Break Me

by Meagan Brandy

Royce shows no sign of caution or any sort of acknowledgment of a change around him, though we all stood here and witnessed Micah make the first move.

  I mean, the first after Royce’s ball thievery and blatant belittlement.

  He doesn’t so much as blink at their two-step advance.

  No, he holds his cocky boy mode strong, completely unfazed by the mounds of muscle creeping in on him.

  I cut a quick glance toward Mac, who seems to have found me in the crowd, and I pointedly look from Royce and back.

  Are you going to help him, or what?

  The freaking guy grins, crosses his arms and focuses on his friend who clearly has no sense of self-preservation.

  Suddenly, Royce stops crossing the ball, now spinning it between his pointer fingers, his palms flattening on it seconds later, elbows out wide.

  “Come and get it, pretty boy,” he antagonizes Micah. “I’ll even go easy on you.”

  “Fuck you,” the guy behind Micah spits. “We’re district champs.”

  “Badass,” Royce mocks, but it goes over their head.

  They don’t know the Brayshaw Wolves are reigning state champs. Actually, they might, but they don’t know one is standing in front of them.

  Royce’s smirk is slow, and then his upper body goes lax. He bends at the waist, folding over slightly as he sways his hands, the ball loose within them, from right to left.

  The guys understand his move, getting into their stances, and Royce nods.

  He flies forward, dribbling, and cutting right, only to spin left, and hop up, making the basket with ease.

  He chuckles, licking his lips as he adjusts his jeans.

  One of the other guys grabs the ball, looking back to Micah, who stands with fists and furrowed brows.

  “Les’ go.” Royce damn near pushes his chest into his. “First to three.”

  At first, it seems Micah is ready to tell him to get lost, but then he looks to his friend, who passes him the ball.

  “One on one?” Micah attempts to confirm.

  “See how quick things flipped here?” Royce grins. “I get one by you and your weak ass five, in your school, and just like that, the torch is in my hand.”

  “You better watch it, asshole. You know nothing about us.”

  Royce laughs, and I hold my breath.

  I’m pretty sure he’s getting a kick out of this.

  Whispers start, growing louder and louder.

  Royce and Mac notice, their eyes locking across the court as Mac gingerly slides closer, but when Royce gives an almost unnoticeable jerk of his chin, he pauses, his foot right at the edge of the white painted line on the blacktop. He’s close enough to make it over fast if needed, but not so close to draw attention to his presence.

  Right then, the reason for the added attention steps through the crowd.

  Franky Briggs, the two-sport athlete, son of the police chief, and the worst possible person to step up right now. And my cousin’s boyfriend who lives to take digs at me.

  Royce senses him, and glances over his shoulder.

  Micah chuckles, prepared for the new guy to tuck and run at the sight of the six-foot-two, most loved, star student, but they’d don’t know a king in the making stands in front of him, and not of the royal kind.

  A six-foot-one savage leader with a knack for trouble, and while Franky has that single inch on him, Royce stands as tall and confident as the clouds, full and uncontrolled, above us all.

  Too bad for Franky, his head is up there with him, so he doesn’t notice the ease in which Royce stands.

  Franky pauses a few feet behind him and claps his hands.

  Micah smirks next, and chucks the ball, intending to rainbow it nice and clean over Royce’s head to Franky, but Royce jumps up with the ease of a pro, spiking it from the air.

  The ball goes flying.

  I know the second he clips it where it’s headed, and I try to squeeze away, to get lost or hidden in the masses, but everyone’s moved in so tight around me now I can’t, and after a few low bounces, the ball rolls closer, pausing mere inches from my feet.

  If Royce saw me before he didn’t let on, but he definitely does now, Franky too.

  Well, this sucks.

  Royce turns his entire body, now facing me full-on, and a slow, mischievous smirk appears.

  He holds his hands up lazily. “Ball me, baby girl.”

  My neck heats and I kind of want to punch him, but to avoid a potentially worse situation, I move for the ball. Of course before I can attempt to grab it, Franky is there kicking it away.

