copy by E. M. Moore. They ship from her home in the US. International customers can still purchase these copies, but shipping will be calculated automatically and will be more expensive.