Page 4 of Make Me, Break Me

Nope. I could handle all that with one person, and one person only.

This girl was purely unsociable, preferring my stats to real people most of the time. I liked measurable data, something quantifiable, the sort I could trust.

Fuck me, I’m a bore. Nerd me up, baby.

I strode past the lacrosse team who surrounded a pair of girls. One laughed, twirling her bleached locks around a red-taloned finger, while the other stood frozen and looked utterly petrified. The boys picked up on her fear and upped their ribald comments that echoed across the open area.

I shook my head.Damn jocks.

Another reason I didn't socialize. The Allstars—read the lacrosse kings and the ice hockey team who lived in the Kingsman frat house on campus, or at least three varsity teams full of self-appointed heroes—took top ranking in Rippton’s social pecking order.

Someone like me sat at the bottom of that ladder, and I was happy to stay right there.

Unnoticed, and unseen.

A wolf whistle filled the air behind me. I looked around cautiously to see who might have earned the attention. Just because I didn’t socialize didn’t mean that I wasn't a curious kitten, after all. Marketing student, you know.

My search yielded nothing except for the attention of a few jocks who eyed me with various states of sneers. I picked up my pace, keen to reach the cool interior of the library and get the hellaway from everyone else. Another whistle filled the commons. I hugged my laptop bag tighter.

Please don't be for me.

But I was a nobody by my own design, so that was unlikely to happen. Especially dressed in my biker boots and jeans like I wore every day, paired with a cute little cropped, white knit cardigan over the top. I left my hair out and as usual, it was a mass of messy curls that stuck to everything, including me.

Pushing loose strands back that clung to my face, I ran my fingers through my hair and made it another three steps before someone grabbed my arm. I shrieked, one hand raised in a not-quite defensive measure, wheeling about to land face-to-face with Dex.

Razored dark brown hair hung rakishly across one eye while the rest was cut short. His lopsided smile warmed me the way it shouldn’t since the first day we met at the campus bar, and he wore his typical uniform of a black button down cotton shirt, black jeans and black Converse.

The law department never looked so sexy.

I still hated him.

Repeating that mantra over and over in my head to make sure it stuck while my heart jittered away in my chest, I resumed my pace after glaring at him.

“Dex.”

“Hey.” He fell into step beside me.

"Is this your new scare tactic? Frighten me, so you can come over early?" I snapped.

Or see if you can call my bluff?

A power play seemed his type of thing. Push and push and push and see what happened. See what broke. But Dex wouldn't like the outcome of calling my bluff because he wasn't the sort of guy who liked to lose. Being the star of the law department told its own story.

Funny thing about not liking to lose—because neither did I.

I sneaked a sideways look at him. The bruising might've faded, but the slight yellow patch around his eye was nothing new. At least, not to me. He didn't seem to realize that I could catalog every cut and scar, every new decoration added to his taut body each week. I clocked when he got new ink, let him talk about it if he wanted. Didn’t press if he didn’t. Not my business, though I enjoyed listening to his reasoning if he chose to share.

Going to watch him fight—on my own, no less—had been a huge risk but oh boy, had it paid off. I thought he might have seen me in the crowd on Saturday night, the night after I last kicked him out of my room. I mean, it’s not like I had a social life to schedule, and I didn’t wear a white tee with my boobs busting out the bottom, or gold lamé like the over-primped ring bunnies overpopulating the edge of the cage that he fought in. They all seemed to congregate around the wired shut door, hoping for a quick fuck with a victorious fighter minutes after they left the ring.

No one touched the loser, assuming he could leave under his own steam and wasn't dragged out by a bunch of muscle on hand and planted in a corner to recover.

No, being a ring side bunny held no appeal to me, not even for Dex whose sex appeal skyrocketed as he shook the cage and roared back at the crowd who screamed his name, delirious for his attention.

I didn’t have to do that, because our hate/fuck relationship ensured he returned to my bed once a week to equalize our hormones and provided mind bending orgasms in both directions.

Nor did he give the gold lame crowd a second glance as he took the blood stained money stuffed into his fist and strode away.

No matter how I felt about him at any other point in time, Dex Breaker wasmine.

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