Page 46 of Soul of a Psycho

She tilts her head back to look at me upside down. “That you and Cade Haven are a thing, and that he lost his shit. Word travels fast, Barbie.”

“Why would people think we are a thing?” I fling my book aside.

Arewe a thing? My heart hums when it shouldn’t. Cade is… And yes, Iwanthim… But he’s not…

“Because he threw you over his shoulder like a bandit with loot and ravished you in the hallway.”

“What?!” I shriek. “He did not!”

“Not what I heard. They say he took you on the Macmiller Memorial Bench and fucked you so good it broke.”

My face flames as I try and fail to form words. There’s no way that’s what people are saying. God, I’m going to be known as a whore. If that spreads…

“Yep. Word is Rykes looked at you too long, and Cade attacked him for it.”

“That’s not what happened at all!” Panic flares in my chest.

She shrugs and looks at the wall. “Well, you could tell me what really happened and I might be able to set the record straight for you.”

“He was just—” I start, not actually sure why Cade didn’t go to his class, but then notice Ruby biting her lip.

“You manipulative little liar!” I say.

“Who me?” She twists onto her stomach and pins me with challenging eyes. “I’m not the one who lied about knowing Cadewhile prancing around in his jumpers and acting like a goody two shoes while fucking the spawn of satan.”

“He’s not thespawn of satan,” I spit.

“Oh, so the fucking part is accurate, though?” She smirks.

I narrow my eyes at her. “What do you care, anyway?”

“I don’t.” She scoffs, pulling her phone back out. “I just hope you know what you’re getting into.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” An odd, protective part of me bubbles up. “He’s just a person. Not a puppy skinning cultist.”

The truth is, though, that I don’t know that for a fact. I would like to believe I have decent judgment and didn’t spread my legs for a sociopath. Besides the poor little dead birds, I didn’t spot anything nefarious in his… cabin? Is that what that place was? My brows furrow. I was so distracted that I didn’t even question why he had a bed in there… or a drawer of knives. Does Cade actually sleep out there in the woods? It was kind of cozy, but still.

“I’m just saying.” Ruby shrugs.

“Saying what?” I don’t let my uncertainty stop the boulder I’ve already started rolling. “Because he’s a loner, he’s a freak? Looks can be deceiving, Ruby. Look at you.”

She slowly turns her head, raising a brow. “Look at me? What about me?” She tosses her phone and swings her legs off the bed. “At least I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

“Ha!” I laugh, the sound cruel and patronizing, but if she thinks I’m the only one wearing a mask, she’s mistaken.

She narrows her eyes at me, lips pinching together. “I don’t portray myself as being holier than thou and then mingle with the rubbish in secret.”

“No.” I sneer. “You just hide behind your eyeliner and attitude and pretend like nothing fazes you.”

I may have only been Ruby’s roommate for a little over a month, but I see her heart, bloody and mangled, all over her sleeve. She thinks her smart comebacks at Britney disguise the hurt in her eyes, but they don’t. Every insult that red-headed bitch throws at her whittles down her self worth. She might pretend she doesn’t care, but it’s the complete opposite. She never lets her black nails chip, always repainting them to perfection. She spends hours watching tutorials on how to make grunge eyeliner look effortless, and she has a pink diary stashed under her mattress that she writes in when she thinks I’m asleep. She sniffles softly at night, keeping me awake, and breaking my heart so violently that I have to resist the urge to climb in her bed and hold her.

Because I know what she would do if I did. She would push me away, hide behind a snarky remark, and pretend she’s having allergies. She’s built a spiky exterior, but it’s just a costume. She pretends to be hard when she’s nothing but a squishy little girl, just like the rest of us.

“You don’t know anything about me!” she seethes, eyes going watery.

And isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? She judges me for not having piercings, tattoos, or wearing makeup, but she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know that the real me—whoever she is—is clawing to get out.

“Andyoudon’t know anything aboutme,” I say, hoping she gets the irony.

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