7. Stella and the Party #2
But Tammy and Stella continue fighting. They hit the floor together, a tangle of pale limbs and hair extensions, rolling until they crash into the far wall.
Someone is shouting, “Catfight!” over and over.
I see a flash of Stella’s blue eyes, wild and alive, and for a second I think she’s going to murder the girl.
Then Tammy rakes her nails down Stella’s thigh, and Stella howls, wrenching Tammy’s head back so hard that a hunk of red hair comes away in her hand.
For a split second, Tammy just gapes, staring, and then she shrieks like a banshee and hurls herself forward.
“Hi-ya!” she screams. “Bitch!”
“You’re the ho!” Stella screams back. “Whore!”
The room is an explosion of sound, all sense and decorum shattered.
I look at the shattered vodka bottle on the floor, at the streak of blood on Stella’s shin, at the way Tammy’s dress has torn so that she’s exposed. Seriously, she was wearing so little there wasn’t much to tear away to begin with.
And then, as if I’m floating above it, I see myself: Kayleigh McEnroe, bystander, clutching a plastic cup like a doofus. There’s hair and nails and knees and shrieking, and the crowd surges forward, every phone out, every mouth open in shock or delight or horror.
The fight is a living thing now, and I can’t look away.
But I have to do something.
They say when you’re in crisis, time slows down.
I always thought that was just a thing people said, like “the best years of your life are still to come” or “it’s not you, it’s me.
” But right now, as I watch Stella and Tammy go full death match on the living room floor, time does actually stretch out, like the last pull of a taffy rope before it snaps.
For a second I don’t move. My mind blanks.
All I see is teeth and claws and the flicker of camera flashes, the crowd howling for blood.
I could stay on the edge and just spectate—no one expects me to intervene, least of all Stella—but then I see the way Tammy’s nails dig into the side of Stella’s face, leaving a line of red from cheekbone to jaw.
And it’s not fair. It’s not a contest anymore; it’s just survival.
Something inside me cracks. I look for a weapon. I have to help my friend.
The nearest thing is a broom, propped against the kitchen doorway, the handle long and wooden and the bristles gnarled and sad.
Without thinking, I grab it and wade into the ring, swinging the stick sideways to wedge between the two bodies.
It’s heavier than it looks. I shout, “Break it up!” but my voice is lost in the roar.
The crowd pulls back to let me through, which means the world is watching.
Stella is on top now, legs straddling Tammy, the blue of her mini riding up so far it might as well not exist. She’s got a fistful of red hair, yanking hard, but Tammy is scrappy—she knees Stella in the gut and rolls them both, sending them into a spin that crashes them against the kitchen island.
The broom handle knocks against the granite with a hollow thunk, and for a second both girls are off-balance, frozen, staring at each other with pure, loathing focus.
Then Tammy goes for it: a desperate lunge, arms wide, catching Stella around the waist and trying to drag her down.
I swing the broom to wedge it between them—except instead of just separating, the handle catches under Tammy’s skirt, which is less a skirt and more a belt of shiny plastic wrapped around her waist. Clearly, she’s not wearing panties.
There’s only lush pink skin and the promise of catastrophe.
“Unnh!” Tammy shrieks as the broom finds her sweet spot, her eyes going wide. “Oh my god!”
The handle drives up and in, hard enough to make a sound—a wet, obscene sound—and Tammy’s head jerks back, mouth wide, eyes blown out in shock.
She lets go of Stella and grabs for the wall, hands scrabbling.
For a split second, she just stays there, impaled, the room going wild with “Toxic” by Britney Spears blaring in the background.
“Oh my god!” I scream, still holding onto my end of the broom. “OMG, OMG!”
Tammy’s jaw shudders, and then she moans—a long, guttural, involuntary sound, not pain but something raw and bright and sexual.
Her back arches. The broom handle twitches in my grip.
I try to pull it away but she clamps down with her pussy, hips rolling in a way that’s hypnotic and horrifying all at once.
“Ooooh!” she sighs, her eyes closing as she works the broom handle with her cunt. “Mmmm!”
For three full seconds, everyone goes quiet as we stare in amazement. Then, in slow motion, the realization blooms across every face: I have just broom-fucked the redheaded nemesis of the party.
I try to say “Sorry!” but it comes out strangled.
My hand is still on the handle. I let go and it stays there, wobbling, until Tammy collapses sideways, dragging the stick with her, gasping and clutching between her legs.
