Rebel Heart Read online

  “My problem,” he says through gritted teeth once we’re outside, “is you.”

  “Me?” I yell, outraged. “I’m hard-fucking-pressed to see how I’m the problem. Only one of us here is a psycho-ass liar! You told him I was seventeen, yet I’m the problem? You’ve got a lot of nerve, asshole!”

  He paces back and forth in front of me, tugging on the ends of his hair. “Yes. You! Jesus Christ Abby Jane!” His raised voice and lethal tone cause my nipples to pebble and that just pisses me off even more.

  Even still, his words have my anger morphing to confusion. “I’m gonna need you to slow down and use your big boy words, Brock.”

  He halts in front of me, looking like he’s about to blow a gasket. “You’re in there grinding on some asshole, looking like your two seconds away from fucking him right there on the dance floor!”

  I tilt my head to the left. Is…is he jealous? “And your point is?” I ask.

  “My point,” he whispers, a vulnerable look flashes across his face so fast I almost miss it. He starts again, his voice stronger. “My point is that you’re embarrassing yourself, and I couldn’t fucking bear to watch it.”

  I rear back as if he slapped me, shaking my head back and forth. “Wow.”

  “Abby Jane, I didn’t…”

  I’m about to tear him a new one when Stacia darts up to my side. “Cage told me Brock dragged you here. Are you okay?” she asks, inspecting me from head to toe before turning to glare at Brock.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Abs,” Brock says, his tone pleading.

  I hold up a hand. “Save it. I have nothing to say to you. Unless it’s Tuesday or Thursday at five, stay the fuck away from me.”

  Not giving him a chance to reply, I grab Stacia’s hand and set off toward home.

  BROCK

  I watch on, shock and regret both swirling through me, as Abby Jane and Stacia stumble down the street. As pissed and confused as I am about how this night played out, I’m smart enough to know they’re in no shape to walk home alone, so I trail behind, just close enough to keep an eye on them without alerting them to my presence.

  I follow them all the way to an apartment building, where one of them must live. Once they’re inside, I slip my phone from my pocket and fire off a text to West, asking him to come pick me up.

  Not even five minutes later, his gunpowder gray Mercedes AMG-GT R is idling at the curb. Even though I’m pulling the door open, the jackass honks at me to hurry. “C’mon, get in!” he hollers.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask.

  “Nah. Only had half a beer. Now, let’s go. I got someone waiting on me, if you catch my drift, and I need to drop your ass off quick-fast.”

  “Such a whore.” I say the words with a smile.

  West checks his mirrors before revving the engine and zooming out into the street. “Don’t be jealous because I’m getting some tonight, and you’ll only have your hand to keep your dick warm.”

  “How about you focus on the road and not my dick?”

  “Wanna talk about you and little Abby Jane tonight instead?”

  “Nah, not for real.”

  “You sure? You don’t wanna talk about y’all went from practically fucking on the dance floor to fighting in the street?”

  My tone is clipped as I reply. “Absolutely positive.”

  Ignoring the warning in my voice, West cackles like a goddamn hyena as he whips his car into the parking lot of the house I share with him. He’s two years older than I am, making it the perfect living arrangement.

  I exit his car, and he wastes no time throwing it into reverse. As he backs out, he lowers the window. “Don’t bother waiting up!”

  Once inside, the events of the night catch up to me. I trudge back to my room, stripping down to my boxers and collapsing down onto my bed. From start to finish, tonight was a total shitshow. The only highlight was feeling Abby Jane’s plump ass brushing against my dick. Fuuuuck. In a flash, visions of her hot little body come rushing back.

  I sink farther into my mattress, and like an ESPN slow-mo replay, I savor the memory of us dancing. Dragging my right hand down my abs, slipping it beneath the band of my boxers, I imagine us no longer on the dance floor, surrounded my other people, but in my bed, with her pink hair fanned out on my black fifteen-hundred thread count sheets as I rock into her hot, tight…NO! Stop. I will not jerk it to thoughts of fucking Abby Jane.

