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“But he’s not here to do that, is he?” I raise a brow. “Now, tomorrow at school, as soon as those guys get the chance, they’ll talk smack and the rest will be coming at me with their jeans around their ankles because you decide to play me as one of your BrayGirls.”
He grows tense.
I grow tense.
Oh my shit.
Royce holds still, then brings a hand up to drag it down his face as he glances off.
My eyes remain lasered on him and as his return, it’s with a calculated tip of his head.
He stalks toward me with slow, deliberate steps until he’s close enough to plant his hands on the window beside my shoulders.
His reach is long, so there’s still some space between us, but at the new angle, his face is a bit more on my level, and suddenly I’m staring straight into his bottomless brown eyes as he asks what he wants to know.
“What do you know about being a BrayGirl?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he speaks again before I’m able.
“Be straight-up with me, little Bishop,” he warns. “No bullshit.”
Okay, fine.
I lay out what I’ve learned. “I know it’s what people call the girls who spend their nights with you or your brothers, or anyone who has earned the Brayshaw name.”
“Morning, afternoons, we ain’t picky on time of day, baby girl.” He’s angry and hard focused. “Keep going.”
“It’s a girl who is on lockdown. Untouchable to everyone, watched by all to keep her from doing things a Bray wouldn’t like or things she shouldn’t. Basically, she’s bound in bubble wrap, only to be undone by her man.”
“Temporary man,” he fires off.
“Right.” I shake my head in disdain. “Because she’s good enough for his bed, but not his heart.”
His jaw clenches. “You the type?”
“You’ll never know,” I toss back, holding eye contact for a few seconds only to turn away the next. I stare out at the darkness surrounding us. “Can you unlock the door now?”
“Why should I?” His shoes slide along the gravel beneath our feet, his body growing nearer. “You act like you’ve got a place to go.”
“I do.” I turn to him with a straight face. “It’s past ten.”
He stares a moment, running his tongue along his upper lip. “So that’s the magic number, huh?” he asks, frustration slowing his words.
I shrug, tucking my loose hairs behind my ears. “Will you give me a ride or not?”
The muscles in his forearms flex near my face, but I don’t look. I keep my eyes on his and finally, one by one, his hands fall to his sides.
“Yeah, little Bishop.” He reaches out, opening the door he must have unlocked without my notice. “I will.”
He begins walking around the hood, and my body rotates with him, holding eye contact until he dips into the driver’s seat.
I wipe my hands on my bottoms and slip inside.
Royce stares straight ahead, a heavy frown etched along his forehead, his left leg bouncing. He puts the car in drive, rolls a half foot forward, only to come down hard on the brakes. He throws it right back into park and jumps out.
I can’t swing my head around fast enough to follow, only spotting a blur of a black T-shirt disappearing through the diner door.
I drop against my seat, scanning over the windows of the place, unable to see beyond my own reflection shining back.
A minute tops passes, and then he’s storming out, sliding back in and peeling from the parking lot.
It’s not until we’re parked outside of my house that Royce’s head shifts my way, but his glare is locked on my front door.
“Your cousin, she’s gonna start shit for you, isn’t she?”
I nod. “Probably, yeah.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Definitely.” I laugh. “She’s got her reasons, so it’s whatever.”
“Don’t make excuses for shitty, stuck-up people who treat you like shit.”
My head snaps toward him, and I’m taken aback by the gravity of his expression.
Frustration crowds my ribs, tightening them. “You don’t know her. You have no right to judge her.”
“And you have no reason to defend her.” He flashes. “Nobody should come at you like that and think it’s their right, bullshit reasons or fucking not.”
“Imagine how you would feel if someone was dropped on your doorstep one day and your life changed overnight. Literally.”
Something flashes in his eyes, but he looks away to hide it.
“I can handle her,” I reassure when I’m not sure it’s necessary.
“No such thing as handling jealousy.”
“Ciara, jealous of me?” I laugh, readying myself to climb out. “That’s a no.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
Annoyance pricks at my throat, but I don’t allow myself to clear it.
He has no clue what he’s saying.
Ciara’s not jealous of me, she has zero reason to be.
She’s gorgeous, has friends who care about her, a home that’s hers to love, a town she can make a future in. A life.
