That ends tonight.
I don’t use the key this time, though. I put my boot through the front door. The frame explodes inward. The lock tears clean out of the wood, and the door cracks against the hallway wall, leaving a dent in his pristine paintwork.
The first thing I see is the hallway console table. Some designer piece he bragged about. Italian walnut. Cost him four thousand dollars. I grab it by the legs and flip it. The mirror above shatters. A vase hits the tile floor and detonates into a hundred pieces.
I keep walking.
Into the living room. His seventy-inch TV is mounted above the fireplace—I pick up one of his brass bookends and hurl itthrough the screen. The glass caves inward with a satisfying crack, and sparks spit out the back.
His bookshelves are next. I rake my arm across them. Law textbooks mostly, framed photos of his parents—all of it hits the floor in a cascade of glass and paper.
Then I spot his wine rack. I pull it from the wall. Bottles smash on the Italian tile, and Merlot bleeds across the floor like someone dying. And I hope that his blood pours over them later, too.
Ace stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me dismantle our friendship one expensive object at a time.
And then I find him.
Reese is in the kitchen. Standing by the island, frozen, his scotch halfway to his mouth. He’s changed out of his suit into sweats and a T-shirt. And he’s holding a bag of frozen peas against his crotch.
That’s my girl.
He looks at me. Then at the trail of destruction behind me. Then back at me.
“Hunter—”
I grab the scotch glass from his hand and smash it against the kitchen island. It explodes. Amber liquid and glass spray across the marble countertop.
Then I grab him by the throat, lift him off his feet, and slam him down onto the kitchen floor. His back hits the tile so hard the air punches out of his lungs in a wheeze. The frozen pea bag skids across the floor.
I don’t give him a second to recover.
My boot comes down on his chest. Not enough to break ribs. Enough to pin him. Enough to let him feel the full weight of me standing over him like the cunt he is.
“You want to pick a fight?” I press down harder. “Try doing it with a man, you piece of shit.”
He grabs at my boot with both hands, trying to push it off. His face is turning red. His eyes are bulging. “You—you don’t know what happened?—”
I lift my boot and stamp down on his stomach. He curls onto his side, retching, spit and bile on his precious tile.
“I know exactly what happened.” I crouch down beside him. Grab a fistful of his hair and wrench his head up so he has to look at me. “You went to her apartment. You cornered her. You put your hands on her. And she had to elbow you in the dick and run you down with her car to get away from your psycho ass.”
I slam his head back down against the tile. Enough to make him see stars. Not quite the force to knock him out. “A woman half your size had to fight her way out of a room with you in it. Think about that. Let that sit in your skull and rot there.”
I stand. Walk to his fridge. Open it. Pull out a bottle of water. Crack it open and take a long drink while he writhes on the floor.
Then I pour the rest of it over his face.
He sputters and then drags himself up to a sitting position against the kitchen island, clutching his stomach, blood dripping from a cut on the back of his head where it hit the tile.
“Sit in a chair,” I tell him. “Now.”
He crawls to the nearest kitchen stool and pulls himself onto it. He’s shaking so hard the stool wobbles on the tile.
I pull out the stool opposite. Sit down and cross my ankle over my knee.
Ace moves into the kitchen and stands behind Reese.
“Lola is mine.” I let the words land. Watch them register behind his swollen eyes. “She’s been mine since the moment I laid eyes on her. Before you. Before your bullshit apartment and your pathetic little hat stunt. I looked at that woman, and I knew.”