  Pissed and horny, I jump up from my bed and stalk into my bathroom, cranking the shower as cold as it’ll go. Stepping beneath the icy spray, I lather up my body wash, scrubbing away all thoughts of her and this backassward night.

  Four days later and I’m still pissed about the Friday before. Somehow, she’s managed to weasel her way under my skin. Then again, I’ve always had a soft spot for Abby Jane. Even after we drifted apart and she turned into some emo-goth freak, I never let the guys make fun of her. There’s just something about her, and while I haven’t thought about her much since we graduated high school, suddenly she’s the only thing on my mind.

  I’m like an addict. Over the weekend, I crept on her social media—even her fucking Pinterest account. I may as well turn in my man card, because Jesus.

  Naturally, West caught me cyberstalking her fine ass, and he has no plans of letting me live it down anytime soon.

  “Still hot for tutor?” he asks, slathering his bagel with cream cheese at the kitchen island.

  “Fuck off,” I mutter, moving around him to pour myself a cup of coffee.

  “No can do, cuz. Never thought I’d see the day where Abby Jane had you wrapped around her little finger again.”

  “I’m not wrapped around shit.”

  “Maybe not, but I bet you wouldn’t object to her luscious lips wrapped around your cock.”

  For some reason unknown to me, his words piss me off. I slam my mug down onto the counter, some of the steaming liquid sloshing over the rim. Crowding his space, I push him into the countertop, knocking his breakfast to the floor.

  “What the fuck?” he bellows.

  “Talk about her like that again, and I swear to God…”

  “You’ll what?” he sneers, getting right back up into my face. “Jesus, Brock. Do you even hear yourself? Do you hear how riled up you are over her?”

  Feeling annoyed—though whether at his observation or my actual feelings, I’m unsure—I back up and mumble, “Not riled up.”

  “Whatever you gotta tell yourself. Have fun at tutoring tonight. Be sure to practice safe education.” I reach out to smack him upside the head, but he skirts around me, snickering, leaving me to clean up his bagel from off the floor.

  While I don’t have actual classes on Tuesdays, I do have weight training for an hour in the morning—yes, golfers lift too—and I typically play thirty-six holes of golf with a guy or two from the team after lunch.

  Today I’m out with Hayes, a freshman on the team, and we’re on our second pass of the back nine when he pipes up. “So, last week I saw you at the library with some pink-haired girl covered in tatts.”

  In no mood to talk about her, especially to them, I scrub a hand over my face. “Your point?”

  “Just wondering if she’s single. She may not be the kind of girl you bring home to Mom, but she’s damn sure the kind you want in the sheets.”

  Carefully, calmly, and quietly, I stow my driver back into my golf bag before pivoting to face him. With an eagle eye, I appraise him, taking stock. Scrawny, ginger, and barely five-ten, with his thin lips stretched into a pervy leer…I find him lacking, just like any self-respecting woman—especially Abby Jane—would. He lifts his fist to me, like I’m gonna bump it in support. Kid’s got another thing coming.

  “Talk about her—or any woman—like that in front of me again, and I swear to God, I’ll tee my ball up on your dick.” Seemingly, my threat has stunned Hayes into silence, and I use it to my advantage, hopping into the golf cart and leaving his ass to walk back.

  Back at the club
house, I have just enough time to get showered and changed before heading to meet Abby Jane at the library. Just like last week, we pull up almost at the same time, and before I can even get down from my truck, she’s glaring at me like she’d like to cut my nuts off and feed them to me.

  AJ

  I thought I was over the events of Friday night, but seeing Brock now, I know I’m not. In fact, I’m fuming. In addition to being a cock-blocking little weasel, he’s also just like our parents—full of double standards and judging others like his shit doesn’t stink.

  We meet at the front of his truck, and he sighs. “You still mad?”

  “Damn right I am.” Without waiting for a reply, I march up the steps toward the huge oak door.

  “Let it go, Abby Jane,” he calls after me, and I spin to face him.

  “Let it go? You want me to let it go?”

