Beautiful Broken (3 page)

I shrug and sip my coffee. I feel itchy and anxious—could be because my best friend's baby sister is standing in my kitchen in a pair of tiny shorts and a skin-tight tank top, with no bra. Idly, I wonder if she's wearing panties.

"She puts up with it," I say, unreasonably pleased by the steadiness of my voice, "because she has dreams of marrying a lawyer and raising babies. And also because I give her the best orgasms she's ever had."

Scout's eyebrows go up. "They can't be that good."

I give her a cocky, panty dropping smirk. "You’ll never know, will you?"

Something—desire—flickers in her gaze before she shrugs, and I force myself to back away from her, away from this conversation that should not be happening.

Scout

He looks completely unruffled as be strides from the room, and I fight the urge to chuck my OJ at his head. What the hell? I've seen Dane like that—all prowly and seductive. I used to giggle and call it him hunting. That was before, back when men on the prowl were amusing, but harmless.

Then there was the attack, and it quit being cute and funny. I think he realized, because he stopped acting like that in front of me. He was always sweet and considerate, unless I needed an ass kicking. Dane was my safe place—and I loved him for it.

Loved in a sisterly way, of course. It could never be more than that and I didn't want more—I liked having him looking out for me and willing to fight with me when Atti refused to.

But his cocky self-assurance has me anxious and hot—part of me wants to claw out the eyes of any girl who dares look at him, and another part wants to get the hell away.

Maybe it’s that I've been celibate for over three months. Maybe it isn't Dane at all; it’s just a lack of sex. That makes a lot more sense, and relief makes my shoulders sag.

We spend the day in our respective corners. He's working, and I curl on the couch and leaf through a magazine until boredom has thoroughly set in. I toss the magazine down and stare at him.

"Quit staring, Scout. I'm working."

"And I'm bored."

"Watch a movie. Paint your nails. Do a damn crossword."

"That's all I've been doing for months. I want to get out. Have a little fun."

His eyes flash when he looks up at me. "Fun is where you get into trouble, S." I flush and he rolls his shoulders. "Give me thirty minutes. And then we'll go get dinner."

I grin at him and bounce down the hallway to get dressed.

The thing about Dane is that he knows exactly how sexy he is. He's known for years and had those years to develop it, fine tuning his sheer appeal until it’s second nature. Even in loose, worn jeans and a sweatshirt, he's positively yummy, and it takes a moment to remember that he isn't for touching.

Screwing up the safe haven I have with Dane isn't worth any amount of sex. And I screw up all my relationships, so it's best to avoid this one altogether.

"Where do you want to go?" He asks, starting the Viper.

"Dolce," I say, slumping in the seat and propping my feet on the dashboard. Dane growls softly, and I smirk as I let them drop back to the floor, and reach for the music.

"You know their Italian is shit, right?" he asks, backing out of the driveway. A scattering of leaves crunch under the tires, the scent of a fall and burning leaves bright in the crisp air.

"Yes, Dane. I did grow up here, thanks."

A smile tugs at his lips, that carefree smile that only comes out when he's with me and Atti—a smile I haven't seen in a while. I grin and lean my head back on the leather seat, closing my eyes as he weaves through the quiet streets of our home. The noise of the Pumpkin Festival fair reaches me, and I half lift my head, arching an eyebrow.

"No, Scout. Absolutely not."

I laugh soundlessly and reach for the radio, flipping through channels as he drives us to the tiny Italian eatery.

La Picola Dolce is quiet, which I expected with the festival going full blast. A few older couples are eating the crappy Italian, and I wave at one—my old Sunday school teacher—as I slide into a booth across from Dane. "What are we doing, Scout?" he asks, and I can hear impatience in his tone.

A perky college co-ed bounces up, a pad of paper out to take our drink orders. If she really needs to jot down two drinks, the girl will never make it at UB. Her eyes widen when she sees Dane, and I stiffen, a little annoyed.

