Page 5 of Break Me
I glance down at my fitted black jogging pants. But my t-shirt is dark blue. I think to point that out but don’t give in to her bait. She isn’t colorblind. She doesn’t even dislike me. She just doesn’t like being babysat.
“I’ll give you a ride to class,” I say instead, watching with amusement as she scowls at me. Caden wanted to buy her a car. She refused his offer. Refused even a used one, which is a good thing, because Caden would’ve just made it new. She would’ve been pissed. They would’ve fought.
It’s the thing they’re best at.
“I take the bus,” Riley says, dipping her shoulders beneath the water, fanning her arms out at her sides.
I roll my eyes, unseen by her behind my dark shades. “Not today. You’re riding with me.”
She laughs. It’s bitter, and I don’t really blame her. She got reenrolled in school only to have Caden ride beside her on the bus every day, there and back, monitoring her every movement.
Or not hers, exactly. But the people around her.
It’s not enough for him that she moved to this condo, and her mom, too, to the unit beside her, with Caden insisting he and Riley have their own. Not enough she has a new number. Not enough she deals with Caden even though he can be as demanding as Jack was.
But Riley refuses to ride in Caden’s flashy rental to school. And I don’t think the dude has ever stepped foot on a bus until now, so she’s at least got him by the balls as much as he has her.
“I’m taking the bus.” She turns in the water, glances over a tan shoulder at me. “There’s no need for you to come. I can survive the dangers of public transportation on my own.”
* * *
A few hours later,she’s beside me in my rental. And she hates it. We’re almost at her university and she’s still bitching about it. I don’t really care. I don’t like buses. It’s not snobbery, it’s practicality. Too many unknowns on a bus.
In my line of work, I can’t tolerate unknowns.
I pull up to the curb and she’s already got her hand on the door handle. But the doors won’t unlock until I unlock them (thanks, Mercedes) and I’m not done with her yet.
When she yanks the handle and realizes that, she turns to glare at me. Her hair is piled high in a bun on her head and even though Caden has given her cards for all of his accounts, she’s still wearing her own old clothes: black tank top, threadbare jeans, a backpack with a rip near the top.
“What?” she snarls at me.
I glance beyond her, through the tinted windows at the people heading to classes, coffees in hand, the stained-glass window of the campus chapel. I know the entire layout of this small, private university. It’s a safe school. Renowned for its prestigious reputation. In fact, I’m probably the most dangerous person here right now.
I don’t feel too good about that in some ways. In others, I definitely do.
“Be careful. Eyes peeled. I’ll be right here to pick you up, Little Girl.”
She flips me off and I laugh, unlock the door for her. She hops out and slams it, walking away without looking back.
Yep. She’s definitely Caden’s match.
I watch her until she disappears. When I go to put the car in Drive, someone behind me lays on the horn, as if they can’t drive around me. I could go now. I can’t see Riley anymore. But I don’t move. The blonde girl in the black BMW behind me blows the horn again. She has her window down and I can see her throw up her hands.
She has no idea how much patience I have. Caden Virani is my best friend, but that motherfucker operates on a too-tightly wound string. I used to, too. Back in the day when I got in fist fights nearly every week after school. When my adoptive parents threatened to send me back to the orphanage when I came home with black eyes and split lips.
But now...I can be very, very patient.
I roll down my own window and watch this girl. She’s cute, but so, so pissed.
So pissed, in fact, that she gets out of her car. I can’t hold in my laugh as she stalks over to me in heels and a long, blue dress.
“What the hell?” she snaps at me when she reaches the driver’s side door.
But she pauses when she takes me in, some of her bravado slipping away. I know what she sees. People have told me I “look mean” my entire life. I don’t know if that’s racism—I’m half-Canadian, half-Puerto Rican with tan skin, but most people assume I’m either Middle Eastern or Mexican, because people fucking love assumptions—or if “mean” has a look. And there’s the tattoos, which some girls love, and some find intimidating.
This girl doesn’t really look intimidated. She just looks unsure.
She pulls off her sunglasses, her ocean-blue eyes narrowed on mine. She’s definitely not unsure about the fact that I’m pissing her off.