  His eyes drop to my messy fishtail braid, where the ends brush the top of my T-shirt-covered left breast. “Yeah, Elsa, that’d be great.”

  I narrow my eyes him as he moves up the stairs toward me, stopping two below me so we’re eye-to-eye. “Lemme ask you something Brock.” He nods, waiting for me to continue. “Why was it okay for me to grind all over you but not that other guy?” Brock’s eyes widen, and he sputters, unable to find a reply. I scoff. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  I turn and move to pull the door open when his hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me. “Abs, no. That’s not…I don’t…” I shrug out of his hold and enter the library, heading for a table right in the middle, surrounded by tons of other students, ensuring we won’t be alone.

  I situate myself on the far side of the four-seater table, stowing my bag in the seat next to me, relegating Brock to the other side of the table. He drops down into the chair across me with a huff, and I’m secretly pleased he’s aggravated with me. He deserves it.

  Wordlessly, I pull out my copy of Beowulf along with my laptop. Brock takes a hint and does the same. “If you need help, ask me. Otherwise, don’t talk.”

  He shakes his head, looking a little sad. Though I’m sure that’s just my imagination. “Whatever you say, Abs.”

  We’ve been working silently for about half an hour when the ding from my email interrupts me. I save my work in my Word document and toggle over my email account.

  One new message from B.Larson.

  The words practically flash on the page. Why is he emailing me? Nervously, I click on his message.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: I’m Sorry

  Abs,

  Please don’t stay mad. I know I acted like an ass, and truly, I’m sorry. I could list a million reasons as to why, but none of them will excuse my behavior.

  -Brock

  P.S.

  Do you think Beowulf went to heaven when he died?

  As much as I don’t want them to, his words make me smile. Even so, I’m not ready to talk to him out loud, so I crack my knuckles and hit Reply.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Re: I’m Sorry

  Brock,

  I guess I’ll forgive you this once. But so help me God, if you ever act that way again, I’ll castrate you.

  As for good old Beowulf, the author states that he sought the glory of the saints, so I’d say yeah, he did go to heaven.

  -AJ

  Not even two minutes later, he replies.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Re: Re: I’m Sorry

  Damn you’re smart, and while I’ll never say it out loud, I’m glad you’re my tutor.

  -Brock

  I read his email twice, my cheeks blushing crimson. Is he really glad I’m his tutor? Or is he just saying that? Thoughts race through my brain, one after another; I’m lost in them until he clears his throat.

  “I mean it, Abs. I’m glad you’re my tutor.”

  My teeth come down on my bottom lip, slowly rolling over it, and his eyes darken, roaming over my body as if he’s cataloging every minute detail—from my scuffed-up shoes to my cotton candy flyaways. The hunger in his stare causes my body to remember the feel of him grinding behind me on the dance floor. Gah! Snap out of it, AJ!

  “Thanks, Brock.” I’m pleasantly surprised when my voice comes out nice and neutral, because good God, I was prepared for breathy and lust filled.

  We fly through the rest of our session, working together to fill in the answers on our study guide. Brock impresses me with his knowledge, which makes me feel extra bitchy for assuming he was a dumb jock. Because really, he’s anything but. It’s obvious he works hard and is fucking smart. So, why does he need tutoring?

  Wednesday passes by in a blur, and before I know it, Thursday is dawning, which means…tutoring with Brock tonight. Strangely though, I’m not feeling the usual annoyance or apprehension that comes with thinking of him. No, instead, there’s a swoop low in my belly and tingling in my core. I squeeze my thighs together to alleviate the feeling, but it’s useless.

  My alarm blares, bringing the crazy, runaway train that my thoughts have become to a halt. I silence the awful buzzing sound and force myself out of the warm confines of my bed and into the shower.

  But there, under the hot spray, my thoughts turn back to my once friend turned arch-nemesis turned…tutee? But that doesn’t seem like the right descriptor for him at all. Friend? No. Hell no. I one thousand percent wouldn’t call us friends. Acquaintances, maybe?

