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Breanna has this fluid, effortless way about her that draws me in. Her light-colored skirt swishes as she walks and I appreciate the white button-down shirt that’s tailored to her curves. One side of her midnight hair is pulled up and I love how it exposes her neck and the smooth skin I came close to tasting last Friday.
Breanna reminds me of slow-moving time and summer nights. She’s sexy, I’m attracted and we’re on opposite ends of the social scale.
Breanna glances up before entering class and, screw me, a hint of a smile plays across her lips. “Hi.”
“Hey,” I respond, and in one of the rare times in my life, I search for something to say. Do that small talk that Chevy and Oz find easy.
Her expression falls as she scans my body like she’s trying to discover a bleeding wound. “Where were you yesterday?”
“Out.”
A reprimanding frown in my direction. “Obviously. We need to talk. Something’s happened.”
An adrenaline rush charges through me. “Is it the code? Did you crack it?”
“No. I haven’t had a chance to dig into it yet. When I texted, I didn’t think my problem through and we shouldn’t discuss it here. Can we meet somewhere private later?”
The sights and the sounds of the hallway zone out as my mind tries to guess what has her spooked. “Tell me.”
“Not here.”
And I’m not waiting. “Spill. Now.”
Breanna’s fingers drum against her folder and she does a sweep of the hallway. This time when she speaks, she lowers her voice to the point I have to strain to listen. “Do you remember when we were talking on Friday night and you had sat me on the tailgate and how you were...close?”
Whatever the hell is bothering her causes a scary stillness inside me. “Go on.”
“We weren’t alone.”
Breanna’s words are a straight kick to the torso and I ease toward her as something dangerous unfurls within me. “What do you mean, not alone?”
Her eyes d
art to the left, and when her face pales out, I track her line of sight. A wave of anger rumbles through my bloodstream as I go eye to eye with Kyle Hewitt.
He slows as he walks past us, raising his eyebrows as his gaze flickers between me and Breanna. When the bastard settles his eyesight back on me again, he has the balls to smirk.
Something’s wrong—off. Breanna shrinks and it takes less than a heartbeat for the deadly thoughts to click together. Breanna raced out of the club Friday night after this asshole confronted her. Breanna said we weren’t alone, and my own thoughts about how some girls look at a certain group of guys haunt me.
Kyle Hewitt is a dead man.
Chevy joins me, no doubt sensing the storm that’s preparing to make landfall. “You all right?”
“I need you to cover me.” I barely catch his agreement as I start after Hewitt. Breanna’s on my heels, talking, pleading. Begging me to stop so she can explain. She can explain, after I throw Hewitt into a wall and hear him beg for mercy for whatever he did to make her cry.
Hewitt has no clue I’m behind him as he struts down the middle of the hallway like a duck with an ego complex. People say shit as they see him. All fucking giggles until they spot me and they understand that I’m the reaper and Hewitt has seconds to live.
“Razor, please!” Breanna says loud enough that Hewitt turns. His eyes widen, and his mouth opens in a silent scream as I grab him and shove him into the bathroom.
Two guys are at the urinal and finish their business quickly as they watch me push Hewitt again. Hewitt’s shoulder bangs into the wall of the stalls and I barrel after him. The other guys run out. I should be shocked as hell when Breanna appears in front of me, but I’m not. The girl can be a force of nature when she chooses.
“Stop it!” Both of her hands are out and her folders are gone. “You have to stop.”
I don’t acknowledge Breanna. In fact, I look over her at Hewitt, who’s trying not to piss himself as he holes up in the corner of the bathroom. “You have thirty seconds to explain why Breanna’s upset.”
“Or you’ll what?” He attempts a big and bad bravado, but his hands quake.
Or I’ll throw him into the cement-block wall, smash his head into the mirror, and then I’ll crack his skull on the sink. “I’m creative. Get talking.”
