Page 20 of Dirty Judge

“Yes.” My blood boiled. “Nine o’clock.”

“Okay, cool. Um, can you please come home soon so I can apologize for everything again? I made your favorite pasta for dinner and I have the rest of the money I owe you.”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” I said. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.”

I ended the call, feeling the sudden urge to wreck everything all around me.

I looked over at the parking lot and saw two perfect options.

Without thinking for another second, I stepped out of my car and opened my trunk.

Uniforms from all the part-time jobs I’d worked over the years stared back at me, along with a gleaming crowbar.

Before I could give it a second thought, I grabbed a black hoodie and pulled it over my head.

A round of thunder roared right above my head, and a streak of lightning danced across the night sky.

I assumed it was a warning from the universe, an omen to back away and “move on,” but…it was too late.

I grabbed the crowbar and slammed the trunk shut. Making sure my hoodie was drawn as tightly as possible, I moved behind a bush and waited until the street was quiet and clear.

Keeping my head down, I walked right over to the McLaren. I stared at it for several seconds while my heart raced and my hands trembled.

The thunder served me a heavier warning, but I heard a louder voice in my head.

“You’re the reason for your problems today, Miss Spencer…”

“No, you are, asshole…” I raised the bar as high as I could before slamming it into the driver’s side window.

The glass broke, but it didn’t shatter, so I hit it again and again.

It finally gave way—sending thousands of shards to the asphalt, so I moved to the next. And the next.

I considered giving the windshield mercy, but Judge Ashton didn’t give me any, so I attacked it, too.

And since he seemed like the type who liked symmetry, I attacked his rear window until it shattered, too.

Suddenly, sheets of rain fell from the clouds and the thunder struck up an unrelenting symphony.

If the sky’s percussion was trying to send me a final message, I refused to listen.

I moved in front of the Ferrari—dragging the edge of the crowbar against its hood and leaving a deep scratch. I knocked off the left side mirror and gifted its windows the same “Fuck You” treatment.

I was out of breath by the time the last one shattered, and I didn’t want to risk using any more time to admire my work. Besides, I was certain it wouldn’t be long before the valet returned to park another car.

Soaking wet, I ran back to my car and immediately pulled onto the street.

I sped away from the scene of the crime, waiting to feel a twinge of guilt or a single shred of shame, but those feelings didn’t come at all.

I felt better.

So much better.

RECKLESS (ADJ.):

IN BOTH NEGLIGENCE AND CRIMINAL CASES, CARELESS TO THE POINT OF BEING HEEDLESS OF THE CONSEQUENCES.