Page 24 of Broken Pieces
I flip through pages I have already seen a dozen times, pretending to search for something important. I click my pen again and again, and shift my books into a new stack, then another, arranging and rearranging as if the order of paper and ink could mean something.
But none of it fucking matters.
Because he is watching me.
“Didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you,” he says, voice smooth, every word dipped in arrogance.
I finally meet his eyes and aim the best death glare I have. It is the one I use when I want someone to back the fuck off.
“You don’t,” I snap.
The words land too fast. Too defensive.
His smirk only deepens, spreading slow across his face as if I just handed him proof of something he already suspected. His gaze flickers down to my mouth and lingers there for a half second too long, deliberate enough to make my stomach twist.
Fuck.
Zane Rivera is dangerous.
Not in the casual way people throw that word around when they talk about boys with motorcycles or tattoos. Not the kind of danger that fades when the lights come on.
I force my attention to the front of the room.
Mr. Harvey is at the whiteboard, uncapping markers and scrawling the outline of a lesson we haven’t started yet. Grammar bullshit no one in here will bother to care about.
Then the sound in the room shifts.
The air itself changes.
The noise floods in, cutting across the low hum that had settled before. Laughter slices through it— too smug, entitled in the way only certain voices can be.
Footsteps follow. Every step dripping with that cheap confidence bought with money and last names, the kind of confidence that tells them the world will bend just because they showed up. It is in their walk, all chest and shoulders. It is in the tilt of their heads, the practiced roll of their smirks as they scan the room.
Every move says the same thing: applaud us, worship us, hate us if you want, but do not look away.
Three of them.
Football jerseys stretched across their shoulders. Expensive haircuts, paid for by fathers who solve their problems with cash and lawyers. They move as a pack, feeding on each other’s noise, amplifying it until it fills every corner of the room. Alone, they would be just boys in shoes too clean, they wouldn’t matter. Together, they wear invincibility like a crown.
Zane doesn’t turn to look. His body stays slouched in that lazy way of his, but I can feel his attention fixed on me. His eyes don’t leave, not even for a second, as every muscle in my body coils tight.
I know what’s coming. The script never changes, only the volume.
Liam doesn’t waste time.
He spots me the second he crosses the threshold, his grin already plastered across his face, stretched too wide, too sure of itself.
He makes a beeline straight for our table, carving through the rows of desks, weaving between bodies without breaking stride. People move for him even when they don’t mean to, pulled out of his way by sheer force of arrogance. His swagger isn’t earned. Itnever is with boys like him. It’s inherited, handed down with the letterman jacket and the empty praise that cushions every fall.
He stops right beside us, staking his ground as if the floor was marked with his name.
His stance is wide, feet planted apart in that ridiculous show of dominance boys of his kind believe makes them men. His hands rest on his hips, fingers splayed, elbows out, his chest puffed up for maximum effect.
“Shit,” he says, dragging the word out, making sure every single person within earshot hears it. His voice carries that mocking tone, drawn out as if the syllable itself is the punchline to a joke only he finds funny. He tilts his head toward me, eyes cutting sharp. “Didn’t know the cafeteria was handing out strays this early.”
I freeze. Not completely, but enough for it to show in the smallest ways. My fingers clamp down on the edge of the desk until my knuckles ache, white and bloodless.
Because I know this game.
