What doesn’t kill you… Chapter 3

The small road stretched out ahead, sun already burning the fields to gold on both sides. Gravel crunched under my boots, but my legs weren’t heavy. Not tired, not even close. Every step felt like it fed me instead of drained me. I thought about the farm, about the truck, about the man I’d killed. The shock was gone already, replaced by something hotter—exhilaration. Another block laid down in this tower I was becoming.

Ashwyck was still miles out, but I smiled to myself. I wasn’t walking blind anymore. I had a direction. And someone to visit. Bryant. He’d given me the stuff that turned me into this. First thing I was gonna do was find him, make him answer. The rest of the bastards who’d crossed me could wait their turn.

That’s when I heard it—low, heavy rumble rolling up the road behind me. I turned, squinting into the sun. The long cab and twin trailers of an eighteen-wheeler crested the rise, engine growling, gears clanking. My ride.

I stepped to the edge of the road, stuck my thumb out, and tugged the neckline of my top low, baring cleavage. Pouted a little, made myself look slutty. The trick had worked before, no reason it wouldn’t work now.

Sure enough, the brakes hissed, tires screeched, and the truck slowed to a halt. The driver leaned across, sunglasses reflecting me, mouth already curling into a smirk. “Where you headed, sweetheart?”

“Ashwyck,” I said, still leaning on the door.

His eyes dragged over me, dirty as hell. He chuckled. “Lucky day. I’m going that way.”

I climbed up into the cab. The seat smelled like stale sweat, diesel, and something sour. The man was thick-armed, balding, with grease ground into his fingernails. He didn’t waste time. “Damn, girl. You don’t look like the type to walk country roads. Bet you’ve got all kinds of… talents.”

I narrowed my eyes. In another life, I’d have been afraid. Out here alone, big guy, locked cab. Now? Not a damn chance.

I smirked, tossed my hair back. “You’ve got no idea.”

That egged him on. His talk grew dirtier, less playful, more direct. Propositions thrown like punches, crude jokes about what I could do for gas money. I teased back, half amused, half disgusted, letting him think he was clever.

But then his hand landed on my thigh. Heavy, casual, like I was property.

I dropped my gaze to it. “Don’t do that.”

He chuckled low, fingers squeezing lightly. “C’mon. Just a little play. You’re sittin’ there beggin’ for it.”

His grin widened, words filthier now. My skin crawled.

I turned my head, voice flat and cutting. “Get. The. Hand. The. Fuck. Off. My. Leg.”

He just grinned wider, leaned in closer. “You really think you’re callin’ the shots here? You’re in my cab, little girl.”

My hand slid down, slow, laid itself right on top of his. His smirk stretched. “Now we’re talkin’.”

I closed my fingers. Squeezed.

The pop was instant, bones cracking like dry sticks underfoot. His scream tore out, raw and high, filling the cabin. He wrenched the wheel in agony.

The rig bucked. Tires shrieked. Steel screamed as the whole eighteen-wheeler veered across the lane. I clutched the dash as the world tilted. The first trailer jackknifed, swung wide like a hammer. Chains rattled, glass shattered, metal groaned like it was dying. The cab slammed sideways into the asphalt, sparks carving lines of fire across the road. Trailers twisted, one rolling clean over, scattering cargo like shrapnel.

The world became noise and metal. I was tossed hard against the door, frame crushing in, windshield spiderwebbing into nothing. Screech, slam, boom. The smell of burning rubber and hot oil punched my nose. My ears rang.

Then, silence.

I braced my hands, pushed. Steel bent and squealed, but gave. I ripped the door off its hinges, flung it aside, and dropped down onto the road.

The truck was a ruin. Cab on its side, trailers split and twisted, black smoke coughing up. I ducked back, peered through the busted windshield. The driver was slumped over the wheel, body pinned, chest crushed in by the collapse of the cab.

Very dead.

I stared, breath sharp in my throat. “Oh, fuck.”

Second one. Another body on my hands.

