Page 10 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

Pathetic.

I pull his phone from his jacket pocket. It’s a newer model iPhone, cracked screen, case covered in stickers from underground bands. I flip it toward his face, wait for the recognition as it unlocks the phone.

The screen lights up.

Notifications stack up like a verdict. Text messages. Missed calls.

Lexi:I’m here.

Lexi:Where are you?

Lexi:Seriously, Ax. Where are you?

I smirk. Scroll down. More of the same. Needy. Desperate. Clingy.

“Who’s your bitch, Lexi?” I hold the phone up so he can see the screen, watch his face go from pale to ghost-white. “She owe you money too?”

The kid thrashes harder, tries to twist away. I press my forearm against his throat, let the dumpster do the rest of thework. His windpipe clicks under the pressure. Not enough to crush it. Just enough to remind him who’s in control.

“Don’t—” His voice is strangled, barely a whisper.

I laugh.

“She’s calling again.” I hold the phone up, let it ring. The name lights up the screen:Lexi. Then it goes to voicemail. “What a needy fucking whore.”

He spits at me. Misses by a mile. The glob of spit hits the dumpster, slides down the metal.

I laugh—sharp, cold, the kind of sound that makes people step back even when I’m not looking at them.

“Look at this.” I scroll through the texts, reading them aloud just to watch him squirm. “‘I’m here. Where are you?’ ‘Seriously, Ax.’ ‘Can’t believe we’re going to the same college.’“ I pause, let the silence stretch. “Jesus, kid.” I scroll through one long ass text message that I’m not reading. “She’s pathetic. Does she always beg like this, or is it just for you?”

“Shut up—”

I lean down, close enough that my breath ghosts across his ear. “You have an hour to get me my money.”

I let the words hang there. Let them sink in.

“An hour?” His voice cracks. He’s trying to sound brave. Failing.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

Instead, I kick him—hard, to the ribs—and feel the satisfying thud of boot meeting bone. He grunts, curls inward, and I follow it up with a right hook to his jaw. My knuckles connect with a wet crack. His head snaps back, slams into the dumpster again, and something wet hits the concrete.

Blood.

He slumps, barely conscious. I grab him by the hair, yank his head up so he’s looking at me.

“One hour,” I repeat. “Or I find your bitch and make her pay instead.”

His eyes go wide. Good. That’s what I wanted.

I release him, step back. Oxy does the same.

“Go.”

The kid scrambles up, slips, nearly falls, then bolts. His footsteps echo down the alley, fading into the sound of campus—music bleeding out of dorm windows, voices laughing, the distant hum of traffic on the main road.

I watch him go. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Just watch until he’s nothing but a shadow disappearing into the glow of streetlights.