She continues to work it. Hell, Tammy even grabs the handle herself and begins fucking herself with the broom, enjoying the intense penetration.
“Ooooh!” she moans again, throwing her head back. “Yes yes yes!
By now, her dress is practically in shreds. One big breast is visible, ivory and lush, and her red hair hangs down her back in matted waves. But most shocking is the sight of her swollen pink pussy as she fucks it with a cleaning implement.
“Mmm!” she moans again, eyes rolling back into her head. “Ohhhhh Boyd!”
What the fuck? The crowd explodes—not in laughter or jeers, but in a kind of hysterical, animal shriek.
I see at least three phones catch the moment, flashes popping.
Somewhere, someone is clapping. Stella stands, mascara streaming down her face, one thigh bleeding, and stares at me in total disbelief.
“Did you just…” she begins.
I shake my head. “It was an accident, I swear—”
Tammy is still on the floor, whimpering.
There’s a spatter of something white on her thigh, but she looks more shocked than wounded.
Then, to everyone’s amazement, she pulls the broom out of her pussy and begins edging it into her ass.
Is she going to…? OMG, she is! We watch with astonished eyes as Tammy pushes the brown handle against the clenched star of her anus.
But this is too much. I can’t watch this happen, and seize the handle again, tugging the broom away from the redhead before she can anally impale herself on the implement.
“Stop!” I cry out. “Oh my god, can’t you see that people are filming? What are you doing?”
But the chaos is too much. The crowd’s raucous, and before I realize it, someone’s yanked the broom away from me. Stella’s clutching her face, wide-eyed with astonishment. Meanwhile, a scrum of blue figures rushes forward and surrounds Tammy.
Police.
Flashing lights are already pulsing outside, blue and red reflecting off the wet pavement. Two officers, one tall and built like a telephone pole, the other short and mean-eyed, take in the carnage in a glance, and then start barking orders.
“Everyone against the wall! Now! Hands up!”
A mad scramble. Drinks dropped, phones shoved into pockets, bodies pressed flat against the walls.
The officers wade into the center and fix on me and Stella instantly.
We’re easy to spot: me gaping with my mouth open, her with blood on her cheek and thigh, both of us in dresses that say “we were here to party.”
“Sit down. Right there,” the tall one says, jabbing a finger at the floor. “Don’t move.”
I drop to my knees, dress riding up embarrassingly high. Stella sits beside me, breathing hard, hair wild. Someone in the crowd is still filming, but the officers don’t care.
The short cop yanks out a zip tie and pulls Stella’s hands behind her back. “You’re under arrest for assault and battery,” he says, voice flat. She spits a string of curses at him, but he’s unfazed.
The tall cop looks at me, at the broom, then back at me. “What’s your name?”
“Kayleigh McEnroe,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He shakes his head, like he can’t believe the paperwork he’s about to have to file.
He zip-ties my wrists with practiced efficiency, the plastic biting into my skin. “Stand up,” he orders. I do, wobbling on my heels, dress askew, hair in ruins. I look over at Stella, who’s already snarling at the officer, lip split and eyes blazing.
They hustle us through the crowd, out the front door, down the slick driveway and into the squad car waiting at the curb.
The flash of camera phones follows us, a paparazzi sendoff for the newest criminals in Minneapolis.
I catch a glimpse of Tammy through the window, red hair everywhere, hands clutching a bag of frozen peas against her crotch.
Stella and I are loaded into the backseat, cuffs tight, knees pressed together.
Stella lets loose a torrent of outrage, shouting about civil rights, unfair detainment, and her right to one phone call. The cop slams the door, and her voice cuts off, muffled by glass.
I sit perfectly still, knees pressed together, trying not to cry. The streetlights paint everything orange and white, and my reflection in the window looks hollow, almost cartoonish.
“Don’t worry, girlfriend,” Stella says in a loud voice while shooting evil glances at the cop driving us. “I’m going to teach these dudes a lesson. We did nothing wrong!”
But I don’t answer because my head is whirling. What the hell just happened? How did me and Stella end up in the back of a cop car, being driven to prison? My mind hurts, feeling of the broom handle in my hand, the blissful and ecstatic look on Tammy’s face as she was penetrated.
Did she plan this?
Was I caught in her net, instead of Stella?
I want to die.
But more than that, I want Trevor to come save me.