My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 10

Chapter 10 I Wrote the Rules Between Us

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The heat of his breath lingered on my cheek, smelling of peppermint and impending disaster. I forced my chin up, refusing to shrink back

against the metal of his car.

“Your academic survival,” I said. My voice was steadier now, anchored by the familiar territory of grades and transcripts. I gripped the straps of my backpack like a lifeline. “You’re failing Chemistry. You’re failing AP European History. I have the master syllabus for every junior class. I will outline your essays. I will do your worksheets. I will pull your GPA out of the gutter so your father doesn’t cut you off.”

He studied my face. The shards of green and gold in his eyes shifted, darkening under the shadows of the bleachers. He didn’t confirm or deny the rumor about his father, but the thick muscle ticking in his jaw gave him away.

“Tomorrow,” he finally rasped, taking a slow step back. The sudden rush of cool air against my skin made me shiver. “Four o’clock. The

downtown public library. Bring your syllabus.”

He didn’t wait for me to agree. He turned, grabbed his heavy jacket off the windshield, and walked away.

The digital clock on my nightstand flashed 2:14 AM.

The radiator in the corner of my tiny bedroom hissed, spitting out a meager stream of uneven heat. I sat cross-legged on my narrow twin bed, my laptop burning a dull, hot square against my thighs. Through the thin drywall, I could hear the faint, rhythmic hum of the ancient refrigerator in our kitchen, mixed with the soft sound of my mother snoring in the next room. She had worked a double shift at the diner. Her feet had been swollen when she kicked off her non-slip shoes at midnight.

I stared at the blinding white screen of Microsoft Word.

A blinking black cursor taunted me.

My fingers hovered over the plastic keys. My hands were still shaking, hours after leaving the bleachers. I was about to tie myself to a boy who communicated in bruises and silence. I was walking onto a battlefield with no armor.

So, I decided to build some.

I pressed down on the keys. The rapid, sharp clacking filled the quiet room. It was the only sound that made sense to me. Rules. Structure. Logic. If I could contain the chaos of Ryder Steinmann within a twelve-point font, I could survive this.

Clause 1: Physical Proximity.

I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting the lingering metallic tang of blood from earlier. I typed out the boundaries. Hand-holding was permitted strictly within the main corridors of Crestview Prep, between the hours of eight in the morning and three in the afternoon. Maximum duration: four minutes per class transition.

Clause 2: Private Contact.

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Chapter 10 I Wrote the Rules Between Us

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Zero. Under no circumstances would we be alone in an unmonitored environment. All strategy meetings would take place in public spaces

with high visibility.

Clause 3: Verbal Communication.

Approved topics of conversation for public performance included school events, neutral hobbies, and fabricated shared interests. No personal questions. No digging into family histories. Texts were strictly for logistical coordination.

By 3:30 AM, I had two full pages of clinical, rigid rules. It read like a corporate merger between two hostile companies. I read it over three times, the harsh blue light of the screen making my tired eyes water. It was completely ridiculous. Nobody dated like this.

But we weren’t dating. We were surviving.

I hit the print command. The cheap inkjet printer on my cramped desk groaned, grinding its gears before spitting out two warm sheets of paper. I folded them perfectly in half, slid them into a manila folder, and crawled under my thin blanket.

I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw hazel eyes pinning me to the dirt.

The downtown public library smelled like old paper, lemon floor wax, and damp coats. It was a world away from the mahogany-paneled, leather-bound study halls of Crestview. Here, the carpet was a faded, stained green, and the fluorescent tubes overhead hummed with a

persistent, annoying buzz.

I sat at a scratched wooden table in the farthest corner of the nonfiction section, flanked by towering shelves of dusty encyclopedias. My backpack sat heavily on the chair next to me. The manila folder lay perfectly centered on the table in front of me.

The clock on the wall ticked. 4:05 PM.

My knee bounced under the table, a frantic, uncontrollable rhythm. I smoothed my damp palms down the denim of my jeans. I wasn’t wearing my uniform today. Just a plain grey sweater and jeans. I felt entirely exposed without the Crestview crest on my chest.

The heavy glass entrance doors chimed.

I stopped breathing.

Ryder walked in.

The shift in the library’s atmosphere was instant. He didn’t do anything loud, but his mere presence sucked the oxygen out of the room. He wore the same scuffed combat boots and heavy leather jacket. The dark bruise on his cheekbone had blossomed into a harsh, ugly mix

of yellow and purple.

An elderly man reading a newspaper near the entrance looked up, frowned, and pulled his coat closer to his chest.

Ryder ignored him. His sharp gaze swept the room, cutting past the computer terminals and the children’s section, until he found me in

the back corner.

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