Wreck Me (Corrupt Legacy Series #2)

Dane is in front of me. That smug expression is plastered on his stunning face. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, making him appear lethal in his beauty.

I yank it from his lips and toss it in the nearest trash can.

“You’re not allowed to smoke on school grounds.”

“And here I thought I’d get a sermon about how bad it is for my health.”

“Did that ever help anyone who is obviously already hooked on the vice?”

He just lights a new one.

“Not next to me. I hate the smell.”

I freeze at the moment of uncharacteristic honesty bursting from me.

He plops down on the seat next to me and plays with his silver lighter. On instinct, I turn to him. The hypnotic movement of the Zippo between his long fingers, flipping it easily, fascinates me.

“Stalking me?”

Shrugging, he says nonchalantly, “You still have to give me the tour.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Like lung cancer.”

“You’re—”

“Tell me something I might have never heard before.”

A challenge compelling me to say something instead of keeping my mouth shut and putting some much-needed distance between us.

“You care too much.” It’s a daring affirmation, but I am most certainly sure I am not wrong.

And this time, it’s his jaw that drops. He’s not that hard to read.

He looks straight ahead, deep in thought, while I leave without looking back.

When the day ends, I walk toward the coed dorm building, three minutes away from the main school building.

The left wing houses the guys, and on the right, the girls. The building has four floors and ten apartments accommodating up to four students. Chaperones live in the dorm to make sure we don’t mingle. But for the right amount, they keep their mouths and eyes shut at our indiscretions.

I take the stairs to the first floor and step inside the cozy space. It has three bedrooms, an open living room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom. This has been like home since we started high school. I share it with just Bailey, as Celine is not here anymore.

Inside my white and pink bedroom, I collapse on the bed just in time for Grandmother to call. She’s not my actual grandmother but we have to call her that as per her request.

“How was your first day of senior year?”

You would think she cares. All my childhood, I had hoped she did, only to find out it was she who determined my future—long before I knew what that entailed.

“Smooth like always.”

“Perfect, don’t disappoint me.”

“That won’t happen.”

“See you on Friday.”

As if I could forget the weekly dinner with the matriarch of the Family.