Page 48 of Don't You Pucking Dare

Or maybe that's not it at all. Maybe this is about Brody, about the Reapers, about whatever game I've stumbled into without knowing the rules.

I stare into the void, and I can't tell which possibility terrifies me more.

From here on out, I plan to stay under the radar. Brody has made it crystal clear that he knows everything about me. He said that he always knows where I am. He has been inside of my dorm countless times. He even touched my hairbrush, for God knows whatever reason, and now this is all starting to click.

He claimed me in front of the Reapers, yet I’ve only seen him once after that. He’s toying with me, and I don’t fucking like it. I will demise a plan to get back at him somehow. First I need to dig. I need to learn everything that there is to know because I’m not willing to be used or go down without a fight. Rick Kemper visiting my mom isn’t a coincidence, and I’m wondering if she was that upset because he threatened her like he always has.

Brody Black is fucking with the wrong bitch. And shit’s about to get real.

The pieces slot together like a symphony building to its dark crescendo. Brody's words echo in my head: I always know where you are. The Reaper invitations, the break-ins, the shit that happened with Jack, my hair missing from my hairbrush— it was never about desire. It was about power. About something that my dad can give him. About proving he could reach into my life whenever he wanted.

I pace my room, fingers itching for my cello but knowing music can't fix this. He claimed me in front of his maskedaudience like some twisted performance, then vanished. Left me wondering, waiting, feeling used like the whore he thinks I am. The perfect puppet show with me dancing on his strings.

But he made one mistake.

And that is Rick Kemper’s reaction to whatever he’s done.

My father does not visit my mother. Ever. He pays the bills, pulls the strings, but he never shows his face. Ever.

Something bigger is happening—something that has Brody Black watching my every move and Rick Kemper breaking his own rules. And I’m going to fucking figure it out.

I press my palm against the cold window glass, staring at the campus. The biggest worries for the students here are midterms and relationship drama—normal college problems I thought I'd have. I came to Blackridge desperate for reinvention, thinking I could outrun my mother's demons and my father's silence. That my only battle would be bridging the gap between my trailer park roots and their trust fund lives.

But my last name is a curse I never saw coming.

The thought hits me like a wrong note in a familiar piece—maybe Mom's drug-fueled rants held truth. Maybe Rick Kemper orchestrated my acceptance here, planted me like a seed he could harvest later. The scholarship, the perfect timing, the way doors opened just wide enough to let me slip through... nothing's actually random when you have money and power.

I've spent my whole life being careful. Following rules. Playing the good girl who practices until her fingers bleed, who never asks uncomfortable questions about why her father pays her mother's medical bills but won't speak to her.

Brody Black just gave me an expensive education in how the real world works.

First lesson: Find your target's weakness. Study them. Learn where they're vulnerable. Then squeeze until they break.

Amanda… you’re up first.

Bitch, here I come.

Let’s fucking go.

Chapter 20

The weight of the knife in my pocket should frighten me. The good girl with her cello and perfect posture doesn't carry weapons to confrontations. But my mother's words changed something in me, broke whatever last thread kept me tethered to that old version of myself. When she treated me like one of them—like I'd betrayed her for their world—something inside me shifted.

Brody can claim me in front of his masked audience. He can break into my room, stalk my movements, make me submit. But involving my mother? That's a note he’s not allowed to play.

I stand outside Amanda's door, pulse steady. The knife is insurance—a last resort I pray I won't need. Rich girls like Amanda respond better to social leverage anyway. Time to see if I've learned anything from Brody's games.

Two sharp knocks.

"Who is it?" Her voice carries that practiced boredom.

"Lola from music class." I let innocence color my tone.

She opens the door with a perfectly crafted eye roll. "I know who you are. What do you want?"

"We need to talk." I keep my voice light. "Remember?"

"Sure, come right in." Sarcasm drips from every word. "Make yourself at home."

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