Chapter 8
Evelyn stood on the white service line, her entire body shaking. The bright afternoon sun beat down on her, but she felt entirely cold. She looked at the dark plastic barrel of the ball machine, aimed directly at her chest.
"Damon... please," she whispered one final time.
"Press it," Damon said.
With a choked sob, Evelyn closed her eyes and pressed her thumb against the red button.
The machine let out a loud, mechanical clack.
Thwack!
A neon yellow ball shot from the barrel at maximum velocity. It struck Evelyn squarely in the stomach. The air exploded from her lungs in a loud, painful gasp. She doubled over, dropping the remote to the ground.
Thwack! Thwack!
The machine did not stop. It was set to rapid fire. A ball struck her shoulder, spinning her sideways. Another caught her in the thigh, stinging like a wasp bite.
"Ow! Stop it!" Evelyn screamed, throwing her arms over her head, trying to retreat.
"Keep her on the line," Damon ordered his men.
The two bodyguards stepped forward, blocking her path of retreat. Evelyn was trapped in the firing line.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The tennis balls rained down on her without mercy. She curled into a ball on the green asphalt, crying out in pain as the heavy rubber projectiles struck her back, her legs, her arms.
Damon watched her with an unblinking, emotionless stare. He did not smile. He did not gloat. He simply watched the execution of a sentence he had deemed necessary.
By the fence, Cora stood with her hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Hazel, however, was no longer looking at the court. She had buried her face into the chest of the bodyguard holding her, completely shielded from the violence unfolding before them.
The machine fired for two agonizing minutes. The hopper slowly emptied, the mechanical rhythm of the firing mechanism acting like a metronome to Evelyn’s screams.
Finally, with a hollow, empty clack, the machine fired its last ball. It continued to hum, but the barrel was empty.
Evelyn lay curled on the ground, bruised and sobbing. The elegant tennis outfit she wore was stained with dirt and sweat. Dozens of neon yellow balls littered the court around her, a chaotic sea of bright color.
Damon walked over to her. His polished leather shoes nudged one of the tennis balls out of his path. He stopped beside her, looking down at her battered form.
"Is it funny now, Evelyn?" Damon asked, his low voice carrying through the quiet aftermath.
May you like
Evelyn didn't answer. She just wept, her face hidden behind her arms.
"Get off my court," Damon said. "Take your brother, and leave my property. If I see either of you again, I won't use tennis balls."
