Page 127 of Arrogant Puck

“I want you to listen very carefully,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “I will fucking kill you if you threaten her again. Stop fucking texting her. Stop thinking about her. Forget she exists, or I promise you, next time won’t be nearly this nice.”

He’s making muffled sounds behind the tape that I think are supposed to be words. It’s actually pretty funny.

I drop his phone at his feet, making sure it lands face-up so he can see all the social media notifications already pouring in. Then I give him one final slap across the face.

“Fuck you.”

I disappear into the night, pulling off my black hoodie and stuffing it in a trash can several blocks away. By the time campus security finds him, I’ll be back at the hotel with a solid alibi.

Mission fucking accomplished.

Chapter 44

I’m curled up on Slater’s couch with my laptop, mindlessly scrolling through social media while I wait for him to text me, when the notification pops up. At first, I almost ignore it—just another random message notification—but something about it makes me click.

What I see makes my blood turn to stone.

Photos. Multiple photos of my ex-boyfriend tied up, slumped against what looks like a concrete pillar. There are big black bold letters scrawled across his forehead and chest: RAPIST. His mouth is taped shut, his eyes wide with what looks like terror and humiliation.

Fucking hell.

This can’t be real.

My hands shake as I scroll through them, each image more shocking than the last. His dick is hanging out. Someone wanted the world to see him like this. Wanted me to see him like this.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Fucking Rapistis spelled across his chest. His shirt is ripped.

My heart races rapidly.

Could this be Slater?

The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. The timing is too coincidental. Slater’s in LA for his games. These photos were taken somewhere that looks like a college campus. And what kind of tape is that? Could it be hockey tape?

I frantically grab my phone and call Slater, my fingers trembling as I dial.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I beg the empty house, calling again immediately.

Voicemail again.

The fact that he’s not answering either means he’s busy doing whatever he did to create these photos, or he’s still at his game. But the sick feeling in my stomach tells me it’s the former.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I start pacing the house, my mind racing with possibilities, each one worse than the last. I glance out the windows, suddenly paranoid that something else is happening, that these photos are some kind of sick joke or threat. What if this is retaliation? What if someone’s coming for me?

My chest starts tightening, my breathing becoming shallow and rapid. The familiar sensation of a panic attack washes over me like a tide I can’t fight.

I run through the house, checking every lock on every door, testing every window to make sure they’re secure. But I don’t feel safe in the living room, too exposed with all those windows. I go to my bedroom, but that feels wrong too, too isolated.

Finally, I end up in his bedroom, locking the door behind me even though it’s just me in the house. The panic is still settling deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think clearly.

I collapse onto his bed, burying my face in his pillow that still smells like him, and let the tears come. Sobs rack my body as the full weight of what might have happened hits me. If Slater did this—if he really found my ex and hurt him—what does that make him? What does that make us?

Twenty minutes later, my phone finally rings. Slater’s name flashes on the screen, and I answer on the first ring.

“Hey, baby,” he says softly.

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