Page 10 of Break Me
“No,” I say smoothly enough, “I just didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.”
What the fuck? Why did I say that? It doesn’t even make any damn sense.
We walk out into the August, midday sun and Benji is laughing darkly.
“I know a thing or two about stalking,” he says. I glance at him and see he’s got a lighter in his hand and is digging something out of his sweatpants’ pocket. It looks like a joint. Wherever he’s from—California, maybe?—that must be legal, but here, he’ll actually get arrested. “And you would be trash at it.”
He holds the joint to his lips and I spot the cop car at the curb across the lawn. I yank it from his mouth without thinking. He whirls around to face me, brows pulled together, annoyed. I drop it and step on it, my heel smashing into and destroying it.
“What the fuck was that?” he growls at me. It’s weird. He’s obviously angry. But his voice is dangerously calm.
I throw my hand behind me, gesturing to the cop. “One, you can’t just smoke pot on campus right in front of the police and expect to get away with it. Two, you have no idea how much stalking I’m capable of. Three...I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late to my next class.” Which is a lie, but whatever, I needed to make three points.
He scoffs. “Which is what? How to Drive Like a Shithead and Destroy A Stranger’s Weed?” He slides his hands into his pockets, looking down his nose at me. It looks like it might’ve been broken once before. I like it.
I shake my head. “Business, asshole.” I turn to go, rolling my eyes.
He moves quickly, blocking my path. “What’re you doing tonight?”
He wouldn’t be the first guy I just met to ask me something like that. But I think of Tess. The gym. Of Dumont. Of my mother. Whatever I’m doing, it doesn’t involve this dude, no matter how hot he is. Not yet anyway.
“Nothing with you.”
He smirks. “I was going to see if you wanted to hang out with Riley. She’s new here.” He gestures toward the English building beside us. “But that’s cool.” Now he turns to go.
And damn me and him, but I don’t want him to. I mean, who else wears Tom Ford sweatpants on this fashion-less campus? At Campbell, wearing a polo shirt with wrinkled khakis is considered high fashion.
“Sure,” I say quickly, stopping him. “If you wanna give me her number...” I trail off, digging my phone out of my backpack’s side pocket.
He shakes his head. “She’ll contact you.”
And then he walks away, me staring after him, feeling slightly disturbed. And slightly like I like it.
