Break Me (Truth in Lies Book 1)

by Lena Maye

  “You should read this article, Lo.” Kepler tips the open magazine towards me. “It’s quite enlightening. Apparently I should never drink through a straw again. Puckering causes wrinkles. Who knew?”

  I can’t believe he’s actually reading the damn magazine. “Smoking causes them too.”

  “I can’t deny that.” He smells earthy today. Like oolong and roasted almonds. I want to simmer him in my teapot.

  Instead I set my Walmart-special backpack on top of Cassie’s magazine. “Boyfriends carry books, don’t they? Isn’t that one of their primary responsibilities?” I let go of the strap, and my bag balances on the magazine for a split-second before clunking to the sidewalk.

  “Good boyfriends, perhaps.” He toes my bag. “But let me assure you I am not one of those.”

  Hands sinking to my hips, I give him my best glare. “How’s your morning smoke? Planning to get arrested for the third time?”

  His eyes narrow on me. “Doing a little research on me? I’m flattered.”

  “Why are you here, Kepler? Really?”

  He rolls up the magazine and stuffs it in his back pocket. “I wanted to take you up on that walk you keep nagging me about.”

  “Come on,” Cassie says. An unfamiliar edge flutters in her voice. “We’ll be late at this rate. Carry your own bag, Jean.”

  “It’s fine.” Kepler swoops down and grabs the strap. He swings it over his shoulder and sets it next to his. “It’s not like your liberal arts books pose much of a weight challenge.”

  I open my mouth, but Cassie stops me with a shake of her head. “Don’t argue, just walk.”

  He tilts his head at her. She blushes under his gaze. Hell, she blushes under everyone’s gaze, so I don’t analyze her reaction.

  “You’re the first person I’ve ever seen who can tell this one”—Kepler throws a thumb towards me—“what to do.”

  “Jealous?” Her blush deepens, and then they start down the two-person-wide sidewalk. How did I become a trailing puppy?

  “Not jealous at all,” he says.

  My backpack nestles next to his black monstrosity that’s trimmed in tan leather. His bag is at least three times the size of mine and four times as expensive.

  “I’ve never been one for docile girls,” he adds. “I prefer the ones who keep me guessing.”

  “Really? And what kind of girl is Irene?” I have to shout so they can hear me.

  His smoky glance slides over his shoulder, but he keeps pace with Cassie. “I’m sure you’ve known a few individuals who aren’t what they seem, Lo.”

  Why am I not yelling profanities at him?

  “The girl was a bomb in the sack is what you’re saying.” Cassie grins so hard her dimples pop out.

  He shrugs.

  I hate shrugs. And the way my throat closes in. It’s unacceptable. It chokes my words like I’m a girl who doesn’t have buckets full of them—curse words at least. The thought of Kepler with someone trips me up. I want to be the one verbally assaulting him.

  “You’re right. Irene isn’t my type.” He winks at Cassie. “But I wasn’t hers either.”

  She winks back. What the fuck?

  “Speaking of people who aren’t what they seem, Jean cries during romantic movies,” Cassie offers, like it’s a revelation.

  “Does she?” He glances over his shoulder again. “Do you cry at the inevitable breakup? Or the heartwarming reconcile?”

  I glower at his back. “I cry when they meet.”

  He stops walking. In the middle of the sidewalk and with no warning. I practically slam into the back of him. Cassie stops a few steps ahead.

  He turns, holding my gaze, and it feels a bit like he’s going to swallow me. Which is a weird freaking thought.

  “You cried when we first met.” He says it matter-of-factly—like a factoid pulled from one of his thick textbooks.

  I blink up at him, my mind spiraling back all those years and forgetting the words on the tip of my tongue. He’d been walking past my house when I first saw him. Black glasses and a too-big backpack. An echo of what he is today. And I was against the side of the house with Jeffrey Nickelson. My mom’s boyfriend.

