Break Me (Truth in Lies Book 1) Read online

  “Thanks.” Cassie giggles at him. She gives me a questioning lip scrunch, and I shake my head to her unspoken question. No, I didn’t have sex with Mackie. I can’t remember the last guy I had sex with—must be a few years now. Cassie looks like she’s about to ask something else when I realize what Mackie is doing.

  He’s filling another cup. My cup.

  “I can do that!” I try to grab it from his hands, knocking it to the side. Beer dribbles on the floor.

  Mackie takes a step back, still gripping my cup. I might have acted with a little too much enthusiasm, but I’m done with party-bros pouring my beer.

  Mackie holds out the Solo cup. It’s full. Damn.

  I reluctantly take it. Now I have to drink this whole cup. Just so I can prove that I can get beer out of that thing.

  Cassie asks Mackie about sociology—which they must have together or something—so I slide a few steps away and let them linger around the keg together in the classic college-party courtship display. Mackie showing off the bounty of his beer. Cassie showing off the potential of her fuck-me boots. I’m not thrilled about her interest in him, but it’s her interest. And my job is the supportive-but-bitchy friend.

  The sliding door off the back of the kitchen gapes open, and I step out onto a little cement patio bucked up against a swell of trimmed grass. Landry lingers with a group of laughing girls. He smiles and steps towards me.

  “Glad you could make it,” he drawls politely, which makes me feel even worse about all those times I butchered his name. He glances into my half-empty cup. That confusing, looming feeling takes over. “Been here for long?”

  “No,” I admit. “Half a beer down in less than three minutes.”

  He grins. Of course he does. “Want to dance?”

  I stare up at him. There’s this pull like I want to go with him. Like I want to see where this goes. It tugs down into my fingers tapping a rhythm against my cup. My feet keep shifting on the grass.

  I lean back. Things are getting too twisted. And I hate questioning myself. Fucking Kepler. He’s got me caught up in my own brain.

  “I need to find Cassie,” I blurt.

  “Later, then?” He winks. It’s probably supposed to be sexy, but I’m left out of sorts.

  What the fuck am I doing here?

  I dive into the kitchen to find that Cassie’s mating ritual took her away from the keg. Outside the sliding door, Landry moves back into the circle of girls. They all turn towards him when he saunters over.

  I stare at his lanky stance. What did I see in him? There had to be something. I didn’t agree to go out with him just so I could break up with him. Right?

  We met at the library. He loomed over me with his fingers clenched around his books. I couldn’t get his name right, and that had been slightly amusing. For me, at least. Just more evidence that I always end up saying the wrong things. Pissing them off. Being the wrong kind of girl.

  I throw back the rest of my beer and step up to my nemesis. I grab the hose, and a tiny stream of beer leaks down the inside of my cup. Good. I’ve got this under control. I reach for the pump just as long fingers grab it. Familiar fence-fixing hands.

  Of fucking course.

  “That’s my—” I glance up.

  Holy fucking hell.

  Kepler’s hair is smoothed back to reveal a high forehead and the sharp edge of his jaw. Meo-shi-seo. Although handsome doesn’t begin to describe it. I blink. My father never taught me Korean for dead-fucking-sexy, but this is another one of those English phrases that doesn’t have enough weight.

  No. This is Kepler Quinn. Evil person who thinks I’m addicted to breaking up with guys. Asshole who was mean to sweet Irene. I need to concentrate on the dead and forget the sexy.

  I point to the pump. “I want to do that.”

  “Just thought I could offer my help, Lo. You seem to need it on occasion.” Those gray eyes settle on mine. And those fence-capable fingers are still pumping—filling my cup with a river of foam.

  “You need to learn about flow rate.” I glare up at him. “I don’t want to drink all this foam.”

  “Why? Would it interrupt the breakup schedule?”

  “I’m not here to break up with anyone.”

  He raises a stupid, questioning eyebrow. “So why are you here? Are you planning on consummating your relationship instead of getting rid of him?” He says relationship in a way that encourages me to throw my cup of foam at him.