But was it really me? I hadn’t steered us into the wreck. I hadn’t yanked the wheel. That was his pain, his mistake.

And yet… my fingers still tingled with the memory of bones breaking under them.

I left the wreck behind without a backward glance. His death didn’t sit on me heavy, not anymore. The guilt burned quick and low, then fizzled out, leaving only the astonishment. The power. Two bodies on my hands, and all I felt was more alive.

No more cars passed. I walked another stretch, checked the phone. Twenty minutes. Nothing.

My lips twitched. I thought of the treadmill back at the medical center—fifteen miles an hour without too much of a strain. What if I tried now?

I set into a jog. My boots hit the asphalt light, rhythm steady, effortless. I picked up the pace. Wind rushed in my ears, hair whipping back, my breath smooth and easy. The world started sliding past, faster and faster, like I was riding a bullet train.

“Holy shit,” I laughed out loud, exhilarated.

I pushed harder, legs eating distance like it was nothing. A dot appeared ahead. A car. My chest tightened—coming at me? No. I was gaining on it.

“Fuck… I’m taking over it!”

I hammered forward, stride longer, faster, until the car’s shape sharpened—an old station wagon, paint dulled, an older couple inside. They were humming along in their safe little bubble until I drew up beside them, boots pounding in perfect time with the wheels.

I leaned down a little, keeping pace, grinning wide at the window. “Hey! How fast y’all goin’?”

The woman screamed. The man’s hands jerked the wheel, eyes bugging.

I moved closer, peering in like it was the most natural thing in the world. Their speedometer flashed—fifty-five. Fifty-five, and to me it was nothing.

“Goddamn,” I laughed, shaking my head. “You feel like a snail.”

They shouted, panicked, the wagon swerving. I straightened, winked at them, then pushed harder. The road blurred under me. Their headlights shrank in my periphery, swallowed by the distance.

I was flying.

How fast was I going? Seventy? Eighty? More? My body didn’t care. My legs just kept churning, hungry for more.

I hit the main road and slowed down again, traffic thicker now. Cars humming by, drivers rubbernecking at the girl walking alone on the shoulder. I could flag one down, but after the trucker… nah. Didn’t trust anyone else’s ride. Running all the way to Ashwyck? Felt weird, too. I’d look like a goddamn tornado tearing up the road, and every eye would be on me.

Then I saw it—gas station up ahead, maybe two thousand feet. Perfect.

I strolled in, cars idling at the pumps, their drivers giving me the once-over. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A man pushed through a door at the back, restroom sign swinging above it.

I followed.

He turned when I came in behind him, about to bark something—until he got a good look. His eyes softened, lips parting.

“What… what do you want?”

I smiled sweet, tilted my head, then used my sultry voice. “You got your car keys on you?”

He blinked, nodded slow.

The smile spread. I stepped close, pressed a hand to his cheek like I might kiss him. Then shoved. Not hard. Gentle for me. Hard enough for him to hit the tiled wall with a crack, two tiles splitting, his eyes rolling back. He slumped down, out cold.

I crouched, checked his pocket. Keys. Cash. Perfect. I brushed my hair back, smirk tugging my lips. “Think I’m gettin’ the balance now. He’ll wake up. Just… rough headache.”

Outside, I hit the unlock. A chirp answered. Parked by the far pump—sleek, glossy, black BMW, the kind you only saw in magazines. My laugh came sharp, delighted. “Lucky day.”

No license in my wallet—never had the cash for that. Didn’t matter. Everybody back at Stackhouse knew how to drive. You learned, or you walked.

I slid behind the wheel, seat hugging me like it was made for my body. Engine roared alive under my hand, smooth, eager. My grin sharpened as I pulled onto the road, foot heavy on the gas. Lucky day. I wasn’t used to things coming this easy… guess that’s changing.