  I shake my head, stepping back from the way he surrounds me and the memories that waver like heat on the horizon. Memories I’ve tried my best to abandon. But it’s like Kepler just keeps bringing them back. Good ones of him in my father’s kitchen, blue paint in his hair as he teased me with the wet paintbrush. And others—ones of my mother’s dead eyes and my father’s suitcase.

  Kepler’s hand reaches out. “Hey,” he says in a soft, low voice. His fingers circle mine, urging me to the sidewalk. “Let’s walk.”

  He tugs me forward, and my feet obey, finding a rhythm next to him. And his hand is so, so warm around mine.

  “Do you have any other intriguing Jean details?” he asks Cassie as she picks up the pace in front of us.

  “She checks in on her mom every Thursday,” my evil roommate continues. “And she doesn’t like things that are prickly. She’s as sweet as they come.” She snickers. It’s the exact opposite of the truth. Well, all those details are true, but none of those facts add up to sweet.

  “Shut up, Cassie,” I say.

  “See—sweetness personified.” Cassie gives me a glance so I can glare at her directly.

  “I can see that.” He finishes the last of his joint and tosses it into an ashtray atop a trash can as we head onto campus. The sidewalks widen enough for me to keep pace with them. Cassie heads off towards the computer lab. But not before she gives Kepler another wink. Is there a conspiracy going on?

  I try not to side-eye Kepler too much as we weave through the bike racks and negotiate the doors to the busiest place on campus. Our fingers are still looped—but looser now. All I would have to do is tug my hand away, but it’s Kepler who breaks the link when he stops by the book drop outside the library and juggles our backpacks to deposit a few menacing physics books. I stand behind him, fidgeting. I hate being indecisive almost as much as I hate shrugs. I glance at my phone—the end of the day keeps getting closer and closer.

  I scroll through the assignments I’m missing for linguistics while Kepler talks with some skinny guy who shares his glasses style. I have the time to check all my classes before Kepler finally crosses the entryway and stops inches from me.

  I stash my phone in my pocket. “Is making me wait your idea of fun?”

  “I didn’t expect you to wait for me.” He slips out his phone and glances at it. “But yes, I do kind of enjoy it. And you seem to like being forced to wait.”

  “I do not.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  “My backpack. It’s hard to write a paper without notes.”

  He steps forward, and his fingers loop around my elbow. His forearm brushes against mine as he smooths his hand down to my wrist and clasps it. Sun cascades through the tall windows and makes the blond in his hair glow.

  He slides my backpack off his shoulder and down to our linked hands. As I take the strap, he pulls my wrist towards him, and we are suddenly as close as we were a few nights before. Almost.

  Damn my fumbling heart. Find a rhythm already.

  “Now why are you still here?” he asks.

  Fuck. “Enjoying the ambiance.”

  “Mine? Or the entryway’s allure of fake plants and ammonia?” He slides his index finger along the strap of my bag. “Date me,” he says in a low-gruff voice that makes my insides tickle.

  “Never.” My smile must be all kinds of wicked.

  The corners of his lips twitch too—but not into a smile. “Just thought you could use a little breakup before class.”

  I freeze. Glass doors open and close. Backpacks hurry behind Kepler. He doesn’t seem to notice any of it. But I’m noticing every detail. Like how my breath is caught in my throat. How the only time that itchy feeling goes away is when he’s around. And my unfinished linguistics paper I can’t concentrate on. My education is my ticket out
of Rock Falls. I’m going to be the first person in my family to graduate from college. I won’t fuck it up.

  If he keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to slide my fingers along the inside lip of his jeans and drag him closer. I can already feel the rise and fall of his stomach against my knuckles. Hard muscles under soft skin.

  He glares down at me like he can read every single thought. Maybe he can. Maybe his superpower is understanding Korean girls who can’t understand themselves.

  Or maybe he’s just waiting for me to talk.

  “Do you have class right now?” I ask.

  His forehead wrinkles. Apparently he didn’t expect that one. “I’ve got organic chem in an hour.”

  “Of course you do.” I let out a long breath. An hour… An indescribably long hour where I’ll do nothing but fidget and doodle pictures of gray t-shirts and sexy black glasses. And end up with a big, fat zero when I fail to turn anything in by the end of the day.

