Page 21 of Break Me
I shake my head. “Nah,” I reply easily. “I think I’ll keep it.” I put it back in my pocket.
“Did you do this?” she asks, darting her gaze down to my t-shirt.
“And if I did?” I ask her innocently.
I see her cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink. “Did you?” she presses, sounding less angry and more uncertain.
I get it. I hate that feeling. Not remembering clearly what you did the night before. Waking up in a strange place. I felt that way every fucking day I woke up in prison.
“No,” I admit, dropping the teasing. “You did. You had a hell of a time last night.”
She tilts her head. “You didn’t dance with me,” she says, as if she’s remembering.
I smile. “I didn’t.” I walk around the island in the kitchen and into the living room, pulling her phone out and offering it to her. She snatches it from my hand and checks her notifications, of which there are a lot.
A lot, in particular, from a number that isn’t saved in her phone, but I feel certain she knows who it is.
She glances up at me as I watch her. “Thanks,” she mumbles.
“You going to class today?” I ask her.
She sighs and rubs her eyes, throwing her phone down on the couch, where it narrowly misses falling into the cushions. I didn’t see her reply to any of her texts. She’s probably driving some dude nuts.
Oh well. As long as it isn’t me.
“I should,” she mutters, leaning her head back on the couch and staring at the ceiling. I sit down beside her but leave ample space between us.
“But?” I prod, wondering if that’s her final answer.
She shrugs. “I probably won’t,” she admits.
After a moment, she picks her head up and stares at me. “Why didn’t you dance with me?”
I laugh, hooking an arm around the back of the couch. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
She looks away from me. “I’m just surprised.”
“You had plenty of partners.”
She nods, pursing her lips. “I did, didn’t I?” she muses. She clearly knows she’s cute.
“Dancing isn’t my thing,” I admit. I love clubs. I own one. But I don’t dance often. I’d rather watch the action than be in on it. Most of the time.
“Why?” she asks, challenging me. “Afraid you’ll embarrass yourself?”
For a second, my adoptive parents’ faces flash into my mind. After I did what I did. When I was sentenced. When they found out the truth about Bianca.
I blink, and the image is gone. “No,” I say quietly. “I don’t get embarrassed.” Not anymore.
“Well,” she says, glancing down at the blanket over her legs. “I guess I’ll get out of your hair.”
I know that’s my cue to leave the room, to give her some privacy to change back into her dress which is beside me on the arm of the chair, but I don’t move.
“Did you have fun?” I ask her quietly.
She looks surprised by the question, and then chews her lip, as if she’s thinking about it. Finally, she answers me. “I did,” she says. “Yeah.” And then, “I can pay you back for my half of the cab.”
I stare at her a second, waiting for her to burst into laughter. When she doesn’t, I frown. “Do you think I need you to pay for your half of the ride?”