  He steps up, blocking me from Royce completely, and stares down his nose with a heavy glare.

  “Baby girl?” he hisses with disgust. “Did the trash bring in more trash to keep her company?”

  “That would really bother you, wouldn’t it?” The moment it leaves my mouth, I almost wish I could take it back.

  Almost.

  Franky’s eyes harden more, but I’m not going to stand here while he plays broadcaster in an effort to tear me down. It won’t work and he knows it, which is what drives him in the first place, but that won’t stop him from trying.

  Or cornering me when I’m alone and he knows nobody is watching.

  I turn, ready to walk the hell away, but Franky shoots a hand out, gripping on to my upper arm, and tugs me toward him.

  The slightest of jolts zips through my chest, and I whip around, ready to serve him in the nuts, but in the time it takes me to spin toward him, he’s already buckling before me.

  The hand that was attached to my arm quickly falls, Franky’s knees hitting the ground with a hard crunch.

  “Fuck!” he shouts with a low growl.

  People begin shouting and gasping around us, and as the mob continues to grow larger and louder, Franky’s head pops up.

  In the same second, a new set of arms wrap around my middle, and I’m tugged away with a gentle force.

  “Hey, what—”

  “Girl, you better hope that’s not the boyfriend you mentioned,” is whispered in my ear, and when I glance behind me, it’s Mac I find, but he’s not looking at me. He stares straight ahead, a tense expression drawing lines along his forehead.

  I focus forward as Royce plants his foot back on the ground, and when his gaze comes up to lock with mine, I pull in a lungful of air.

  As black as a winter’s night, his eyes spear mine, cold and dark with no sign of life in sight.

  A monster in the light.

  This is the Royce Brayshaw I was told about.

  The one who transforms in the blink of an eye.

  Gone is the cocky playboy, and in his place stands a daunting disaster waiting to happen.

  There’s no stopping what comes next.

  Or at least that’s what I hear.

  Royce lets him stand, even moves away to give him the space to do so, and when Franky comes swinging, Royce plants his feet and takes the hit square in his jaw.

  Royce’s body doesn’t waver on impact, but his head jolts slightly.

  Franky laughs, fists up and ready to go in again, but when Royce’s dark chuckle is what follows, they lower the smallest bit.

  Royce looks to the side, spitting blood from the corner of his mouth, and when he turns back, it’s with his full body, his right hand coming with it and in with a speed so quick there’s no preparing.

  He nails Franky square in the temple.

  Franky stumbles and comes back swinging, but Royce dips.

  He evades like a well-practiced maniac, and as he straightens again, he does so lifting Franky’s two-hundred and thirty-pound body from the ground, all to slam him back against it.

  His head hits with a hard whack, causing everyone around us to panic and my muscles to turn to stone.

  Franky’s eyes roll backward, and my temples start to throb.

  A few attempt to rush forward, but one look from Royce and they freeze.

  They’re seeing it, his complete and total nonchalance.

  He lifts
his thumb, dabbing at his cut lip as his eyes snap my way.

  Royce taps his shoe against Franky’s ribs, his chest rising and falling angrily as he watches me through blank eyes. “This your man?”

  He doesn’t have to verbalize the threat, his gravelly tone is packed and laced with an I dare you to lie ribbon, one he might just wrap around my throat and strangle me with should I even try.

  I shake my head no, focused on the vein in his neck as it throbs heavily beneath his bronzed skin, the tease of the tattoos there, and with each kick of his pulse, my own rises.

  My brother constantly reminds me how I’m to fear all who hold the Brayshaw name, but standing here, staring into the shadowy eyes of one, I feel none.

  Not even a hint.

  The opposite in fact, as the throbbing at my temples seems to dwindle.

  Does that make me a fool?

  My muscles loosen, Mac’s hold on me following suit.

  I shake my head no again, and this time more confident than before.

  Franky catches it and a harsh scoff leaves him.

