Break Me (Truth in Lies Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Break Me

  A Truth in Lies Novel

  Lena Maye

  Break Me is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Lena Maye

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Monika Holabird at Holabird Editing.

  Cover design by Angela Haddon at Angela Haddon Book Cover Design.

  For Jean. And anyone who’s ever looked up at the stars and wanted more.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  One

  My favorite word is fuck. Second favorite is off. Together these two words make the best phrase known to woman. A phrase I use at least once a day.

  I glare at the thin stream of beer filling my cup and consider saying it now. But it would be strange to talk to a keg, right?

  Then the thin stream becomes a dribble.

  Oh, hell. “Fuck off, keg.”

  It responds by trickling to a stop. I drop the black hose and swirl my partial beer.

  Kegs are a mystery. Although, they can’t be that complex. There are only a handful of moving parts, and guys who can’t put together three-word sentences use them with ease. But I’ve never cared to learn about them. Maybe because there’s always some party-bro at these college parties who’s ecstatic to show off his kegpertise. As if there’s something manly about getting liquid out of a faded silver cylinder.

  Little Asian girl can’t get beer. Big manly party-bro must help.

  My smarter-than-me sister probably knows every keg detail. If Sloane were here, she’d be giving me a lecture on self-sufficiency. And she’d be right, as usual. I sigh and kick the side of my nemesis. Fine. I’ll learn about this stupid keg thing. I will never be at the mercy of party-bros again.

  Right after I get one of them to fill this cup.

  Male shoulders create a fence next to me. On the other side of them, girls giggle and talk about whatever girls talk about at parties. I know as much about that as I do about kegs.

  I’m about to tap Ambiguous Frat-Boy #3 on the shoulder when one of the girls clears her throat like she’s announcing the solution to racism.

  “I feel soooo bad for Ty.” A pause—probably for effect. “What does he see in her?” she tags on in a nasally, I’m-better-than-you voice. But I’d describe it differently if she weren’t talking about me.

  “I know, right?” A second voice. A soft, melodic one that I can’t find fault with. “He’s such a sweetheart. And she’s such a…”

  I clutch my empty beer and stare at the wall of Kappa Iota shoulders, waiting for whatever word she’s going to use to describe me.

  “She’s a bitch,” the nasal voice says simply. Like she doesn’t even need to think about it. Maybe she doesn’t. I’ve called myself worse.

  But it’s the casual way she says it. As if I’m nothing more than a subject of kitchen gossip over Coors Light and vodka shots.

  “How many guys do you think she’s dated?” the second one continues in that soft sing-song. “A hundred? She goes through them like a valet service.”

  Tension licks across my shoulders. I try to shake it off, but there’s no getting away from it. There never is. My anger is like this slow-burning fire that always gets hotter. It never dies out. It never goes away. God, I wish it would.

  But I also wish I weren’t standing in this kitchen. Or this little town. Wishing doesn’t make it so.

  “How does she get them?” the nasally voice continues. “I mean, what is Ty thinking?”

  A new voice laughs at the joke that is me. All three girls are in on the fun now. “He’s not thinking,” she says. “He’s probably just into the Chinese thing.”

  “Korean.” A deeper voice—male—and one I recognize. It steamrolls, soft and low. Even people I’ve known my whole life are getting in on the conversation. Kepler Quinn and I aren’t exactly friends, but I expected more. A little loyalty among townies, at least.

  Fuck Kepler. Fuck all of them. I take a long breath, trying to tuck my stupid anger away. I channel my sister—strong and steady—and focus on shit that’s more important than this. Two more years of college. Then these girls will be off to whatever fairytale life their future holds in a place far, far away. And I’ll be…

  “The bitchy one isn’t as bad as the other one.” The nasally voice pops up an octave—like she’s excited about being heard. “That one sleeps with anything that has a pulse. And maybe some things that don’t. Disasters. Both of them.”

  I clench my Solo cup so hard it pops. They will not talk about Cassie that way.

  “Come on, guys,” the nasally voice says. “Be honest. How many of you have fucked that redhead girl?”

  The wall of shoulders shifts. One guy laughs. Two raise their fucking hands.

  And I hit my limit.

  “Fuck off” is out before I crash through the fence of backs and find myself in a circle of frat guys and gossiping girls. My cup still clenched in my hands. They stare at me with parted pink lips and black eyelashes wide against flawless skin.

