Page 7 of Break You

I mean, first of all, who the fuck roller-skated these days, anyways? Especially in the dead of night. I’d never had a car break down, but surely the normal thing to do was call a goddamned recovery service, or at least jump in an Uber?

Once Angry Girl was out of sight, I’d pretty much pushed Cherie off my dick and told my driver to take us to her dorm. When we arrived there, she invited me back to her room for a “nightcap,” which I not-so-politely declined. She knew the score. It wasn’t like we were dating. Neither of us took it personally. Tomorrow night she’d be on some other dude’s arm—and dick—at another stupid event, and wouldn’t even give me a passing thought, until the next time. And repeat.

As the car made its way to my off-campus apartment, I thought back over the night’s events. After warning off Angry Girl, I’d made myself scarce, barely returning to the ballroom for the rest of the gala. Not only did I have Cygnus business to take care of, but I detested those kinds of vacuous events at the best of times, let alone tonight.

I hated to admit it to myself, but I was rattled by my run-ins with Angry Girl, though I couldn’t for the life of me work out why she’d affected me quite as much as she had. It normally took a lot more than a few snide remarks for someone to even get on my radar, let alone piss me off—I found most people deeply uninteresting.

As for her, it wasn’t the first time, and undoubtedly not the last that someone had taken an instant dislike to me—I could reel off countless examples without even thinking about it—but it was definitely the first time that someone’s ire had brought on the overwhelming urge to fuck them six ways from Sunday. What was up with that?

Though I wasn’t about to confirm his suspicions, Drew had been right about the chemistry between the two of us. It was off the charts. Again, not something that was new to me. The unexpected part was that it was fueled by instant hatred, not lust. She despised me, and I loathed her right back, and my cock wanted to show her exactly how much. I fell asleep with that thought on my mind and desire in my dick.

* * *

I woke up the following day with a spring in my step and morning wood from hell. The bounce was because I had my first Psych class of the trimester that afternoon, and though it was only an elective, since I’d picked it up the previous year, it had fast become one of the high points of my week. I was intrigued too, as this semester I’d opted to take a Social Psych class in the morning, too. I’d heard it was a great course and was looking forward to it.

The boner could be partially attributed to my preprogrammed biological impulses, and partially—mostly—to my minor fixation on a certain someone who would remain nameless. I took care of business in the shower quickly and efficiently, getting the job done without giving her another thought.

Filing into the lecture hall for Dr. Reylton’s Social Psych class, I did my usual thing of hanging to the back row. It was a habit leftover from school. I’d never wanted to put myself front and center of the action—or attend at all, for that matter—at St. J’s. It would have felt nerdy to start sitting out front now. I wasn’t that, nor would I ever be, no matter how much I enjoyed a class.

It turned out that Dr. Reylton was not much older than us students, petite and infinitely fuckable-looking, and my dick twitched to life as my mind strayed to fantasies of her bent over the lectern. On second thoughts, she kind of reminded me of Vivi, my sort of not at all surrogate mom. Not in a creepy incestuous way—Vivi wasn’t even close to being my actual mom, or my stepmom, and the two of them looked nothing alike. It was just the whole pencil up the ass, straight-one-eighty, meek on the streets, freak in the sheets vibe they both gave off that had me thinking that way. I shook my head to dislodge the wayward thoughts, as Dr. Reylton welcomed us to the class and explained how the semester would play out.

“Okay, so now the formalities are out of the way, let’s begin with the fun stuff. This semester’s assignment is to be completed in groups.”

A groan rose throughout the room. I could totally relate. I hated group work with the fiery passion of a thousand circles of hell. What it translated to was doing nothing by committee. The saying “you’re only as strong as your weakest link” was never truer than when trying to get some lazy halfwit to pull their weight on a group project.

Dr. Reylton carried on. “More specifically in pairs.” What the fuck was with this woman?

My boner left the building, never to return. Reylton’s apparent stupidity had instantly made her about as appealing as sticking my dick into a piece of rotten cheese.

“I have envelopes here with your pairings and your specific assignments detailed. When I call your name, please approach the lectern and collect yours.”

I slipped my headphones into my ears, keeping my music low enough that I could hear it, but still also hear my name when called.

“Cross. Cross? Xavier Cross?”

The guy sitting next to me, whom I could have sworn I’d never seen before in my life nudged me, just as what I was hearing started to sink into my consciousness. I’d zoned out during the wait, bored of the sound of other people’s names being called, and lost in the music in my ears.

“Well, looks like we have an odd pair. Wait to one side Ms. Gordon, and I’ll see what we can do when everybody else has been assigned their work.” I raised my hand standing while talking.

“I’m here. Xavier Cr—” Holy. Fucking. Shit.

As I stood up and looked across the lecture hall to Dr. Reylton, I saw “Ms. Gordon” waiting to one side as instructed and instantly wished I’d pretended not to be present. I could easily have dropped the class—it was an elective after all—but it was too late for that now.

“Mr. Cross, nice of you to make an appearance. Please come to the front of the room and collect your assignment.” I couldn’t make my feet move. That wasn’t quite true. I didn’t try. I just stood there looking down at the professor like the cat had my tongue and my gross motor skills.

“Mr. Cross? When you’re ready. We don’t have all day.” She had that right. There wasn’t enough time in the world to make me want to carry out this assignment. I walked down the stairs and approached the front of the lecture hall where Dr. Reylton handed me a large manila envelope that had a typed sticker with my name and ‘Rukiya Gordon’ written on the front. Angry Girl.

“So, there’s been some kind of fuck up.”

“Excuse me?” Dr. Reylton looked at me as though I’d insulted her mother.

“There’s been a mistake. We can’t be partners for this.”

Then she looked as though I’d insulted her grandmother. “Can’t, or won’t?” She folded her arms and got a flinty look in her eye.

“That’s semantics.”

“Is that so?” I could see instantly that I’d misjudged her from afar. Not only was Dr. Reylton not as cute, up close and personal, nor was she some sweet little youngster. Everything about her told me she meant business, but so did I.

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