Beautiful Broken (17 page)

"Ready?" she asks, watching me with worried eyes.

I nod, shoving my thoughts aside, and she fixes a stupid look on her face, plastering herself to my side as we make a quick beeline for the door. Dad's on the phone, and from the slightly annoyed indulgent tone, he's talking to my latest stepmother. It makes it easy to slip out.

I catch the keys Scout lobs at me and turn the car on, escaping from my house and my father.

Scout

We stop at the Hill for breakfast to go, muffins and coffee for Dane. He's quiet, a broody sort of silence that is the opposite of what I've become used to with him.

But then, Tripp has always had that effect on his son.

"I used to hate his visits," I say, quietly. Dane's grip on the steering wheel tightens, briefly, enough that I know he's listening. "He'd come to town and hit on Mama, ignore Grace, and upset you. Every time, you'd settle into this crazy mood after he left. Days brooding, girls in and out of the house, and drinking—god, you stole more liquor from Dad in those days than the rest of the year combined. And he knew it, you know."

That earns me a sharp look. "Surprised? He knew—he'd stock a watered-down bottle of JD just for those visits. He knew you needed it."

A smile twitches Dane's lips. "Grayson was a good guy."

Tears sting my eyes, because it's so true. "One of the best."

We end up at the cemetery. I think I knew we'd come here—both of our dead heavy with us today, and I think he needs to see her.

"Do you want a few minutes alone?" I ask him.

He nods, a sharp, choppy motion. I lean over and kiss his cheek then slip out into the cool fall air. Leaves crunch under my feet as I walk through the cemetery, the cool dew soaking into my heels as the dig into the grass. Fall is hitting Louisiana hard.

The headstone is a tall, sharp point, nothing like the man. Dad was warm and slightly rounded, soft and so kind it took my breath away. I used to think it was weakness—that being that kind meant he was weak, someone to be taken advantage of. I hated it, when he was alive, and I could see how kind he was to everyone around me. Even to
him
.

Dad never liked him, but he tolerated his presence. He even worked with him after the attack to make sure he passed some idiotic class.

It infuriated me—which wasn't fair, because Dad never knew. No one knew about the rape but Dane, and even he doesn't know everything—he doesn't know
who
it was.

It took years for me to realize that kindness wasn't a weakness, that it was just a part of who he was, and one of the things that made him strong.

I kneel in the grass, picking the dead leaves from the headstones, and trace the engraving.

Grayson Grimes

Beloved Husband, Father, Friend.

"I miss you, Dad. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get my life together after you died. I'm sorry I left things the way they were. I’m sorry, for so many things. For never telling you what happened. I wish I could change it. I wish I knew how to be better." I glance across the cemetery, where a lonely figure sits on a headstone, and a smile tugs at my lips. "I think you'd be happy, though. If you could see me now. I’m with Dane. Or I think I am? He’s good for me, Dad. But I’m not sure what’s going to happen."

That’s the problem—I’m not sure of anything right now, not where I stand with Dane or what will happen when he steps back and I move in with Atti. Or even if I want that. I do know that the more I think about leaving Dane, the more my chest feels tight. I don’t like that needing him is so important—that the mere idea of losing his soothing presence and laughter is enough to make me panicky and breathless.

I want to be stronger than that.

"Sometimes, I don’t think I’ll ever be strong again," I whisper. And Dane needs that—he needs someone as strong as he is, someone who can help him be whole.

Dane, for all that he shows the world a strong face and a sexy smile, is so broken. I glance over at him, sitting between the two gravestones that seem to bookend all the tragedy in his life. Except, they don’t.

I remember when the golden shine of Dane’s charmed life began to fade. That’s the problem—I know how much he’s lost, and how little I can give him. What could he possibly want from me, what could I offer to him?

A safe place.

I stand, brushing my skirt, and smile at the headstone. It’s good, this visit. It’s been too long since I allowed myself to come here. And for the first time, I don’t feel the guilt of disapproval and disdain. For the first time, I think Dad might actually be proud of me.

I walk back to the Viper and lean against it, letting the heat of the engine warm my cool thighs. Dane's still sitting by his gravestones, and I'm hesitant to intrude.

He never talks about them. That's probably the worst part—that he grieves so deeply, but doesn't speak of it.

I was twelve when Jeanette got sick. Dane was sixteen, the darling of the high school, gorgeous, but so sweet and full of life and laughter. I would give anything to bring back that boy—laughing and playing pranks as he ruled the school.

Jeanette collapsed at homecoming. It was a late October game, and we were sitting with Grace, Jeanette wrapped around a UB student. One minute she was on her feet cheering as Dane caught a spiral pass, headed for the end zone, and the next she was on the ground, her blonde hair crumpled around her, pale as death. By New Year ’s Eve, she was gone—a cancer that spread so fast and had gone undetected for so long, there was never any hope.

Dane changed after that. He idolized his sister—and he blamed his father. Jeanette didn't say anything about the fatigue, the pain and bruises, because Grace was under so much stress from Tripp leaving her for his secretary, and she didn't want to make things more difficult.

The leaves crunch beside me, and I blink, looking up at him. His eyes are bleak and empty, devoid of the warmth I've gotten used to seeing. I know he visits once a month—but seeing the headstones of your sister and mother can't ever get easier.

"She'd be turning thirty next week," he says, and his voice breaks a little. Without thinking, I hug him. His arms come up around me, a desperate grip as he clings to me, his breath shuddering in and out. His head drops to the top of mine, and I can feel the slightest moisture in my hair.

I've never been held like this—like I am the only thing keeping him from falling completely apart.

"I miss them," he whispers. I know he does. He's been missing them for years.

