Page 12 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

For a split second, we’re both frozen—me halfway through the window, him looming in the doorway, the weight of his silent stare pinning me in place. Then, without warning, he starts toward me.

Panic surges through my veins. I scramble desperately, yanking my other leg through the window. My shoes scrape against the ledge as I try to find balance. I reach out toward the branch, my fingers trembling, and grasp it just as I feel the stranger’s presence right behind me

I don’t look back.

Instead, I cling to the branch with everything I have and swing myself off the ledge. The rough bark bites into my palms, but I manage to hold on, dangling several feet above the ground. My legs dangle beneath me, searching for footing, as the masked figure leans out the window, watching.

I take a risk and let go, my eyes closing as the ground rushes up to me. I land haphazardly, pain courses through me, but I ignore it and scramble to my feet. Against my better judgment, I glance back up at the window, back at the masked stranger still watching. My eyes settle on a weird tattoo, a band of indecipherable words wrapping around his bicep.

Run.

I don’t look back.

But I feel it—eyes. Everywhere.

The wind hits my skin and I’m suddenly aware of how much blood is on me. My dress clings in wet places. My hands are slick. My legs are shaking.

Did anyone see me?

I duck behind a row of hedges, chest heaving. The pounding in my ears is louder than the music still thumping from inside the house. That means the party is still going strong and someone could walk upstairs any minute.

That means I could be seen.

I look down at myself in the moonlight. There’s a smear on my thigh. My knees are scraped raw. My palms—Jesus—my palms are bloody.

Is it my blood from the bottle or his?

I scrub them against the grass like that’s going to fix anything.

Footsteps.

My breath stops.

Somewhere back toward the house. Laughter but nobody is close.

I force myself to move again, faster this time, ducking low.

My feet pounds against the asphalt as I sprint away, my heart pounding in my ears but my mind was on a singular thing.

I just killed someone.

Chapter 3

The water hitting the shower tiles sounds loud in the bathroom. I sit on the closed toilet, staring blankly at my shoes. My heart still races with the echoes of the night, each beat a reminder of the violence that had erupted so suddenly. The steam from the shower swirls around me, fogging the mirrors, but it does little to obscure the images etched in my mind—the masked figure, the blood, the scream that had clawed its way up my throat but never escaped.

I take a deep breath, trying to will myself to get up and step into the shower. I can feel the dry blood on my skin start to flake and the sweat from my panic filled blind sprint home start to cool.

I’m filthy, both inside and out, and the thought churns my stomach. The remnants of the night clings to me like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. I clench my fists, fighting against the rising tide of nausea that threatens to overwhelm me.

No more time for wallowing. I need to shower.

With a shaky exhale, I finally stand, peeling my clothes from my body and letting them fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. The cool air prickles my skin as I step into the shower, the warmth of the water washing over me like a temporary balm. I close my eyes, letting the spray drown out the memories, praying that the water will cleanse me of more than just the physical remnants of the night. But as I scrub at my skin, I realize that I won’t be able to truly wash this away.

Tears leave my eyes as visions of Jack hitting his head on that stupid thing and falling limp rush through me. Did he die or just knock out?

A shiver takes over, and now I’m shaking, about to drop to the ground. I tell myself that he only fainted from the hard fall.

But the amount of blood that sprayed, it’s on my skin, stained. I scrub harder, sobbing. My tears mix with the water streaming down my face, hot and heavy against the chill of the tiles. I think of the blood, the terror, the way my heart raced in a fight for survival, and I can’t help but feel a wave of guilt wash over me. I hadn’t wanted any of it to happen, yet here I am, caught in the aftermath of a nightmare.

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