The BMW ate miles like candy, engine purring, speedometer climbing. My reflexes matched it, sharper than ever—hands quick on the wheel, eyes catching everything. I drove like I’d been born in the seat. The car hummed under me, needle past eighty, then ninety, Silverpines pulling me in like a magnet. I was already picturing Bryant’s face when I walked in on him. But then—I saw it.

Black Mustang, scarred fender, parked half-crooked outside the Rusted Spur.

Rhett.

My hands tightened on the wheel. I needed to get to Bryant. But Rhett came first.

I spun the car into a U-turn, tires screaming, like some stuntman off the big screen. Swerved back and pulled into the lot, eyes locking straight on the Mustang.

Heads turned. They saw me climb out of the BMW, saw the grin on my face. Recognition lit in their eyes, but so did something else—shock.

One guy broke from the group, broad-shouldered, sweat-darkened ball cap pulled low. Kenny, I remembered. He slowed, eyes glued to the car, then back to me. “The hell… where’d you get a ride like that?”

I let the smirk sharpen, tossed my hair back. “Seems like I’m gettin’ everything I want lately, Kenny.”

His jaw worked, still staring at the car, then at me. Finally, he shook his head like he was snapping out of it, voice tight. “Rhett’s here.”

“I’m countin’ on that,” I told him, smile sharp.

He sneered. “You busted his cheekbone. He swore he’d kill you if you showed your face.”

I tilted my head, teeth flashing. “Then he’s gonna end up worse off than that.”

“Don’t say I didn’t—”

I shoved him. Gently, for me. He flew fifty feet, body whipping through the air, crashing hard in the dirt. The sound of him hitting made half the lot flinch. Gasps ripped out, a woman even screamed. Every eye fixed on me like I’d just turned into a monster. I grinned back at them, slow and sharp.

“Don’t look so shocked. I told him to stay outta my way.”

I stepped up onto the porch, pushed the saloon door wide.

Mickey, the owner, came out fast, jaw clenched. “Rhett told me what you did to him. You don’t work here anymore.”

My stomach knotted, heat rising. “That so? Funny, you weren’t half this concerned when he was beatin’ on me.”

“Get out,” he snapped.

“Where’s Rhett?”

“You’re not welcome here.” He stepped close, tried to shoulder me aside. His body pressed, mine didn’t move an inch.

“Where. Is. Rhett?”

He clamped his jaw shut. That was it. I grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt and lifted him clean two feet off the floor. Mickey was a bulky man, beer belly and shoulders broad from years of hauling kegs, but in my grip he felt like nothing. My slender arm barely tensed, not even a strain—Christ, it felt like carrying a backpack. He kicked and flailed, eyes bulging like I’d hooked him by the throat with a crane.

“Where is he?” I barked.

He clamped his mouth shut, jaw trembling, still trying to hold out. I shook him hard, his body jerking in my grip like a ragdoll, rattling his teeth.

“Where the fuck is he?” I snarled.

“P-pool tables!” he stuttered, panic spilling out of him.

“Thanks.” My voice was sharp, cold. I flung him back through the bar’s counter. He crashed across a row of stools, wood splintering, bottles shattering behind him.

Every head at the tables turned my way, wide-eyed.

I swept my gaze over them, slow, daring. “Any of you wanna try me?”

I strutted slow down the length of the bar, heels clicking against warped planks, letting the moment swell. The noise had dropped to a hush, all eyes on me. I turned toward the pool tables.

There he was. Rhett. Cue stick loose in his hand, game forgotten. His three buddies turned with him, but his eyes… his eyes locked on me. Blood vessels spiked red across them, cheek swollen dark and ugly from where I’d cracked him.

A laugh slipped from me, sharp, cold. “Looks better’n your personality.”

The beast came out of him in a snap—same look he’d had the nights he beat me bloody. His lip curled, spit flying. “You got some nerve showin’ your face here! I’ll fuckin’ kill you for this!”

I let my gaze slip past him to the three hangers-on hovering behind. My smile spread, slow and mean. “Aw, look at you. So brave. Brought an audience.”

