Page 14 of Spade

“Enough,” he said gently. “Game’s over.”

“Don’t,” I said, one word, calm as a prayer. “Not another fucking word.”

He stared at me. There was a moment—a full, measurable second—where he didn’t know if he should scream or finish. That’s when I knew I’d gone too far for him.

He shoved, hard, palms to my ribs. I let it land, let myself slide off his lap, and hit the mattress. The knife dropped to the sheets.

He scrambled back, hands to his chest, eyes wild. He looked at the line of blood, then at me.

“You’re crazy,” he said. “You fucking—what is wrong with you?”

I didn’t answer. I picked up the knife, wiped it on the sheet, and set it back on the nightstand.

He stayed on the far edge of the mattress, breathing hard.

I stood, naked and calm, and pulled on my jeans. My hands didn’t shake.

“You liked it,” I said. “You need to give it a chance. I would have licked you clean.”

His laugh was a bark, sharp and full of fear.

“Get out,” he said. “I’m not your fucking pin cushion.”

I pulled on my shirt and boots. Picked up my leather jacket from the floor.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he yelled. It came out too loud, voice going brittle at the end. “You should fire that fucking shrink you’re seeing. Lunatic.”

He snatched a shirt from the floor, pressed it to his chest, then realized it was already stained from before and threw it down. Blood had started to bead in a neat line over his sternum, just like I’d planned.

“I said get out,” he tried again, voice quieter but no less shaky. He pointed at the door, then at me, then at the door again, as if repetition would make the universe rearrange itself.

“Yeah,” I said. “You mentioned it.”

He took one step around the bed, keeping his eyes glued to my hands. I had nothing in them. I didn’t need anything, though I considered grabbing the dildo from the nightstand drawer and shoving it down his throat.

“Seriously. I’m gonna call—” He didn’t finish. Maybe the right authority didn’t occur to him.

“The police, Eric? What’re you gonna tell them, that you were being a little bitch?” I chuckled. “I can certainly collaborate on that story.”

My hip throbbed from where he’d pushed me off, but I’d had worse. I straightened and squared my shoulders. We were the same height, almost exactly, but I outweighed him by muscle and scars.

He edged closer, arm out, like a traffic cop for one. “Leave. Now. I mean it. Cunt!”

I stepped into the reach of his arm. He was banking on my usual restraint, thinking I wouldn’t escalate. He didn’t know me as well as he liked to pretend.

I hit him with my right, knuckles flat, aiming for the sweet spot between cartilage and cheekbone. There was a sound, like a dry branch breaking, and a wash of blood that splattered my hand, his shirt, the floor. He reeled backward, hands up to his face, eyes wide and streaming.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he screamed. He stumbled into the dresser, knocked over an empty glass, and let it roll to the floor with a hollow thud.

He didn’t come at me again. He just pressed both hands to his nose, blood pouring out and down his fingers, pooling at his chin.

“You fucking psycho,” he choked. “What is wrong with you?”

I watched him the way you watch a car wreck—detached, counting the details.

“You’re violent. You’re fucking violent. I should’ve known. You’re just—” He shook his head, caught sight of himself in the mirror, and seemed to collapse in on himself. “You’re not even sorry, are you?”

“I’m definitely sorry, asshole,” I said. “Ever call me a cunt again, and I’ll slice your fucking throat.