Beautiful Broken (21 page)

I've never wanted a girl more than I wanted to protect Atticus. Why, for the love of all that's good, did that girl have to be Scout?

"Look, you'll be home in a week. We'll talk about it then. I have to go into the courthouse now."

"I'm calling her," Atti says.

"She's at work, man. She's got a counseling appointment. She's not in a good place to handle this right now."

"Why the hell is she in counseling?" Atti demands.

This really
couldn't
get any worse. "You need to ask her about that. Later—wait until she's home tonight. I'll have her call you."

He's quiet, deliberating. "I want to hear from her as soon as she's home, Dane. Do you get me? Not a minute later."

Annoyance seeps through me. "I'm not an idiot, Atticus. I'll pass along the message. Just remember, we're both consenting adults."

"So are the whores in bars. Doesn't mean you give a shit about them."

With that parting shot, he hangs up. I slump in the driver’s seat, anger and frustration building in me. The itchy sensation whispering along under my skin. I can't do this right now—I have to work, to focus on something other than my screwed up love life and pissed off best friend.

With a final curse, I toss my phone on the seat and head inside to get lunch. And hope that it'll be enough to distract me from the idea that getting laid would be the best thing in the world right now.

Scout

Dane
: we need to talk. ASAP.

The text is startling, but he's not answering his phone, and I'm expected at Dr. Carrie's office. I'm actually excited about our appointment today—Dr Carrie wants to do something new. So I stride up the stairs to the little office, the bell chiming soothingly behind me as I step into the ever-empty reception room. Dr. Carrie is stepping out of her office, buttoning a surprisingly chic coat, and I pause, startled. "Doc?"

"Come on, Scout. I want to do a little exposure therapy."

I freeze. "Exposure therapy?" I'm pretty sure my voice squeaks. My voice never squeaks.

She smiles reassuringly, catching my arm and leading me out of the office. She locks it quickly then turns us in the direction of the university.

"Exposure therapy is facing what you fear in a safe, moderated environment. I think that facing where this happened will help you get over your aversion to UB. Since your best friend goes to school here, and your brother is a professor—I don't want you to feel isolated from this part of their lives. This school is a part of our town—a large part. You need to be able to go there without feeling the need to use or having a panic attack."

"I really don't think I do," I say, and Dr. Carrie stops, studying me.

"You trust me, yes? And you've seen a lot of improvement in the past few weeks. You’re in a healthy relationship, have a good job you like. You need to face this."

"We've been meeting for three weeks. Don't you think it's early?"

"But you were in constant therapy for three months at the rehab center. And even if you didn't tell them about the attack, you know that the issues you face because of it were being dealt with along with your addiction. The two are too entwined to not treat both."

It's true. So I take a deep breath, and we walk through the campus.

To anyone we pass, it looks like we're two friends on an afternoon walk. Not terribly out of place on campus, despite our age difference. But they don't see the way my hands are trembling in my pockets, or hear Dr. Carrie's running encouragement as I retrace my steps from that night.

We start in the parking lot. I parked close to the history hall—I expected to find Atticus there. But it was empty, the doors locked. The library was close, so I went there, with Candice, Wil, and Boyd. It was a good place to hang out till the dorm room would be empty. The frat house was swarming with people, but I didn't want to drink, and running into Dane there with Boyd wasn't an option. Candice and Wil were happy enough to head to the library—we'd all been drinking, and they quickly deserted me and Boyd. I could hear them making out in the stacks, her little whimpers and laughter. The unmistakable sound of sex.

And I was with Boyd.

"Scout?" Dr Carrie's voice is quiet. I blink, shaking the memories. We're standing outside the library, and I can't help but shudder. I haven't been back here in years—not since that night.

"Do you think you can go in?" I hesitate, but force myself to nod. She rewards me with a blinding smile, and we climb the steps.

The library is exactly the same—six years and nothing has changed. The reference desk is still a cluttered mess, two students gossiping behind it. The long, oak tables with uncomfortable seats and students surrounded by piles of books. The long row of computers and printers in a semi-circle. Behind them, spiraling like spokes on a wheel, are the stacks.

My breath catches in my throat, and I turn away, almost bolting toward the door. Carrie's hand on my arm is hard and unyielding. "What is it?"

I shake my head. "I can't do this." I whimper. I know how I sound—weak, falling apart. I don't care. I just want out—I want to find Dane and have him make this all disappear.

"Just talk to me," she murmurs. "Walk me through what you’re thinking."

I can't. I'm too lost in memories. Candice and Wil had forgotten us, and I could hear them having sex. It annoyed me—not because she was hooking up, but because she left me alone with Boyd. I didn't know this guy, but I knew Atti and Dane wouldn't be happy to find me with him. He was a freshman at UB, with scruffy cheeks and a gleam in his eyes that made me a little nervous.

"You wanna smoke?" he asked, casually.

I shook my head. "I think I'm gonna head out, actually."

He approached me, stalking. It was different from Dane when he was prowly—it was dangerous, where Dane would never hurt anyone. Fear made my breathing tight, but I was feeling the shots we'd taken earlier, and I liked that he was interested in me. "Stay," he murmured, his breath hot against my cheek.

His kiss was fierce—different from the boys I was used to. It made me want to gag, and I pushed him away.

Irritation slipped across his face. "Look, Wil said I'd get something out of this—you didn't think I drove you around and gave you José for nothing, do you?"

I laughed at him. "I don't care what you think you’re getting. What I'm doing is leaving. Spend some time with your hand, if you feel the need."

I turned away, trying to hide how much I was shaking, and made it two steps before he slammed into me, shoving me down on the table. My breath rushed out as his hands locked down on me, bruising against my hips.

"What the hell?" I shouted, and he slapped me. Hard enough that my head bounced off the tabletop and I saw stars.

