No, that doesn’t feel right when, frankly, there’s nothing for her to thank me for. I didn’t save the day or do anything grand. I just gave her space and didn’t let her sit in it alone.
Why? I haven’t the slightest clue. There’s something about her, and whatever it is hasn’t let go.
With one final exhale, I type away at the keys and hit send.
Bryden:Anytime.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EVEREST (KANE)
A crash echoes through the classroom as someone knocks Sam’s books off her desk and into the aisle on their way out. I’d been just about to make my own exit at the end of class when the sound stopped me.
Sam jumps to her feet, fists balled up tight, spine snapped straight, and a fire blooming in her eyes.
Fuck. I recognize that look on her face.
Before I know it, I wedge myself between Sam and the guy, my shoulder slamming into his chest. Not hard enough to drop him, but enough to warn him.
“Back off,” I demand.
Glaring at him, I silently hope he gives me a reason to lose it. But he doesn’t, and walks away, mumbling something under his breath.
I don’t know why I do it, but I crouch to scoop up the mess of papers and textbooks. It’s certainly not because I like her, or care, for that matter.
When she reaches for them, our gazes lock. There’s a softness in her eyes for once, gratitude brimming in her irises. To make sure she doesn’t get the wrong impression, doesn’t think this means I’ve forgotten what she’s done, I move my hand out of reach, letting them fall to her desk with a loud slap.
Her gasp cuts through the silence, but I don’t care. I step around her, our bodies brushing ever so slightly. A jolt runs through me at that brief contact, all that pent-up frustration rushing to my dick.
Sam’s glaring at me in disbelief as I adjust the front of my jeans and walk out of the door. My head’s a mess, my hands twitch, and all I want to do is destroy something.
Maybe destroy her.
While the other girls preen for my attention, Sam couldn’t care less. While the other girls would kill for a chance to be touched by me, Sam would break my fingers to keep me from touching her. And it’s not like we don’t know she’s capable of doing just that.
She’s the only one who isn’t fake when she looks at me. I know exactly what I’m getting with her. She’s real, unlike my facade at school and unlike everyone else who worships me because of my chance at going pro.
She hates me, plain and simple.
And, honestly, it’s best that way.
Every time I sit in this chair, the air around me feels poisonous. Tainted with deep-seated, unadulterated hate. The kind that eats at you, haunts you until all that’s left is hate of your own. It festers, picking at wounds—old, new, and those formed in between.
You’ve tried to heal them, patch up the damage, keep them from consuming you. But this hatred is too strong to bend, too rooted to erase. And what’s left is the shell of a person who’s fighting demons only they can see. That’s been my life, and with each passing day, I grow closer to acceptance.
So I do what I always do, and that’s hold my head up and keep it moving.
I let out a breath, checking the clock on the wall, mentally counting down the seconds. The chair squeaks when I shift, the leather groaning as if it despises me here just as much as he does.
He’s made me wait more than ten minutes now, which is ironic considering he’s the one always going on about not wastinghistime. I guess that only applies to him. At this point, I’m convinced he does it on purpose. Simply because he can, because without him, my mother doesn’t get the care she needs, bills don’t get paid, and my life would look much different than it does now.
My eyes fall to the paper in my lap. It’s the reason I’m here. The edges are torn from where I tugged at the corners in a mindless attempt to occupy my thoughts. It’s crazy how one page that’s been clutched and folded too many times to count holds so much weight. It’s a violent reminder, a leash made of ink.
I suck in a breath, my shoulders sore with tension and not just because of this meeting. Everything is riding on tonight. And when we win, I’ll be one step closer to putting this life behind me. I’m going pro, and this bastard won’t ever have to worry about me or my mother again.
But until then, this is what I’ve succumbed to—begging for support from someone who would rather see me burn. I stare at the wall, my sight narrowing on the spot above the empty chair behind the large desk. Multiple degrees stare back at me, a blurred shrine to the man whose name means more to him than his blood.
None of them has my last name on them.
