Page 88 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

The photos scatter across my lap as she hurls them at me, their glossy surfaces catching the harsh fluorescent light from the abandoned gas station. I glance down at them—my handiwork, my documentation, my proof. The timestamp on the first photo glows accusingly: 11:43 PM.

Halloween night. Eleven forty-three PM.

The bass from the party below thrums through the floorboards as I climb the stairs, each step deliberate and silent. I’ve been tracking them all evening—watching Jack pour drink after drink down my dove’s throat, watching his hands grow bolder, watching her resistance crumble under the assault of alcohol and his practiced manipulation.

Mine. She’s mine, and he’s touching her, claiming her, defiling her with his filthy fucking hands.

The hallway is dimmer up here, lit only by a few scattered fixtures that cast long shadows between the doors. Most are closed, hiding whatever debauchery unfolds behind them, but Jack’s door—his door stands slightly ajar.

I approach on silent feet, years of hockey training making my movements fluid, predatory. Through the crack, I can see them—Rhea stumbling slightly as Jack guides her toward the bed, his grip on her arm possessive in a way that makes something savage twist in my gut.

“I should go,” she’s saying, her words slightly slurred but her intent clear. “I don’t... I don’t feel right about this.”

Good girl. Even drunk, even confused, she knows this isn’t what she wants.

But Jack isn’t listening. His hands are already moving, already taking liberties, and when she tries to pull away, his grip tightens.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, pushing her down onto the mattress. “Don’t be such a tease. You came up here with me.”

The bottle is within her reach—a half-empty fifth of tequila sitting on the nightstand. When Jack’s hand finds the hem of her skirt, when he starts pushing it up despite her protests, she grabs it.

The glass connects with his skull in a wet crack that sends liquid and blood flying in equal measure. Jack staggers back, more surprised than hurt, his hand rising to touch the cut on his forehead.

“You fucking bitch!” he snarls, and I can see the moment his shock transforms into rage. “You fucking—”

He lunges for her, and she shoves him with both hands, all her strength behind the motion. He stumbles backward, off-balance, his heel catching on the edge of the area rug.

The impact of his head against the bureau echoes like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

For a moment, nobody moves. Rhea stands frozen, her chest heaving, staring down at Jack’s sprawled form. Blood begins to pool beneath his head, dark and viscous against the hardwood floor.

She thinks she’s killed him. I can see it in the way her face crumples, in the small, broken sound that escapes her throat. She thinks she’s a murderer.

But Jack’s chest is rising and falling. Shallow, labored breaths that fog slightly in the cool air of the room. He’s alive.

Rhea doesn’t see it. She’s already moving, already climbing toward the window in a panic-driven escape. The glass scrapes against the frame as she forces it open, and I hear her breath hitch with suppressed sobs.

I push the door open slowly, watching as she escapes. Now I need to finish what she started.

She’s gone.

Jack groans, a low sound of pain and confusion. His eyes flutter open, unfocused but aware. One hand moves to his head, comes away bloody, and his face contorts with fury.

He glances up at me, and looks over my shoulder at Noah and Zane.

“Fuck!” he says, and Noah shuts the door behind him.

Noah and I glance at each other, nodding. Time to finish the job.

“Here’s the thing, Jack.” I interrupt him, my voice conversational, almost friendly. “You keep fucking with things that aren’t yours.”

Jack blinks, confusion clouding his features. “What?”

He tries to sit up, but he’s unsuccessful. I grab his face and before I smash his head in, I mutter, “She belongs to me, Jack. And you put your hands on her.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by fear. “Thatcher, what—”

The stone connects with his skull before he can finish the sentence. The sound is different this time—heavier, more final. Like a melon hitting concrete.

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