Page 15 of The Crowned Garza
Guy catches me with a hand at my waist, helping me right myself. Andholy electric titfire!Whatthe hellis going on?
As if I’ve been zapped with a live wire, I lurch out of his hold, but the swift movement only makes me stumbleagain, which in turn makes him reach out and catch me by the waistagain, steadying me.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, why does it feel like I’m surfing on a bolt of lightning through a sea of flames? Why’s my heart hammering? Why are my breaths so shallow?
Irritated with myself, I aggressively jerk out of his hold again and grit out, “Stop.Touching. Me.”
His retorting snort conveys that touching me is the last thing he wants to be doing. “You’re the one who seems to have forgotten how to stand upright. Didn’t believe you were drunk earlier, but now…”
“Oh, piss off,” I snap back, jamming the key into the lock.
Of course the lock chooses to embarrass me by refusing to open. Or, wait—nope, I inserted the wrong damn key.
“Forgot how locks and keys work, too?” the fraud taunts, his tone imbued with mild amusement.
“You canleavenow, you know,” I hiss.
“If I wasn’t worried about your well-being, I would. Seems your head’s going.”
Asshole.
When I finally get the door open and stomp inside, he calls, “Hey,regalità?”
Whirling to face him, I borderline snarl, “What?”
“Let this be the last time you call me.”
Before I can slam the door in his face, he’s gone.
I close the door, press my back against it, and rest my palm over my heart that’s going berserk in my chest. I hate that man. I really do. So why does it feel as if my body…likeshim?
Since my knees aren’t yet strong enough to take me up the stairs to my room, I sink to the floor. A little time is required to recover from...whatever the hell’s going on with me right now.
My purse vibrates against my thigh. I fish out my phone and check the screen.
A text from Zak Killian, who I haven’t spoken to since the incident at his house party. The whole ordeal turned me off from him. Those were hisfriends.
Zak:Holy shit T, have you seen this?
I tap the attached image to enlarge it. Preston Matthews. Tied to a tree, butt naked. Stapled to his chest is a note with the words “I AM A RAPIST” in bold letters, and carved bloodily on his forehead is what looks like a cross. Something’s stuffed into his mouth, blood streaking down the sides. Much to my disappointment, his cock still hangs flaccidly between his skinny legs.
Me:OMG,when did this happen? Is he okay?
Zak:IDK. Pic started circulating last night. Just spoke to his brother and he said he’s all good. But he’s not taking our calls.
Me:Of course he isn’t. He’s disgraced. What’s in his mouth?
Zak:Heard it’s a dick.
Me:WTF. Whose dick?
Zak:IDK. So fucked up.
Me:Nah.What he did to Lola was fucked up. He’s lucky his cock’s still intact.
Zak:I know. I’m sorry. I really am.
Feeling a surge of energy from that delicious bowl of justice served, I delete the image from my phone and spring to my feet. Weak knees gone,hallelujah. I’msonot about that weak-knee life.
