Page 8 of Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

I frown when my phone is lifted over my shoulder, Mac having dug it from my bag.

Royce turns it to me, so I put in the password and after a few short seconds, his vibrates from within his pocket, the one pressed against my abdomen.

His pocket reaches higher than my pelvis.

I’m legit child-size compared to him.

I mean, the height difference could be super interesting, right?

A single, dark brow lifts before me, and I wince.

“My bad.” I should have guessed not even my thoughts would be safe with the likes of him.

In my peripheral, I catch a flag blowing in the morning breeze, and realize he brought me to school.

“I’m late,” I remember.

Royce pushes his body firmer into mine, ignoring me, locking me tighter between him and his consigliere.

I tip my head back to get a better look into the eyes of the infamous playboy as he towers over me, all strong and confident like.

He stares a long moment before his gaze pops up, and Mac releases me, the soft clunk of a car door closing seconds later.

Royce draws himself in and whispers, “Can you keep a secret?”

“I could say yes and you would never know for sure.”

He rolls his tongue over his bottom lip, giving a slow nod.

Reaching behind him, he opens the front passenger door, slips in, and closes himself inside.

He leans through the open window, holding my phone out for me to grab.

I step closer, and as soon as my fingers wrap around the plastic case, his free hand shoots out to grip my wrist.

My eyes fly to his.

“Be smart,” he says as he slowly lets go.

I’m pretty sure he’s wanting a response of some sort, so I bend down, careful not to put weight on my foot, and glance past him to his buddy.

I answer his earlier asked question with a major overkill smile. “My last name is Bishop, by the way.”

I spin on my one good heel, hobbling away with Mac’s laughter following me, but as I get a few feet farther, closer to the entrance, something prompts me to stop and glance back.

I do, finding the little white car still sitting idle in the red-painted no parking zone directly in front of the steps of the school’s double doors.

Mac is leaning back, biting into a burger with his phone in his hand, while Royce remains exactly as I left him, half hanging from the window, eyes on mine.

“You can go now!” I shout loud enough for him to hear.

“I’m good.” He cocks his head, drumming his long, resilient fingers against the frame, the tattoos on his forearm shifting and coming alive with each small twitch of his muscles.

As if the gods realize one of their own is among them and his presence needs amplifying, the sun breaks through the clouds above, shining down on him. A heavy gleam flashes, exposing the hint of silver curled around the back of his neck, the chain hiding close to his chest.

As my gaze glides lower, seeking out the form beneath his T-shirt, his palm slaps against the doorframe, pulling my attention back to his face. “Go on, get to class Brielle Bishop, I’ll be right here when you get out.”

I grip my bag tighter. “Why?”

“Why not?”

I look at my phone and back to him. “It’s nine o’clock. You’ll be waiting hours.”

“Got time.”

“Do you, though?” The thought of him out here all day has unease clogging my throat. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something, or did you drop out? Or maybe, since your high school is named after your family, you don’t have to apply yourself at all at Brayshaw High, so here you are, bored and at mine.”

What in the... what’s wrong with me?!

I know what this well wrapped, rich Robin Hood is capable of.

“Maybe.” Royce licks his lips, spinning the matte black band on his right ring finger. “And maybe, smart-ass, you should turn around, show me that ass again as you walk it to class, unless you want me to play your shadow all day.”

I might blush if the thought of him following me around didn’t make me want to vomit, because hell no! That would make my life worse. This school and everyone in it, we have an understanding—I’m the odd outsider they refuse to accept, and I let them. It works perfectly, makes them feel empowered, and I’m not forced to share my story. Add this guy into that equation and into the gutter that goes.

The questions will once again be whispered, and my aunt will punish me for it—oh, what a scandal it would be for our family secrets to be spread among the town.

As if her reality isn’t enough of a reason to judge her.

I pretend I couldn’t care less, pop my hip out and go with, “My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”