He fucks up and ruins everything and decides he doesn’t like the consequences of his actions, so he says we’re not over, and I can’t even make a liar out of him because a pair of goddamned red-soled shoes has ripped my heart out again like I’m the guy in Greek mythology who they chained to a rock so an eagle could eat his liver, day after day, forever. At least he got something for it.
It’s not fair.
I’ve never done anything to deserve the bad shit that happens to me, and it keeps happening, over and over.
Forever.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. A dozen feet away, Adrian’s Scorpion waits, sleek and expensive and buffed to a shine, backed into a space with his name on it. When he married me, he parked me in a mansion in Connecticut and gave me a black credit card so I’d be sleek, expensive, and buffed to a shine, too.
God, but it felt like love.
I hate that fucking car.
Not-me floats across the garage, the soles of my pink flats scuffing the concrete. The door unlocks as I approach with the key fob. I slide into the driver’s seat.
A Scorpion can go from zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds. Adrian had fun showing me on the back roads by our house.There are no other cars parked down here in the family’s personal section. On the far side of the level, maybe forty feet away, there is a massive concrete column.
The last math class I passed was Algebra I in ninth grade, but I can guesstimate just fine. If I can get going fast enough, I can smash this car without killing myself.
I move the seat as far back as it goes and buckle up.
This is a bad decision.
This is trouble.
If I were me, I wouldn’t do it.
Adrian loves this car.
I grab the wheel and stomp the gas pedal to the floor. The Scorpion shoots forward like a rocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the stairwell door burst open, and Adrian come tearing through.
And then screech. Smash. My head snaps back. The airbag blows up, smacking me in the face like a punch in the nose. With one hand, I bat the bag away. With the other, I kick the car into reverse.
Hope Adrian’s not behind me. I can’t see out the rearview.
I reverse what feels like several feet, shift to first, and gas it again. Squeal. Screech. Smash. The scent of smoke, plastic, and copper fills my lungs.
I can’t breathe, I’m laughing so hard. What’s so funny?
I throw the gear stick into reverse, but before I can punch it again, the door flies open. Adrian seizes me by the upper arms and heaves, trying to haul me out, but I’m still buckled in, and I can’t stop cackling. Tears stream down my face.
His face is dark with rage. I’ve never seen him look like this—like he could kill someone.
He sticks his head in the car, fighting past the airbag to undo my seatbelt, and I laugh louder, right in his ear, as hewrenches me bodily out of the Scorpion and drags me to the curb by the elevators.
Keeping an iron grip on me, he turns his head to stare at the Scorpion. The front half iscrushed. Ribbons of smoke rise from the crumpled hood. Fat black tire marks lead from his spot to the wreck. Look at that— I burnt rubber.
He turns back to me. His pupils are huge. I grin. Now, he’ll scream and shout and lose it. I hope he hits me. I’ll tear him apart.
He relaxes his hold and smooths his hands down my arms, gently squeezing, testing the bones. “Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice gruff. Shaken.
His hands are trembling. My laughter dies.
“Cora,” he snaps. “Focus. Where are you hurt?”
The skin above my lip tickles. I touch it, and my finger comes away bloody. I show him.
“Goddamn it, Cora. Fuck.” He digs a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it under my nose. “Hold that there. Jesus. Where else? Does your head hurt?”