  Unless… he’s with me. It sounds backwards, but the only time I stop fidgeting and start thinking is when he’s in the vicinity. Nothing else seems to do the job. Not even the yoga and chamomile I tried yesterday.

  He’s my last damn chance. Although there’s no way in hell I’m telling him that.

  “Could you just… sit with me until then?” I wrap my hand around my backpack strap and force the words out. “Please,” I add flatly. I’ve never been good at that word, but it’s awkwardly appropriate.

  “Please?” he repeats in the same tone. The wrinkles across his forehead deepen. “Don’t feign politeness, Lo. I don’t need the games you play with other guys. Just tell me what you want.”

  I tip up my chin. “I need to get a linguistics paper done, and I can’t concentrate.”

  “How is sitting with me going to help?” He raises a too-sexy eyebrow.

  That eyebrow’s got a point. But I’m not sure what else to do. “Do you have an hour or not?” I grumble.

  He tilts his head like he’s considering, those gray eyes alight. I tap my toe.

  “I’ll do it on one condition,” he finally says.

  For fuck’s sake. “What?”

  He leans in, silent for a long moment. I hate how he does that. It always sets my mind churning about what he’s going to say.

  He clears his throat. “A kiss.”

  I shake my head so hard it might roll off. “You can’t do that.”

  “I can do anything I want. I’ve got a free hour.” And then his tongue slides across that slightly wider bottom lip. “Besides, I’m taking your critique that I’m a terrible kisser to heart. Apparently I need the practice. Combined with your neediness, we’re a perfect combination.”

  Playful. It’s in his eyes, in the ease of the muscles along that sharp jaw. And it looks so damn good on him. Like the sunlight cutting through his hair is filling his veins and pushing away that sullen aura. And, fuck, it’s making me smile. I’m standing here with a stupid grin on my face.

  “Good answer.” His gaze falls on my lips. “We’ll study in the back because I’m expecting you to sit on my lap too.”

  And the smile’s gone. “Fuck that,” I snap, but he’s already strolling into the library.

  He takes a seat at one of the long tables that run down the middle of the library. He doesn’t press me about the lap thing. Maybe because he sees the seriousness in my glare. Or because he’s always taken school as deadly serious as me.

  I slide into a chair across from him, and we both dig out our textbooks. He sets a legal pad next to his too-thick books and shrugs out of his hoodie. His shoulders shift under a pale-green t-shirt that highlights the stony gray of his eyes.

  Then to make matters worse, he pulls those black-rimmed glasses out of his pocket. They hang in the air for a moment before he slips them on. He turns a page, his hands smoothing across the paper to flatten it. I get the sneaking suspicion he’s paying more attention to me than the paragraphs and charts before him.

  My body heats from head to toe as he pretend-studies. He reaches for a pen and taps it on his legal pad. Meo-shi-seo. Intelligence is my personal Viagra, and watching Kepler study is like ODing on a whole bottle.

  I shake my hands out and focus on my stack of books. But it’s hard to pay attention to anything else when Kepler’s fiddling with his pen.

  “For this to work, you’ll have to stop staring at me.” He says it normal volume in the otherwise silent library. And he doesn’t even look up from his legal pad.

  “Shut up, Kepler,” I hiss before ripping my attention from the tendons in his forearm rolling when he flips that pen.

  A girl a few tables over giggles behind her hand. But she goes back to studying after a round of glares from her study group.

  “I’m serious.” He draws a careful line down his paper. “Unless you’d rather get that kiss over with now. Then we can get on with whatever you aren’t currently doing.”

  He gets a shhh from somewhere in the study group.

  He glances up, then frowns at my notes. Holy hell, those glasses are hot. And holy fuck, there’s glasses drawn on the top corner of my paper. I slide my textbook over the incriminating evidence.

  “What is it that you’re doing?” he asks. “Linguistics?”

  “I’m writing a paper about men who are incapable of silence,” I deadpan. Then add a hot glare for good measure.