  Luckily I’ve got more than bubbles to throw. I’m made of words.

  “Fuck off, Kepler.” Okay, maybe just three words.

  “Do you know how much I enjoy it when you say that?” His voice drops into a low timbre, that smoky gaze pinned on me like he’s reduced me to some easy-to-solve equation.

  “No one likes to be told that.” I scrunch my nose in confusion. “Which is why I said it.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the only reason you said it,” he says with an easy shrug.

  I hate how lost I am when it comes to him. I never know what he’s thinking under the smoke and mirrors, so I search for those well-crafted sentences I labored over. “Your theory is faulty. You don’t—”

  He nods towards my hand. “Your cup is overflowing.”

  Shit. Foam runs down the sides and drips on the keg. I drop the hose and shake my fingers. Fucking great. My palms are sticky. I wipe one hand on my jeans while Kepler picks up the little black faucet and, now that all the foam has been unloaded into my cup, proceeds to fill his own with beer.

  I let out a low hiss. God, he pisses me off.

  “You are the opposite of a gentleman.” I keep wiping my hand on my jeans as Kepler finishes filling his beer. “Your theory is—”

  “Cheers.” He clicks the lip of his cup against mine. “I was wondering if you would like to take me up on that walk.”

  I blink up at him. “What the fuck, Kepler? What is up with you and walks?”

  “Is that a yes?” He takes a drink, and a few strands of smoothed-back hair fall forward. My fingers ache to fix it.

  “I’m…” I clench my cup. “I’m here with Landry.”

  He lets out a long breath, glancing towards the backyard. For a second, his jaw tightens. But it’s gone as fast as it came. “Do you want me to get rid of him for you?”

  “No,” I snap. “I don’t need your help, Kepler.”

  His eyes narrow on me. Does he ever stop thinking?

  “Onwards, then. I won’t get in your way.” He tilts his head towards the door. “If that’s what you really want.”

  I follow his nod. Landry lounges in that group of girls with an easy smile sliding across his face.

  Easy. That’s what I liked about him. Everything with Landry is simple and easy and under control. There is no part of Kepler that makes me feel that way.

  I’ve seen what it’s like when it’s not easy. My father’s face the first time he came home and saw another man with my mom. The way he tried so hard to pull us back together. And the moment when he finally gave up. When he walked out of that house and away from this fucked-up life.

  I won’t pick the same life. I won’t be stuck here playing fake house with some townie. I’m going to graduate from college and get the hell out.

  “Yes, that’s what I want.” I tip up my chin.

  He takes a long drink. I’ve never known him to be quiet for so long. “You hesitated,” he finally says.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You never hesitate.”

  “Is that another one of your faulty theories?” I keep my chin up, my glare focused directly on him. “You’re wrong.”

  “Unfortunately for you, I’m never wrong.”

  “You don’t seriously believe that.” I’m clutching my cup so hard that more foam leaks down my fingers. “Everyone is wrong. All the fucking time. That includes you.”

  “Then you obviously don’t know me very well.” Both a statement and an accusation.

  I take a breath to steady myself. This is
n’t the time to yell fuck off. I’ve got carefully crafted sentences. “A theory is a tested explanation for a set of verified, proven factors.”

  He raises both eyebrows. Maybe I’m speaking to the science nerd in him. And I might have memorized the definition just for this moment.

  “You don’t have any verified proof. What you have is a guess,” I continue, shocked he hasn’t interrupted me yet. “An incorrect guess. This whole breaking-up thing—it doesn’t exist.”

  “Says the person with an addiction. I believe they call that denial, Lo.”

  I can’t stop the growl that comes out of my throat. “Do you have to piss me off every time you see me?” My hand aches from clenching the cup so hard. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

  He leans close to my ear. Omija tea and cloves. No slick of cologne. No smelling like a thousand other guys. Just sweet and spicy like Sunday mornings in my father’s kitchen.

  Then his low voice fills my head. “Nothing you don’t want for yourself, Lo.”