That's when I felt the first real fear.

"What happened then?" Carrie says, startling me into now. I blink at her, and she stares at me, endlessly patient.

"He had to let me go for a second—to get his pants off," I say, dully. "Atti had taught me some self-defense. When he let me go, I elbowed him in the face—broke the fucker's nose. Took off running."

She stares at me, and I look across the room, at the exit sign. I'd hightailed it for that exit, too conscious of Boyd cursing and Candice and Wil, peering from around the stacks. They'd seen—from the flash of surprise in Candice's eyes, she knew exactly what was going on. But Wil pulled her away, and, without much hesitation, she'd gone.

She'd left me alone with him.

"He caught me in the stairwell. We were there after hours, and no one could hear me. Candice and Wil weren't coming to help," I say, my voice empty. "He raped me there. Made me go down on him. He used a condom, and afterwards, shoved it in my mouth, full of his semen. He said if I liked shots so much, I could do a shot of—" I break off, struggling not to gag.

Tears blur in my vision, and all the emotions from that night—fear, rage, helplessness, betrayal—spiral through me. I need something. I need a hit, anything that will get this feeling to go away. Anything that will make me feel steady.

"Did you file a report?" Dr. Carrie says, her voice quiet and soothing.

"No!" I snap, looking at her sharply. "I was a high school student, drunk off my ass, hanging out with a college boy. Do you really think they'd have taken me seriously? Especially when my
friends
weren't going to help me out with anything?"

She doesn't say anything—doesn't tell me I should have filed charges, that Boyd might rape again, that it was or wasn't my fault. She just stands there as I struggle to get my shit together.

When my breathing evens out and I can stand straight without shaking, she cocks her head. "What happened next?"

What happened next? I wasn't thinking. Boyd left me, muttering something about needing a drink. I was shaking, in so much pain I couldn't see straight—I think he broke my ribs when he threw me down the staircase. I forced myself up and went to the only place I knew I'd get no questions—Atti and Dane's dorm room.

Most nights, they stayed at the frat house. But Dane liked the ability to retreat, and it wasn't like they didn't have the money to pay for both. So they did. It was a Friday night, and their dorm room was empty, but I had a key. Atti had told me, earlier in the semester, that if I ever needed a place to crash and sleep off any alcohol, it was always open to me. I stumbled into the suite, barely making it to the bathroom before I threw up, all the tequila and the meager dinner I'd eaten, everything that was in my stomach until I was dry heaving and sobbing, my sides aching. Then I crawled into the shower, sitting on the tile floor sobbing until the water was so hot it scorched my skin, and then turned icy cold.

When I was shivering so hard I could barely feel my toes, I turned off the water, pulled on a pair of Atti's sweat pants and a sweatshirt from Dane's closet. Then I crawled into his bed and lay there, waiting for the nothingness of sleep to settle around me. I needed that, so damn bad. But it didn't come—only tears, silently tracking down my cheeks, my thoughts chasing each other round my head, searching for some clue as to why this happened.

I never figured it out. Dane came back from wherever he'd been, and my thoughts scatted as he saw the truth in my eyes. And then I did everything in my considerable power to never think about that night again.

"I need to leave," I say again, and this time, Carrie doesn’t stop me as I bolt. I trip over a bag some student has left in the walkway, and I fall against a table. I can feel people looking at me, but I don’t even care. All I really care about is the way the table presses like a dagger into my hips. I want to yell—I want to burn the whole place down and scream in the ashes.

Dr. Carrie has an arm around me, steering me toward the front door, and my breath is hitching in my throat as I struggle to keep from falling apart. I see something, in the corner of my eye, and I glance up sharply. But whoever was there is gone. I’m just seeing things. There’s no way Boyd is really here.

No fucking way.

Dr. Carrie unlocks the door to her office, and I follow her inside. We haven’t spoken since leaving the library.

She gets two Cokes from the fridge and hands me one. I take a large sip and collapse into the couch. Carrie eyes me with real concern. I stare at my drink as I say, hoarsely, "Do you think, Doc, that it helped?"

Dr. Carrie takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "No. No, Scout, I don't suspect it did. Do you want to use?"

Dear Jesus, so much. The need to score is like a weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I close my eyes, and Boyd's muddled brown eyes stared back. My phone vibrates against my leg, jerking me from my thoughts. I stare down at it, at the picture of Dane. He's smirking into the camera, shirtless. You wouldn't know he'd just fucked me in the backyard, but I can't forget the way he'd felt as he braced me against the side of the house, his hand on my mouth to muffle my cries as he pounded into me.

The tight, breath-stealing pressure eases a little. In my hand, the phone goes still, his picture blinking away. I can think, past the fear and the memories.

"Scout?"

"No," I say, strongly. Surprising both of us. "No, I just want to see Dane."

"Dane means a lot to you," she says slowly.

I nod, not responding. "Have you ever told him everything that happened that night?"

"No. I've never talked about it—not before today."

Something flickers across her face, like guilt, gone faster than I can assess. "Scout, I need you to be careful. Dane is important, and I get that you care about him. It's good that you have someone in your life that you can lean on. But he's also a temporal fixture. If you lean too much against him, when he's removed, you'll be devastated. I'd hate to see that."

"Dane isn't going anywhere," I say, fiercely. "He loves me."

"I don't doubt that at all. But sometimes, it's not enough. Sometimes people leave even when they don't mean too. I don't want to see you hurt."

"I think we're done for the day," I say angrily. She opens her mouth, and I shoot her a warning look. After the disaster that was exposure therapy and insinuating that Dane would leave me, I don't have the energy or patience for any more pearls of wisdom from the good doctor.

"I'll see you next week," I say, and she doesn't try to stop me as I stride out of the office.