They started forward, fists twitching, but Rhett’s arm shot out. “Stay the fuck back. She’s mine.”

“Brave boy,” I mocked, folding my arms.

His jaw flexed, threats spilling. “You’re done, Jolene. I’m gonna put you in the ground.”

I tilted my head, grin cutting. “Then stop talkin’ and start doin’.”

Confusion flickered across his friends’ faces, like they couldn’t tell if I was crazy or suicidal. I leaned in, voice sharp. “Come on, Rhett. Show me what you’ve got.”

That was all it took. He stormed forward, muscles bunched, fist cocked. His biceps bulged as he threw the punch, full weight behind it, square into my stomach.

Thud.

I looked down at the spot. Felt the tap, the pressure. And that was it. No sting, no folding over. Just the faint memory of impact. Back then, that punch would’ve bent me in half. Now? Just a tap.

My head tilted back up, smile widening.

Rhett’s face twisted. His knuckles were already flushing pink.

My thoughts raced—That blow would’ve doubled me over before, torn something inside, made me spit blood. He went for damage. And it did nothing.

“Aw, Rhett,” I cooed, voice cutting like a blade. “You hit like a fuckin’ girl.”

His roar cracked the air. His fist flew again, this time at my face, snapping square across my jaw. My neck jerked, hair whipping—then stilled. My feet hadn’t even shifted.

He, on the other hand, staggered back, cradling his hand, teeth gritted in pain. My jawbone was harder than his fists.

I licked my lips, grinning wide. “That all you got?”

The whole bar sat frozen, shock stamped on every face.

Exhilaration surged through me, white-hot. Rhett—my old romance, my nightmare, the biggest bully in Stackhouse—just hit me with everything he had, and it felt like a feather.

I laughed in his face, shoved him light with both hands. Light for me, anyway. He flew thirty feet, smashing across two tables, wood exploding under him. He groaned, rolling to his side, but I didn’t chase. Not yet. I wanted to savor this. I wanted to drag it out. Rhett was mine, and I wasn’t ending it in a rush.

I was about to move when a hand clamped on my shoulder from the side. One of his buddies, face twisted in panic. I slid my hand up, caught his wrist, and squeezed. Bones popped, sharp and wet. He dropped to his knees with a howl.

I leaned close, voice dripping mockery. “Aw, did that hurt? Poor baby. Maybe you should’ve kept your hands to yourself.”

Before I could toss him aside, something cracked across the back of my head. A pool stick, splintering into shards. I turned, hair falling in my face, and looked dead at the man holding the stump. “Really, Dale? That’s what you’ve got? Pathetic.”

His eyes darted from the broken stick to me. He swung again, desperate. I caught his wrist mid-air, twisted, and snapped it clean. His scream filled the room as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his ruined hand.

I planted my foot on his chest, pressed, then shoved. His body skidded through three tables in a row, each splintering like kindling until he landed groaning in the wreckage.

“Should’ve stayed outta it,” I spat.

I turned back toward Rhett. Another body stepped between us—knife flashing in his grip.

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Ricky. You think that little toy’s gonna do somethin’?”

He roared and swung. I stepped into it, let the blade drive against my side. It bent, scraped, useless.

His eyes went wide, mouth falling open. “What… the hell—?”

I smirked, leaning into him. “Yeah, that ain’t gonna work, genius.”

By now you’d think they’d get it. But no.

“They never get it when I’m subtle,” I said, my voice dropping low. My hand shot up, wrapped his throat, and lifted. His feet dangled, kicking at nothing. He clawed at my wrist, face reddening, knife clattering from his grip.

I tossed him like trash. He slammed into the wall forty feet back, the impact echoing like thunder. He slid down in a heap, barely moving.

Guess I just had to get rougher if I wanted people to understand.

I stood there, chest heaving, blood hot, alive like never before. Fighting spirit roared in my veins. I was only getting started, back into my old brawling stance. Only so much fucking stronger.

