Lost King by Piper Lennox (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

I always fall for it. I used to live for it.

Lately, I’ve learned it’s just a clever little trick to get his foot back in the door, literally and figuratively. There’s always a point where something like this happens, and the true colors return.

“Lessie said you were at the rink last night.” I sense him step up behind me—can feel him invading more and more of my space. “With a guy.”

My eyes read every line of the letter and comprehend none of it. “What, I can’t be friends with a guy?”

“Ruby.” He takes my arm. Not hard: so soft I barely notice, actually. But his fingers fit perfectly into the bruises, just like last night.

“We’re broken up, Callum, remember?” Carefully, like trying to step out of a bear trap without setting it off, I slip from his hold. “You don’t get a say in who I hang out with.”

“Just tell me who it is.” He shrugs, like this request is perfectly reasonable. Nothing but a friend, looking out for another friend.

For the first time, I notice his hair is freshly cut. Hale probably buzzed it for him. Maybe he hoped it could kick Callum’s ass into caring about his appearance again: he’s got scabs along his jaw, some being picked acne; the rest, scrapes from fights and drunken pass-outs. His eyes always look sunken, these days.

I wonder how many times my heart will break for him before it’s all scar tissue.

“If Lessie told you,” I say quietly, evenly, “then you already know exactly who I was with.” Marcus’s niece is dating one of Callum’s dealers, and she’ll dig up info on anyone for ten bucks.

He stares down at me, breathing hard. It’s half like he’s angry, and half like it’s just too hard to get oxygen. He looks sober right now, but who knows.

I definitely don’t want to find out.

“You should go.”

“Tell me it’s not him, Ru.” He touches my arm again, then migrates to my neck. It’s a gentle brush of his knuckles, but makes me flinch inside worse than when he grabbed my arm.

I hate him touching me.

I hate that I wish it was Theo doing it, instead.

He lets his head hang low so we’re almost eye-level, until he starts looking like a broken marionette missing most of its strings.

“Tell me,” he growls, “that you’re smarter than that. Tell me you aren’t actually doing that to yourself again.”

“Why do you do this to yourself, Ruby?”

“It’s not how it sounds,” I whisper. “He...he’s a client, I’m just cleaning his house, and yesterday was his birthd—”

“Do you not remember what that asshole did to you?” His voice booms.

His fingers sink into the soft flesh of my shoulder.

Not on my neck, but so close I just know that was his intention—to remind me how easily he could put them there.

“Go home, Call.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re going within five fucking feet of that guy.” His fingers pulsate. I stare at the holes peppering his shirt hem, where the fabric always scrapes and drags his belt buckle. Callum owns eleven shirts exactly, and nine are holey.

For reasons I can’t remember anymore, I used to love them: winding my fingers into each and every puncture, waggling them while he swatted me away with a smile.

That feels so impossibly long ago.

“He’ll break you, Ruby.” Callum’s grip tightens the tiniest bit. But that’s the tipping point, where it goes from feeling like a firm and angry hand, to an immoveable vice.

His body drifts close to mine. His hipbones bracket my lower abdomen, fitting just above my hips like two puzzle pieces smashed together. They sort of fit—but one piece will always come out warped. Or torn.

“It’s none of your business,” I say.

Turns out, that’s the worst possible thing to tell him.

Callum’s thumb twists into my skin, driving deep, a railroad spike of pain and anger I can’t fight. My yelp startles me, but not as much as the fact my arm suddenly can’t function. It jerks like a spasm, rigid and useless as the lightning bolt zings through to my fingertips.

“Fuck, Callum, it’s just revenge! It’s some stupid little revenge thing, okay? Let me go!”

My knees almost buckle, but I catch myself with the microwave cabinet in the same instant he releases his grip and steps back.

I lean hard against the particleboard door, my good arm braced on the dishtowel bar. The other hangs by my side as though he stole its life force.

My panting fills the air. Tears claw up my throat.

Callum paces in a slow, jerky oval to the counter while I stare at his shoes and try to tame my fear.

I don’t want to be afraid of him. Ever. I want to go back to feeling sorry for him. I want to hate him, just a little. Just enough to keep pushing him out of my life.

“Revenge?” he asks, finally, glancing back at me. Shame is trickling into his eyes, steadily replacing the fury, especially when he sees me flexing my hand and rubbing my shoulder.

“Go. Home.” My order comes out full of stutters and gasps, like a kid after a crying jag. I straighten up and refuse to flinch when he crosses the room in a single step, yanking me into a hug.

“Ruby, babe, I’m sor—”

My arms are pinned between us, folded against his chest, so I dig in my nails to make up for the lack of force when I push him off. “No, Callum. Fuck your apology. Fuck you. Get out of my house.”

“I lost my temper, okay?” His lips stamp a winding map over my face. I wince at every single one. “It’s just—just the thought of