Page 15 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“That’s what you get for chugging down vodka like it was water.”

She groans, “Ugh! Don’t remind me. I don’t even remember coming home last night.”

Lucky her. I remembereverything.

Wait, that will be my story.I blacked out.

While she’s nursing her headache, I’m stuck replaying last night on a loop, trying to focus on reality but failing miserably.

More and more students file into the room, some in a state similar to Cassidy–disheveled and barely functioning–while others more bright eyed, chattering away like they hadn’t spent the night in a haze of alcohol and bad decisions. It seems like everyone was at some party last night.

Just when I feel the tension in my chest threatening to suffocate me, the door swings open and Professor Jennings strides in, his usual calm, composed demeanor contrasting starkly with the chaotic energy of the room. I watch him as he sets down his bag and runs a hand through his cropped auburn hair shot through with silver.

As he adjusts his glasses and takes off his tweed blazer, a sense of normalcy should wash over me, but it doesn’t. Instead, the sight of him, so predictable and in control, only makes me feel more out of place. Like I’m the only one carrying this unbearable weight while the rest of the world moves on, unaware of what I’ve done.

“I see you all enjoyed last night’s festivities,” Professor Jennings remarks dryly, his voice cutting through the tired groans that ripple through the room. He grins and surveys the sea of hungover students, his eyes settling on the slumped figures and bleary expressions.

Cassidy lets out a low groan and sinks down further in her seat, flipping her hoodie over her head. I manage a weak smile, trying to mask the anxiety still gnawing at me, my mind flashes back to the party again–the blood, the raw panic, the masked stranger…

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to shake the memory as the professor drones on.

“Luckily for you, today’s lecture will be more theoretical than practical, so you won’t have to exert too much brain power,” Jennings says, pacing to the front of the room. But even as he starts discussing social behavior, all I can think about is how hard it is going to be to keep pretending that nothing happened.

The normal me in normal circumstances would have been eating this lecture up, taking notes and asking questions. I’ve always been the type to engage, to throw myself into the material. Social psychology, the study of how people think, feel, and behave in groups—it’s fascinating, really. But today, I’m a shell of myself. My notebook lies open, blank, as my pen hovers uselessly over the page.

All I can focus on is keeping my breathing steady, forcing my face into a mask of calm while my mind races. I can feel the walls closing in, every word from the professor barely registering as my thoughts spiral. How am I supposed to care about groupdynamics when all I can think about is the blood on my hands and the stranger who knows?

I try to focus on Professor Jennings droning on about conformity and social influence, but the knot in my stomach tightens with every passing second.

What if someone saw me jump out of the window? What if someone puts the pieces together? What if the masked stranger decides to go to the police? My heart races, and I try to slow my breathing, but it feels like the air in the room is getting thinner.

I can’t stay here.

The paranoia will eat me up if I don’t do something. I can’t let this ruin my life, so at the very least, I need to find the person behind the mask. Every passing second feels like a ticking time bomb, and I can’t live like this, constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I need to act, to get ahead of this.

I try to gather my thoughts, think of any clue that might point to his identity.

The tattoo.

An obscure band of words around his bicep.

It was quick, just a flash when he leaned out of the window, but I remember it clearly now—a series of letters in a language I didn’t recognize, looping around his arm like a secret message. Was it Latin? Greek? My mind races, trying to recall more details. The problem is that most guys are covered in tattoos. It could be meaningless. But something about it felt… off. Unique. Maybe it’s a start. A tiny breadcrumb, but it’s all I’ve got.

I can’t shake the image of the tattoo from my mind. Maybe it’ll lead me to him. But how? It’s not like I can just start asking around about a random tattoo without raising suspicion. I bite my lip, racking my brain for options. Cassidy might know, she’s always up to date on the campus gossip, maybe she knows something.

But would asking her raise any flags? She has no idea what happened last night, and if I start prying too much, she might get curious. Still, I need a plan. I need to know who that guy is before he decides to come after me, or worse…

“Rhea!” I hear my name, and my gaze shoots up. Professor Jennings is looking directly at me, his brow furrowed in concern. I realize I had been zoning out again and my face flushes with embarrassment.

“Care to share your thoughts on the topic?”

I swallow hard, panic slowly rising in my chest. My mind is a jumbled mess, and I can’t recall what we were discussing. “Uh…I…” I stutter, trying hard to grasp for a coherent thought. I can feel my classmates staring, some tittering in amusement at my speechlessness.

The moment seems to stretch on for eternity. Cassidy shifts beside me, her eyes on me, silently urging me to say something.

“I…I think it’s important to understand how social behavior influences group dynamics?” I blurt out desperately, more a question than a statement.

As the words leave my mouth, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being pulled into a spotlight I desperately want to escape from. What if my secret is written all over my face? What if someone sees through my mask?

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