I was just about to step toward Rhett when the first hit landed. Then another. And another.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Each slug slammed into my back, hot pain exploding across my skin. I staggered, almost lost my footing, more from surprise than force. The sting was brutal—like fire tearing under my skin—but when I straightened, there was nothing. No blood, no holes. Same as the farm.

“What the fuck!” I snarled, twisting around.

Two of Rhett’s friends were crumpled nearby, ruined by the scatter. Behind them Mickey stood with a shotgun smoking in his hands.

My chest heaved, rage boiling. “This was between me and Rhett! Why the fuck did you have to stick your nose in? You shot me!”

I stalked toward him. He fired again, the blast ripping into me, driving me back a half step. I clenched my teeth, hissed air through them, forced myself forward.

His face went slack, disbelief twisting into fear. “What the hell are you—?”

Pain still burned across my back, sharp and raw. My voice came out low, venomous. “You think that’s funny? You think shootin’ a girl in the back makes you a man?”

He fumbled, fired once more—click.

Another click.

Out.

I reached him in two strides, ripped the shotgun from his hands. Heard two of his fingers snap like twigs as I tore it free. He screamed, clutching his hand. I swung the gun like a club, smashed it across his legs. His knees folded with a crack, dropping him to the ground.

I crouched down, fisted the back of his shirt, yanked him close. My voice burned low and savage. “You’re a scumbag, Mickey. Protectin’ girl-beaters. Shootin’ a girl in the back.”

He sobbed, blubbering, eyes wild.

I stood, lifted, and flung him. He soared through the front window, glass exploding outward, body tumbling until it crashed down into a car a hundred feet across the lot. Metal screamed, people gasped.

No doubt about it—he was gone.

And I didn’t give a fuck. Felt good, even. Fuckin’ exhilarating. ‘Cause this proved it—anyone dumb enough to cross me, I don’t gotta take it, I don’t gotta swallow it. I can end it myself, right then and there. My hands, my rules.

I spun back, chest still heaving, eyes locked for Rhett—

But he wasn’t there.

The pool tables were empty. Chairs scattered. My blood went white hot.

“Rhett!” My scream cracked through the bar, rattling bottles on the shelves. “You think you can run from me? You hear me, coward? I’ll fuckin’ find you!”

The wreckage of the bar stretched behind me, groans and broken glass filling the air. Bobby Ray—the one I’d crushed at the wrist—was scrambling, limping, dashing into the restrooms at the back. My gut tightened. Rhett had to be there.

The other two were done. Ricky lay in a heap against the wall, barely breathing. Dale was still pinned under splintered tables, groaning, too broken to move.

I cupped my hands around my mouth, voice booming across the room. “Rhett! Don’t make me call you again!” My scream shook the air, louder than I meant, loud enough that people who hadn’t already bolted finally fled through the front door. Good idea. If they stuck around, I’d fuck with them too. But not now. Now, I wanted Rhett.

I strutted to the back, blood hot, fire in my chest.

The men’s room smelled of piss and bleach. I stepped in, voice rising in a sing-song taunt. “Rhett… come out, come out, wherever you are. Don’t make me chase you. You know it’ll be worse.”

The urinals were empty.

I slid my gaze to the stalls. Perfect.

“Rhett?” I teased, low and wicked. “C’mon, cowboy, don’t be shy.”

I gripped the first door, yanked. Hinges screamed, wood tore loose in my hands. Empty. I tossed it aside.

“Don’t make me keep askin’, Rhett.”

Second stall. Same thing—ripped it off, smashed it against the tiles. Empty again. Rage started to curl under my ribs. He had to be in the third.

I stalked closer, voice sharp, teeth bared. “You in there? This is the end of the line, tough guy. You can’t hide from me.”

A sound—heavy breath. My grin split, vicious.

“For show,” I muttered, and drove my fist straight through the wood. It splintered around my arm. I dragged the door off its frame and flung it back.

But it wasn’t Rhett. It was Bobby Ray, slumped on the toilet, face pale.