  Six

  My mouth flops open, but not a single well-crafted sentence comes out. Kepler can’t do this to me. He just can’t. I turn and stalk away. I’m to the sliding door before I realize I’m heading towards Landry.

  And, of course, he waves at me. Fuck. The last thing I want to do is play nice with Landry—or anyone—but I slide up next to him, and his long arms swing open. I force myself to step next to him, but I keep my arms plastered to my sides until he lets me escape. He doesn’t seem to notice my hug repulsion, and his hand drops to my hip in that oh-so-planned way guys do when they want to see how far they can take it.

  I’m in control of this—of me. Well, I want to be. But my mind is twenty feet behind me, standing in the kitchen and wondering what I could have said to Kepler. There are lots of things I should have said. Or not said.

  “Having a good time?” Landry slouches over me, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Party of the century,” I say.

  He grins. “As promised.”

  Why is every one of our conversations the same small talk? I have to stop myself from groaning in protest. I hate that Cassie forced me here. That Kepler practically shoved me out the sliding door.

  And yet, as I stare up at him, there’s that pull like I need to go with him. My body isn’t connected to my brain.

  “Landry,” I start—careful to get his name right even though I’m not sure what to say afterwards.

  He grins, and then his attention moves behind me.

  Kepler. Again. For fuck’s sake.

  “Hey, man.” Kepler’s voice is an octave lower than usual, which I recognize as the way two guys who don’t know each other converse. He stands behind me—way too close for comfort—and extends a hand to Landry. They share a stiff guy handshake and loom above me. Neither speaks, but an entire conversation is going on over my head.

  I glare at both of them. Landry nods as if Kepler said something.

  What the hell is going on? It’s like I’ve fallen into a guy-code situation I can’t translate into normal-person speak.

  Kepler pinches the lip of my cup and takes it from me. “I’ll drink the foamy one.” He pushes his Solo cup into my hand and sips from the cup o’ foam. His gaze never leaves my quasi-date.

  Whatever the fuck just happened is not lost on Landry. His feet shuffle one step away.

  I turn on Kepler. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Doing you a favor.” He looks at me for the first time since stalk-following me into the backyard. “Drinking your foamy beer.”

  We both know the favor he’s speaking of isn’t about the beer. It’s about the tall guy frowning and pulling out his phone as if he just received an important text.

  “I like the foam.” I reach for my cup, but Kepler pulls it away.

  “Maybe you just think you like foam.” He swirls his cup. A pressure settles on my lower back. His other hand. Each finger a pressure point against the slip of skin just above my jeans.

  I jump, and Kepler’s hand squeezes, lighting this electric kind of response that crawls up my spine.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Jean.” Landry’s drawl is slow, but his feet aren’t. He takes four long strides and sinks into a cluster of girls before I can expel a breath.

  I focus my frustration exactly where it belongs. “What the fuck are you doing? You practically goaded me into coming out here. Then you followed me and chased my date away.”

  Kepler tilts his head and watches me. Why isn’t he saying anything?

  My hands grip into tight little balls. I try to release them, but they just tighten back up.

  And still, he’s quiet. I can’t take the silence anymore.

  “Are you going to follow me around every time I’m with a guy? You—” My mind churns for a descriptor. Asshole. Fuckwad. I need to expand my vocabulary.

  I might slap him. Although the mug throwing worked pretty well. My hand trembles, and beer jumps out of the cup.

  He steps closer. Close enough I can see the gradations of blond and brown in his hair. The shadow of stubble along that sharp jaw.

  “I did you a favor,” he says, his voice dropping to deadly serious. “You didn’t want to dispose of him, so I did it for you.”

  “I told you I was here with him.”

  “Your mouth said that, but the rest of you said the exact opposite.”

  “I said no.” My voice is low. I hate how my thoughts are more on his words than mine.

  “Your words are always twisted up, Lo. Some logic the rest of us can’t follow.” His jaw clenches from ear to chin. “When’s the last time you said what you mean?”

  Fire breathes up my throat. “Shib-seh-ggi. When I called you a piece of shit.”

