Page 107 of Bad for Me

I squirm as she waits for me to answer.

“Gable.”

I whip my gaze back to Woods and raise my hand as I answer the only question I can manage right now.

“Here.”

He searches the room until his attention homes back in on me. Shock flashes across his face just before my first name grates out of him on a harsh growl. My smile falters, and the icy-cold hatred in his glare cools the excitement I’ve felt for months. His expression morphs just like it did the first time we met, and everything about that memory snaps into place like a puzzle. Only this time, the pieces form a picture that is much different than the one my stepfather constructed for me when I was fourteen. Back then, I thought my stepbrother’s rage was all for his father, but the disdain reddening his fair complexion now is focused all onme.

A cold realization settles into my skin, making my palms clammy.

Woods didn’t stay away because he has a problem with his father. He has a problem withme, and I have no idea what I did to him.

I wipe my hands on my dress and pray that the ribbed cotton will dry by the time class is over. His anger pricks my skin as he slaps his papers onto his podium.

“Let’s get on with it shall we? If someone doesn’t know they need to show up for class, then that’s their fault.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Gable, why don’t we start with you? We’ll see what I have to work with this semester.”

“Yeah, um, sure.” I sit straighter in my seat and ready myself for whatever he’s about to ask me.

“What did you think about your summer reading, Miss Gable?”

Blood drains from my face.

Summer reading? What summer reading? This is my first class of college and I’m already screwing it up?

My heartbeat thumps in my ears as the rest of the class shifts in their seats. The pretty girl with black curls sitting in the front raises her hand briefly. I’m thankful for the reprieve and try to breathe out my nerves as she speaks before Woods calls on her.

“Professor Woods? I know this syllabus with my eyes closed, and there wasn’t any assigned summer?—”

“I didn’t ask about ‘assigned’ summer reading,” Woods snaps but doesn’t take his eyes off of me as he crosses his arms. “Tell the class about what you read, Miss Gable. Or were you too obsessed with asinine vampire shows to read anything of import?”

How does he know about that?

A few students snicker in the large room. Their delight in my humiliation echoes against the room’s stone and polished hardwood aesthetic.

But others, like Cadence and Marleigh, shift uncomfortably. The huge guy beside Cadence scowls. I straighten in my seat and try to use their solidarity as a shield.

“Dickinson, mostly. Austen of course. I re-readPride and Prejudice.”

Emotion flickers over his face, revealing something soft in his expression right before his lips curl in disgust.

“Dickinson, hm? Why do you enjoy the musings of a romantic recluse, hm? Do you consider yourself a romantic, Miss Gable?”

I frown at the question and try to think of how I’m supposed to answer it. “Well, I?—”

“Of course, you are. I bet it even runs in the family,” he sneers, like my mother’s love for love is a bad thing. My spine bristles to defend her.

“Being a romantic isn’t something to be ashamed of?—”

“Ashamed of being a romantic?” he scoffs and strolls over to stand behind the podium, finally releasing me from his piercing gaze. “No. What could you possibly be ashamed of for loving a story about a woman whose family doesn’t have enough dowry to marry her off, so she claws her greedy fingers into the heart of some unsuspecting rich man?”

“I—what?” His wild argument knocks the breath out of my chest. “That’show you seePride and Prejudice? It’s one of the most important works of early feminism in classic literature.”

He rolls his eyes and dismisses my point with a wave of his hand. “And one of the tritest pieces of classic literature, is it not? Every literate blonde claims to love Jane Austen even though they’re only interested in watching a subpar movie. Go on, tell the class you haven’t seen it.”

I feel my cheeks heat to a crimson shade, but instead of embarrassment, my own anger heats my skin.

“I have seen it, but I fell in love with the book first. I’ve read it five times?—”

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