My smile dropped. My eyes narrowed. “Where the fuck is Rhett?”

He shook his head weakly, lips trembling. “I… I don’t know…”

I leaned in, slow, close. He tried to push at my hands, but I wrapped one around his throat. My fingers dug deep. He groaned, gagging.

“Where. Is. Rhett.”

His head shook again, tears streaming. Then a sound—liquid dripping. I looked down. He’d pissed himself.

“You serious?” I snarled, voice dripping with contempt. “Pissin’ yourself? What a big man you turned out to be.”

I squeezed harder. He sobbed, words garbled. I leaned closer, voice slicing. “Tell me where he is, and maybe you limp outta here with one less hand. You keep lyin’, you don’t walk out at all.”

I rattled him by the throat, his body jerking like a ragdoll. A tear slid down his cheek.

“Cryin’, huh?” My voice mocked him, cruel. “Pathetic.”

Then I froze. My ears picked up something beyond the walls—a rumble. An engine turning over. Not just any engine. I knew that sound, could pick it out of a thousand. Rhett’s Mustang.

My eyes locked on Bobby Ray’s, fire burning through ice. I bared my teeth, snarled, and squeezed. Bone crunched. His windpipe snapped, his neck giving way in my hand. His body went slack.

I let him fall like garbage, stepped out of the stall, rage buzzing through my veins. No guilt. Killing wasn’t a question anymore—it was just another tool in the kit. And right now, I was royally pissed.

Then I saw it.

The window. Small, narrow. Rhett must’ve squeezed through, dragged his sorry ass into the parking lot. It was the only option.

“Fuck it.”

I didn’t waste time on the window. I dashed straight through the wall, wood splintering around me like cardboard, showering the bathroom in shards. I came out the other side into the parking lot, boots crunching on glass, not a scratch on me.

The lot was chaos. People everywhere, stirred up by my little rampage. Dust hung in the air, cars half-turned in panic, motorbikes tipped and clattering. My eyes swept fast—then locked.

Rhett’s Mustang. Black, loud, already at the main entrance. The fucker was getting onto the road.

“Fuck!” I spat, sprinting forward—only to catch him flashing past me, just on the other side of the tall fence. He’d slipped through, heading for Stackhouse. Of course he was.

I didn’t think twice. I dashed for the fence, planted my boots, and leapt. Didn’t even put all my strength in it. Cleared the ten feet like it was a toy hurdle, landed hard on the asphalt, not far behind the Mustang.

“The hell you’re gonna escape me,” I muttered, fire in my chest.

I sprinted. My boots hammered the road, faster, faster, until I felt the wind tear against me. Rhett’s engine screamed, no doubt pedal to the floor, but the gap was closing. Not quick, but steady.

My mind raced as fast as my legs. How the fuck was I gonna stop him? Step in front of the car and let him slam into me? Rip him out through the window? Or just grab the whole thing and drag it to a stop? I didn’t know if I was that strong, but god, I wanted to find out.

I grinned, teeth bared. What must he be seeing in the rearview mirror right now? His ex, his nightmare, chasing him down on foot, closing in at highway speed. I almost laughed picturing his face.

I pulled even, not quite at my top speed, but close. Rhett’s Mustang roared, weaving through the sparse traffic, other cars flashing by like meteors on the opposite side. People must’ve thought they were losing their minds—seeing a girl in boots and shorts running faster than a car.

I shifted a little closer, pace easy as breathing. Then I gave the Mustang a nudge with my hip.

The effect was instant—and brutal. The car jerked sideways, tires screaming, spinning out. It swung broadside, hit the shoulder, then flipped. Once, twice, three, four times, rolling like a dice across the blacktop. Glass burst out in sheets, metal shrieked, smoke plumed. The car finally slammed into a tree with a thundercrack, the front end crumpling like paper.

“Fuck…” I hissed under my breath, boots skidding as I slowed.

