Page 178 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

“And he’s not done with you.” Revan’s voice is matter-of-fact, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“He never is.”

The words trigger a memory I’ve been trying to keep buried. I’m fourteen again, standing in Vincent’s garage while he circles me like a predator. Revan’s there too, near fifteen and already wearing that mask of casual indifference he’s perfected.

Vincent’s high—always high—but functional. The worst kind.

“Revan forgot to take out the trash,” Vincent says, his voice deceptively calm. “You do it.”

It’s not a request. It never is.

I do it. Take out the trash, clean the garage, fix whatever Revan broke or forgot or didn’t care about. And when Vincent finds something wrong—a spot I missed, a tool in the wrong place—he doesn’t hit Revan.

He hits me.

“You need to learn responsibility,” he says, his fist connecting with my ribs. “Revan’s got a future. You? You’re lucky I let you breathe my air.”

Revan watches from the doorway. Doesn’t intervene. Doesn’t say a word.

Later, when Vincent passes out, Revan tosses me an ice pack. “Sorry,” he mutters, but he’s already walking away.

That’s how it always went. Revan got away with everything—late nights, bad grades, drug deals that went sideways. Vincent called it “giving him space to grow.” Called it “trusting his judgment.”

I got away with nothing. Every mistake earned a beating. Every success was expected, unremarkable. And somehow, I kept protecting him anyway. Kept taking the hits, kept covering his tracks, kept being the responsible one because someone had to be.

The memory fades and I’m back in my car, phone pressed to my ear, Revan’s voice still talking.

I hang up without saying goodbye.

I stare at the campus lights—warm and golden and promising a normal life I’ll never have. My reflection in the rearview mirror looks older than twenty, harder. There are shadows under my eyes that might be permanent now.

Vincent can have me. Can drag me back into his world, can use me until there’s nothing left. But he doesn’t touch her again. Not after everything.

I start the car, the Charger’s engine roaring to life like it’s been waiting, like it’s hungry for what comes next. I throw it in gear and pull out of the lot, leaving campus behind.

No more debts. I’m fucking done.

Just one more thing to make right, even if it destroys me in the process.

As I accelerate onto the main road, headlights cut across my peripheral vision. A black bike flashes across the opposite lane, heading in the same direction I just came from. I’d recognize that ride anywhere—Oxy’s custom Yamaha, matte black with red accents.

He must have been watching my location, waiting in the parking lot. Making sure I didn’t do anything stupid, or maybe just making sure I made it through the night.

I can always count on him.

The bike disappears behind me as I take the next turn but knowing he’s there—knowing someone has my back even when I don’t deserve it—makes the darkness feel a little less harsh.

41

Atticus

Isit on the couch, elbows on my knees, cigarette burning low between my fingers. The smoke curls up lazy and thick, filling my lungs with familiar poison. Across the room, Lexi stands at the window staring out at the forest—endless dark trees swaying in the storm.

She’s too calm for someone who’s been through hell.

Or maybe that’s what happens when you stop being surprised by it—when trauma becomes background noise instead of an event. When you’ve been drugged and kidnapped and betrayed enough times that rage becomes just another Tuesday.

I study her reflection in the glass. It looks softer than she actually is, the darkness and rain smoothing her edges. But I know better. She’s the kind of soft that hides teeth, the kind of quiet that comes before violence. I’ve seen her fight—nails and elbows and pure survival instinct—and it was beautiful in a way that made me want things I shouldn’t.