  But I don’t even recognize the girls who think they know so much about me. One’s got a purse slung over her arm and brown hair in some complex twist. She must be the nasally one. The other’s a peroxide blonde in shorts that might as well be underwear. That’s the one leaning against Kepler Quinn.

  I avoid looking at him. Totally don’t see that eyebrow raise he gives me. The way he leans away from Blondie even th
ough she’s pressed against him. Her hand flat against his equally flat stomach. Nope, nope. Not looking.

  The brunette blinks and snorts out something like a laugh. “Speak of the devil.”

  “And she arrives.” My chest tightens with my words. It’s not just anger. It’s my heart kicking awake too. This feeling of being alive. I have to bite back a smile. I’m a walking contradiction.

  She blinks at me.

  “Is a regurgitated joke all you’ve got?” I tilt my head. Because I’m genuinely curious.

  “I, um…” Maybe she’s not used to the subject of her gossip speaking up for herself. Or she doesn’t understand the benefit of a good fuck off.

  I’d probably feel sorry for her if she hadn’t been speaking about Cassie. I can handle a few half-truths about myself, but she’s pissing all over hallowed ground when she talks shit about Cassie.

  I pop on a too-friendly smile. “You could point out that I’m the regurgitated joke.”

  She glances at her gossip mates, but still no words fall from her mouth.

  I don’t know about her, but my heart is pumping about a million gallons per second—so much that it pounds in my temples. In my toes.

  “Come on.” I point the empty cup at her. “I need something to work with. The valet-service comment was good.”

  But she just stares at me. She isn’t going to give me anything else. None of them are. Not even Kepler Quinn, who is quite capable of a quality insult. But, for once, he’s silent—leaning against the counter beside Blondie with his hands tucked into worn jeans and a gray t-shirt stretched across his chest. His mouth may be closed, but those smoky-gray eyes scoff like he knows… everything.

  Which is pretty much the reason I avoid Kepler Quinn. He makes me uncomfortable in my own skin. Or, more accurately, even more uncomfortable than usual.

  Just when I think I’ll get out of this without Kepler throwing some jaded comment at me, his mouth tumbles open. “Want to go for a walk?”

  His gaze doesn’t leave mine.

  I flinch from the unexpected question. Wait—was that an insult? I shake my head, unable to sort it out. I could spend my life studying Kepler Quinn, and I’d still never understand him. He’s smoke and mirrors. A magic trick with no explanation.

  “Kepler,” Blondie whispers.

  When he doesn’t acknowledge her, she tries to cover with a fake smile. I don’t understand why. Kepler’s no one to fake a smile over.

  “Or would you care for a refill?” He nods towards my smashed cup. “What’ll it be, Lo?”

  Kepler is the only person who calls me by my last name. I hate the way he says it, in that slow, tongue-curling way where it sounds like low instead of Lo. It’s a judgment instead of a name.

  And, crap, now I’m tongue-tied and silent too.

  “Tempting,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. Which is a fair amount. “But I’ve got angels to coerce. The work of the devil is never done.”

  “Well, then, Ruler of Darkness. I’ll leave you to it.” He pushes off the counter and mumbles something to Blondie before strolling through the kitchen. I stare at the back of his gray t-shirt, not sure what just happened. My hands are shaking—I don’t know if it’s from anger or surprise. But there’s this emptiness in me. Something incomplete. Like a joke that doesn’t have a punchline.

  And the kitchen is silent. Only the low beats of music from the other room penetrate the uncomfortable hush. The three truth-sayers glare at me. There are maybe six guys in a line behind me. I’m in the middle of the fifth circle of hell—with every bit of attention in the room on me and my scrunched cup.

  Screw this. Luckily the door is empty and inviting. Besides, a girlfriend is supposed to hang out with her boyfriend at parties. It’s some stupid unspoken rule I’ve never been good at.

  Ty’s never hard to find. He’s in the living room with four other ski-team guys holding up a golden shot like it fell from the heavens. They yell some ritual song over the music before throwing it back. I’ve never cared enough to listen to the words.

  When Ty sees me, he pulls me into his circle.

  And I let him. Not for smart reasons. I let him because he’s hot. High cheekbones and ski-team shoulders. Quick smiles that punctuate every sentence and fingers that press against my lower back when he opens doors for me. He’s followed every good-boyfriend rule for the last two weeks. The type of guy my sister would tell me to go for. Exactly the person I need in my life.

  The heat in the small room makes my skin prickle. Ty pushes a shot into my hands. I throw it back before they’re done with the chant and wait for the rest of them to finish. When I hand the empty to Ty’s friend, he gives me this smile like he knows something I don’t.

