Beautiful Broken (14 page)

"I guess I don't see the problem. It's a very Dane thing to do, but everything ended well."

"He's protective. And when things started heating up between them, he tried to scare her off—ended up dumping coffee all over her," Jason says, his voice flat and unfriendly for the first time.

Well. That sounds like Dane too, unfortunately. "He's a little over zealous sometimes," I say lamely. Jason laughs.

"He's an overbearing ass who sleeps with too many women. But he eventually came around—and I'm trying to do the same, even though I still am not crazy about him. Jeff downright loathes the guy."

Lovely. My new boss and his husband hate the man I'm seriously considering sleeping with. Ought to make work super interesting, and dinner conversation even more so.

"He's always been good to me. I'm one of his family, so he's protected me and tried his damndest to take care of me."

"Then why does he have you frowning now?" Jason asks softly.

"He wants to be my knight in shining armor."

"And you don't want him to be? Is there someone else you'd rather see in that position?"

I shrug. "Actually, I don't want anyone to be. I don't want to be saved."

Jason shoves his hands into his pockets. "Do you need to be?"

That is the question. He doesn't wait for an answer, which makes me happy—I don't know what I'd answer with. "You said you had an appointment this afternoon?"

"Yeah. Do you mind if I leave around two?" I know it's a bad way to start my new job, but this is important—almost more important than this job.

"That's fine—like I said, Friday is usually a pretty easy day for us," he says, waving off my concern. "I'd like you to work on the rest of the house for the weekend, and I'll go over your design work on Monday."

I nod, and he grins at me, an infectious smile that promises this job is going to be a lot of fun, even if he does see more than I probably am comfortable with.

Carrie Bishop's office is downtown, in a small loft above a nail salon. It smells faintly of flowers and heavily of acrylic, and for a moment, I'm a hundred percent sure this is one of the worst ideas I've had in a long line of bad ideas. Then the office door swings open and she steps out.

Something in me eases as I study her. She's short, carrying just a tiny bit of extra weight, with wild brown curls and chocolate brown eyes that smile at me when she looks up from her clipboard. "Scout Grimes, yes?"

I nod and wipe my hands on my skirt. She motions. "Why don't you come on in, and we'll chat, hm?"

She leads me into her office, and I sit nervously on the couch as she situates herself in an overstuffed armchair. There's a desk in the corner, a little disorganized, with a forgotten cup of coffee on it. The smell of it permeates the air, oddly reassuring.

"So, Scout. Why don't you tell me why you’re here," Carrie says, giving me a brief, genuine smile.

"I've been out of rehab for almost a week. It was my third time—and my longest. And I'd like to avoid going back."

Her head tilts. "You think therapy will keep you clean?"

"I think if I don't address what led to me using, I'll relapse."

She's quiet, waiting, and I take a deep breath. I've never said it, out loud. I've never wanted to deal with it—I wanted to ignore it and the fact that Dane found me, wanted to pretend it hadn't happened.

"About six years ago, I was visiting some friends at the college. My brother and his best friend lived there—in the dorms—and I had the habit of stopping by. They didn't mind, and I was fighting with my parents a lot, so it was a good place to hide."

"Why were you fighting with your parents?" she interrupts, and I blink at her, startled.

"Teenage shit. Dad didn't like who I was dating, Mama was wrapped up in her causes. I was angry because I was there with them and Atticus was living on campus and partying with his girlfriend. It was all very dramatic and completely stupid."

She nods and sets the clipboard and pen to one side, watching me with avid eyes. "What happened?"

I take a deep breath. I don't want to talk about this—but I can't keep having nightmares and dealing with it on my own. Eventually I'll leave Dane's house, and bed, and then what? Who will keep me clean if he's not there? "I was there one Friday night, with a few friends. We were hanging out at the library, waiting till it was safe to sneak into Atti’s dorm room. If they knew I was there, they’d send me home, so we were waiting until they left."

"I was raped, in a stairwell. I screamed for help, and he didn't care—he laughed at me, and no one came to help me."

