Page 63 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“Untie me, and I’ll tell you exactly who it is,” I manage through the laughter, watching his expression harden.

To my surprise, Noah nods, and suddenly the ropes fall away. I drop to the ground, my knees hitting the concrete with a crack that sends fresh pain shooting up my thighs. My wrists burn where the rope cut into them, the skin raw and chafed.

Standing is an effort, each muscle protesting as I force myself upright, facing Noah with as much dignity as I can muster. Blood drips from my split lip, spattering onto the concrete between us.

“She’s got a pretty fucking mouth,” I say, the words coming out thick and slurred through my swollen lips. “Jack didn’t get a taste though.”

Noah stares at me, his expression unreadable. I meet his gaze, unflinching despite the pain throbbing through my body with each heartbeat.

“Her name’s Rhea.”

Something shifts in Noah’s eyes—recognition, maybe, or calculation. He flicks his head in a subtle motion, and around us, the masked figures begin to move, filing out of the room one by one until only Noah and I remain.

The silence stretches between us, taut as a tripwire. Noah steps forward, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder. The grip is firm but not painful—almost comradely, except for the coldness in his eyes.

“How fucking stupid are you?”

I spit a mouthful of blood onto the concrete, watching the red spatter near our feet. “Pretty fucking stupid.”

Noah’s grip tightens momentarily before he lets go. “Your face is your fucking punishment, Thatcher. Don’t fuck up again.” He leans in and whispers, “Ask me for another stupid fucking favor, it’s going to be worse. But I’ll do it.”

And then he’s gone, his footsteps fading as he ascends to the main floor, leaving me alone in the chamber with nothing but the echo of his warning and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

My hands are trembling. I stare at them, watching the minute vibrations, feeling oddly disconnected from my own body. The pain is there, throbbing and insistent, but it seems distant somehow, secondary to the confusion crowding my thoughts.

God damn.

I spit once more, a final clearing of the blood pooling in my mouth and straighten my shoulders despite the protest from my ribs.

Three hours later, I sit parked across from Rhea’s apartment building, the engine off, darkness cloaking my presence. The swelling in my face has gone down enough that I can see through both eyes now, though the throbbing remains—a steady reminder of the afternoon’s lesson.

Rhea’s blinds are up, and there she is. Moving around her room, completely unaware that I’m out here watching, waiting for what’s about to unfold. My fingers grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles blanch white, as if I’m trying to keep myself from flying off the edge of something dangerous—some precipice I’ve been teetering on since I first saw her.

The pain from the beating radiates through my body with each breath, but the sight of her dulls it to a background hum. She’s pacing, her guitar hanging from her shoulders, fingers grazing over the strings as if she’s lost in her own world. Her dark hair is loose, cascading around her face as she moves, catching the light from her bedside lamp and turning it into a halo of shadows.

She’s mouthing lyrics, headphones cupping her ears, her head bobbing to music only she can hear. Every few steps she pauses, strikes a chord more forcefully, then resumes her pacing—a caged animal, beautiful and feral in her confinement.

She must be seething.

I know she only plays her guitar when she’s mad, when she needs something to pour all that fire into. I’ve watched her enough times to recognize the pattern—the way her fingers pluck at those strings with barely restrained force, the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates, the way her lips move silently with the lyrics. She’s not just mad. She’s furious.

Good. This is fucking perfect.

I watch her, every movement taut with frustration. Each step she takes across the worn carpet of her room is like a sharp twist in my gut—painful, but in a way that feels necessary, deserved. Her head bobs slightly, lost in whatever rhythm is flooding throughthose headphones, the anger radiating off her even through the glass and the distance between us. And still, I can’t look away.

She’s completely in it now, wild and untamed as she leaps onto the bed, fingers working over the strings with a fierce intensity I can almost feel in my own hands. The guitar becomes an extension of her rage, each note she strikes seeming to vibrate through the night air, through the glass of my windshield, through my bruised skin.

Her loose hair flies around her face as she thrashes out what must be a solo, catching the amber light of her lamp, turning each strand into a living flame. It’s raw, angry, beautiful, and it hurts to watch. Because I know every note, every slam of her fingers against those strings, is a response to me and to what she’s done.

A part of me wants to go up, to try to explain, to do something. But I can’t drag myself out of the car. Not yet. We’ll talk soon enough.

I stay where I am, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in counterpoint to the silent rhythm she plays. Every instinct screams at me to just go up there, knock on her door, and make her listen. But I know there’s no use. She wants to keep denying me, rejecting what I offer? Well, there are consequences that are due.

My phone feels heavy in my hand as I pull it out, the screen illuminating the inside of my car with a harsh blue glow. One final offer. That’s all she gets. I dial her number, watching as she pauses mid-stride, glancing down at the phone I know is vibrating somewhere in her room.

She doesn’t pick it up, just stares at it for one beat, two, three—her face a mask of emotions too complex to read from this distance. And just like that, I know I’ve decided to do the right thing.

The call goes to voicemail as I watch her toss the phone onto her bed, returning to her angry musical meditation with renewed vigor. I end the call without leaving a message. Words are useless now.

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