Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Looking at the clock on the dash, I see it’s a quarter till midnight.
Now is as good a time as any. He’s probably balls deep in some woman’s mouth right now. One can only hope that I’m about to interrupt something so fun for him.
Throwing my long, bleach-blond hair over my left shoulder, I pick up the joint and lighter out of the cup holder, stuffing them into my bra for safekeeping. It’s not to get high or to calm my nerves. It’s from his personal stash that he thinks I don’t know about.
My phone dings for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes, and I ignore it. The last time I checked, the video had over a million views in less than five hours. Instead, I dig into my purse and pull out my lipstick.
When I yank down my visor, the two lights on either side give me just enough visibility to reapply my Ruby Woo lipstick so it’s fresh as can be. Smacking my red lips, I smile to myself, rubbing my teeth to make sure none got on them. Showtime.
Getting out of the car, I walk to my trunk and hear whispers from kids that linger outside of the house while “Bad Moon” by Hollywood Undead plays from the inside.
“Fuck,” one guy hisses.
“Go get them,” another orders.
I smile to myself. Yes, go get them. Not sure why they’re so surprised to see me here. I fucking live here too. Do they expect me to go into hiding because of the video? If that’s the case, then they don’t know who I am. But they’re about to find out.
I grab the metal baseball bat and small can of gasoline, not even bothering to shut the trunk. I’m not here to hide what I’m about to do.
As I walk over to his car, my mother’s six-inch, red Christian Louboutin heels clap on the blacktop driveway. You gotta look your best when you decide to show your crazy. Otherwise, you’re just another stupid bitch like all the rest. Any woman can allow a man to make her go insane. The point is to stand out—be remembered and feared for your toxicity—but look fuckable while you’re doing it.
Coming to a stop at his car, I catch sight of some of the partygoers as they start running out the front double doors of the house as if there’s a fire inside. I ignore them and set the five-gallon gas can on the ground, grip the bat, and swing it at the driver’s side window.
“Fuck!” I hiss when it hits the glass and bounces back. My hands and arms vibrate from the motion, making them sting. This is harder than it looks. Removing one hand at a time, I try to shake them out.
“Oh my god, Ray. What the fuck are you doing?” I hear Tatum—my best friend—yelling while she runs down the front steps in a black mini-dress and Dior heels.
I could ask her why the fuck she’s at my house partying when she told me she had other plans tonight when I offered to go out on a double date, but I don’t. Instead, I stay on track. Widening my stance, I make sure to put all my weight on the balls of my feet. I’d hate to fall off the back of my heels. Gripping the bat tighter, I swing again. It bounces off this time as well.
“You—”
Sucking in a deep breath, I let out a scream, interrupting her, and swing the bat. This time, I aim for the edge, making it shatter. “Thank fuck.” I sigh. That’d be pretty damn embarrassing if I couldn’t get it done with an audience. I toss the bat to the side and reach inside the now broken window, being careful not to cut my arm, to unlock it with a laugh. “Look at that.” It was already unlocked. Of course, the motherfucker wouldn’t have his car locked because no one would ever fuck with his shit.
I could have checked first, but if you ask anyone who knows me, they’ll tell you that I can be dramatic. Plus, I just like to break shit. It can be very therapeutic.
When I pop the door open, the broken glass falls at my feet, and my heels crush it while I pick up the gas can. Looking inside, seeing the shattered glass covering the black and gray seats and floor makes me smile. Unscrewing the lid, I reach in and start shaking the can, letting the gas sprinkle all over. I don’t really think there’s a right or wrong way to do it. It’s not like I googled it or anything. I’m just going by what feels natural.
Then I think what the hell and toss the entire thing into the car. I remove the lighter from inside my shirt, light it up, and throw it in as well before taking a few steps back.