Chapter Twenty-Five
Jett
Walter, my lawyer, adjusts his cuffs, trying to stay professional, but the way he’s looking at me, says he thinks I’ve done something.
“Where were you Monday?” he asks.
“Where the fuck was I Monday?” I repeat the question. “I worked most of the day.” I rub the back of my neck. “Chad came by the gym. Harassed me. Harassed a client.”
I leave out the part where I had two fingers inside said client. That I spent the night replaying it, sucking the memory off my knuckles like it might tell me who the fuck I am now. Not relevant. Not legally. Emotionally? I’m so fucked I don’t know which way’s north anymore.
“I didn’t lay hands on the bastard,” I add.
“Where were you Monday night, after the altercation?” His voice dips, already expecting blood.
“I wasn’t involved in any altercation,” I say slowly. “He taunted her. She slapped him. End of story.” I pause. “She in trouble?”
His eyes flick away. Never a good sign. “She might be. Petergrind’s attorney is making noise. Said he’s filing charges over the slap, and other things.”
My jaw tightens. “The fuck ‘other things’?”
Because I know she did something. Of course she did. She doesn’t half-ass crazy.
“I need your alibi, Jett,” he says. “If this spirals, you need to be clear.”
“I had therapy. That pushed everything late.” I still won’t say her name. Like if I don’t, it’ll protect her. “After that, I had a client. Six to seven.”
“And after that?”
“I went the fuck home,” I bite out. “Long day. Didn’t trust myself not to actually give that fucker a reason to press charges if I ran into him again.” Not a lie. Not the whole truth either.
“Anyone see you?”
I snort. “Maybe the old bitch across the street. Mrs. Henderson. She’s eighty-seven, hates my bike, and has the eyesight of a goddamn falcon. Spends her retirement watching my front door like it’s her own private reality show.” My hand slips into my jacket pocket. Finds Delilah’s damn scrunchie.
Soft. Still smells faintly like whatever chaos she rolls in.
Little menace.
What the fuck did you do now, princess?
Walter nods. “Fair enough. I’ll talk to the neighbor. I believe you.”
“You should,” I snap. “Because it’s the truth. You gonna tell me what I’m supposedly tied to?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Someone vandalized Chad’s car.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“Pink baseball bat was left at the scene. Mirror’s busted. Door’s dented. Lipstick on the window. Gummy worms and glitter everywhere.” He pauses. “It might hit felony levels, depending on what else the guy claims. And you know he will.”
My stomach turns. Glitter. Gummy worms. Lipstick. A pink bat, because of course.
Jesus pole dancing Christ.
Delilah.
You chaotic little siren.
I leave Walter to chase down my alibis. As much as I want to text her, call her, hell, hunt her down, I don’t.
Not yet. I’ve got a client in fifteen. Might need the cash to bail her ass out or make sure she’s lawyered up and not just charming some poor public defender with those eyes and that filthy, sugar-slick mouth.
The gym’s dead quiet when I get there. Lights humming low. Mats clean. No one shouting over the speaker or clanking weights. Just the sound of my boots on the rubber flooring as I head to the back.
I hit the lockers, half-starved and already regretting not scarfing a protein bar in the car. My hand goes to my combo out of habit and stops.
The lock’s gone. I know I set it. I know I snapped it shut.
I open the door slow, stomach tensing.
Inside there’s a pink bag.
Satin. Sequins. Something that belongs in a thirteen-year-old’s mall fantasy and absolutely does not belong in my locker. There’s a glitter-covered card perched on top like a trap.
Another fucking glitterbomb.
She’s hunting me.
This isn’t a prank. This is a power play. A filthy little breadcrumb trail she left knowing I’d follow it all the way to the edge.
I reach in, jaw tight, and flick the card open with two fingers, already bracing for some dumbass joke or passive-aggressive threat. Instead, I read:
I masturbated while wearing your glove.
That’s it. Just her unhinged, horny handwriting and that one line carved into my skull now.
Fuck.
I knew the glove wasn’t misplaced.
Nope.
She took it. She used it.
My fists clench, and for a second, I think about throwing the whole bag in the trash. Let her wonder if it landed. Let her stew. But then I think about that glove in her hand.
Or hell, on her hand. Around her fingers, slicked with her.
Fuck.
I sit hard on the bench, gripping the card like it might combust.
She wants me to see it. To picture her with that glove, my glove, pressed between her thighs, slick with need and smug as sin.
And she knew I would. She counted on it.
Fuck, Delilah. I hope it made you scream.
That scrunchie in my pocket feels heavier now, laughing at me.
I should throw it all out. Burn it. Pretend I’m not already planning what to do with that glove when I get her alone.
Should stuff it between her teeth and watch her choke on the taste of her own goddamn game. Should gag her with it while I fuck her senseless.
The fucking worst part is now I want it back.
Not to wear. Not for training.
But to ruin her.
I shove the cashews she left me like I’m some stray dog she’s trying to win over with snacks and chaos in my mouth. One, two, gone. Just like the last threads of my fucking self-control.
When I round the corner toward the front, Chad fucking Petergrind materializes like a jump scare from hell.
He’s too close. Too smug. Too fucking here.
I stop short. “I’m trying to work. My lawyer…”
“I don’t give a shit about your lawyer,” he snaps. “You and that little delulu bitch went too far. I’ve pressed charges.”
Bitch? Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him in front of the fucking vending machines.
My fists curl without permission. “You press charges on your own fucking reflection, Chad?” I ask, voice low. “Because that’s the only place I saw a bitch.”
“Yeah, okay.” He grins. “Keep talking. She’s going to jail by the weekend.”
My blood spikes.
He leans in. “Probably getting railed through the bars by…”
I reach for my therapy toolkit like a man trying to plug a bullet wound with a wet napkin.
Breath one.
Grant me the strength to not go full felony in a public facility.
“… some tweaker who likes ‘em crazy. She’ll probably love it.” He sneers at me.
Breath two.
The patience to breathe through premeditated homicide.
He keeps talking. “She’ll be in county by the weekend. Bet she moans for the guards.”
My vision tints red around the edges. I don’t remember swinging.
But I feel the impact.
A satisfying, meaty crunch as his face explodes under my knuckles.
Chad drops. Nose busted, maybe cheekbone too. There’s blood on my shirt. On my hand. Glitter from her card still clings to my wrist.
Breath three.
Still don’t remember the fucking line.
“Kevin?” I call, turning away from the mess I made. “Gonna need you to cover my four-thirty.”
I head out, drive to the Econo Inn. The kind of shithole where the walls don’t hear a thing and the stains have stains. Then shoot her a text.
Me: Econo Inn. Room 4. Bring my glove. Wear my hat.
Delilah: On my way. Just need an hour. Running errands. Stay hard.
A fucking hour? She’s making me wait. On purpose. Little brat wants me feral.
She’ll get feral and hard.