Harper's Rules 1 & 2

Chapter 11: Harper

Un-fucking believable.

Every student whose unfortunate path crossed mine, either outside or inside the School of Law as I marched to this morning's lecture, jumped out of my way. I might have also stepped on a few heels and kicked a few shins as I stomped down the marble hallways like Godzilla encroached on Rhodan, or a college student who decided early December was the perfect time for a caffeine detox.

I'm so fucking screwed. And not the version in the deal with Jake.

Even though I woke up this morning in Jake's bed, I still woke up in the best possible way, freshly fucked. My entire area between my legs ached amazingly, despite the protest from lingered soreness as Jake fucked me gently in the shower. I'd actually never gone to sleep and watched as the black sky shifted to pale blue and pink striations, thrashed my arms and legs around, and counted Jake's snores next to me.

Physically, I was a weird mix of electrified jitters from sleep deprivation and teetered on the high before the crash. My lady bits couldn't have felt happier, traitorous bitches. While I appreciated Jake's hot breakfast plate, I pushed it away and preferred that neither of us saw the food again, courtesy of the nausea that tugged at my empty stomach.

Emotionally though, I was fucked beyond recognition. I'd allowed my mother to affect me, showed up at Jake's broken and desperate, and let myself fall into a false sense of being loved. For a brief moment, I slipped under the physical high Jake took me to over and over. Mistakenly, I thought he'd melted away my pain and replaced it with...

Well, whatever it was, it's not real.

It can't be... because it's me.

I'd broken my own rules, my promises to myself, like mentally I'd fallen asleep. No, I'd pathetically begged him that I stayed, that he stayed. At that moment, I quivered like the thirteen-year-old version of me that bawled when she'd first left.

I wish I could say I blamed my broken family problems but really everything was my fault. I'd thrown myself at Jake like a desperate, sex-crazed slut, and he'd taken everything.

Including my pain. That was... uncharacteristically nice of him.

Rumbled snores aside, Jake slept beautifully. A few random locks of his dark brown hair framed his relaxed, line-free forehead, so I brushed them aside with my fingertips. A few more strands curled over his ears, licked the sides of his neck, and the rest fanned out around his head over his white pillow case. His sharp facial features, high cheekbones and angular jawline contrasted with the calm, content expression that I envied.

His closest arm flopped overhead and his elbow bent at an angle that elongated his torso. From my side, I lowered the sheets enough that his rib tattoo ink came into view.

Without pain, there is no strength.

A quiet, low groan rumbled through him, his lips twitched, and he rolled slightly towards me. I pulled the covers back, tucked the blankets around him, and tipped my head back up to the ceiling.

At that moment, I didn't hate Jake. Only myself.

I needed eighteen hours, and two sympathy fucks from Jake, before my shock wore off by the time he dropped me off at UCLA. And, like all my emotions, anger beat down the rest of them and surged to the top for dominance in my head space.

With as much red as I saw, I could've sworn I'd slipped in colored contacts. My forehead throbbed from how hard I glared at the world around me. That world had shrunk, contorted, and twisted itself away from the world I thought I'd lived in since I moved down here three months ago.