She's Kylie Morgan

The Dust Raven glittered dully on the dirty floor of the strip club's VIP area. Kylie's gaze hooked onto it, her heart thumping so hard she felt it may explode right out of her chest.

"A Dust Raven? Really?" she thought, a crazy giggle threatening to leave her lips. "Only men with something to prove carry those..."

For a minute, time appeared to stand still. Kylie could hear her own rapid breathing, the distant throb of bass from the main room, and Daniel's low, ominous chuckle. The rifle rested between them, a lethal promise waiting to be fulfilled.

Kylie's mind raced. She'd never held a real gun before, let alone fired one. Sure, she'd seen them in movies, but this was different. This was life or death.

"Screw it," she thought, steeling herself. In one seamless action, she reached for the weapon.

The metal was cool against her feverish fingertips as she picked it up. It was heavier than she thought, and her arms trembled slightly under its weight. Kylie fumbled with the safety, her fingers clunky and unwilling.

"Come on, come on," she whispered under her breath. The mechanism was rigid, opposing her efforts. A small part of her brain recognized this information, putting it away for further contemplation.

"It's stiff," she realized. "He hasn't used it much."

Finally, the safety clicked off. Kylie raised the gun, her arms shaking as she directed it at Daniel. The barrel appeared to weigh a ton, and she tried to keep it steady.

"Stop," she said, hating how her voice cracked on that single word. She sounded afraid, which she was, but she couldn't afford to exhibit weakness. Not now.

Daniel's chuckle boomed in the small room, a vicious sound that sent shivers down Kylie's spine. His eyes raked over her, taking in the shaking gun, her shivering frame, and the dread she was trying so hard to disguise.

"What would a pretty little thing like you know about a big ole gun like that?" he growled, taking a menacing step forward.

Sweat beaded on Kylie's forehead. She could feel it running down her back, making the too tight dress cling even more tightly to her skin. The heavy makeup she'd applied earlier seemed like a mask, stifling her.

"Just back up and let me leave," she replied, her voice stronger now. The initial astonishment was fading off, replaced by a hard determination. She'd come too far to back down now.

Daniel's eyes narrowed, his attitude darkening. "I don't think so," he hissed.

Before Kylie could respond, he lunged at her. Time appeared to slow down. She saw his gigantic bulk flying towards her, his hands outstretched, ready to snatch the pistol away. In that moment, instinct took over.

Kylie squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked furiously in her hands, the recoil nearly tearing it from her grip. The blast was thunderous in the small space, leaving her ears reeling. For a short second, Kylie believed she'd missed.

Then Daniel's body lunged backward, slamming into the bed before crumpling to the floor. A dark stain appeared on his shirt, spreading swiftly.

Kylie stood still, eyes wide with disbelief. The rifle dangled limply at her side, now feeling ten times heavier. The acrid scent of gunpowder assaulted her nose, combined with the stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume that saturated the club.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." The mantra reverberated in her thoughts, an unending loop of panic and disbelief. She'd shot someone. She, Kylie Morgan, had actually pulled the trigger and shot a guy.

The gravity of the situation came crashing down on her like a tidal wave. She had to get out of there. Now.

With shaking hands, Kylie used the hem of her dress to wipe off the gun, eliminating any evidence of her fingerprints. That was awkward and amateurish at best, but that was all she could think to do at the moment.

Tossing the weapon aside, she rushed for the door. Her heels clacked loudly on the floor as she stumbled down the hallway, nearly tumbling in her haste to flee. She passed a boredlooking guard, who scarcely spared her a glance. Just another inebriated chick, nothing exceptional in an environment like this.

The cool night air greeted Kylie like a smack to the face as she burst out the rear door of the club. She swallowed it down greedily, attempting to rid the odor of gunpowder and panic from her lungs. Her automobile sat where she'd left it, a plain sedan that blended in with the other vehicles in the lot.

Fumbling with her keys, Kylie virtually tumbled into the driver's seat. Her hands shook so terribly she could hardly get the key in the ignition. Finally, the engine roared to life.

Despite the humid July night, Kylie set the heat on full blast. Her teeth chattered, her whole body tortured with uncontrolled tremors.

"Shock," she whispered to herself, recalling a long-ago first aid training. "It's just shock. You're fine. Everything's fine."

She pulled onto the main street, forcing herself to drive normally. The last thing she needed was to get pulled over now. As she waited at a red light, Kylie came to peek down.

There, vivid against the cheap polyester of her clothing, was a spray of blood. Tiny droplets, barely apparent unless you knew to look for them. But to Kylie, they might as well have been neon signs declaring her guilt.

A scream tore from her throat, primal and terrifying. The car veered uncontrollably, nearly slamming into a light post before Kylie regained control.

"Pull it together," she screamed through gritted teeth. "I am Kylie goddamn Morgan. I'm better than this."

