Page 14 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I walk over to the window and pull the curtain aside, glancing outside. The street below seems normal, cars driving by, people strolling leisurely on the sidewalk, laughing, completely unaware that last night a Blackridge college student didn’t want to be raped so she accidentally killed the guy.

I lean against the window, my forehead pressed against the cool glass, and wish that I could swap lives with someone, anyone.

I need a game plan. I need to pull myself together and cover my ass. No one can know about this.

But as that thought flashes through my mind, another follows in quick succession.

The masked stranger…he knows.

Oh, fuck.

I take a deep breath, trying not to tremble as my head throbs.

Who is this guy? Was he a frat member? A regular party goer?

I bite my lip as my anxiety builds, tension tightening its grip around my throat.

Would he have gone to the police by now? Or worse—is he waiting, watching, planning something? Blackmail? Revenge?

The uncertainty gnaws at me, twisting the panic deeper.

If he talks, I’m done.I need to find him… before he finds me.

I grab my phone. Not because I want to, but because I have to.

There has to be something by now. A post. A text. A single headline.

Dead boy found in frat house.

Party gone wrong.

Murder.

But there’s nothing. Just filtered photos of drunk girls in glittery dresses, red cup pyramids, and smiling faces under string lights.

It’s like last night didn’t happen.

I scroll faster. Searching tags. Mentions. Anything.

Nothing.

My hand shakes, and I almost drop the phone. Maybe someone found him. Maybe they’re covering it up. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing.

My reflection stares back from the black screen—wide-eyed, pale, with last night’s makeup still smudged under my eyes.

No. It was real.

So where the fuck is the fallout?

Having a midmorning class after a wild night of partying is the worst thing a college student can endure. Imagine nursing theworst hangover of your life and then having to sit in a two-hour social psychology lecture.

It is pure torture.

Luckily for me, I took medicine, so I can still function. But I can’t say the same about Cassidy. Hungover would be an understatement. Cassidy looks like death warmed over as she slumps into her seat beside me, sunglasses perched on her nose even though we’re indoors. She clutches a Grande paper cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. Which it probably was.

I shake my head at her disheveled state. “I told you to take it easy.”

She takes a huge gulp of her drink, wincing when the door to the class slams open and more students troop in. “Shut up. I feel like I’m dying.”

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