Page 2 of Wreck Me

I’d needed to find stable ground again.

And to put a whole lot of distance between myself and a certain someone at the same time.

I swallowed down all of that and focused on what lay immediately ahead of me as I made the turn into the lot of Luxington University—or Luxe, as the students called it. I slowed my HarleyDavidson Street 750 to a crawl so I could begin searching for a parking spot.

The place was packed—one of the main reasons for me wanting to get here a little early.

I liked to get a lay of the land before I went into any situation, so I’d planned to show up at least a half hour before my first class started.

But so much for that.

Thanks to my mom’s pep talk—something she always did before any of us embarked on a new endeavor—turning into a twenty-minute-long warning about some of the toxic elements prevalent at Luxe, I’d lost a lot of time. While she believed the benefits of attending such a prestigious college like this outweighed any of the negatives, she had still been nervous about the other aspects. My dad and I were cut from the same cloth and we didn’t really do nervousness, and fear was more of an aphrodisiac to me than anything else, so she’d spent undue time trying to drill it home to me.

Besides, I was just here to keep my head down and study, while trying to fit into this new normal.

Nothing else concerned me.

And I couldn’t let it either.

I had to stay in this lane now.

A shiny red Ferrari caught my eye through the sea of luxury cars filling the parking lot. It was parked across two spaces, but there was another either side of it, fortunately.

As I made a beeline for the spot closest on the right, I took in a guy leaning against it, his back to me, shaggy brown hair brushing the shoulders of a white designer hoodie with golden tigers and snakes embroidered all over it. Bold. I had to give him props for that.

A group of guys and girls surrounded him, chatting up a storm, some throwing their heads back in exaggerated laughter, others twirling their hair, one guy puffing his chest out. It seemed to be a whole flirt-fest taking place, and the guy against the Ferrari was lapping up the attention as he stroked the hood of his car in an unsettling erotic way.

I turned away and concentrated on pulling into the parking space and settling my bike.

I swung my leg over, pulling my helmet off as I dismounted.

As I secured it into one of my saddlebags, I walked to the other and took out my silver studded messenger bag.

I’d just slung it over my shoulder when my phone buzzed in the pocket of my leather jacket.

I unzipped my jacket and retrieved it from the inside pocket. Swiping it open, I was narrowing my eyes in the next moment as I took in the texts that had come in during my ride.

Unknown Number: The longer you ghost me, the harder I’m gonna go on that tight little cunt of yours, sugar.

Unknown Number: I swear to fuck, I’ll make you hurt for me, bleed for me, fucking well cry for me.

Unknown Number: My bad, we both know you’d like that, my little pain slut. I’ll have to think of a better punishment, one that doesn’t get you off and make your cunt drip.

I screwed up my face.

Fucking Jett.

The bastard and his ridiculous far-reaching resources.

I’d already changed my number a couple of times and still he was facilitating contact.

The urge to respond back and remind him in no uncertain terms that our twisted not-a-relationship was well and truly over was right at the surface.

But I resisted, knowing well by now that there was no reasoning with a sociopath.

The word no was a challenge to him and it would just make things worse.

“Did you hear me?”

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