Page 16 of Broken by my Bully
“Hm.”
“What?”
She taps the notepad. “Cute.”
“Pink’s not really my color, but I had limited options.”
Melissa sighs. “This town fucking sucks. I order all my shit online. But like weeks ahead of time.” She rolls her eyes. “You know our postal system. Swear Mailman Bob’s a crackhead.”
“His name’s Ted, actually, and he’sdefinitelynot a crack head.”I don’t mean to sound so harsh, but the words rush out of me like steam.
When she frowns, I hastily add, “He’s hella sketchy, though.” She’s still frowning, forcing me to look away.
My eyes land on the notebook. The words ‘Activity Log’ are printed on the cover in white. “So what’s up with this? I zoned out when Professor Rooke was explaining it.”
“Oh, Rooke…” Melissa sighs, her delicately arched eyebrows lifting as she swaps out my STFU pad for the black notebook our teacher gave me. “Fuuuck.” The last is almost a groan.
I suppress a laugh.
And here I was thinking what a degenerate I am because I think my professor is hot. Maybe every girl, and even some guys edging toward the more bi or pansexual side of the spectrum, has the same reaction. Why wouldn’t they? He’s so damn easy on the eyes, and then there’s that boatload of intelligence, and confidence bordering on arrogance.
He makes every guy I’ve ever known look like an awkward, hopeless teen or a sad, washed-out man.
Except Kai.
And just like that, he’s back in my head again.
Thank God Melissa starts talking, because I’m in no mood to unpackthatmess.
“You got what he said about defining cruelty?” She uses the tip of her nude, perfectly manicured fingernail to flip open the cover of the notebook.
“Yup.”
“Great.” She sounds relieved that she doesn’t have to explain it. “So record anything ‘cruel,’” her finger hooks into a mini air quote before she drags it down the lined page, “someone does. Then define it using the three Is.”
Her eyes meet mine as she sits back to sip her cola. “Like Rooke being an ass when you were late.” Her eyes dart back to the book. “Put that in there.”
I purse my lips, take a sip of soda, shrug. “Cruel? Really?”
“His intent was to embarrass you. You looked pissed.” She props her elbow on the table, counting off on her fingers. “Intent. Impact. I interpret that as cruelty. Don’t you?”
My mouth is open because I want to argue, but the words wither on my tongue.
She’s not wrong.
Fuck knows if I actually have the guts to record something like that in there.
“Thank you,” I say as she pushes the book back toward my side of the table. “I appreciate the help.”
She flashes me another smile. “Hope you ordered your textbooks. Mine only arrived this morning.”
“Textbooks,” I repeat woodenly.
What’s this dread feeling rising inside me?
“It’s on Rooke’s printout,” she says, waving dismissively. She counts off on her fingers again. “Human Evil, Kathleen Taylor. Zimbardo’s Lucifer Effect.”
Well, that’s one mystery solved. Is it weird that I’m a little disappointed I won’t be delving into devilish hijinks this semester?