No, he's not mine. But for Pete’s sake, he came here with
me
!

"I'm Chrissy," she says, flicking me a quick look before focusing completely on Dane. "Can I get you some wine?"

A fist of want hits me. Wine. Alcohol of any kind, really. Jesus, I'd kill for that right now.

Dane's gaze darts to mine, and he waits—waiting for me to take the lead. Because this is my sobriety, mine to fuck up or keep.

"I'll have a hot chocolate," I say, as brightly as I can. Dane smiles, a tiny twitch of his lips, and I feel like I've passed a test as he orders a coffee and the co-ed waitress hurries away.

"So. If we aren't here for shitty Italian, why are we here?" he asks, toying with the fork.

Dane

Her eyes light up with hunger, and I think it might even be stronger than the initial rush of desire I saw when she was offered wine.

"Tiramisu."

I swallow my laugh as Chrissy—what the hell kind of name is that, anyway?—puts down our drinks and beams at me. "Are you ready to order?"

"I am," Scout says, her voice overly sweet, barely hiding the hint of venom in it. The girl is annoyed at being ignored. She orders a slice of tiramisu and chocolate cake, and then looks at me, eyebrows raised.

I shouldn't be surprised that she came here for dessert. How many times, in high school, had I caught her here with some stoner, eating a slice of dessert while he felt her up under the table? I order quickly and ignore Chrissy as she retreats.

Not that she knew I knew that's what was happening.

She's glancing around, and I see it, the moment she realizes what booth we're sitting in. Her eyes go wide, and she clears her throat, grabbing her hot chocolate.

I could let her stew in her embarrassment, but I take pity on her—and myself. I don't like her thinking about another man while she's with me.

"So. Four weeks."

Her eyes dart up to mine, the easy amusement fading as she looks at me. "Yeah. About that. Look, once Atticus is gone back to whatever hole he's hiding in, you don't have to worry about me. I'll find some friends and get out of your hair—Mel can't be happy about you having me as a house guest for the next four weeks."

I lean back, quiet. Scout stares at me as the silence stretches. But she doesn't say anything, letting the quiet grow heavy and tense so that when Chrissy returns with the desserts, it's almost too much. I wait for the waitress to retreat, not speaking to her.

Scout is three bites into her chocolate cake when I finally sit forward. "Who?"

Her fork pauses, and she looks at me warily. "Who what?"

"Who would you stay with?" I ask, taking a bite of the lemon cream cake.

She shrugs. "I have friends, Dane. I could stay with Bree or Lacy."

"Bree is married and expecting her second child. Lacy is in New Orleans."

Her eyes narrow. "Fine. Phil."

I drop my fork, my anger finally breaking free. "Phil. Really. You want me to lie to Atticus about you staying with me so that you can go live with Phil. Your ex. The one who you used to deal for. The one who, if memory serves, only quit harassing you because I put him in the hospital. You want to go to him."

She bites her lip, and I lean forward, invading her side of the table. "I don't give a shit what Mel thinks of you being here, Scout. I don't really care what you want to do, either. You need family right now."

"You aren't family," she says and I sit back.

The words hurt, more than I expect.

Possibly because very few ever hurt, anymore. But these—they sting. Because for a minute, I forgot the years of shit and the drugs, and even that night. For a minute, it was like none of it had ever happened. It was just me and Scout, sharing a dessert like we had shared so many ice cream cones on my back porch, waiting for Atti to come out of his history haze.

Her face twists, and she drops her fork, reaching for me. "Dane. I didn't mean..." She takes a deep breath. "I didn't mean you aren't family. You are—of course, you are. But you've done so much over the years."

I'm trying to focus on something other than her tiny hand on mine. Her fingers, moving restlessly. "Then why does it matter now?" I ask, hoarsely.

"Because I know. I know you’re tired of me and my shit. I'm tired of making you deal with it."