I stood there, chest heaving, watching the wreck settle, the wheels still spinning air. Dust clouded up around it, glittering with shards. My pulse was hot, pounding in my ears. I hadn’t just stopped him. I’d wrecked him.

I felt so alive.

I strutted slow to the wreck, boots crunching glass and twisted chrome. The Mustang lay on its roof, wheels still spinning lazy, metal groaning. Smoke curled from the hood. I crouched down, peered inside.

Rhett was upside down, still buckled in. His forehead split, blood dripping into his eyes. He groaned, half-conscious, struggling against the belt. Alive, but battered to hell.

“Well, well,” I murmured, tilting my head, grin sharp. “Ain’t you a pretty picture.”

I set my hands on the bent door. Steel crumpled under my grip like a soda can. One pull, and it shrieked free, ripped right off the hinges. I tossed it aside. Too easy. Everything was too fucking easy now.

I leaned in, reached across him, fingers pinching the seatbelt. A tug, and it tore clean in two. Rhett dropped hard, gasping as his back smacked the roof of the car. I grabbed his shirt, yanked him out, and dragged him across the dirt, leaving him sprawled at my feet.

He coughed, sputtering blood and dust, eyes squinting up at me.

I stood over him, hands planted on my hips, shadow swallowing his broken frame. “I told you, Rhett. Touch me again and you’re dead. Guess you should’ve listened.”

He wheezed, coughed again. “Wh… what… what the hell are you?”

I bent low, let the smirk cut across my face. “I’m what happens when the world finally gives me my due.”

I then leaned closer, eyes glittering. “I’m the end of your little story, tough guy.”

Rhett clawed at the dirt, rolled onto his side, and somehow made it up to one knee. I didn’t stop him. I let him wobble upright, swaying like he was drunk, blood still dripping from his forehead. Then he started limping off, one hand pressed to his ribs, dragging himself like he had somewhere to go.

I set my hands on my hips and followed slow, boots crunching glass, grin curling. “What’s this, Rhett? You think you’re faster than me? You weren’t faster even in your car.”

He staggered left, tried to change direction, eyes darting, desperate. I just pivoted and kept strutting, same lazy pace, taunting him. “Want me to give you a head start? Think you can make it to the road before I catch you?”

Before he could answer, I stepped forward and shoved him. He flew a hundred feet, arms flailing, and landed in a heap, dust spraying around him.

I took my time, strutting toward him, slow and deliberate. He groaned, struggled to get his feet under him again, but I was there before he managed. I crouched down, hair falling forward, and sneered. “Pathetic, Rhett. All that rage, all that muscle—and this is what you’ve got?”

His chest heaved, voice cracking. “Jolene… listen—listen to me, alright? We can fix this. I was wrong, I—I didn’t mean—”

I tilted my head, let my eyes soften just a little, pretended to weigh it. Even sighed like I was tired of being angry. He grabbed at my arm, trembling, words tumbling out of him like he could drown me in apologies.

I leaned closer, whisper-soft. “You want me to hear you out? You think talkin’ will save you?”

He nodded, frantic, lips slick with blood. “Y-yeah… yes. Just… give me a chance. I’ll make it right, I swear—”

I let the corner of my mouth twitch up, almost kind. “Make it right, huh? That what you want? Fix this?”

“Yes,” he croaked, desperate. “Yes, we—we can start over. I’ll do better, I’ll treat you right—”

I tilted my head, narrowed my eyes, played it up. “So what’s that look like, Rhett? We try again? New roles this time?”

He blinked, confused, clinging to hope. “Y-yeah… yeah, new start. Clean slate—”

I laughed, sharp, too loud. My face twisted back into the sneer I’d been holding in. “You dumb motherfucker. You think after what you did to me I’d ever let you touch me again? That I’d beg for your scraps?”

My smile went cruel, all teeth. “The only new role you’ve got is on your knees.”

Then I let the mask drop completely, eyes hard, voice slicing through him: “And even there, you ain’t worth shit.”

