Page 87 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Thatcher signals and pulls into the parking lot of a closed gas station, the kind of forgotten place where broken dreams go to die. Weeds push through cracks in the asphalt, and the windows of the convenience store are covered with faded “For Lease” signs. But he doesn’t turn off the engine, doesn’t unbuckle his seatbelt. Just sits there, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” he says finally, his voice so calm it makes my skin crawl.

“The wrong questions?” I can hear my voice rising, hysteria creeping in at the edges. “The wrong fucking questions? You have photos of Jack!”

“I have photos of someone who hurt you getting what he deserved.” Each word is measured, deliberate, as if he’s explaining something obvious to a slow child.

The casual way he says it—the complete lack of remorse or surprise—hits me like a physical blow. My stomach lurches, bile rising in my throat as the implications crash over me.

“That’s not what happened.” I’m shaking my head now, denial automatic and desperate. “I killed him. I pushed him and he hit his head, and he died. I killed—”

“Did you?” Thatcher turns to face me fully, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me want to shrink away. “Are you sure about that?”

The question is like ice water in my veins, freezing everything inside me to a crystalline clarity. The pieces begin clicking together. The photos, Thatcher arriving so quickly at the scene, his certainty that I was “safe,” the way he seemed to know exactly what had happened before I told him.

“You killed him after I left.” The words come out flat, emotionless, my mind too numb to process the full horror of what I’m realizing. “You let me think…”

“Rhea—” He reaches for me, but I jerk away, pressing myself against the passenger door.

“You killed him.” My voice breaks on the words, but I force them out anyway. “You fucking killed him, and you let me think I did it.”

The photos slip from my nerveless fingers, scattering across my lap like grotesque confetti. I stare down at them—evidence of a murder I didn’t commit, proof of a manipulation so complete and twisted that my mind rebels against accepting it.

All this time. All this guilt, this fear, this desperate gratitude for his protection. All of it built on a lie.

“You let me think I was a murderer,” I whisper, the words barely audible over the idle of the engine. “You blackmailedme, threatened me, made me agree to be yours—all because of somethingyoudid.”

Thatcher’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t show even a flicker of remorse or shame. If anything, he looks almost relieved, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

I grab the photos, my hands shaking so violently I can barely grip them and hurl them at his face. They flutter through the air like deadly butterflies, landing harmlessly on his lap and the center console.

“You sick fuck!” I’m screaming now, rational thought consumed by a rage so pure and complete it feels like burning alive from the inside out. “You fucking psychopath!”

My hand flies to the door handle, yanking on it with desperate force, but nothing happens. The locks are engaged, trapping me in this leather-lined prison with a monster who wears the face of someone I thought I was learning to trust.

“Let me out.” My voice cracks like breaking glass. “Let me out right fucking now.”

But Thatcher just sits there, calm as death, watching me fall apart with those calculating green eyes. And I realize with a terror that cuts deeper than any physical pain that I’m trapped—not just in this car, but in his web of lies and manipulation.

I don’t know who he is. I don’t know what he’s capable of.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever be free of him.

Chapter 17

The photos flutter between her fingers like dying butterflies, and I watch each micro-expression cross Rhea’s face—confusion melting into horror, horror crystallizing into rage. Her hands shake with a tremor that starts small and grows, rippling outward until her entire body vibrates with the force of her realization.

Beautiful. Even in her fury, she’s fucking beautiful.

I should feel something about her discovery. Panic, maybe. Concern about what she’ll do with this knowledge. But all I feel is a strange sense of relief, like exhaling after holding my breath for months. No more pretending. No more careful omissions.

She knows now.

She knows what I’m capable of, what I did for her. What I did because of her.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles blanching white against the leather. The engine idles beneath us, a steady purr that vibrates through the soles of my feet, up my legs,settling somewhere deep in my chest where satisfaction blooms warm and dark.

“You sick fuck!” Her voice cracks like a whip in the confined space of the car, but I don’t flinch. If anything, the sound sends a thrill down my spine, electric and addictive. “You fucking psychopath!”

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