Page 4 of Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

I trip over a small hump of grass, but before I’m forced to catch myself with my injured foot, large palms wrap around my upper ribs and I’m lifted off the ground, only to be lowered right back, my bag falling to the crook of my arm.

My head snaps up and to the side, allowing me to meet his aggravated eyes over my shoulder.

“Come on now, girl,” he whispers, mockingly. “If you wanna spin stories, try one I can’t prove wrong where we stand.”

“Go for it, Slick Rick.”

He gives a half shrug, and something tells me he totally will, so I retract, rushing out, “No, don’t” before he can make a move.

Okay, so my bad. I lied.

As far as I could tell from the angle of my little peep show, he lacked in no facet of the word, but I would swear Ciara was just that to him—lackluster, unexciting.

Far from his type, should this prominent playboy have one.

Not to judge my cousin or anything, she has issues and it’s her choice to use sex to make her feel better, but she jumps right to it like a dog in heat. I hear the tales time and time again, how she cuts the sensuality out of it, a self-proclaimed quickie queen.

Give them more than your body, B, and they’ll shit all over it.

Words of wreckage from her.

With a guy like this one, though, I imagine that’s the worst way to be.

I’d bet you’ve got to awaken the chef to be served the five-star delight from this too tall, too gorgeous, tattooed, brute of a boy.

You’d only be shorting yourself to not.

It’s like cocoa without the whipped cream—lacking the full, glorious experience.

The corner of his mouth lifts, but his eyes seem to narrow more. “Far from a boy, short stuff.”

My nose scrunches, a small ripple running across my ribs. “I said that out loud?”

“You did.”

“Like... all of it? Or, you know, just the boy part...”

I swear he’s about to chuckle, but swallows it, and just like that, the hint of embarrassment warming my blood fades.

“How ‘bout,” Royce starts. “You repeat all of it, and I’ll tell you which part you already shared?”

“That sounds like a horrible idea.”

He raises a single brow and I’m instantly drawn to the tiny scar above the thick, dark curve.

Once I’ve allowed myself to focus on a part of him, I’m unable to stop, so from there, I search for more.

For proof of struggle and pain, for signs of a life lived and for the dark I’ve heard so much about but can’t seem to find staring back.

I spot another small marking on his cheekbone, and a ghost of one on his jaw, but my focus falls to the thick, full bottom lip he drags along his upper teeth.

He’s perfectly flawed... and still holding on to me.

“Why are you here?” I lift my gaze to his, though he can’t see beyond my frames.

A small wrinkle forms along his forehead, but his question doesn’t match the one his eyes provide.

He wants to know how I know who he is, and even more, if I do, why I’d ask with such a question, but those queries go unanswered as he decides another is more important. “Why’d you let me think your cousin was you?”

Because I’m tragic and eager to please.

“She seemed more your type.”

A shadow flashes across his face, a burn I recognize. One that ignites when met with judgment and personification, but did he not do the same to me?

He’s the one who saw her and boom, his mind was made up.

It’s only natural though, allowing what’s on the surface to settle all.

It’s humanity’s biggest downfall—judgment. Expectation.

“My type, huh?” he bites with blatant aggravation. “How you figure?”

“I mean… you’re basically wearing the same pants, so,” I joke. “Peas in a pod, Tweedledee and Tweedledum... Cheech and Chong?”

That does it, takes him off defense mode, and the corner of his mouth lifts with his sudden and unexpected laugh.

It’s not brash and boisterous, but a laugh just loud enough to stir the birds in the trees surrounding us.

It’s throat-deep and jagged, yet somehow still a lively and free sound, one that has me smiling, but the moment my lips curl to their fullest, his expression goes slack.

In a single inhale, the guy at my back morphs, now the bearer of the finest worn mask at the nonexistent masquerade he’s forced himself into.

A fake in the flesh.

Or maybe fake isn’t fair, but regardless, he chose to censor himself.

I don’t need any more of the type around me, those closed off and prone to hiding.

All anyone ever does is hide things from me.

“You can let go of me now,” I tell him.

He cocks his head, bottomless, dark eyes piercing mine through a mass of black lashes.

Something in my gut stirs, and I want to look away, but don’t.