Page 17 of The Accident

This isn’t a fistfight, that’s for sure. It’s all teeth and nails, with lots of scratching and hair-pulling. Tammy lunges, shrieking, and Stella’s hands are in her hair, yanking the red mass backward so hard I hear individual follicles pop. Someone’s drink goes flying, arcing blue punch across Tammy’s shoulder. They’re locked together, tumbling sideways over a lucite coffee table, bare legs flashing, heels gouging the rug. For a moment, I see Stella’s face, eyes wild but focused, jaw clenched like she’s in the finals of the hundred-meter dash.

The music is still going, but now the soundtrack is shrieks and the hysterical barking of the crowd.

Tammy gets a hand free, claws down Stella’s face, leaving four perfect lines. Stella bites back a scream, then grabs the front of Tammy’s dress and yanks, hard, exposing one pink-capped breast to a circle of thirty drunken college kids. Instead of recoiling, Tammy swings a punch—misses by a mile, but catches a fistful of my hair instead.

I yelp, ducking away, and almost trip over a goddamn dog, some tiny Pomeranian now howling at the violence. Where did the dog come from?

But Tammy and Stella continue fighting. They hit the floor together, a tangle of pale limbs and hair extensions, rolling until they crash into the far wall. Someone is shouting, “Catfight!” over and over. I see a flash of Stella’s blue eyes, wild and alive, and for a second I think she’s going to murder the girl. Then Tammy rakes her nails down Stella’s thigh, and Stella howls, wrenching Tammy’s head back so hard that a hunk of red hair comes away in her hand. For a split second, Tammy just gapes, staring, and then she shrieks like a banshee and hurls herself forward.

“Hi-ya!” she screams. “Bitch!”

“You’re the ho!” Stella screams back. “Whore!”

The room is an explosion of sound, all sense and decorum shattered.

I look at the shattered vodka bottle on the floor, at the streak of blood on Stella’s shin, at the way Tammy’s dress has torn so that she’s exposed. Seriously, she was wearing so little there wasn’t much to tear away to begin with.

And then, as if I’m floating above it, I see myself: Kayleigh McEnroe, bystander, clutching a plastic cup like a doofus. There’s hair and nails and knees and shrieking, and the crowd surges forward, every phone out, every mouth open in shock or delight or horror.

The fight is a living thing now, and I can’t look away.

But I have to do something.

They say when you’re in crisis, time slows down. I always thought that was just a thing people said, like “the best years of your life are still to come” or “it’s not you, it’s me.” But right now, as I watch Stella and Tammy go full death match on the living room floor, time does actually stretch out, like the last pull of a taffy rope before it snaps.

For a second I don’t move. My mind blanks. All I see is teeth and claws and the flicker of camera flashes, the crowd howling for blood. I could stay on the edge and just spectate—no one expects me to intervene, least of all Stella—but then I see the way Tammy’s nails dig into the side of Stella’s face, leaving a line of red from cheekbone to jaw. And it’s not fair. It’s not a contest anymore; it’s just survival.

Something inside me cracks. I look for a weapon. I have to help my friend.

The nearest thing is a broom, propped against the kitchen doorway, the handle long and wooden and the bristles gnarled and sad. Without thinking, I grab it and wade into the ring, swinging the stick sideways to wedge between the two bodies. It’s heavier than it looks. I shout, “Break it up!” but my voice is lost in the roar. The crowd pulls back to let me through, which means the world is watching.

Stella is on top now, legs straddling Tammy, the blue of her mini riding up so far it might as well not exist. She’s got a fistful of red hair, yanking hard, but Tammy is scrappy—she knees Stella in the gut and rolls them both, sending them into a spin that crashes them against the kitchen island. The broom handle knocks against the granite with a hollow thunk, and for a second both girls are off-balance, frozen, staring at each other with pure, loathing focus.

Then Tammy goes for it: a desperate lunge, arms wide, catching Stella around the waist and trying to drag her down. I swing the broom to wedge it between them—except instead of just separating, the handle catches under Tammy’s skirt, which is less a skirt and more a belt of shiny plastic wrapped around her waist. Clearly, she’s not wearing panties. There’s only lush pink skin and the promise of catastrophe.

“Unnh!” Tammy shrieks as the broom finds her sweet spot, her eyes going wide. “Oh my god!”

The handle drives up and in, hard enough to make a sound—a wet, obscene sound—and Tammy’s head jerks back, mouth wide, eyes blown out in shock. She lets go of Stella and grabs for the wall, hands scrabbling. For a split second, she just stays there, impaled, the room going wild with “Toxic” by Britney Spears blaring in the background.

“Oh my god!” I scream, still holding onto my end of the broom. “OMG, OMG!”

Tammy’s jaw shudders, and then she moans—a long, guttural, involuntary sound, not pain but something raw and bright and sexual. Her back arches. The broom handle twitches in my grip. I try to pull it away but she clamps down with her pussy, hips rolling in a way that’s hypnotic and horrifying all at once.

“Ooooh!” she sighs, her eyes closing as she works the broom handle with her cunt. “Mmmm!”

For three full seconds, everyone goes quiet as we stare in amazement. Then, in slow motion, the realization blooms across every face: I have just broom-fucked the redheaded nemesis of the party.

I try to say “Sorry!” but it comes out strangled. My hand is still on the handle. I let go and it stays there, wobbling, until Tammy collapses sideways, dragging the stick with her, gasping and clutching between her legs. She continues to work it. Hell, Tammy even grabs the handle herself and begins fucking herself with the broom, enjoying the intense penetration.

“Ooooh!” she moans again, throwing her head back. “Yes yes yes!

By now, her dress is practically in shreds. One big breast is visible, ivory and lush, and her red hair hangs down her back in matted waves. But most shocking is the sight of her swollen pink pussy as she fucks it with a cleaning implement.

“Mmm!” she moans again, eyes rolling back into her head. “Ohhhhh Boyd!”

What the fuck? The crowd explodes—not in laughter or jeers, but in a kind of hysterical, animal shriek. I see at least three phones catch the moment, flashes popping. Somewhere, someone is clapping. Stella stands, mascara streaming down her face, one thigh bleeding, and stares at me in total disbelief.

“Did you just…” she begins.