Kayla rolled her eyes skyward as she staggered out of the metropolitan police station and toward her stepfather’s long black BMW. It was late—or early, depending on how you looked at it—in that strange twilight hour where the midnight blue turned almost green with the coming of the sun. Usually, Kayla would still be at some exclusive club flashing her black card and ordering the most expensive drinks on the menu, but tonight, things had gone a little more south than she’d intended them to. Specifically, she’d beat the shit out of some bitch talking shit across the VIP section. She’d smashed her champagne flute right over her head, and even worse, she hadn’t stopped once she saw the blood. Tired of those fuckin’ skanks, she thought, grabbing the wall to catch herself as she wobbled on her too-high heels. I needed to send a message… But perhaps that message needn’t have been written in the girl’s blood. Unlike all the other times Kayla had gotten into altercations at various public venues, the staff just couldn’t ignore this one, which had required an ambulance to ensure the girl she’d busted up didn’t have a concussion.
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