  Frustrated with myself, I finish up in the shower only to realize I spent way too much time trying to define my nonexistent relationship with Brock. Jesus. He doesn’t even have to be present to drive me crazy.

  Now pressed for time, I fly through getting ready, barely bothering to check what I’m throwing on. I bypass coffee entirely, flying out the door and into my car. My first class today is on the far side of campus and luck seems to be on my side, as I don’t hit a single red light, and I manage to snag a primo parking space.

  Clambering out of my car, I snatch my bag off my passenger seat and haul ass down the cobbled path toward my marketing class. Professor Boyce, while sweet as pie, is a stickler for punctuality, and has been known to lock the doors at five after.

  A quick glance at the smartwatch on my wrist tells me class technically started two minutes ago, but the door is within sight and another student just walked in—fuck yes, I’m gonna make it!

  Until…

  My toe snags on the uneven sidewalk, and I’m flying through the air, landing on my face and skidding to a stop, a pair of khaki-clad legs stopping my concrete slide.

  “Damn, Abby Jane, I didn’t expect you to go and fall for me like that. And so soon. What will people think?”

  No. No. No. Luck, you fickle, prickly, two-timing bitch.

  “Larson,” I grit out, scooting back from him.

  “You gonna stay down there, or…” He trails off, and I drag my eyes up to his, squinting to block out the sun, which is shining around him like a damn halo. He’s smirking at me, like he’s thinking of all the things he’d like me to do while I’m down here. Ugh.

  “Yes, Brock. I’m gonna stay here, right here in this very spot, all day. How ever did you guess?”

  He winks at me and taps two fingers to his temple. “My mom says I’m a smart cookie.”

  “So smart you need tutoring,” I grumble under my breath, immediately regretting it. Especially when I see the hurt look on his face.

  “Well, fuck you too, Abby Jane.” He turns and walks away, leaving me in a heap of regret and late AF for class.

  The rest of my day goes the same way. The arugula in my panini at lunch slipped out and landed on my shirt, bringing a healthy dose of garlic aioli with it, leaving me with an awesome white-ish jizz-looking stain on my black shirt.

  My second and final class of the day—Early Literacy—had a sub that was gung-ho on torturing all of us, and on top of all that, I’ve been s
immering in my own guilt for how I treated Brock this morning.

  I even spaced out during the second half of my EL class, dreaming up ways of how I could make it up to him, which totally backfired because the sub called me out for daydreaming. Like, get a grip lady.

  Now, I’m loitering in the lobby of my apartment building, getting ready to head to the library, and the damn sky falls. Literally, it is pouring, and there’s no way in hell I’m going out in that, especially after the day I’ve had.

  But! This could be exactly what I need to make up my snotty behavior from this morning.

  Inspired and inpatient, I skip the elevator and fly up the stairs to my apartment, where I retrieve my laptop from my bag and fire off an email to Brock, seeing as I don’t have his number. Note to self: Get Brock’s number.

  Hurriedly, I type out an email to him asking him to come here tonight instead of the library. I include my address as well as my phone number and hope for the best.

  BROCK

  While I wish I could say Abby Jane’s bullshit, snotty attitude didn’t ruin my day but I can’t, because it did. I mean, why’s she gotta act like that? Why’s she gotta act like I’m less than her because I need a tutor? Fuck. I don’t even need a tutor so much as I need to make sure I set aside the time to do the work, and getting on someone else’s time was the easiest way to do so.

  You’d think someone who looks like her—more like a criminal than a scholar—would be a little less judgy. But, then again, given her silver-spoon upbringing, maybe some habits are hard to shake.

  The sound of an incoming email breaks me from thoughts of Abby Jane, only the email is from her, so my mind circles right back. I swear to God, if she’s canceling…

  I click open her message, and my eyes almost pop out of their sockets. She’s not canceling…not at all. She’s inviting me to her house and giving me her number? I drop my phone onto my center console and pinch my arm, you know, just to make sure I haven’t somehow been transported to the fucking twilight zone.