  “I see.” He leans back in his seat, that pale-green t-shirt stretching across his chest. “The one topic I can’t offer any help with.”

  A textbook slams closed one table over. He finally glances towards it. “It seems we’re disturbing the patrons,” he loud-whispers.

  “We?” I flip open my book. “Fuck off, Kepler.”

  He nods and turns a page, leaning forward to write something on his legal pad in winding script. So different from his name in block letters on the Post-its.

  But a stack of Post-its is sitting right next to him. Is that where mine come from? He writes something on one of the yellow squares and flips back a few pages to stick it on the edge of a page.

  I let out a breath and focus on the text in front of me, smoothing my hand across the book page. And trying to ignore the sudden coughing fit of a guy across the room. Or the scratch of Kepler’s pen against yellow paper. Or an intensely studying girl glowering towards us. I’m sure she doubts our ability to stay quiet. I doubt it too.

  I pull out an outline and handwrite a few paragraphs. Setting out the issue, pulling in the arguments. Maybe five hundred words—the most I’ve written in the last week. My hand slides across the page, leaving full sentences and complete thoughts.

  I can’t explain it. I’ve sat in the library and tried to write before. I’ve tried at home in the stream of light from the skylight. But it’s not until now—with Kepler’s surprisingly silent presence—that anything’s clicked.

  Another coughing fit draws my attention towards the study group—all of them now focused. A familiar-looking slender guy sits behind them. His generic button-down shirt and hiking boots suggest he’s a townie. I think I went to high school with him, but my mind fumbles for his name.

  The doors whoosh open, and a guy walks in. Cropped hair, blue eyes, swagger. The textbook example of a non-townie. Probably drives a bright-yellow Jeep and plays golf on the weekends. I can’t remember if I went to high school with generic button-down shirt guy, but I’d remember this guy from anywhere. He’s got a chemistry book and a pad of paper stuffed under his arm. Golf shirt with the buttons undone and jeans frayed at the bottom. He hooks his thumb into a belt loop and glances at me.

  He passes a few feet from us and sits down with the study group. His movements are quick, sure. But his glance tells me something else. That it would only take a minute of conversation to get him into the stacks. The scratch of his jeans against my thighs. His fingers digging into my hair. His lips simmering across my neck just before I shove him back. His eyes would darken, lines forming across his forehead. Or maybe he would grab my shoulder like
Ty did, his fingers digging into my skin, his breath coming in sharp jabs. I would tip up my chin and—

  What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m fantasizing about breaking up with him.

  I uncross my legs and grasp onto the corner of my book. The pages cut into my fingers.

  This is wrong. I am wrong. But I keep staring at him—the same pull simmering through me that was there with Landry. And Ty. And thirty-six other guys all lined up in a pretty row.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Kepler’s words are loud and close. So loud that even Zip-Top Jeep’s table companions are zapped out of their moment.

  Kepler slams his book shut and shoves the legal pad into his backpack. “If you want to break up with him, then do it.”

  No one shhhs us this time, even though I wish they would.

  “I’m not going to do anything.” I keep my words as steady as possible. There’s a huge difference between imagining it and doing it. Right?

  Kepler glares at me from behind his glasses. He doesn’t seem to care about our audience, but I shiver under the attention.

  “And even if I was, one kiss doesn’t give you the right to intervene.” My words are chunky and awkward. I don’t know how to reconcile these conflicts. Wanting to eat Kepler with a spoon versus what I can get from Zip-Top Jeep. The control I could have over him. I’ll never have that with Kepler.

  Kepler opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Which is not the Kepler I know. He’s always got something to say.

  My heart hammers between breaths.

  He pulls a water bottle out of his backpack and takes a careful drink. “So, preppy? Preppy seems to be your thing.”

  I shake my head, trying to follow his change in direction.

  “What else? What are their characteristics?” His fingers flick against his water bottle in a rhythm. “Guys who wear their wealth? Who are quick to laugh at your jokes and play the fool?” He leans towards me with stiff shoulders. “Guys who aren’t from Rock Falls?”