I close my eyes, shaking my head—trying to get that sad look out of my mind. I lean forward again, squeeze her hand tightly. "Scout, I want to help you. I would kill to help you—this isn't me doing Atti a favor. Don't ever think that."

Her eyes are wide, and she nods, a short choppy movement.

A fleck of chocolate clings to one side of her mouth, and I brush it away with my thumb, not really thinking as I bring it to my mouth and lick it clean.

But the way she grows still and watchful—shit.

"Eat your cake, Scout." I say, my voice rough.

And she does.

Monday is a new sort of adventure. Dane has to work—his law firm across town is a classy little building with two paralegals, an office assistant, and a pissy cat.

I think I’d rather be there than left home alone all day with nothing to occupy my thoughts.

I watch him fix his tie, and fiddle with my orange juice glass, rolling it restlessly between my hands. "What should I do today?"

Dane shrugs. "Watch a movie. Find a meeting. Go to the library. Do whatever you want, Scout. I'll be home around five and we'll have dinner."

I make a face. It sounds so damn domestic. "Want me to cook?"

A slightly horrified expression crosses his face, and I laugh. He gives me a brief smile, and then he's grabbing his coffee and vanishing into the cool fall morning. I lock the doors, triple checking the front door before I go back to bed, but I'm restless and anxious. So I grab my pillow and pad into his bedroom, climbing into the middle of his bed. I click on the TV—he left it on Comedy Central—and half listen as I fall asleep, surrounded by his smell and blankets.

And the feeling of being utterly safe.

By noon I'm going out of my mind. I slept until ten, ate half a piece of dry toast, and showered, and now I'm anxiously pacing the living room, peering out at every little noise and wondering when the hell he'll be back.

Me
: When the hell are you coming home?

Dane
: I told you. 5. What's wrong?

Me
: I'm stir crazy and bored as hell.

Dane
: Scout, I can't entertain you every day. Go to the coffee shop. Go shopping. Go see a movie, for Pete’s sake.

I can almost hear the exasperation in his voice, and I feel a little guilty. I put my phone away without responding and duck back into my room to change.

A movie sounds almost as bad as sitting inside all day. But the coffee shop...or maybe a jog. I could get behind both of those ideas.

I tug on my running shoes and tuck my phone into my pocket, pull my hair into a low ponytail and hit the sidewalk.

I haven't run in months—we didn't do much exercising in New Horizons. And as my legs stretch, the burn pleasant and refreshing, the wind slapping my face, I laugh, a noise of sheer delight.

For the first time in a long time, I'm alone with my thoughts, with no schedule, nowhere to be, no expectations beyond the road and the voice in my head urging me to run fast, go harder, longer.

It’s a natural high, and I chase it down the street, almost drunk off the endorphins.

I run for an hour, until I'm panting and doubled over on the side of the road, a stich in my side. I'm streaked with sweat, and tears are burning in the edges of my vision, and I wonder, vaguely, if I'll be able to get home. I'm in front of the campus, which makes me nervous. I've avoid UB as much as I can—especially alone.

Across the street is a little café, and I head to it without thinking.

The scent of pastries and coffee slaps me in the face as I push into the little shop. A tall man is behind the counter, and his gaze meets mine as he makes an espresso—not the hostile looks I'm used to, but a quiet greeting. I make my way to the counter, and he hands the coffee to a soccer mom chatting a mile a minute on her phone.

Then he turns his full attention to me. "What can I get for you today?"

"What's good?" I ask, scanning the menu half-heartedly.

A smile twists his lips. "Everything is good at the Hill. Depends on what you’re in the mood for."

"Not coffee," I say automatically, and his brows shoot up. "A smoothie? Do you have those?"

He nods. "Go have a seat. I'll bring it out in a few minutes."

I flash a quick flirty smile before I find a seat and drop into it. Send Dane a quick text to let him know where I am, and then drop my phone, fidgeting.