  “Brielle’s man?” he taunts, purposely loud for his peers. “You must be new. No one here would touch that.”

  Franky begins pushing to his feet, but Royce’s large hand lands on his shoulder, and with what appears as no effort, shoves him right back down.

  Head after head snaps from me to them, and I know their minds are spinning.

  I can guess the question at the tip of their tongues.

  How do I, the out of place charity case, possibly know him, a filthy god in the flesh?

  Royce doesn’t pay them any mind, though, he uses the moment to put his skills to use.

  He studies me, considering what I said about a boyfriend, my answer about the asshole on the ground, Franky’s response and question, and somehow finds the truth within it all.

  And not just my truth, but Franky’s too.

  I don’t have a boyfriend, but Franky wants from me what a boyfriend might get, even if he would never admit it and likely take it only in secret. We both know I’ll never give him what he wants, so he gets it from Ciara instead. It’s sad, but it’s true.

  Royce brings a knee up, driving it into Franky’s spine and his shoulders bow with a low growl.

  Royce steps around him with ease, and with a confidence not many possess as he turns his back to the boy he just made a fool of, complete confidence his friend will watch it for him should his senses fail him.

  He slips right in front of me.

  As if he can see beyond the impenetrable lens of my glasses, his eyes lock on mine, screaming play with me, but I’m not dumb and he isn’t the one stuck with these people on a day-to-day basis.

  The fire in Franky’s words a few minutes ago was an indication of what I already know—Royce won’t be here forever, and soon I’ll have to answer to the ringleader on the ground.

  I must stand still too long because the decision is taken from me.

  From behind me, Mac’s arms fall, only for Royce’s to replace them from the front.

  Royce is standing at his full height, so his hands barely reach the belt loop on my pants, but that doesn’t stop him from curling the middle fingers of his left hand through one as his right comes up to my neck.

  I have no idea why I let him.

  I should crush his windpipe, jab a finger between his ribs... something.

  I don’t.

  I don’t breathe either, officially a board piece in his little game of humiliation.

  “That’s right, my man. I’m new to her,” he mocks Franky, making a point of tilting his head a bit, his attention locked on me. “But not for long, ain’t that right, baby girl?”

  He twists his wrists, dragging his knuckle along my collarbone, and doesn’t stop until the pads of his fingers meet the reddened skin where Franky grabbed me.

  That’s when I snap out of it.

  I jerk my arm away from him, leaning my body as far away as possible and he frowns, his teeth clenching.

  Before he has a chance to do whatever the heck comes after all that, a really annoying and unpleasant voice is shouting from somewhere on my right.

  “Are you serious?!”

  Here we freaking go...

  My shoulders fall, a heavy exhale escaping, and Royce releases me, shifting toward the obnoxious voice breaking through the crowd.

  Ciara shoves people around until she’s in the center of the mess Royce created.

  Her jaw drops as she spots Franky on the floor. Guessing this has something to do with our odd little morning, she whips around until she finds me in the crowd.

  She pushes forward, and with each step closer she grows, Royce takes one too, but not forward. He shifts to the side, shadowing my body with his own like a big bad bodyguard would his weak little patron, but he’s not needed nor wanted here, so I move as he does and then she’s right in front of me.

  “What the hell, Brielle?!” she yells, glaring at Royce when he flexes on Franky who finally makes it to his feet. “What, you brought him here to try to show off?”

  “Because that’s my style.”

  “Why the hell else?”

  “Ciara, chill—”

  “Don’t tell me to chill! Tell your little friend to get out of here,” she cuts me off.

  “Why don’t you, you know him better than me, right?”

  Her eyes narrow, and she pushes against my chest. “Do it, Brielle.”

  “Get out of my face,” I tell her calmly.

  “What are you gonna do about it, cousin?” she taunts.

  My jaw flexes and a sick gleam of satisfaction gleams in her eyes.

  She knows I’m on a tight leash, one I clipped to my very own collar because not a soul in this place is worth falling into darkness over.