  Tension ricochets down his shoulders and into the muscles of his forearms. One taut hand drops to my hip. The spot Landry touched earlier. But Kepler’s touch isn’t a question—it’s a directive. He shifts me so the knots of people around us disappear from view. No Landry and his side-glancing at us. No keg haunting me from behind the sliding door. All that’s left is evergreen bushes, a dark sky, and Kepler. And a warm, prickly sensation that races from Kepler’s arm still curled around my hip, up my side, and across my chest.

  He glares down at me, his jaw still tight. His anger curls off him and winds around us. This raw feeling that’s hot and edged with something I’ve never touched before. Something I’m not sure I want to touch.

  His fingers dig into my hip—pressure points that ground me with him. But when I narrow my eyes on him, his fingers press a fraction harder. Not quite enough to hurt.

  So I narrow my eyes just a bit more.

  I swear he almost smiles. Almost because it’s been so long since I’ve seen him do that, I’m not even sure I would recognize it. And almost because he dips towards me, so quick I don’t have time to pull back.

  Although I don’t even know if I would. He lingers inches above me, his jaw still clenched in something between humor and anger.

  He fucking smolders. Which, trust me, is a word I’ve never applied to a guy before. But he’s like smoke rising from a too-hot flame. Every part of him is razor-sharp and burning. So much that if I reach out and touch him, his skin would char my fingertips.

  Desire coils in my core—as real and physical as the breath in my lungs and the grass under my feet. So real I can taste it on my lips and feel it curving down my spine to rest on my hips.

  I want to touch him. I want to run my hand along the edge of his jaw and down the cords of his neck to that whisper-soft t-shirt that stretches across his chest and sheathes his shoulders. I want to trace his lower lip that curves slightly wider than the top and discover that flat stomach and the rough hem of his jeans.

  He lets out a breath, and he’s so close it brushes warmth against my cheek. “Are you trying not to kiss me, Lo?” His mouth is that usual line, but there’s a soft laughter in the way he says my name. He’s so fucking confusing.r />
  I hiss. “No.” Wait… was that one of those reverse questions where not flips the whole sentence?

  “You’re confusing.” My words are quiet to match his—laden with things I don’t speak often.

  “I might be less confusing if you just kissed me.” His voice is a gravelly taunt. And so fucking sexy it should be illegal.

  Some pop song beats somewhere far off like it’s from another time and place. Like I’ve stepped out of a silly college party and into another world. Voices tangle in laughter behind me. My fingers want to push back that stray lock of hair.

  Instead I tip up my chin. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

  “Why not? Are you concerned about your kissing skills? I’ll take it easy on you.” He leans a fraction of an inch closer. “The first time, at least.”

  “My kissing skills are just fine, Kepler. I have… experience.” Experience? Did I seriously just say that?

  “Excellent. I appreciate competence.” He grips me to him. Somehow we’re closer than when we started the argument. If it’s even an argument anymore. It’s more like a dance—except both of us are trying to lead.

  There’s barely an inch between us. An inch that wouldn’t exist if we weren’t holding onto plastic cups.

  Red Solo cups. Because we’re at a stupid college party. In the backyard. With my quasi-date on the other side of the lawn.

  Fuck. This is not how this night was supposed to go. Not with this desire bubbling in my chest like a kettle about to boil over. And certainly not with Kepler Quinn.

  Nope, no, nopety-nope. Don’t think about the fact that Kepler is no longer that fifteen-year-old boy with too-big glasses and too much hair. That now he’s a… man. All sorts of man. And so close his skin heats mine. What I need to do is—

  His cheek brushes against mine. Rough stubble against my skin that cuts a path towards my ear. I shiver so hard it could be called convulsing. My breath stalls. Do I still have lungs? Or any body part besides the patch of skin that’s grazed with his rough touch?

  Oh, holy fuck, this is not good. Or it’s too good. I suck in a sharp breath.

  “I didn’t know you felt like that, Lo.” His hand slides up my waist, smoothes along the side of my breast, and stops at the base of my neck.