Page 20 of The Freedom in Captivity

“Hey, new girl.”

His voice has a deep drawl to it. A voice I’ve only ever heard in movies and didn’t know existed. A sexy growl.

“You know of me?”

“Well, considering we share two classes.”

What?I would remember this guy but don’t recall seeing him anywhere over the three days.

“Math and English,” he continues, though I never asked. “You sit in the front in English, and in the middle of the farthest row in math. I’m at the back for both.”

Of course he is.

“Good for you.”

Again, his lips twitch, fighting a smile as he sucks a final deep inhale of his smoke, flicks it to the ground at his feet, and jams his shoe—Converse showing obvious signs of wear and tear—into it, twisting it into the dirt beneath our feet. My nose wrinkles in disgust and I don’t bother hiding it.

“Something wrong, princess?”

“I’m not a princess.”

“You look like one.”

Compared to his ripped jeans, baggy, faded black shirt, and even baggier grey sweater, all of which look like they’ve seen better days, sure. Probably.

“Doesn’t make me one.” No matter how much Mom tries.

“Whatever, princess.”

“That’s not my name,” I snap, my hands curling around the edges of the bench.

In a flash, his lazy slouch is gone, and he sits up, leaning closer. The hand by my head slips off the back of the bench, but I don’t think it’s an accident when he curls a finger around my hair, tugging lightly to draw my attention.

“Then what’s your name? Because I’m seconds away from calling you Rapunzel because your insane amount of hair.”

“Original.” I roll my eyes, hiding the fact that, despite the waist-long hair Mom continues to insist I should cut, no one’s called me that.

“Name,” he demands, a growl to his tone that makes my grip around the wood even tighter.

I’m insane for responding to this stranger. The scary, hot stranger with gross habits, but he’s so far the only one who hasn’t stuck his nose up at me.

“Rozelyn.”

“Better.” He grins, releasing my hair and leaning back again, adopting the identical, lazy position as earlier. “I’m Flynn.”

Flynn. Not a name I’d think to put to him, but I like it.

“People here are dicks, huh?” he comments after a few moments of comfortable silence.

You’re not. Yet. Until I figure out why you’re being nice.“Yeah,” I agree, shrugging.

He jerks his head to the large building behind us. “Ignore them. They get threatened by new meat. We all know you’re better than them.”

Such a blatant statement. “What?”

He studies the deep blue of my jeans, following my legs to my black flats. “Look at you, Rozelyn. You obviously have a story, and it’s one that doesn’t align with theirs, but don’t let it bother you. Be better than them because it means you have a fuckin’ shot in this shitty life and they’re jealous.”

Bitterness tightens his words at the end, but I don’t question him on it, not wanting to pry. Even though, somehow, he’s read my entire situation perfectly. Not that I think I’m better than anyone, but I do have a shot in life, due to my family’s circumstances.

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