He slid the tape into the player and pressed play.
“Hello, Sebastian,” that Mexican chick’s voice purred. His eyebrows rose.
“Kurt might be the Jesus of the gays with his turn-the-other-cheek approach to dealing with preppy little toads like yourself, but you and I both know I wasn’t going to let you get away that easily,” she continued, biting and vicious, “Oh, don’t worry. I have the real recording of your dumb ass confessing to lacing that slushee and poking Blaine’s eye out. It’s currently tucked safely in my underboob, and I know you’d rather claw your own face off than put your hands in that area. I can send you a copy, if you’d like.”
The Dalton tie was suddenly a little too tight.
“No, this is my little gift to you, Deuce Bigalow. If I ever see you come anywhere near Kurt or Blaine - or anyone from my glee club - again? I will destroy you. And before you think about crying to your state’s attorney daddy like the helpless little boy you are, let me serve you up some reality: Kurt’s dad is also known as Congressman Hummel, and if he hears this tape? Your head will be on a platter, nicely torched by his flame-thrower. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Her voice suddenly turned soft and quiet, and somehow much more terrifying. “But this isn’t really about blackmail. No, because that would imply that you have something of value to me, when really? You’re a little ant, frozen underneath the heel of my favorite pair of boots, and it’s only a matter of time until I decide to crush you. So, Smythe, this isn’t really about blackmail or threats or me proving I’m better than you in every conceivable way (which I obviously have)…”
He cursed himself for holding his breath when she paused, deliberately letting the silence drip with tension. When she spoke again, he could hear the smile in her voice.
“This is a promise.”
