Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

As fast as she’s out of my space, Mac’s got her by the wrist.

People stare, wide-eyed and tripped out as this isn’t something they’ve seen before.

I can pretty much hear their internal gasps.

Did little Brielle Bishop claw out of her casket?

Ciara growls, growing red with embarrassment, but gets one good look at my swollen eyes, and quickly finds her way to win.

“Aw, look at you.” She fake pouts with a vile gleam in her eye. “All swollen and red. Guess you cried yourself to sleep again last night, huh?” She smirks, doing her best to paint me weak and worthless when she knows the truth behind is far from her childish taunt.

She also knows I won’t rebut and instead let these people believe whatever the hell they want.

Bitch.

I bend, reaching for my glasses, but find Micah has already picked them up, and is bent at the knee a few feet away, holding them out for me. With a thankful twitch of my lips, I grab the cheap frames and straighten.

I give Ciara a small shrug, and force myself to her level, even if it is a crappy place to be. “You wouldn’t know, since you spent it in Greg’s bed.”

Low laughter spreads throughout the courtyard, and her eyes widen.

I instantly feel like dirt, but I need this over.

Franky pushes to his feet, his eyes meeting mine briefly before looking away.

“Let’s go,” he says to no one, yet everyone.

Ciara shakes her head, jerking in Mac’s hold and when he realizes she’s only trying to walk away, he lets her.

She pushes on Franky’s chest, and thankfully the bell rings, ending this midday nightmare.

While the crowd around us takes slow steps to make sure they don’t miss anything juicy, I do the opposite. I spin and hightail it as quick as my sore ankle allows in the opposite direction.

I make it a whole three feet before Royce falls in line beside me.

“Campus security or the principal will be out here any second, how they weren’t at the start of your little head honcho showdown, I don’t even know.”

“Fuck ‘em.” He slides in my path, halting my escape.

I stop walking.

“That’s easy for someone who doesn’t go here to say,” I tell him as I turn my head away, but he grips my chin, bringing it right back.

He takes in every inch of the puffy red skin surrounding my eyes.

He studies me for a long, unnerving moment, and slowly, small creases form along his forehead, but then he blinks.

With the single flick of his eyelids, his mood changes, and a slow grin pulls at his mouth. “I was bettin’ on brown.”

Despite being a little embarrassed and a lot irritated, a small chuckle escapes. I slip my glasses back on, but he quickly pushes them up on my head.

“Yeah, well.” I roll my eyes playfully. “I’m pretty good at disappointing people.”

“Who said I was disappointed?”

I cross my arms, fighting a grin as I shake my head. “Don’t you think you should go now, or did you not start enough trouble to feed your rebelled soul?”

“Baby girl.” He pushes closer. “You know nothin’ about my soul, and if you call that trouble, your little world here must be as lame as it looks.”

“If you’re not a fan of this little world.” I give a small shrug. “Go back to your own.”

He silently stares but there’s a question floating around in those dark eyes of his, one he refuses to ask.

He makes no move, so I add, “Seriously, you should go, at least off campus.”

“Rushin’ me, little Bishop?” he tsks. “Not a fan of quickies.”

I frown. “If one-liners like that are what the girls you spend your time with find cute or even a little bit appealing, then I feel bad for you.”

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”

“Because that would mean you know nothing about actual effort, and that’s a shame. Someone with the world at their fingertips should be far more than a bag of jokes and heavy fists.”

The way he watches me is intense, it’s as if he’s trying to see inside my head, but what’s worse, it’s as if he can. As if he’s realizing all the things I wish he wouldn’t.

The things I don’t talk about or share.

Not that I have people lining up who care to know.

Not that I allow anyone close enough to.

His eyes narrow farther, and I go to step by him, but he slides with me.

A heavy sigh escapes me and I shake my head. “I need to go. I have class,” I stress, knowing the cost—literally—of being late, and the need to get away from him. Fast.

His glare is so heavy now, so calculating, I can hardly see the brown of his eyes. He doesn’t take his focus off of me as he pulls a rolled-up stack of twenties from his pocket and holds it up.