Page 39 of Blitz'd

Fuck, this feels so much stronger.

I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something I’ll regret. Ineedto get my phone out and text Zander to let him know that we’re finished. That I’m done withwhateverthis is that’s making me lose the careful, cool exterior I’ve been able to keep up my entire life.

I know I’m not a good person—I’veneverbeen a good person.

But I’ve always been able to control that lack ofgood.

Until now.

So it doesn’t matter what Ineedto do, because it means nothing in light of the anger rolling through my chest.

It was just atouch, a brush of a hand.

It was just a smile.

But fuck me, Zander kept moving away, and the asshole kept movingcloser.

I follow the group as they round the corner, and figure out the guy’s name is Alec when someone from the group yells goodbye to him.Alecheads to his car, and a slow smile crosses my face when I realize he’s parked in the same lot as me.

That smile grows when he turns off campus, away from anything that might get me in trouble for what I’m going to end up doing. We don’t drive far before he pulls into the lot of an abandoned storefront, actually trailing his car around to the back parking area. I circle around to the store behind him to see what he’s doing.

I’mdefinitelythe universe’s favorite, because I cantellwhat he’s here for by the way he looks around, by the money he pulls out of his pocket and starts counting with shaking fingers. He’s here to buy drugs, which means he’s in a spotmadefor not being seen. I was ready to follow him to his house.

I was ready to make this a lot worse for myself.

Instead, I watch as another man pulls into the lot, and they exchange a little baggie for the cash. Like he’s doing me anextrafavor, Alec pops something from the bag he just paid for into his mouth and leans back against his car, closing his eyes.

This moment was literallymadefor me.

I pull my car into another abandoned lot a few stores over and yank my hood up, just in case someone sees me. It’s a quick jog from where I am to where he is, and he’s still alone when I round the corner of the building.

He doesn’t turn around until I’m right behind him, and then he’s scrambling for his car door, like he can tell from my posture alone that I’m not here for anything good.

It makes it even easier. I didn’twantto make my knuckles sore beating the shit out of him, so I throw my body forward against the door of his car, hearing a satisfyingcrunchas his fingers get caught.

“Fuck!” he screams, and a little lick of electricity shoots up my spine. It’s the same feeling that pulses through me when I win a game—the same excitement and adrenaline rush that makes me feelalive—and I can’t tell if it’s because I just broke the asshole’s hand, or because I broke the hand that touched something that belongs tome.

Either way, it feelsgoodwhen I lean back and get space so I can kick the door hard enough to send a jolt up my leg.

Another crunch, and his body goes limp. I don’t know if he’s faking it, or if he fainted. I do know his hand pinned in the door stopped him from turning around, so he didn’t see my face.

I know he didn’t have his phone out, so there’s no way he got a picture or video of me either. Since this happened when he was doing something suspicious, I can almost guarantee he’s going to say it was some kind of freak accident when he goes in to get it checked out. He’s high on fuck-all knows what—he’s not going to file a report about getting assaulted.

And after a quick look around, I know there’s no one in this back lot to witness what I just did.

Alec’s hand is a bloody broken mess when I push my sleeve down to cover my fingers and pull open the door to make sure there isn’t a camera on his dash.

Nothing.

Nothing butAleclying on the ground with broken fingers because the motherfucker thought he couldtouchZander and make himsmilethe way he did.

I get back into my car and don’t stop driving until I’m back at my apartment. Once I stop, I pull out my phone and stare at the text Zander sent me again.

It’s been hours.

He probably thinks I’m ignoring him. But for some reason, I feel better about answering him now.

Me: How many times have you touched yourself thinking about last night, Dimples?

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