Unbreak Me 3 ??Why Are Handsome Boys Jerks???

LEIA

My armpits were sweating like crazy. The sun had chosen that exact day to give the most heat and with the clothes I was wearing, I was sure going to pa.s.s out.

I bit my lip as I stared at the red-bricked building in front of me. Leroy High hadn't changed one bit—except this time, instead of junior building, I was going to the senior one.

Our school system was hard to describe to a foreigner. Since the British had—sadly—ruled over Pakistan, we were forced to follow their education system.

Except for, here's the shock, we were somehow also following the American system.

See? I said it was complicated.

Leroy High was located in a posh area near the airport and it was the biggest campus in all of Pakistan. It was also the most expensive.

How I was paying for it all on my own, was a story for another time. Right now, I had a killer entry to make.

It was going to suck so bad.

Turning the ignition off, I slammed my head on the steering wheel of my mini and groaned.

Half an hour of sitting in the same position, and I still didn't have the courage to face everyone. Real life was much different from books.

You have fears and you can't just live with the 'I don't care what people think' att.i.tude. Because at the end of the day, you sometimes did care.

At the very least, you cared on the first day.

Especially when you'd been the gossip of town for years and you did not fit anywhere in the societal standards. At least, not anymore.

I took one last deep breath and forced myself to turn off the Qur'an playing on my phone. It was one h.e.l.l of a phone too.

Don't judge.

Cautiously, I opened the car door and then stepped out. Already people in the parking lot were staring. Oh Gosh.

Deep breaths, Leia. Deep breaths.

I slammed the door shut but the car was so old, the door refused to shut. I gritted my teeth, feeling embarra.s.sed flames all over my ears and cheeks.

It was a good thing n.o.body could see either of those things. They could just see my eyes and . . . well, I wasn't crying. Yet.

"Excuse me?" Somebody called from behind.

My head flew back, seeing the security guard look at me like I was a terrorist. Don't ask how I knew. It was just the way his narrowed eyes took in my ankle-length blue robe, my hijab and of course, the veil covering my entire face save for my eyes.

"Yeah?" I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

He was probably just trying to ensure I wasn't a threat to the school. That was a good thing. Especially after the various attacks at schools over the years in Pakistan.

My gut tightened, anyway. I hated scrutiny. I had done nothing to be looked over at like I was going to put a bullet through his head.

People had made their own definition of terrorism. And according to them, terrorists were people who followed their religion—men who wore white thaubs, had a sunnah beard and women who were covered from head to toe.

I wished I could fix their brains but so far, I'd been unsuccessful.

"Are you a student here?" He asked in Urdu, our local language.

"Yes, Bhai," I said, using the term of respect—brother. I unzipped my backpack and took out my student ID and pa.s.sport—you know, in case he asked for that too.

You could never be sure.

His eyes were narrowed on the card—on my photo, no doubt. He looked back and forth, from me to the photo again.

I saved him the trouble and looked to the left and right, lifting my veil quickly. His eyes scanned my face, widening slightly.

Great, he knew who I was too.

He nodded, handing my stuff back to me. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience I might have caused, ma'am. I'm just abiding by the school rules."

I gave him a smile he did not see since I had lowered my veil again and locked my car, walking over the stone and gra.s.s.

My hands fiddled with the straps of my backpack as I felt every person in the parking lot staring at me.

I heard whispering but I knew this was nothing compared to the chaos that would be caused when I lifted the veil. When people knew who I really was.

For some reason, this was worse. It was sad that these were all Muslims yet they were judging me just because I chose to wear religious clothing.

There was another thing I hated—I was going to have to take this all off, save for the hijab.

School rules.

Still, this was a necessity and not something that was in my grasp. I was going to have to do it.

"Oho," A guy with his group of friends called out from my right. "What beauty are you hiding underneath all that?"

I kept walking as though I hadn't heard them. Useless boys.

"I would love to see!" He called out. "Give me a call. Or better yet, send a pic. All the girls know my number."

This time, I had to look back to glare at his filthy insinuation.

I b.u.mped into someone and he grunted. It was definitely a he because that deep rumble was unmistakably all male.

I shook my head, clearing my teen thoughts and lifted my face to look up up up.

Fire lit up in the pits of my belly and began burning my heart. I was sure I wasn't breathing. Memories from my childhood came crashing back to me and I felt like falling to the ground and sobbing.

And apologizing.

I had a lot of that to do as well.

But Zayn stared at me with blank eyes. Those beautiful eyes I loved looking into in our alone time had no emotion. It was like he was dead.

I knew it had something to do with me. I had just–c.r.a.p, I had just—

"Watch where you're going," He spit out, not even bothering to look at me.

