Page 44 of Wicked Spite
We exchange tearful goodbyes, promising to video call again in one week. The weight of responsibility presses down on me, but there’s also a sense of relief. I’ve told her the truth, at least part of it, and she understands. My sister is a good fucking person, and I refuse to allow anyone to taint that.
With a surge of frustration, I burst out of the bedroom and down the stairs, determined to confront Penn. He’s lounging on the couch, grinning like he knows exactly how much he’s gotten under my skin.
“Are you happy?” I demand, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice. “Introducing yourself as her new brother-in-law? Seriously?”
“Aw, come on, Raeeeeee,” Penn teases, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You should have proudly told our lil sis I’myour husband. That’s exactly what I am. And you, my little hellfire, aremy wife.”
“Shut up, Penn,” I snap, my temper flaring. “This isn’t funny. My sister is worried about me, and you’re just making everything worse.”
“Your sister will be fine,” he retorts, his smirk never wavering. “Besides, it’s not like I haven’t rearranged your guts. Legally, on paper and in the eyes of ‘Christianity’ we are married. And if we’re married, everyone’s going to know that you belong to me. Do I need to fucking mark it on you?”
My face flushes with anger, but before I can offer a scathing reply, Penn grabs my hand and pulls me outside. His motorcycle is parked there, gleaming in the moonlight.
“Speaking of what’s mine,” he says, handing me a helmet. I hesitate for a moment, torn between wanting to continue our argument and feeling a strange thrill at the prospect of getting to go for a ride. He stands behind me and braids my hair quickly. I could be annoying and goad him about this, but honestly it’s fucking nice to have someone do this for me. Something so simple yet so profound.
“Where are we going?” I ask, reluctantly fastening the helmet onto my head.
“We’re going for a little scenic ride,” he replies cryptically, leaving me even more confused. But something about that mischievous glint in his eye tells me he’s playing with me but to just go the fuck with it. At least I know he’s not actually setting out to kill me currently.
I climb onto the motorcycle behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist as he revs the engine to life. As we speed off, I can’t help but wonder what kind of trouble we’re about to get ourselves into. And despite my lingering irritation with Penn, I find the words to tell him, “If you’reabout to show me your dead body collection, I swear I’ll cut your dick off while you sleep.”
He laughs, his whole body shaking, and I don’t know if he’s laughing at the absurdity of my words or if he’s tickled that I’ve guessed correctly.
It could be minutes or hours. I don’t really know or care. My mind is elsewhere when the motorcycle comes to a sudden halt. My body jolts against Penn’s muscular back, as I glance around, my surroundings slowly come into focus. We’re in a parking lot near the university campus, dimly lit by flickering streetlights.
“Is this what you consider scenic?” I ask, irritation creeping into my voice as I try to make sense of his cryptic comment from earlier.
“Something like that,” he replies with that infuriating smirk of his. Then, following his gaze, I see him walking toward a random car. “This car belongs to the guy who flirted with you in class just the other day.”
“Wait. Are we here because of him?” I question, suddenly uneasy. It seems too strange to be a coincidence. Nothing about the Blackwoods is a coincidence.
“My wife is so smart.” Penn’s voice is dripping with mock praise. “That motherfucker had no business putting his hands on what’s mine.”
“First of all, I’m not your real wife,” I snap, my anger flaring up again. “Second, what do you plan on doing? Key his car? That’s petty even for you.”
“Keying? Oh, Reagan, you underestimate me. I would never do something so banal. It’s almost like you don’t know me.” Penn reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small canister of gasoline, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I have something much more…explosive in mind.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I watch him unscrew the cap and start pouring the gasoline over the car. Part of me wants to stop him, but another part—an unfamiliar, darker part of myself—wants to see the flames licking at the shiny paint.
“This is a little much, don’t you think?” I ask, because I want to know how his creepy, fucked up mind works. I’d love to be inside his brain, even for a few minutes. “For flirting with me?”
“Flirting? He brushed up against you without my permission. That’s not flirting. That’s a death wish. He’s lucky I didn’t duct tape him inside the car before I set it on fire.” Penn lights a match and holds it up, watching the small flame flicker for a moment before tossing it onto the gasoline-soaked car.
The vehicle bursts into flames with a sudden roar, the heat hitting me like a physical force. My body trembles with fear and satisfaction as I stare at the blaze, unable to tear my eyes away. The fire is hypnotic, consuming everything in its path—just like my life since meeting my fucking husband.
“Happy now?” I ask shakily, glancing over at Penn. Despite the chaos he’s caused, his entire body seems as if it’s filled with amusement, and I find myself begrudgingly admiring his boldness.
The air crackles with heat as the guy comes barreling out of the nearby building, his face twisted in panic as he takes in the sight of his flaming car. Penn’s laughter rings out, and I can’t help but stare at him in horrified fascination. There’s something raw and primal about the way he’s reveling in the chaos.
“Jesus Christ!” the guy screams, unable to comprehend what’s happening before his eyes. “My fucking car!”
“And this is my fucking wife,” Penn smirks, not bothering to lower his voice. His eyes dance with mischievous delight as he watches the scene unfold, and I find myself caught between wanting to slap him and kiss him senseless.
“Maybe we should get out of here before someone calls the cops,” I suggest, trying to ignore the strange thrill coursing through me. This is reckless, even by my standards, but there’s something undeniably satisfying about watching the guy who crossed boundaries pay the price.
“Little bitches like this don’t call the cops on a Blackwood. Unless, of course, he wants his tongue cut out,” Penn says with a devilish grin. He grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers tightly, and pulls me away from the spectacle he’s created.
“Blackwood, you motherfu—” I watch as my husband’s entire body shifts. No longer amused, but it’s like a switch was flipped.
