Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

Will this forever be my new normal?

My brothers with their girls, and me by my damn self?

Untrusting.

Unattached and uninterested.

A fly-by fuck at best, not that I keep things quick, but ties are cut when the door closes behind me.

That’s how I like it.

Ain’t it?

Nice and easy, thoughtless.

Careless.

Girl-less?

My phone beeps on the bed at my side and annoyance heats my skin.

This is when the calls and texts always roll in, after fuckin’ dark when I’m useful.

With a sigh, I pick it up, and as I read the name on the screen, a frown takes over.

Little Bishop.

Suspicion forms in the pit of my stomach, and it feels a lot like disappointment, which annoys the shit out of me.

I scoff to myself.

I should have known.

I’ve got to admit, she almost fooled me, acting all ordinary and genuine and shit, or as ordinary as a kind of odd girl who was robbed of... everything can manage.

But a text in the middle of the night?

Fuckin’ please.

I guess she’s no different than any other girl after all, but looking to entice with some late-night pillow talk, probably hoping I didn’t already cut out of her bunk ass town and will offer to bring her to my hotel for what she really wants but hid well.

She acted all unaffected, like I wasn’t her type or something.

Yeah, okay.

I’m everyone’s type and here she’s proving it.

This is good shit, though. I nod to myself.

Real good.

Now that the curtain’s dropped, I can forget about everything else.

I roll over, flipping my pillow in the process and close my eyes.

I toss and turn for another hour before curiosity eats me up inside and forces my hand.

I pick up my phone.

Let’s see how quick, harmless little Bishop faded, allowing her true colors to ring through now that she realizes her opportunity to bag a Bray did to.

I open the text and read it.

My face falls, my phone right there with it.

Fuck.

I glare at the ceiling.

Shit.

I flip over, growling into my pillow as something that feels a lot like thrilling frustration stirs in my gut.

I ignore that shit, but I can’t ignore the rest.

I jump up, reach for my phone and shoot a text out to Mac, my head falling back after it’s good and sent.

I guess it’s fuckin’ settled.BrielleI rush into first period with a minute to spare, a half-eaten yogurt hidden at my side, and throw myself into my seat, Micah already in his beside me.

Micah nods his chin in welcome, but focuses on his phone while I try to catch my breath.

The bell rings not a second later and the teacher wastes no time taking roll. As he does, my phone begins to vibrate in the front pocket of my backpack.

I set the yogurt down and pull it out, my eyes freezing on the screen once I see the name flashing across it.

What the hell?

I hold it in my palm, staring at it until it stops ringing, and then it rings again.

Micah chuckles at my side, but the sound is one of shocked amusement, the kind of laugh that leaves you when you’ve witnessed a bad decision and the person making it is unaware.

My eyes fly to him and narrow as I blindly set the thing on my desktop.

Micah grins. “Bad fuckin’ move, girl.”

“Excuse me—” I cut off when the door is thrown open with a loud bang.

All eyes fly to the front of the room and oh. My. God!

Shock, cold and quick, spreads through me at the rate of a falling star, stealing my thoughts.

My breath.

My ability to move.

All I can do is stare at the tattooed hellion... who, kill me now, is headed right for me.

Dressed in a stark black hoodie and fashion faded jeans, Royce commands attention with his slow and eerie steps, darkening the brightly lit room with his presence alone, and creating a chill in the air that has the teacher frozen as solid as the rest of us. And we’re all frozen. Stuck.

Staring.

He stops right in front of me, and not a peep escapes me when he yanks, spins, and repositions the cheap plastic chair I’m sitting in.

Royce holds my eyes, leisurely trailing his to the screen of my phone that sits face up on the desk beside us and back.

His large hands come down, gripping onto the edges of my chair near my upper thighs, and he bends until we’re eye level.

His brows are plunged so low, his eyelids lay against his lashes, and his thick brown hair, while faded nice and clean on the side, is a wild mess of untamed strands along the top, and nearly creeping into his vision.

His chin is tucked a bit, head tipped an inch to the right.

He’s every bit of dark and displeased.

“Little Bishop.” His voice is a firm mix of bored and brash.

“Royce.” I shake my head. “What—”