Beautiful Broken (8 page)

It's dirty. It's so wrong, I should be shot. It's doesn't stop me, and when I imagine her whispering my name as she rides me—I groan, my back arching as my dick jerks and I spill across my belly, long and hot.

I grab the towel next to my bed, cleaning myself up while I catch my breath and try to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. There is so much wrong with what I just did—getting myself off while fantasizing about Scout? Fuck, Atti would gut me if he knew. And what about her? She doesn't need that shit.

It doesn't matter how much I want her—she isn't mine and never will be. I'm bad for her. Scout needs a hero, someone who will pick her up and take care of her and treat her like the fragile, precious treasure that she is.

I'm really bad at that. I break everything I touch.

A tap on my door makes me jerk. My mind races. What does she want? She can't have heard me—I groaned a few times, but it was quiet. Shit, did I say her name?

The door peeks open, and her voice fills it. "Dane?"

For a heartbeat, I almost don't answer. But there's a hitch in her voice that makes me sit up.

"What's wrong, Scout?" I ask, surprised my voice is steady.

"Can I sleep with you?"

My eyes go wide, and my dick twitches. Great. Five minutes after orgasm and I'm already getting hard again.

"I don't think that's a good idea." I say hoarsely.

"Just to sleep," she says, her voice unspeakably weary. "You keep the dreams away. I don't want to dream."

Her voice breaks me. What did I tell her earlier? A safe place. I won't take that away from her, not when she's staring at me like I can make the boogieman go away.

I toss the blankets back and she climbs into bed without hesitating. I lean over and tuck her in, ignoring her shiver, the way she looks so right in my bed. That's not what she's asking for or needs. I settle on my side of the king sized bed, and it's quiet, the only noise her soft breathing and the subtle shifts as she tries to get comfortable.

"Scout?" I ask, and she tenses. "Go with me to a meeting tomorrow?"

I see her slight nod, and some of my tension eases. Without letting myself overthink it, I pull her into my arms. She's stiff for a heartbeat that seems like an eternity, and then the tension drains out of her so quickly it makes
me
dizzy. She nestles against me, her head tucked into the crook of my shoulder, her body a pliant warmth against my side.

"Night, Dane," she whispers, and I murmur something incoherent as her breathing settles.

She's asleep in minutes, and I'm left in the dark, holding her. Wondering how I became her safe place, and wondering how the hell I'm going to keep from screwing it up.

Scout

His alarm wakes me up. I'm on my back, one of his arms heavy across my hips, his leg tangled in my own. I shift and he growls. Props himself up enough to turn off the blaring alarm then pulls me more firmly into his arms, his breathing deep and even.

I think he did it all in his sleep, except when I wiggle, his arms clamp down around me and he mutters, "Quit moving, Scout. I'm sleeping."

Dane's voice is always sexy. But first thing in the morning, still rough with sleep, it's deeper and raw, and I think I could come just from him talking to me. I shift in his embrace again, and he rolls, pinning me to the bed. "I said, stop moving," he says. His head dips down, lips flirting with my skin, trailing his nose up my neck and leaving tiny butterfly kisses in his wake. I whimper and he groans, lets his weight drop on me, so I can feel his erection pressing into my belly.

I hate being held down. I hate having the weight of a man covering me—it's why I always take the top. But this—I moan, a breathy noise that I can't believe I'm making, as he covers me. My legs fall open, cradling him as he grinds against me.

"Jesus, Scout," he mutters, lifting up to peer at me with sleepy, gray eyes.

I don't want him to stop, and I know he's going to—I can see it. I hook a leg over his hip and thrust against him. "Don't go," I murmur.

He makes a face—somewhere between a smile and a grimace—and then his lips are on mine.

Dane kisses like a starving man at a feast. His hands come up to cradle my face, and he sips at my mouth, tiny little kisses that have me writhing against him, desperate for more. He nips at my lower lip then sucks on it softly, soothing the tiny pain. Licks into my mouth, across my tongue, the roof of my mouth—he's everywhere, like he's trying to memorize the feel of me, to devour me.

