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

you going out with someone else at all, it’s not like that’s easy for me to handle. But then hearing it’s him?”

His hands rest on my waist with exactly as much tenderness as his previous touch lacked. He’s good at that. Playing opposites. Going from zero to ten, then back again in mere seconds, to make you feel like you overreacted.

I remind myself not to step into the trap.

“Go.” I inhale slowly, trying not to let him hear the strain.

“Not until you swear to me he means nothing to you. You don’t want to be with me anymore? Fine. But I’m still your friend, whether you fucking want me or not, and I’m not standing by while you get your heart broken again, or your whole goddamn life destroyed.”

His hands grab my waist and pull me in. My stomach tightens. I feel a partial erection through his denim, pressed hard against my hip.

“Like I said,” I whisper, leaning back until my spine feels like it’ll snap against the cabinet, “it’s just revenge. Don’t worry about me.”

“You swear?”

My mouth goes dry again. I nod, relieved when I feel his grip loosen. “I swear.”

Callum tongues his cheek a moment. It’s disgusting; there’s a deep wound pitted into the skin, a scab he either picked at or scraped off stumbling into a brick wall, or maybe falling down some stairs. He used to have such beautiful skin.

“What’s your plan?”

“My plan?”

“Yeah. You said it’s just revenge, so you’ve got a plan, right? Tell me.”

I use the stunned look on my face to pretend I’m thinking—turning it from, How the hell do I explain I’m second-guessing the whole thing? to, Where the hell do I even start?

“It’s...it’s not anything super concrete.” I pry his fingers off me and slip to the doorway. The open space behind me—and access to a door—calms my pulse better than deep-breathing ever could. “I’m kind of playing it by ear.”

Callum lifts an eyebrow, shrugging. “Okay, and? What’s the actual ‘revenge’ part, then?”

“Breaking his heart,” I blurt. It feels like I’ve lost control of my mouth. And my mind.

And my own stupid, rebellious heart.

Because the second I reveal this to Callum—the second I remind myself what all this was really for—I get a pang of regret. I wish so badly I still wanted this plan.

I shut my eyes, mentally shaking my head at myself. This is ridiculous. So I’m attracted to Theo. We had a great night and several great fucks.

God...incredible fucks.

But it can still mean nothing. It’s not too late to keep my train on its tracks. It’s not too late to—

“I want in.”

I open my eyes. Callum is tucking a pouch of Skoal against his cheek, not looking at me, stare now trained vaguely on the pedal of the trash can.

“What?”

“I said,” he mutters, glancing at me, “I want in.” He straightens his shoulders and steps close again. Then, in what’s no doubt a miracle, he holds up his hands in surrender and steps back, when I tense up.

“Why?”

“Why?” He laughs like I’m adorable and dumb. “Because fuck that guy. Because you need help, Ruby. Because he deserves way, way worse than just ‘getting his heart broken,’ and you know it.”

Callum stomps the trash can pedal. When the lid swings upward, he spits, coating my old receipts and junk mail with that grimy mess I still can’t stand.

“Because,” he adds quietly, “you’re too sweet and good to do it on your own.”

“I’ve done just fine on my own so far, thank you.”

“You know how many times I see that prick around town? Don’t forget, Ru: you stayed in Jersey all those summers. I didn’t. And neither did he. I’ve been watching him for years. I know his habits, I know everywhere he goes—”

“I don’t need help, Call, and I definitely don’t want yours.” I go to the front door and open it, standing by impatiently. “We’re done.”

“I’m not doing it as your boyfriend,” he spits, “or your ex. I’m doing it as your friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

It chisels at my heart to say it, even though I know it’s true. Denial can’t save me now.

Callum’s features darken again. He used to have soft, sweet angles to his face: a rounded jaw like his dad, and baby fat all over. Now, he’s broken shards.

“Don’t ever say that shit again,” he whispers. He fills the kitchen doorway, leaning hard against one side while his legs, crossed at the ankles, scuff up the other. One arm braces over his head, cracking each of his fingers inside his fist a single pop at a time. It reminds me of crackling embers.

“We are friends,” he goes on, “and friends want to help each other. Let me.”

“No.” I open the door even wider, until the handle squishes the cracked rubber stopper screwed into the wall. “You’ll take things way too far.”

“You won’t take them far enough.”

My protest stalls, then fades. I shut my mouth.

He’s right.

But so am I. Callum brings guns to knife fights (practically literally). He’s the type to knock a guy out for looking at him wrong. I can only imagine what he’s got in mind for Theo. And, no matter what Theo did years ago, he doesn’t deserve revenge the way Callum serves it up.

I’m starting to think he doesn’t even deserve mine. Not anymore.

“Go.” This final plea and demand floats between us, delicate and useless. If Callum leaves, it’ll be because he’s ready to leave, never because I’ve told him to.

“You’ve got it under control?” he asks as he passes. He keeps his boot wedged in the doorway, even though I’m not closing it. “You swear?”

I sigh.