  He leans close to my ear, smelling like musky cologne. If I closed my eyes, he could be anyone. He smells like every college boy ever. That one scent they think stirs a girl’s desires but just reminds her of the last guy. Or the guy before that.

  “Want to go upstairs?” His words blend into the music.

  I know what he’s thinking. We’ve been dating two weeks. This is his party. And my skirt is two inches shorter than usual. As if to confirm his intentions, his lips skim my shoulder in a feathery kiss that’s probably supposed to be tender.

  “Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me towards the darkened staircase, flipping me around just before we get to the bottom step. His lips find mine, and he lifts me up. I smile at clear blue eyes and wrap my legs around his hips as he carries me up the stairs. His fingers dig into my ass, and he hops up the last of the steps and sets me on a wobbly hallway table. Soft kisses tiptoe down my neck and across the top of my shoulder.

  I’m supposed to like this. Hottie Ty. Soft kisses. Gentle hands on my hips. Easy. This is what I need.

  I let out a long breath as his lips skitter to my collarbone. My head knocks back against the wall. Past his curly hair, clusters of light hover. Plastic glow-in-the-dark stars are plastered all over the ceiling. Pale-green five-pointed stars in two different sizes.

  Sloane stuck stars like these in our bedroom when we were little. They can’t glow by themselves. They have to absorb light before they can shine. Every time our mom would wake us, stumbling in with whatever guy after last call at The Cork, Sloane would shine her Team Captain America! flashlight on them to make them float above us. As if plastic stars could make us forget what our mom was doing in the other room.

  The stars remind me—as Ty pushes up my skirt and presses boring beige chinos between my legs—that this hallway isn’t always dark. The stars have another life outside this moment.

  I wish I could float up to them. But I’d just end up smacking my head on the ceiling.

  “Ty,” I mumble. “Why do you like me?”

  “You’re…” The kisses pause. His breath heats my neck. His zipper is rough against the silky underwear I’m wearing to make me look like I have an ass instead of a utilitarian connection between my legs and waist.

  “…cool,” he finally supplies.

  “I’m cool,” I repeat flatly.

  His head darts up, concern evident in the forehead wrinkle over his good-boyfriend gaze. “I mean, you’re nice and pretty.”

  I blink at him. “I’m neither of those things.”

  He gives me a forced smile. “Sure you are,” he says in the most wooden voice ever. “Why do you like me?”

  I lean against the wall, and the table tips forward, pressing me harder against his crotch. He catches his breath, and his gaze drops to my lips. But there’s something unsettled in me. I need an answer to the question. Those girls downstairs asked it, and now I can’t ignore it.

  “We’re not done discussing my qualities yet.” My legs wrap around his hips like a trap. “It shouldn’t be a challenging question. Why do you like me?”

  He glances down at where he’s stuffed between my thighs. “What do you want me to say, Jean?”

  “Whatever the answer is.”

  “I already told you.
” A lick of hardness creeps into his soft voice. “Pretty and kind.”

  “You said ‘nice’ before.” I’m picking. Why am I picking? I button my lips. Kissing is better. Less chance of me saying something stupid. Why can’t I ever stop myself from saying stupid things?

  It’s my constant struggle. Open my mouth and something edged falls out. Something I always wish I could take back. I can’t keep myself from starting arguments. I’m a bag of razor blades just waiting to slice.

  Ty leans in so close his face fills up all the dark edges of the hallway and blocks out those glowing stars. “Tell me what to say, Jean.” The edge in his voice makes my toes curl.

  “Just—”

  “Fucking tell me what to say.” There’s no softness in his voice now.

  I tip my chin up. “You want to fuck an Asian girl.” It’s out before I can stop myself.

  He flinches away, and I know I’ve messed up. Just like I have with thirty-seven other guys I chased away with sharp words. It’s not that I want to say fuck off every day. It’s that I need to.

  I close my eyes, trying to step away from myself. Those girls were wrong about one thing. I don’t go through guys like a valet service. I go through them like a chainsaw.

  “What the fuck?” Ty’s voice snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I sag against the wall. It’s not like anyone can answer that question. I’ve been trying my whole life and can’t come up with anything. Other than I’m the girl who always says the wrong things.

  “Maybe I’m just a bitch.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said to Ty.

  He jerks out from between my legs, and I have to grip the wobbly table to keep from falling. I didn’t realize how high up I was.