But even as she said the words, images rushed through her head. Daniel's enormous hands curled around the poor girl's throat. The girl's body hit the floor, abandoned like rubbish. The gun kicked in Kylie's hands, Daniel's body twitching as the bullet hit its spot.

"Enough," Kylie murmured forcefully, shoving the memories away. "What's done is done."

The rest of the drive passed in a haze. Before she knew it, Kylie was pulling into the garage of the Morgan mansion. The vast home loomed over her, its windows dark and deserted. For once, she was grateful for her parents' frequent absences.

Moving on autopilot, Kylie set about hiding her traces. She cleaned down the automobile interior, using enough cleaning agents to make her eyes water. Her disguise came off piece by piece – the tootight dress, the cheap wig, the stripper shoes she'd borrowed from a girl at school.

Everything went into the estate's antique furnace, fed piece by piece into the voracious flames. Kylie watched as the evidence of her night's escapades burned to ash, feeling weirdly disconnected from the whole process.

As she slipped through the deserted corridors of the mansion, now outfitted in inconspicuous coveralls, Kylie's mind raced. What would happen now? Would the police come knocking on their door? Would her parents somehow find out what she'd done?

The notion of disappointing them, of damaging the treasured Morgan's name, was almost worse than the memories of pressing the gun.

Finally, Kylie reached the sanctuary of her own bathroom. She turned the shower on full blast, not bothering to wait for the water to warm up before stepping in. The icy spray shook her system, bringing her crashing back to reality.

For a long period, Kylie just stood there, fully dressed, letting the water soak through the coveralls. Then, as if a dam had cracked, the feelings she'd been keeping back all night came gushing out.

Sobs wracked her body, mixing with the shower spray. Kylie slid down the tiled wall, pressing her knees to her breast as she wailed.

"Morgans don't cry," she thought cruelly, recalling her mother's oft-repeated credo. "Morgans don't cry."

But at that moment, crouched on the floor of her shower, Kylie didn't feel like a Morgan. She felt little, afraid, and so very, very alone.

As the water poured over her, washing away the final remnants of her disguise, Kylie's mind slipped. How had she landed up here? It felt like only yesterday she'd been just another wealthy kid, coasting through life on her family's name and money.

Then came the announcement. Her parents, beaming with pride, told her of her forthcoming marriage to some mystery billionaire. Daniel. The name sent a tremor through Kylie's body, even now.

She'd smiled and nodded, playing the part of the dutiful daughter. But inwardly, questions had festered. Who was this man? What type of person decided to marry a woman they'd never met?

So she'd begun digging. At first, it was just harmless curiosity. A few questions here and there, some covert inquiries about her parents' social circle. But the more she knew, the more terrifying the image got.

Whispers about dubious business practices. Rumors of connections to organized crime. And then, the most alarming of all  rumors of missing girls, young women who'd disappeared without a trace.

That's what had led her to the strip club tonight. There wasn't much to go on - just overheard fragments of discussion, and a few wellplaced bribes to the proper people. But that was enough to drive Kylie to don that absurd disguise and venture into a world she'd never known existed.

Now, crouched in her shower as the hot water slowly ran cold, Kylie wondered if it had been worth it. She'd confirmed her darkest worries about Daniel, certainly. But at what cost?

She'd taken a life tonight. Justified or not, that was a weight she'd carry for the rest of her days.

As the weeping gradually receded, replaced by a bonedeep tiredness, Kylie forced herself to stand. She took off the soaking coveralls, letting them fall to the shower floor with a wet slap.

Methodically, she cleaned away all signs of the night's occurrences. The remainder of the heavy makeup swirled down the drain, along with the cheap perfume she'd coated herself in. By the time she walked out of the shower, pruned and shivering, Kylie almost felt like herself again.

Almost.

Wrapping herself in a thick robe, Kylie padded into her bedroom. The familiar surroundings felt alien now like they belonged to a different person. A Kylie who hadn't pulled a trigger, who didn't know what it was like to kill a life.

She collapsed into her bed, staring blankly at the wall. What now? In a few hours, the sun would rise. The world would go on turning, ignorant of the happenings of the night. But for Kylie, everything had changed.

Would the police come? Had anyone at the club seen her? Recognized her, despite the disguise? The questions whirled in her thoughts, each more scary than the previous.

And what about her parents? What would they say if they realized what their perfect daughter had done? The thought drove a fresh rush of panic through Kylie's body.

No. They could never know. No one could ever know.

As the first rays of light began to peek through her curtains, Kylie made a decision. She would bury this night deep inside herself, lock it away in the darkest regions of her memory. She would continue on with her life as if nothing had happened.

She was Kylie Morgan, after all. And Morgans were nothing if not masters of keeping up appearances.

Butas Kylie finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, one thought rang through her mind:

Nothing would ever be the same again