It was like a slap to the face.

I'd recognize you anywhere, sweetness.

Yet, he hadn't. I was all grown up now, I knew that. The last time we'd seen each other, I was ten and he was a little over eleven.

My eyes scanned his face and then down to his body. He had filled out in all the right places—broad shoulders, thick, muscular arms and thighs—oh yes, I noticed the thighs. Gone was the baby skin and in place of it was a bronze, rugged face with all hard planes and sharp cheekbones and a dark stubble that made him the most gorgeous male I had ever seen.

"Did you not hear me?" He barked and I jumped out of my skin.

I was staring. c.r.a.p, I was staring at a non-mahram male. I quickly stepped aside and turned my gaze elsewhere, muttering apologies to G.o.d.

"Zayn, man," I saw some guy patting him on the shoulder. "Where have you been? I was looking for . . ." His eyes fell on me and he snickered. "And who are you?"

"It doesn't talk," Zayn told him, as unkind as his friend.

Hurt slammed into me and I could hear the constant crashing of my heart against my ribcage as I died a little from the inside.

All men are the same, mummy's voice crept into my head. They're good to you until they have no use of you and then throw you away like trash.

But Zayn—my Zayn—had never been like that.

Beneath the dark, broody guy was the sweetest, kindest person I had ever met in my life. He helped me when no one else did and he was there to hold me when I cried because of my parent's fights. He talked to me about everything, told me stuff he had never shared with anyone else. He was . . . simply the most loyal friend I'd ever had.

I had left without a word. In his worst time, I was the one who wasn't there to hold him when he fell apart.

No amount of therapy could remove my self-loathing for all that I'd done to him.

There wasn't even a way to fix it. We weren't children anymore and in Islam, men and women could never be just friends.

I'd also just had very unfriendly thoughts about him earlier . . .

And now he was being rude. He called me an 'it'. Seriously, when had people's sense of humour changed so much?

His friend threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Oh man . . . I wonder how long she'll keep standing there. She must be fascinated with English. Tell me, girl, do you understand a word we're saying? Nah, probably not."

I had to clench my hands tightly so that I wouldn't smack him right across the jaw. I bit my tongue, trying hard not to reply.

But I had to. I just had to.

I pressed a hand to my chest in mock offence. "Is that an American accent I detect? I wonder where you caught it from since,"—I shot him a hard glare—"I'm pretty sure you were born and raised in Pakistan, Zeeshan Ali Khan."

He licked his lips, unable to hold my gaze. It was a shame such beauty was wasted on a guy like him. He scoffed and then stepped closer to me.

Instinct told me to flinch back but I'd be d.a.m.ned if I let a guy intimidate me. If I let anyone make me feel bad just because I was different.

"How long do you think you'll survive here, huh?" His face was getting too close to mine and I wasn't sure how long I could keep my spine straight. I could already feel my knees trembling and that was never a good sign. Soon I would . . . No, I wasn't going to think about that. "With that thing on, I'd take a quick guess and say . . ." He brought his hand to my face as though he would forcefully take off my veil and this time I did move back. "Not a second."

"Don't you dare invade my personal s.p.a.ce again," I warned, wanting to split his pretty face into two.

He laughed at that, as though it was a joke. He looked back at Zayn as he carelessly stood back, watching uncaringly. "Did you hear that, Z? Girl thinks we'll allow her to wear something like that in our school. Heck, if it were up to me, I'd ban this black thing in the entire world."

As if I cared what he thought of me. Or what his prodigious ambitions were. "You'll make a great corrupt politician one day. Congratulations." I moved to leave but he grabbed my arm.

"Don't you dare touch me or I'll break your nose!"

He looked surprised. As though going around touching people against their will was totally okay. As though he had never gotten this reaction before.

He quickly regained himself. "Where did you think you were going?"

I pointed a thumb towards the campus building and spoke in a 'duh' manner. "I have a cla.s.s to attend, if you'd allow me."

Before he could say anything, another boy joined us, slapping Zayn and Zeeshan on the shoulder. It was nearly impossible to recognize Anas Wahab—another one of the many guys that were in my cla.s.s since pre-school—with the nose and ear piercings and chains around his neck.

Why was it always the jerks that were gorgeous-looking?

And the trio seemed like close friends although they'd barely ever talked back when I was with Zayn. We were inseparable and n.o.body could ever understand us the way we understood each other.

My eyes begged to see Zayn again and because I knew it was wrong, I denied them the view. It was better this way.

Taking off my veil wasn't going to end well.

Of that much I was sure.

But it was time.

And I wasn't ready.