Page 40 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth (The Blackridge Reapers #4)

My gut sinks, panic rising to my head. I feel faint. Shit. Fuck.

But she doesn’t say more… it’s almost like an acknowledgement that she’s put the puzzle pieces together and knows.

Fuck, does she know?

I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Wow,” I say, not knowing how else to react. “Well, what are the cops saying? That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?”

She sighs. “I guess, but it seems like it’s being covered up. Did anything happen with you and Jack that night?”

I take a shaky breath, nodding even though she can’t see me. “No, Cass… I would have told you if I hooked up with him. You know me. But my coffee is getting cold, so I need to go. I’ll see you later, okay.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I hang up with a huge sigh, leaning my head back against the stall door. My eyes drift shut as I let the phone rest limply in my hand. Just two minutes…

I just need two minutes to pull myself together. My head feels heavy, my chest tight, and it’s like the walls of this tiny stall are closing in on me.

My phone buzzes and I glance at the screen. A text from Connor.

Hey. Just checking in. Hope you’re okay. You aren’t in class so I got worried.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I stare at his message.

What do I even say?

His message lights a little candle of warmth in my chest and I swallow thickly. It’s simple, thoughtful — exactly what I need but don’t deserve right now.

I start typing, my fingers trembling slightly.

Thanks, Connor. I’m fine, just had something come up. Appreciate you checking in.

I pause, rereading the words. It feels wrong, like I’m brushing him off when he’s only trying to help. I delete the text and try again.

Hey, I’m okay. Just needed some air today. Sorry for making you worry.

Another pause. The truth is, I don’t know if I’m okay. My thumb hovers over the send button, but I hesitate. Connor’s message is sweet and thoughtful but it also feels like an obligation I’m too exhausted to meet right now.

With a sigh, I delete the message entirely and lock my phone. Not now. I can’t deal with him and Thatcher and everything else swirling in my head.

The stall door creaks as I push it open, stepping back into the bathroom.

Thatcher leans casually against the sinks, his arms crossed and his posture infuriatingly relaxed. Like he’s just waiting for the bus, not lurking in the women’s bathroom like some unbothered predator.

He glances at my hands. One’s holding my phone and the other has my wet underwear. I shove my underwear into my pocket as irritation flares in my chest. I walk to the sink and wash my hands, ignoring him.

“This is the women’s bathroom, you know?” I say, my voice sharp as I glare at the running water. “Can’t I have a little privacy?”

He doesn’t respond but I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my face, heavy and unrelenting. My irritation bubbles to the surface as the silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until it feels like the entire room is holding its breath.

I glance at him through the mirror, my eyes narrowing as they meet his. For the first time, his customary infuriating smirk is absent, replaced by a look I can’t quite place—intense, unnerving… like he had finally let the mask he constantly wore drop.

The change unsettles me more than I’d like to admit. My irritation falters, replaced by an unease that coils in my stomach.

“What?” I snap, a desperate attempt to calm my anxiety.

He doesn’t reply, instead his head tilts slightly, as if studying me.

“Who were you texting?” he asks, his tone even but carrying an edge, an edge that sends a shiver down my spine.

I stiffen, my fingers gripping the edge of the sink. “Texting? None of your business,” I shoot back, turning my gaze away from him and focusing on the water droplets clinging to my hands.

“None of my business?” he repeats, his voice dipping lower, his voice devoid of any trace of amusement. “Everything about you is my business, Dove.”

I whirl around to face him, my frustration bubbling over. “If that’s so then you should know that the campus thinks it was you that night,” I snap.

He smiles. A genuine beautiful infuriating smile that reaches his eyes. He thinks this is funny.

“Little do they know, Dove.”

My heart slams against my ribs. My face starts heating up under his laugh. “People are creating theories, Thatch. This isn’t a simple situation anymore.”

“Who the fuck are you texting?” he presses, his voice quieter but no less commanding.

“Fuck the text, Thatcher,” I warn. “We have much bigger problems to handle.”

But, of course, he doesn’t think so, or maybe he just doesn’t care. His hand moves faster than I can react, slipping into the pocket of my jeans and pulling out my phone.

“Thatcher,” I scoff, reaching for my phone. “What the hell!”

