Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

I never want them clouded from me, changed or—

Okay, I’m a selfish prick.

I want her eyes to fall on me, smile at me, glare at me, even if that means absolutely nothing and no one else. If there’s only one person in the world she can see, I need it to be me.

I swallow, dropping my head to hers, and she pulls in a full breath.

“I went to my place today, the place I took you, by the water,” I tell her. “There were people there.”

Her lips pull in and she waits.

“I lied to you,” I rasp. “I know we’re past that day, but I need you to know it was special to me, but I freaked out, panicked like a bitch when I realized I gave you a piece of me I’d never given anyone, that I let you in without consent. So, I invited people there to try to bury it, to downplay what you do to me, and now it’s ruined.”

My eyes open, locking with hers, and I case her face in with my palms. “That’s what I do to special things, I ruin them.”

Broken and pained, she whispers, “Royce—”

“Don’t let me ruin you. I’m not good.”

Her gaze is troubled but clear and sure.

“I’m not and you know it.” I trace over her cheekbone and my body warms.

A long quiet pause stretches between us, and my knuckle finds its way beneath her jaw, bringing those eyes back to me, where they belong.

I tip my head, gliding my thumb along her bottom lip.

She sighs, leaning into my touch with a long, gentle blink, and my muscles tighten with emotions I can’t begin to name but ain’t mad at. Not right now.

I want to feel all she can do to me. I need to.

She pushes closer and my pulse climbs. “I told you the day I met you, Playboy.” Her voice is a low murmur, her chin lifted and lips as close as she can fuckin’ get ‘em. “I’m so sick of good and I don’t want calm. I want a hurricane. I need a nightmare and someone to hold my hand through the darkness that follows. I want raw realness and a catastrophic mess because that’s real life. I need something real and honest, hard-living and so true it hurts to think about. I want the pain that comes with something so deep that I bleed when you’re the one who’s cut.”

“Baby.” I don’t even recognize my voice. It’s deeper than normal, wounded, fucking petrified and ready. Needy. It has her chest inflating, her shoulders squaring and my baby girl, she pushes closer.

“You were right before and you know it.” She stares at me, into my soul, and whispers, “It’s not the prince I’d go for.”

Fuck me, if those aren’t the magic words. Words I needed but didn’t, ‘cause like she said, I was right, and I knew it when I said it to her.

She repeats the words I spoke to her once with a shaky but sure little laugh. “You’re far from decent and a total dick.”

I hold her as close as possible, an uncontrollable eagerness firing off my every nerve and soaking up any alcohol left inside me. I’m stone-cold fucking sober and staring into the soul that’s bound itself to mine.

“Trust me, Tink. I know.”

She brings her mouth closer to mine, right against my lips. “Make it up to me,” she breathes.

I take her lips as mine.

Because they are.

And so is she.

All fucking mine.

After a moment, she pulls back with a smirk. “Do you get it now?”

“Get what, baby?”

“You can’t push me away. I’m inside you and you know it.” Her voice lowers and with it, my throat bobs. “You couldn’t claw me out if you tried.”

“I will never try again.”

I know nothing is ever so clean and clear, that there’s no such thing as good without a bit bad, no love without heartache, and I’m aware love only grows off the roots of pain, but that doesn’t have to mean it’s fucked.

Loneliness is what brought Brielle here, pain is what drew her to me, and longing is what bonded us together.

Need recognizes need.

Her and I, we need each other.

But the universe decides we’re not in the clear yet, that there’s another mountain to climb, a massive wave to ride out before we can breathe, and it comes in the form of the roaring engine of a 1969 Mustang Fastback.

I grab her hand and tug her to the porch, an apology in my eyes.

That’s when she hears it and hers narrow.

“Is that...”

“Boys will be boys, baby girl.”

“Royce.”

“Stay back.”

“Is this necessary?”

“It’s inevitable.”

Her glare is sharp and flying over my shoulder, and then my dad comes out of nowhere, wraps her up, and carries her inside.

With a deep breath, I nod my head and spin around, right as the old muscle car whips into view, screeching to a stop not five inches from my shins.