"Talk to me?" I ask, softly. He doesn't loosen his grip, but some of the tension eases in his big body.

"She wanted to wait till she was thirty to get married. Wanted to travel after graduation—see something beyond the south and
here
. It was hard for Jeanette to be anything but perfect, especially after Dad deserted us. I think she got tired of that, and leaving was a way she could escape it. Does that make sense?"

I nod. "Mom never cared—she just wanted us to be happy—I mean, she had high expectations for both of us, but she didn't really care what we did if we were happy. Jeanette could have been a waitress married to a mechanic, and she would have been okay with it. But they fought so much—over her choices and Dad and just stupid shit. Why do you only realize how petty you were being
after
someone is gone? By then it doesn't matter."

"It matters, if it changes how you deal with other people."

"Other people don’t matter to me," he says, loosening his grip on me.

I stare at him. It’s a lie, and we both know it. He cares about Atticus. He cares about his little law office and his clients, his staff, Mel. Me.

Dane’s problem has never been that he doesn’t care. It’s been that he cares too much.

"You sleep with them because it's easier," I say, and Dane stiffens, pulling farther from me. "Because if you screw a random stranger in the bar, you can justify not getting close to Mel, or anyone else. But the thing is, you do care. You worry about Atti and his career, about Avery and how she'll change things. About Nik and the divorce. You worry about your staff and your clients, and the Foundation recipients, and the girls you don't sleep with—you care about all of them. You even care about Tripp and his stream of wives," I say, softly. "Although, I know you wish you didn't."

"You forgot someone," he says, staring at me. I tilt my head, a silent question, and he reaches for me, a hand around my neck drawing me forward. "I care about you, Scout. I care so damn much it terrifies me." I melt into him, a little. Because this strong man, this broken boy who can't stand being close to someone, is letting me in.

"Scout?" he says, holding me against his chest.

"Hmm?"

"I don't know how to not screw this up. And I know you’re scared that we will, but I want you to know I'm trying."

"I think, D, that's all we can do." He nods, and I lean up, going on tiptoes to find his lips. They’re cool from the wind, and he tastes of coffee and the air. And salt, from tears he won't let me see him shed.

And as he kisses me in the cool fall air, the quiet graveyard around us, I decide that whatever it takes, I won't screw this up. Because as much as I've needed a safe place, he needs one too. And I don't want any girl but me being that to him.

I shouldn't have gone to the graveyard. Visiting Jeanette and Mom always makes me anxious—it winds me up even more than normal. The sex last night was insane and amazing and I can't get over how perfect it—she—was. But the itchy, tense feeling is already back, and I know why.

Tripp. Heidi. The fucked up shit that is my family—all the family I have left, anyway.

I'm hiding in my room, on a pretense that I need to get ready for dinner. Despite telling him to find a hotel, he's still here, Heidi sitting neatly in one corner of my couch, her perfectly straightened hair hanging around her face as she pages through some idiotic magazine. Scout has retreated to her room, thank god. It means Tripp can't stare at her, mentally undressing her in front of his wife.

Pedophelic asshat.

My phone rings, and I answer it without thinking, "Guillot."

"Dane, what the hell happened at Speakeasy last night? Why was Scout even there? She's supposed to be staying sober—you’re supposed to help her with that, remember?" Atticus is pissed, and I'm not in the mood to deal with his shit—I shouldn't have to. I'm doing him a favor, after all.

"You know, I rearranged my life to take care of her. And she hasn't contacted any of her dealers or touched anything stronger than some OJ since she showed up at my doorstep. So why don't you back off, Atticus," I snap.

"What the hell, dude?" he says, honest confusion in his voice.

I rub my face. "Quit. Just quit, Atti. I'm doing the best I can, and if that's not good enough...I don't know what to tell you. She's clean, and she's got a job, and I'm not doing anything I think will trigger her. She wasn't supposed to go to Speakeasy, but she did. I got her out again—Avery did tell you that, didn't she?"

"Yeah," he says, grudgingly.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that she was there to begin with! It makes me worry, dude."

I bite back the retort that springs to my lips—it's cruel and unnecessary, and I only think of it because Tripp is sitting in my living room.

"Dude. I slipped. I needed to get out—Mel and I broke up. For good, this time. And I just needed some space."

"Whoa. What happened, man?"

"I ended it," I say, forcing my voice to be empty. "She deserves better than all my issues."

Atti is quiet—not surprising. We don't talk about real issues very often, and he's not terribly comfortable with it. The door to my bedroom opens a crack and Scout slips in. She's wearing a tiny pair of lace black boy shorts and a matching bra, both trimmed in startling white.

I want her. I want her so damn bad, and I don't even care that my dad is two rooms away—it almost makes it better.

"I gotta go, Atti. Don't worry, I'm taking care of everything here. Finish the book so you can come back to the land of the living."

He laughs. "I miss you too, brother."

"Screw you," I scoff, and end the call. Toss the phone on the bed.

And stalk toward Scout. She's in my bathroom, leaning in toward the mirror, studying her makeup as she carefully applies a line of something around her eyes. Whatever it is, it makes her eyes huge and smoky and I love it.

She catches sight of me in the mirror, and her eyes get bigger. She licks her lips.

"What?" I ask, stepping up behind her.

"You've got that look," she says, shivering as I kiss the nape of her neck. She loves that. I love the breathy catch in her voice as I bite down, softly.

"Which one?"

"The prowly one—you’re looking to get laid, to get your mind off whatever the hell's going on that you don't want to deal with. You've been using that look since you were sixteen."

I meet her gaze in the mirror and smirk. "You’re right, Ittybitty. I am. The only real question is, are you going to give me what I want?"