He points the phone at my face to unlock it. “Connor, huh?” he asks. His voice is calm. The tension in his posture multiplying as he scrolls through the screen. “Didn’t know you guys were so close.”

He’s still scrolling, his eyes scanning the screen as if he’s entitled to this information. I feel exposed, violated, the weight of his intrusion making my skin crawl. I can feel my frustration mounting, the need to lash out growing more and more, but he’s still holding it out of my reach.

“Give. It. Back,” I snap, stepping closer, trying once more to snatch the phone from his hand.

But it’s no use. He’s not even breaking a sweat, keeping the phone just high enough to stay out of my grasp.

“Thatcher, you’re such a goddamn child!” I yell, swiping at him again.

My voice is shaking, and I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes despite myself.

He watches me with that maddeningly calm expression, his eyes dark and unreadable as I finally stop, my fists clenched at my sides, trembling with anger. The tears spill over as I glare at him, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

I suck in a breath, my control rattling, “God, I fucking hate you so much!”

He freezes, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible, but enough to make me realize I’ve struck a nerve. The playful air that seemed to follow him like a second skin dissipates in an instant and something darker flashes in his eyes.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The room feels unbearably still, the tension pressing down on me like a heavy weight. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and sharp.

“What did you say?”

His tone sends a chill down my spine, but my anger burns too hot to care. I lift my chin, my voice trembling but unwavering. “I said I hate you,” I repeat, my chest heaving as I meet his gaze head-on.

The words barely leave my mouth before he steps closer, and I instinctively take a step back, the edge of the sink pressing into my lower back. His presence looms over me, suffocating and electric, the intensity in his gaze igniting a storm in my chest.

“You don’t know real hate, Dove,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, his frame vibrating with restrained fury.

“Hate is when you feel pure rage in your bones every time you see someone’s face.

You can’t think straight, can’t breathe, can’t focus on anything else.

” He inches closer, his words like fire licking at my skin.

“It’s like poison, consuming you from the inside out.

You feel like you’re going to explode if you don’t hurt them, break them, destroy every part of what they are. And even then, it’s not enough.”

My breath catches, my heart racing as his gaze pierces mine, unrelenting and raw.

“But you don’t feel that do you?” he pauses, his voice softer now, almost mocking. “What you feel is different. You may think it’s hate, but it isn’t. Not even close.”

“You’re wrong,” I snap, my voice cracking under the weight of his intensity. The words taste bitter in my mouth as I glare at him.

He tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into a small, infuriating smirk.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, his tone a challenge, dripping with certainty. He locks the bathroom door and then turns to me. “I bet you would let me fuck you right here.”

His words make me flinch. The ache is stronger now.

He brushes my hair behind my ear. “I bet that pussy wants relief.” He unbuttons my jeans as I inhale. “I bet you would fucking love it for the waitress to hear you moaning in here, knowing you have what she cannot have.”

His hand slips into my pants. “I didn’t know you were so chivalrous.”

He smiles slightly, kissing my cheek. “Dove…” His finger enters me, curling right into the perfect spot. I grab onto his shoulders as pleasure bursts through my body. “Kiss me.”

I smash my lips against his, hungry for this release. He lifts my ass onto the sink, hooking me with his long middle finger and rubbing my clit with his thumb. It doesn’t take me long before I start convulsing under his spell.

“Told you,” he whispers, his voice low and laced with triumph, his lips brushing against mine as he speaks. His gaze flickers over my face, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This isn’t hate.”

I grab his face, and the physical force I use causes him to hook deeper into my pussy. I stare into his eyes, feeling a new hunger rip through me. “You promised me protection.”

“You’re not in prison right now, are you?” he replies in a condescending tone.

“I don’t want these people talking about me…or you.”

His lips curl, bringing them closer to mine. “I knew that pretty fucking mouth would soon be saying words I wanted to hear.” His eyes burn with satisfaction, that maddening smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m serious, Thatcher.”

He pulls away and licks his fingers that were inside of me, staring into my eyes. My heart cracks open as I watch in fascination.

“The pancakes are getting cold,” he says casually, as if the last few minutes hadn’t upended everything I thought I knew. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out, the door swinging shut behind him.