Page 61 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I want to hit that smirk off his face. I want to scream at him, tell him just how much I hate him, but the crowd around us, the whispers, the eyes, all of it keeps me rooted in place.

My body moves before my brain can register what I’m doing. I am pushing, shoving him away with all my might, once twice, three times. He moves back a few inches, his eyes wide with surprise, and I can feel the stares of passing students boring into me.

The world around us seems to go silent, the usual hum of campus life fading as Thatcher stares at me, momentarily stunned by the force of my shove. His eyes darken, the surprise melting away, replaced with something harder, colder. But I don’t care. Right now, my hands are still clenched, my chestheaving, and I feel the heat of every passing glance prickling my skin.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean!” My voice is louder than I intended, but I don’t flinch.

“You’re about to find out,” he says, and then he walks away, pulling out his phone.

I follow him. “You fucking wouldn’t!”

But he’s ignoring me now. Suddenly I’m invisible and panic starts to bleed into my brain. Paranoia takes over as I watch the world around me. The stares, the concern, the burning memory of what I’ve done that would send me to prison. I run to him, the only one keeping my secret right now.

“Thatcher,” I plead, but his walls are up. He’s focused on his phone. “Thatcher, please.”

I grab his arm, step in front of him, and force his eyes to mine. “Please.”

“Please what?” He glares at me, waiting.

My world tilts on its axis as I stare into his eyes. I can’t form the fucking words I need right now.Say the words, Rhea.Tell this asshole you would do anything –anything– to not go down for that night.Tell him!

He smiles harshly. “Bye, Rhea.”

My heart sinks a thousand floors as he steps around me, focusing back on his phone, and leaves me with the promise that he’s going to turn me in.

I’m a shell of a human right now.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until water falls down my cheeks.

Chapter 12

The phone feels slick in my palm as sweat beads between my fingers. I pace across the parking lot, each step heavy with purpose, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel the muscle twitch along my temple.

“Noah, I need your help,” I mutter into the phone, gripping it like my life depends on it. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—strained, desperate even. Not like me at all.

The line crackles with silence before Noah’s rough voice cuts through. “With fucking what?” His tone is sharp, impatient—typical Noah. I can almost see him scowling on the other end, probably sprawled across his bed with a lit cigarette balanced between his fingers.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the stream of students trickling out of the building. My eyes search for her—for Rhea—half-expecting to see her rushing after me, all wide-eyed panic and trembling defiance. But she’s nowhere in sight. Good.

“With a pretty little problem,” I say, lowering my voice as I stride toward my Tesla. The sun beats down on the gleaming gray exterior, and I catch my reflection in the tinted windows—composed on the outside, but my eyes tell a different story. The rage simmering beneath the surface threatens to boil over, and I need to contain it, channel it.

I hear shuffling from Noah’s end of the call—fabric rustling, something metallic clinking against a surface. “We already have the cops up the team’s ass, Thatcher, so what the fuck do you need? Is this Reaper shit?” His voice drops to a harsh whisper on those last words, the caution ingrained in us all when it comes to Reaper business.

My fingers find the key fob in my pocket, and I unlock the car with a click that feels too loud in the quiet of the parking lot. “Yeah, the Reapers could do it. I just need to teach someone a lesson.” I keep my tone deliberately vague, but the message is clear enough. Noah knows the language, the code we speak in.

The line goes quiet except for the slow exhale of breath—definitely smoking. I can almost smell the Marlboro Red through the phone. “The chambers?” he finally asks, his voice flatter now, all business.

I slide into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against my back despite the warm day. Sunlight filters through the windshield, casting patterns across the dashboard as I close the door with a solid thunk.

“No, it’s about the girl who killed Jack.”

The silence that follows is heavy, weighted with implications and unspoken questions. I can almost hear Noah’s mind racing, calculating, assessing the risk of what I’ve just revealed. I wait, turning the key in the ignition. The engine purrs to life, a gentle vibration beneath my feet.

“What the fuck does that have to do with me?” he finally scoffs, but there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. I throwthe car in drive and ease out of the parking spot, my tires crunching over loose gravel.

“You’re going to have her arrested.”

My words hang in the air, a statement not a question, and I can feel Noah’s resistance building through the silence. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped, controlled.

---