  A mocking laugh follows her little taunt, and then her hands come up to knock my glasses clear off my face.

  So I knock her on her ass, her eyes shooting wide and she stumbles into a group of people behind her.

  As fast as she’s out of my space, Mac’s got her by the wrist.

  People stare, wide-eyed and tripped out as this isn’t something they’ve seen before.

  I can pretty much hear their internal gasps.

  Did little Brielle Bishop claw out of her casket?

  Ciara growls, growing red with embarrassment, but gets one good look at my swollen eyes, and quickly finds her way to win.

  “Aw, look at you.” She fake pouts with a vile gleam in her eye. “All swollen and red. Guess you cried yourself to sleep again last night, huh?” She smirks, doing her best to paint me weak and worthless when she knows the truth behind is far from her childish taunt.

  She also knows I won’t rebut and instead let these people believe whatever the hell they want.

  Bitch.

  I bend, reaching for my glasses, but find Micah has already picked them up, and is bent at the knee a few feet away, holding them out for me. With a thankful twitch of my lips, I grab the cheap frames and straighten.

  I give Ciara a small shrug, and force myself to her level, even if it is a crappy place to be. “You wouldn’t know, since you spent it in Greg’s bed.”

  Low laughter spreads throughout the courtyard, and her eyes widen.

  I instantly feel like dirt, but I need this over.

  Franky pushes to his feet, his eyes meeting mine briefly before looking away.

  “Let’s go,” he says to no one, yet everyone.

  Ciara shakes her head, jerking in Mac’s hold and when he realizes she’s only trying to walk away, he lets her.

  She pushes on Franky’s chest, and thankfully the bell rings, ending this midday nightmare.

  While the crowd around us takes slow steps to make sure they don’t miss anything juicy, I do the opposite. I spin and hightail it as quick as my sore ankle allows in the opposite direction.

  I make it a whole three feet before Royce falls in line beside me.

  “Campus security or the principal will be out here
any second, how they weren’t at the start of your little head honcho showdown, I don’t even know.”

  “Fuck ‘em.” He slides in my path, halting my escape.

  I stop walking.

  “That’s easy for someone who doesn’t go here to say,” I tell him as I turn my head away, but he grips my chin, bringing it right back.

  He takes in every inch of the puffy red skin surrounding my eyes.

  He studies me for a long, unnerving moment, and slowly, small creases form along his forehead, but then he blinks.

  With the single flick of his eyelids, his mood changes, and a slow grin pulls at his mouth. “I was bettin’ on brown.”

  Despite being a little embarrassed and a lot irritated, a small chuckle escapes. I slip my glasses back on, but he quickly pushes them up on my head.

  “Yeah, well.” I roll my eyes playfully. “I’m pretty good at disappointing people.”

  “Who said I was disappointed?”

  I cross my arms, fighting a grin as I shake my head. “Don’t you think you should go now, or did you not start enough trouble to feed your rebelled soul?”

  “Baby girl.” He pushes closer. “You know nothin’ about my soul, and if you call that trouble, your little world here must be as lame as it looks.”

  “If you’re not a fan of this little world.” I give a small shrug. “Go back to your own.”

  He silently stares but there’s a question floating around in those dark eyes of his, one he refuses to ask.

  He makes no move, so I add, “Seriously, you should go, at least off campus.”

  “Rushin’ me, little Bishop?” he tsks. “Not a fan of quickies.”

  I frown. “If one-liners like that are what the girls you spend your time with find cute or even a little bit appealing, then I feel bad for you.”

  “Oh yeah, and why’s that?”

  “Because that would mean you know nothing about actual effort, and that’s a shame. Someone with the world at their fingertips should be far more than a bag of jokes and heavy fists.”

  The way he watches me is intense, it’s as if he’s trying to see inside my head, but what’s worse, it’s as if he can. As if he’s realizing all the things I wish he wouldn’t.

  The things I don’t talk about or share.

  Not that I have people lining up who care to know.

  Not that I allow anyone close enough to.