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So be it.
I’m that girl.
I’ll go down in history as the girl who courts heartbreak and hence, deserves tragedy.
“I make you bleed,” Zach murmurs in a low tone, rubbing his thumb over the seam of my lips. A tone laced with regret.
“Yeah.”
His thumb traces the torn skin of my lip in the middle. “I make you cry too.”
I blink and a tear slips out; I didn’t even know it was hovering at the edge. “Yes.”
Wiping off my tear, he whispers, “I won’t stop. I don’t know how.”
He will stop. I’ll make him stop.
This cycle of bullying that started with his dad. It ends with us.
I’ll change our story.
If he’s a false prince, then I’m his street Cinderella. I don’t need glass slippers or a pretty gown to change our stars. I can do it in my quiet leather boots and my gray uniform.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
His nostrils flare at my answer, as he watches me with a strange possession. It’s dark and scary and thrilling. It makes me hold onto him even tighter.
But he easily shakes off my limbs and steps back.
Suddenly I’m adrift and my legs come down on the ground, my spine sliding along the metal door of the truck. They are shaky and numb, and my feet are bare. My Mary Janes fell from them a long time ago and I’ve completely forgotten how to stand on my own.
“Zach?”
And to my shock, he comes down on his knees – falls, almost – and grabs my hips to keep me steady. His face reaches up to the bottom of my breasts and he buries his nose in the valley. It doesn’t matter if they are covered with clothes, Zach has a habit of destroying all the barriers between us.
Wrapping my hands around him, I whisper, “What are you doing?”
He lifts his head and stares into my eyes. I notice all the dirt smudges on my white shirt, how twisted up and stretched out my buttons are, straining against my heaving breasts.
Zach doesn’t answer me. Not until he sits back on his haunches and lifts my right leg, draping it over his shoulder.
“Kissing you,” he says simply.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says, dragging the hem of my skirt up.
I stop him and try to push it down. “Zach.”
“What?” he bites out.
“Aren’t you supposed to be closer to my lips, if you want to kiss me?”
It’s a wonder I can balance myself on one leg because he’s not letting go of the one he holds captive, and he isn’t letting go of my skirt either so it’s banded mid-thigh.
Slowly, Zach smirks. “I’m trying to be.”
“You’re what?”