My hand whipped across his jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot. He spun, body skidding across the dirt, landing twenty feet away in a crumpled heap. His jaw hung wrong now, bone bent, blood pouring.

I strutted after him, hips rolling, savoring every step. He was a wreck, barely able to move. I loomed over him, shadow cutting him off from the light.

“You remember when you made me beg, Rhett?” I hissed, crouching low. “When you liked watchin’ me cry, listenin’ to me plead?”

I grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt and hauled him up, dead weight dragging until his boots scraped for balance. I didn’t let go until he found his feet, swaying like a drunk. My glare cut through him.

“Go on,” I snapped. “Do it. Hit me. Make me plead like you used to.”

His head wobbled, barely hanging on. He tried to get a word out, face all twisted up. “N-no… no…”

My voice exploded, sharp enough to rattle the air. “Do it, you piece of shit!”

He flinched, then swung. His fist tapped my shoulder, weak as a feather. I barely felt it.

“Again!”

He stared, broken-eyed, but I barked louder. “Again!”

He tried, fist trembling, landed another nothing-tap against my ribs.

I laughed in his face, cruel. “That it? That’s all you got left? You want me beggin’ now? Maybe I oughta show you how it’s done.”

My fist shot forward. At the last moment I pulled back some of the weight—but not enough. His body ripped away from me, flew in a clean arc twenty feet up and two hundred long, before crashing down in the grass. He rolled, tumbled, then came to a stop in a heap, a smear of blood marking the trail.

I strutted toward him, hips swinging, boots pressing dirt underfoot. The blood in the grass thickened where he landed. I crouched, rolled him onto his back so he could see me. His face was wrecked, swollen, but his chest still rose shallow.

“Look at you,” I taunted, shadow swallowing him whole. “All that bark, and now? Just a mess.”

I swung a leg over and straddled him, pinning him with my weight. His lips parted, voice hoarse. “I’m… I’m broken…”

I smirked, leaned close, words dripping like venom. “Already? I was just gettin’ warmed up.”

My hands slid to the sides of his head, fingers digging in, framing his skull. My voice went low, a hiss in his ear. “I should leave you here to bleed out. But I’m doin’ you a mercy.”

I pushed. Bone groaned. His scream tore through the air, raw, final. Then came the crack—skull splitting under my palms. His body went slack.

My hands slipped free, his head lolling lifeless in the dirt. My chest rose once, twice, then steadied. My first kill in cold blood.

But it didn’t feel bad.

It felt like pulling a weight off my shoulders. A big one. For years, I’d been sure Rhett would kill me someday. Dreamed it, woke up shaking from it. Believed it was more likely than not. And now he was the one lying dead in the grass.

Brutal? Yeah. Cruel? No doubt. But he had it coming. Every bruise, every broken bone he gave me—it was written all over this ending. If anyone ever deserved it, it was him. The world was better without Rhett in it.

I stood, brushing dirt from my thighs, looking at my hands. I felt lighter. Free.

And with that weight gone, the question came quick and sharp: what else is there for me now?

Because goddamn, I was awesome. Every time I tested myself, every time I pushed, I found no limits. Stronger, faster, harder. Nothing could stop me. The more I checked, the more convinced I was.

So what the fuck was I going to do with it?

First things first. Bryant. Silverpines Medical Center.

No BMW—that was miles back, and I wasn’t running back to fetch it. Didn’t feel like running all the way there either. Stackhouse was less than a mile. I could grab a ride.

I glanced down at myself and snorted. Blood smeared across my skin. My top ripped in half a dozen places, holes burned in from shotgun blasts, shredded by the 18-wheeler cabin, torn on the splinters at the Spur.

“Guess I could use a change,” I muttered.

I turned toward the glow of Stackhouse, set my shoulders, and sauntered down the road. My boots tapped a steady rhythm. My mind spun faster than my legs.

All the possibilities. All the doors open. The whole world was mine now.

And I was only getting started.