Page 142 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

Every muscle screams from last night—ribs cracked or bruised, I can’t tell which. My shoulder’s a knot of fire. My knuckles are split open, dried blood crusted between my fingers.

The skin along my arm and rib and hip burns from the road rash, raw and weeping. But it’s the quiet that kills me. The absence of sound except the clock ticking on the trailer wall.

No Lexi. No sign of her here.

I push myself upright, jaw clenched against the pain. Swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. The room spins for a second before settling.

Oxy’s passed out in the chair across from me, a beer bottle half-full in his hand, head tilted back, mouth open.

I grab the bottle, down what’s left—warm and flat—and toss it into the sink. It clatters loud enough to wake him.

“Wake up.”

Oxy groans, barely conscious. “You alive?”

“Barely.”

He cracks one eye open, takes me in, winces. “You look like shit.”

I pull a hoodie over my bruised chest, hissing as the fabric drags across raw skin. “Matches how I feel.”

I grab my phone from the table. Four missed calls. Two from runners, one from a supplier, one unknown number I don’t recognize.

I ignore all of them.

“Call everyone,” I say, shoving the phone in my pocket. “I meaneveryone, but not the team. This doesn’t concern college kids.”

Oxy rubs his face, trying to wake up. “So we’re doing this?”

I nod. “This morning. No delays.”

By nine, the trailer’s packed.

Eight men crowd the small space—guys I trust to stay silent and loyal, at least as much as loyalty can be bought in this business. The smell of cigarettes and oil fills the air, mixing with body heat and tension.

No one sits until I do. That’s the rule. That’s how this works.

I drop into the armchair, elbows on my knees, jaw tight. I look each of them in the eye. Make sure they see what I’m feeling.

Rage. Cold, controlled rage.

“You all know the Reapers,” I say. My voice is steady. Calm. “Or you’ve heard the name.”

A few nod. A few shift uneasily, exchanging glances.

“They were supposed to stay out of West Pointe. Mind their business. They knew the line.” I pause, let that sink in. “They crossed it last night.”

No one dares speak. The silence is thick, heavy with unspoken questions.

“They took something of mine,” I continue, each word deliberate. “Someone. And I’m not letting that stand.”

“Who?” one of the older dealers asks—mid-thirties, been in the game longer than most.

My eyes flick to him. Cold. Unblinking. “Not your business.”

Silence again. He nods, drops his gaze.

I lean back, exhaling through my teeth. The movement makes my ribs scream, but I don’t show it.