Page 34 of Kings of Westbrook High

He growls, sliding his hands over my waist and squeezing. “You don't run shit around here, punk. I do. That means if I tell you to get in my fucking car, you move your sexy little ass and keep your big mouth shut while you're doing it.”

I lick my lips, smirking when his dark blue eyes darken further. “Why you really mad, big brother?”

He glares some more and moves in closer, so close his entire body covers mine and traps me between him and his car. “You piss me off.”

“I know.”

“You like it.”

“So do you.”

He lifts his hand, and just when I think he's about to strangle me, he shocks the shit out of me when he gently brushes his thumb over the invisible cut on my bottom lip.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” I lie, swallowing when I realize how hard his heart is beating against my chest.

Mine races to keep up with him.

“Why didn't you hit her back?”

I frown, looking up at him. “What?”

“Katherine.” He rasps over my lips, moving his thumb to trace the thin silver chain on my collarbone.

I dig my nails into his biceps in warning and notices the shift in me, but he doesn't stop touching it.

“Your first day here all Madison had to do was look at you the wrong way and you rushed her.” He informs me, pinning my eyes with his. “You damn near lose your shit every time someone touches you. Every.. single.. time.” He teases, sliding his free hand over my back like he’s proving some kind of point. “You and me both know you could've taken her. Why didn't you?”

Because I wanted to stay.

My brows raise at my own thought and I quickly shake it off, searching for the right answer because that sure as fuck isn't it.

“I deserved it.” I admit, shrugging. “I riled her up, pissed her off and pushed her to snap to see if she'd kick me out.”

He locks his jaw, tightening his grip around my waist. “If she ever does that again..”

I lick my lips when he trails off, ignoring the way he looks like the thought infuriates him. Little does he know a little backhand to the face is nothing compared to the shit I've endured at the hands of some very bad, very sick men. The bruises on my wrists from where Jason pinned me down on my bed the morning he died only fully healed a couple days ago. I have an inch wide scar on my back between my shoulder blades from the time he shoved me down on the kitchen floor when I was fifteen and held me there with a knife. He wanted me to sell my body because he needed the cash to pay off his debt with the local bookies. When I refused, he offered them me as payment, let them take it in turns while he watched..

“Who hurt you, punk?”

The memory fades away at the sound of his whispered voice and I blink, coming back to find his dark blue eyes staring into mine with so much intensity that I have to look away. I do it with a grin before he can see something he shouldn't, even though I'm almost sure he already has.

What is it about him?

I don't like that he can read me so easily, not when I work my ass off to keep my walls up - walls this guy seems to be able to bulldoze with little to no effort. It's as if he wants to creep inside my head, steal my inner thoughts and uncover every one of my dark truths.

Why he wants that, no fucking clue.

It's ridiculous for me to assume it might be because he actually gives a shit about me and my fucked up life, which is why I slip away from him without another word, planning on walking the rest of the way to clear my head.He doesn't give me the chance, though.He wraps his massive arm around my waist to lift me off my feet and I squeal, growling when he drags me over to his car.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Taking you home.” He snaps, tossing me through the driver’s side door to shove me over to the passenger seat.

Home.

“Why?” I frown, eyeing him when he reaches over me to pull my seatbelt on.

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