Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Fuck, that felt good.
Trystin roars in agony, his hand pinned under my fist as Ace, the psychotic maniac that he is, just grins, excited to get the show on the road. Pizza Guy uses the distraction to try and get past Diesel, but nothing ever gets past that bastard, and as he sprints toward the side door, Diesel’s arm shoots up, grabbing him around the throat before throwing him right back.
Pizza Guy stumbles back toward his friend, crashing into him with haste.
“Woah, woah, woah,” the third guy says, holding up his split-knuckles while shoving Pizza Guy off him. “What’s this about? I’m sure we can work something out.”
“This,” I say, finally releasing my hold on Trystin and watching as he falls to his knees, still clutching his broken hand, weeping in agony, “is about the woman that you fuckers left for dead in that alleyway.”
Trystin shakes his head. “We didn’t do shit.”
I slam my foot into his chest, kicking him with such power that he skids across the kitchen floor and slams into his friends like a fucking bowling ball. I begin to stalk them, slowly creeping closer. “Are you saying that my girl is a liar?”
Pizza Guy’s eyes widen, clearly recognizing a trap when he sees one. “Nah, he didn’t say anything like that,” he panics, nudging his friend. “You’ve got the wrong guys. It wasn’t us.”
“Trust me when I say that you don’t want to find out what happens to assholes who try to bullshit me. Her car is parked right in the fucking driveway,” I say. “What the fuck is wrong with you morons? You didn’t even attempt to hide the evidence. Were you trying to brag about it? Showing it off like some kind of badge of honor to let all the other pieces of shit know that you were an even bigger piece of shit today?”
“You’ve made your fucking point,” Trystin spits, clutching his hand from the ground. “Now fuck off.”
I laugh, closing the distance and stepping right in front of him before crouching down and letting him see the pure evil within my stare. “You put her in the hospital, left her for dead in an alleyway with severe internal bleeding. She just spent hours in emergency surgery. She’s fucking lucky to be alive, and you think a few broken bones in your hand is going to settle the score?” I laugh. “Oh no, Trystin. I’ve barely even begun. Let me make this clear, when I am through with you tonight, you’ll be drinking through a straw for the rest of your miserable fucking life.”
He clenches his jaw, glaring at me as though this scrawny piece of shit could somehow intimidate me, and I reach forward, grip him by the scruff of his shirt and pull him to his feet.
“Now,” I say as Ace and Diesel creep closer, their fists already locked and loaded. “Let’s give these assholes a taste of their own medicine.”
My fist slams across his jaw, coming at him with the force of a freight train, and I watch as his head violently jolts to the side. Blood sprays out of his mouth, somewhat cinematically, and before his head has even finished rebounding, I hit him again, this time from beneath his chin.
Blood spurts from his mouth, and it takes me a moment to realize that he must have bitten through his tongue, almost severing the thing, but I don’t hold back, hitting him again and again, letting him feel the same agony he forced on Harper, only worse.
Diesel and Ace go hard, beating Pizza Guy and the other one in the same brutal way they attacked Harper, taking every last ounce of their dignity. I feel bones snap beneath my knuckles and skin tearing open. Blood splatters across the rundown kitchen, and with every hit, I picture Harper’s bruised body, her swollen eyes, and the split straight through her lip.
Grabbing Trystin, I pull out the old chair at the shitty dining table and throw him into it. He slouches, barely able to keep himself upright. I grab his wrist, take hold of his pinky finger, and snap it with ease. “That is for even looking at my girl.”
Trystin roars, desperately trying to pull away. “This,” I say, taking his next finger and squeezing extra hard. “Is for making her feel uncomfortable in her workplace.” I bend it straight back, letting it break as well.
Tears stream down his pathetic face, but I don’t dare stop, taking the next finger and snapping that too. “This is for having the fucking audacity to even approach her on the street.”
Finally, I take his pointer finger and rejoice in the feel of it crushing in my palm. “This is for every fucking hair that was touched on her head. And this,” I add, shifting my hold and gripping his arm, one hand at his wrist, my other braced at his elbow, and with everything I have, I slam my knee up, snapping his radius and ulna like a fucking twig. “Is for leaving her for fucking dead in that alley.”