Page 198 of Stick It
Kyle’s response several days later is a video. I know if I look at it now, I’m going to explode, and I want to see what the fuck else these two have been conspiring about.
There are more messages about the jumbotron. Lucas saying he’ll send over files, which must be the videos that were played. Kyle bragging about how well it went down. Lucas wishing he could have seen the look on Dylan’s face.
Fuck,Ican’t wait to see the look onhisface when I beat him fucking unconscious.
However, it’s the most recent exchanges that leave me cold. As if what little warmth Dylan has breathed into me is suddenly sucked dry from my body.
Kyle
None of this shit is working. I need something else. Something more permanent.
Lucas
Do it then. You know what needs to be done. She’s like a bug that refuses to just die. It’s the only way.
Kyle
…
Lucas
Do the same as you did before. Or make it look like an accident. You could catch her when she’s soaking in the rehab tub. It’s not that deep. She’s small. She’d go under fast, and everyone would think she just drowned.
The bile climbs my throat. The rage is threatening to boil over.
Before I crush the phone in my iron grip and decide to give Lucas a slow and agonizing death, I scroll back to the video, knowing it’s going to send me careening right over the fucking edge and into blood-soaked darkness.
With red-tinged vision, I hit play.
The video comes to life. It’s dark out, and the recording is shaky as the person carrying the phone moves. Then Dylan comes into view, curled up on her side on the ground, arms up to shield her face. The only sound is her pained grunts, her stifled sobs as three sick, twisted fucks take turns kicking her. The camera shakes with their silent laughter.
“Is that—” Finn’s words are cut off when we hear his voice on the recording, calling out.
There’s a hushed “Shit,” too low for me to determine which asshole it came from, before the three of them hightail it out of there. Before the footage cuts, Kyle flips the camera, smirking down at it like an actual fucking psychopath. On either side of him, just visible in the light of passing streetlights, are the faces of Fletcher and Monroe.
All. Fucking. Dead. Men.
Ethan wrenches the phone from my iron-clad grip, gaping at the footage before doing something. I’m too antsy to focus on whatever it is he’s doing. The need to kill every single one of these motherfuckers burns through me with such ferocity that it’s painful to ignore it.
Stalking forward, I grab Lucas by the collar and drag him to his feet. Face to face, I snarl at him. My free hand grabs the switchblade in my pocket, brandishing it like a sword. The sharp edge glints as I press it against his throat, just hard enough to have a bead of blood welling. It’s not nearly enough.
Panic flashes in his eyes. For the first time tonight, he looks truly afraid.
It makes my blood fuckingsing.
Kill him, a voice urges in my head.He deserves it.
“I’m going to fuckingendyou.”
He trembles, stammering, but I’m not listening. All I hear is the roar of fury in my head.
“I will carve you up so slowly, you’ll beg me to finish the job. I’ll make you bleed for every bruise on her body. For every scar on her soul.”
He whimpers, eyes blown wide.
“You want to know what real pain is?” I lean in, voice a razor’s edge as I twist the tip of the blade at his throat. That bead becomes a trickle that races over the white flesh of his throat. Electricity sizzles along my nerves like a lightning bolt.
Do it, that voice hisses in dark, delightful pleasure.
