Free Beyond Repair (Broken Girl Book 1) by Annie Hughes Page B

and littering her skin. My eyes latch on to the words printed in bold black. Judicare populum intelligere minora sunt . With a mind of their own, my fingers reach out and brush along the phrase.
    "Judicare populum intelligere minora sunt," Lydia sighs, with perfect execution. She turns to face me, holding her now unzipped dress over herself. "Latin."
    "What does it mean?"
    She smiles, and it's not her usual smirk. It's a genuine smile, almost sweet even.
    "People judge what they are too small to understand," her head tilts to the side a little as regards me for a few more seconds. "Pick a movie, I'm gonna change."

Holy whoring fucker. What am I doing? I pace across my bedroom, resisting the urge to scream at myself. Why the fuck do I have Callum Reeves sitting in my damn lounge picking a movie? Because you invited him, Lyds . UGH. I knew I shouldn't have drank all that vodka, it's clearly hindering my ability to make smart choices. Fucking Jake . Shit, Jake. I left him sleeping in his bed, and now I'm about to get all cozy with another man. A man I undoubtedly hate. The guy works for my dad! This is a huge no, but here I am. No wonder people think I'm a slut. Although, I'm not going to screw Callum, so it's not that bad, surely. Oh boy. Kitty is gonna kick my ass. At least I've sobered up now, ish. Thanks to Callum putting his big hands on me. That soft but calloused touch across my skin sent waves of the unfamiliar through my body. He touched me, and it wasn't to strangle me. How about that? Goosebumps pimple on my skin from the memory, but I force it down and head into the en suite bathroom in my room. I cannot be thinking about Callum that way. Hell fucking no. He's an asshole, an incredibly attractive asshole, but an asshole none the less. I strip off my dress of shame completely, then quickly wash, scrubbing all evidence of my recent activities from my skin. I feel so dirty, my skin is practically crawling. I love sex, I really do, but damn if it does make me antsy after. Hence, why I'm now home and washing instead of spooning Mr Rockstar back at the lodge. Giving up with the quick wash, I turn the water on the shower and step in. I let it wash away the grime of my indiscretions and lather more shower gel than necessary over myself. When I'm satisfied, I dry off, and push my legs into a pair of checked pajama shorts, pairing them with an oversized NYU shirt. Who needs a bra? I shove my wet hair up into a ponytail and head back into the lounge where the latest consequences of my drunken actions await.
    Callum is still where I left him, only he's kicked off his shoes and, thank god, lined them up perfectly against the couch. His gaze is fixed on the TV as he flicks through the endless movies I have on TiVo. I have a habit of recording them but never actually watching any of them. Seriously though, who has time to sit and watch an entire movie? I force myself away from him and into the kitchen, pulling a bottle of water from the refrigerator. My body is on overdrive, the sound of my own heartbeat deafening. I spy my pills on the counter but don't make a grab for them. I can't take them when I've been drinking, so I'll just have to deal with the noise, I grab Callum some water too as I leave the kitchen. I'm all about manners. I hand it to him as I re-enter the living room, then slump down on the couch beside him. I rest my back against the armrest, and pull my knees to my chest. He turns to face me, a small smile on his beautifully sculptured face.
    "Did you shower?"
    I raise my eyebrow and point to my hair, "Isn’t it obvious?"
    A nervous laugh leaves him, "Good point," he runs a hand through his dark hair. "How do you feel about horror movies?"
    About as enthusiastic as I do about herpes . Though I don't answer with that, because then he'd think I'm a pussy, and I just can't allow that. Besides, nothing can be scarier than what is in my own head, right? I mean, it's pretty hellish up there. Extreme nightmare shit.