He sat back. “Why explain it when we both know it’s over your head?” I raised a haughty brow. “Pll have you know I was at the top of my class at Brighton High.” He recognized the name of the shittiest public school in Chicago. “A difficult feat, I’m sure.” I leaned back on my hands and sighed like I was reminiscing. “Although, that’s mostly because I fucked my chemistry teacher.” That was a lie. The bastard had cornered me in his classroom and shoved his hand up my skirt. I understood my psyche. I used my painful past experiences to shock and, therefore, feel like I had control of them. In short, I was a mess. His expression tightened in disapproval. “Who taught you to talk like that?” “My mom,” I said seriously. “Charming.” “What? Can’t say ‘fuck’ from that pretty boy mouth of yours?” “What’s on your neck?” I tilted my head to give him a better view, purposely swinging my long, dark ponytail in his face. I bit my cheek to hold in the smile when he evaded it with a look of annoyance. The tattoo on the nape of my neck was a geometrical triangle. No, it didn’t mean anything. I just loved the design. “You like?” I asked. “No.” Because he was being rude, I shrugged just so I could toss my hair at him again. But this time, he grabbed my ponytail and yanked me flat to my back on the table. A gasp passed my lips at the unexpected roughness, and the sudden heat flaring inside me shocked me so much I practically growled at him. Sitting back in his seat, a hand wrapped around my hair, he raised an indifferent brow. “Why swing it in my face if you don’t want me to grab it?” “You think everything belongs to you, don’t you?” “Yes.” It was such a ridiculous answer I couldn’t grasp onto a quick retort, so I only glared.