She's very still, watching me. I feel tears trailing down my nose, dripping onto my hands clenched in my lap. "I don't know how long I was there—by the time he left me, the campus was deserted. I went to my brother's room and crawled into his bed and just waited for him to get back. I didn't know what else to do."

"Did you call the police?"

I blink up at her. "I've never told anyone before now."

"What about your brother? Didn't he ask, when he found you?"

"Atti didn't find me. I never would have gone to him if I thought he'd be the one to find me," I say, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "Dane found me. He didn't ask questions—and he made sure I was cleaned up before he snuck me out of the dorm room and took me home."

"Who is Dane?"

So many ways to answer this question, and so many of them would be more informative than the one I give. "My brother's best friend."

Her eyes narrow a fraction, but she doesn't push me. She nods and scribbles something on the paper, and then she looks at me. "Six years is a long time to carry that kind of secret, Scout."

"They were a little bit self-destructive," I say, smiling weakly. "Like I said, drugs. Rehab. All that fun shit that we're warned not to get into."

"If you've waited six years to talk to anyone, why now? What makes this stint in rehab different from the last one?"

I can hear Dane, his voice rough and convincing as he gives me his ultimatum.
I'm through.

"I'm tired of being broken. I'm tired of seeing
his
face every time I sleep and being afraid in my own city, and just—all of it. I'm tired. I want to put this behind me, and I can't if I don't deal with it—not dealing has just led to a shit ton of heartache."

"Do you want to talk to the police?"

"No," I say sharply, and her eyebrows go up. "Atti would find out. I don't want him to know, Doctor."

"Call me Dr. Carrie. I'm not sure I agree with you on this, dear—your brother's support could be wonderful for you right now, and making your attacker face justice could help you heal."

"Or it could take years and could rip open wounds that are starting to heal, and make me a victim in the eyes of the few people who love me. I won't take that risk."

I close my eyes, ignoring the silent accusation. "I have to take care of myself," I say. It’s selfish and I know it. "I can't worry about who he might be hurting, because I'm still hurting and I need to heal myself. Does that make sense?"

Dr. Carrie nods. "Perfect sense."

Dane

She's sitting on her bed, her legs curled and propping up a journal that she isn't writing in. I hesitate in the doorway, watching her with her head leaning back and resting against the headboard. Her breathing is even and slow, and for the first time, her sleep seems almost peaceful.

"You really are a perv," she says, without opening her eyes.

"How did you know it was me?" I ask.

"You smell different than other guys—like sex and power and cookies, all wrapped up around you like a sexy blanket." Her green eyes open, and she stares at me, a tiny smile on her lips, and I feel things tighten.

"And you unlocked the front door. So that was a big hint."

"Smart ass."

She grins, and I turn away. "Dane?"

"Yeah?"

"It was a good idea."

She doesn't specify what, but I don't need her to. I glance over my shoulder, and she's sitting up, her legs crooked under her, fingers playing nervously in the blanket that drapes over her lap.

She's so beautiful and so damaged and I want to be everything to her. I'm stunned by just how badly I want that. So I nod, force a smile, "I'm glad."

And escape to my room.

"I want to go for a walk," Scout announces as I dry the last plate from dinner. I glance at her, and then outside. Daylight is fading, and it looks oddly ominous. I don't want her out there alone. "Okay. Let me get my jacket."

She smiles and goes for her own before we meet back at the front door.

We walk quietly, the crunch of leaves under her boots a crackly counterpoint to our silence. She's already told me about her new job, how much she loves it. And avoided talking about the therapy altogether.

She's practically humming in appreciation of the streets around her.

"What are we doing?"

She freezes, for less than a heartbeat, so quickly that I can almost believe it didn't happen at all. "We're walking?"

I catch her arm, turning her toward me. "Scout."

Fear flickers in her eyes, and I almost stop. But it's important.
We
are important. "What is this, Sccout? We flirt, we get each other off, we sleep together. You make me laugh and feel whole—and I know I make you feel safe. I left my girlfriend for you."

"You left Mel for your own reasons," she says quickly. I let go of her arm.

"Does that mean you would have been happy if I hadn't? Would you be happy sharing my bed and making out with me if I were leaving you in the day to spend it with another woman?"

Her lips peel back in a silent snarl and I nod. "That's what I thought."

She takes a step back. "I told you, I'm not ready for a relationship. I need your friendship more than I need a relationship."

"Do you really think that's going anywhere?" I ask.

"Yes!" she almost shouts. "Of course I do! You don't do relationships—even when you’re in one, you don't do them. You leave women faster than I can count, and they cease to exist to you! I won't be that—I can't. I need you too much to be someone you throw away."

Her words break something in me, a little bit of the armor I use to keep everyone—even her and Atticus—at bay.

"Do you really think you would be?" I demand. "You aren't the same as the others—you never have been. You’re the only girl who has ever mattered to me. Don't you know that by now? How many times have I put up with you showing up, strung out on my doorstep? Do you think I took care of you for Atticus? I love him, but no. I did it because I care about
you
, Scout. I've always cared about you."

"You don't need to," she says, her voice shaking. "You need someone better than me. Someone who isn't as screwed up."

"You aren't the only one with issues, Scout. I've got my own to deal with—maybe it's time you quit deciding what I need and accept that you’re what I want."

She opens her mouth to say something, and then closes it again, wordless and shaking.

It's when she starts to turn away that I lose my temper. I jerk her around, and she lands against my chest, all her soft curves pressing against me. My hands slip under her coat, finding the softness of her sweater and the warm curve of her hip. I want to touch that curve, trace it with my lips. "You can't stand here and tell me that you don't want me," I growl, dropping my head down and kissing the skin where her neck curves into her shoulder.

"What I want doesn't matter," She whispers, shifting against me. The friction is enough that I'm getting hard from it, and it's not enough—nothing will be enough until I'm buried in her hot, tight core.

"What you want is the only thing that matters," I whisper, because it's true. I want this—want her, so bad I can taste it—but I won't force her. Would never dream of forcing her.

"I don't want a relationship."

It's a slap in the face, and I go still, my lips still pressed to her soft skin.

Step back. She reaches for me and I twist away. "Dane?" she says, her voice questioning and strange. "We can be together, without a relationship."

I laugh, and she flushes, because it's as stupid as it sounds. I shake my head. "I'm good, Scout. Friends. You want to be friends, we can do that."

She watches me warily, and I want to scream, shake her. Instead, I turn back to the house. Because I can't do this. I can't face her and the expectation that I'll screw her without something more.

It makes sense—it's what I do. Avery once said I was exceptionally good at it, and I am. I've been humping and dumping for years, since my sophomore year of high school when Jeanette first got sick.

Why is she different?

Because she's Scout Grimes. It doesn't need more explanation than that. I stalk back to the house. She follows, quiet. There are a few times where she opens her mouth, and I think she'll say something. But she doesn't, and I slam into the house without her stopping me.

The itchy feeling is running along the inside of my skin, and I need it to go away. I know better than to think time with Scout will quell it—not this time. Not when she's the cause of it.

Which leaves my usual option.

She'll be furious. But fuck that noise. She said no to a relationship. I don't owe her anything—and she's made it crystal clear she doesn't want me to.

I shower quickly and pick out something to wear. Faded jeans with a pair of scuffed boots. A plain tight t-shirt with sleeves just short enough to show a hint of my tattoos. A tongue ring and disheveled hair and my leather bomber jacket.

I glance at myself in the mirror once I'm ready and smirk. Yep. This will drive the ladies crazy—and get one of them where I want her.

Writhing and naked under me.

I snag my keys off the counter, and Scout looks up, her expression closing as she takes in my clothes. I shift, a deliberate slouch in my posture that screams casual disinterest. Girls eat that up, and her eyes narrow. "Where are you going?" she asks, her voice empty.

I don't grin like I want to. "Speakeasy. I'll be home later. Go ahead and lock up after me."