I've never been kissed like this, and I want him kissing me like this when he goes down on me.

The thought makes me wet, and I shift again.

"Stop," he whispers against my lips, and I thrust against him. "God, Scout, stop."

"Why?"

"Because I can feel how wet you are and if you do that again, I'm gonna forget I'm supposed to be a gentleman and I'm gonna fuck you senseless. And neither of us needs that complication right now."

The words are shocking and bracing. Tears burn in my eyes—whatever else his words are, they're also a rejection. He stares at me for a minute, and then his hand slips under my panties, and his lips are against my ear, whispering, "Don't cry, Scout. If you need this—oh, god, you’re so damn ready for me, Scout." His fingers slip through my folds, and I whimper as his thumbs graze my clit. He doesn't take my shorts or panties off, but his fingers plunge into me, and he kisses me, pumping his fingers in and out while I ride his hand, and his sexy voice is in my ear, dirty and coarse and all I can hear when I climax, the orgasm stronger than any I've had in months, shaking my entire body. He holds me, milks me through it, his fingers deep inside me. I moan sleepily when he pulls them free. Sleep is tugging me back down—the early hour and the orgasm working together to knock me out. But I open my eyes and watch him as he licks his fingers clean, his eyes locked on mine.

Dane

She’s gorgeous, hair sticking to her sweaty neck, her face still flushed from her orgasm. Her eyes are closed, and I don’t even try to resist the impulse to lick my fingers.

Except she opens her eyes, sleepily watching. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. This is special—somehow it feels separate from the rest of life, like all the shit that keeps us apart was left outside my bedroom.

It’s not true, of course—and this can only happen once—but it’s a fantasy I’ll cling to for now.

I lick her off my fingers and close my eyes, groaning at her taste—that unique scent of orange mixing with the salty musk. She’s sweet and amazing, and I know I’ll never get enough.

I let myself kiss her, a soft, chaste kiss on her forehead—the kind of kiss I’ve been giving her for years, that is different now. And then I sit up and pull the blanket over her. She curls into my pillow, and I hear her take a deep breath. A smile twists her lips up, and then she’s gone, collapsing into sleep.

I step into my bathroom and strip—I don’t want to shower, don’t want to wash her scent off my skin. Leaving her sleeping in my bed is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I leave the house quietly after making sure her phone is next to her and the doors are locked. I don’t like it, but work is calling and I can’t stay with her—she isn’t mine.

Scout

I find a glass of orange juice, already poured in the fridge, with a note in Dane’s barely legible scrawl.

Sacred Heart. Basement—@6. Dinner after?

I felt a twinge of unease, not sure how I’ll face him. I’m still warm and lazy from my orgasm, but what happens tonight? How do I treat him when all our clothes are on and we’re not wrapped up in each other in bed?

Do I treat him like I always have? Can I give him that much distance, now? I grab the juice and the note, and go back to bed.

I situate myself in bed and grab my phone, dialing while I sip the OJ. I make a face and eye it as the phone rings.

"What's up, Scout?"

His voice startles me so badly I almost drop my juice. I hesitate—what do I say? Why the hell did I think calling him was a good idea?

"Scout?" His voice is tight with worry. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I blurt. "I just didn't—I thought you'd let me go to voicemail."

"Would you rather I did?" Dane asks, his voice curious.

"Can we pretend that you did?" I ask, half joking. He laughs, and then: "Thanks for calling, I'm afraid I'm unable—or unwilling—to talk at the moment. Leave a message. I'll call you back—or I won't." His voice is rich and just a hint mocking, and I laugh when he beeps.

Then I hesitate. "I don't really know what to say." I pause, but he doesn't respond, and I realize he's taking my request seriously. So I order my thoughts. "I don't want to screw up our friendship. You’re too important to me for me to screw and walk—and I'm not good at anything else. You know that. But today—I can't say I regret what we did. I hope you don't."

I pause, but the other end of the line is dead quiet. So I push on. "I don't want things to be weird, D. I just want to...shit, I don't know. Play board games and laugh over brownies and just be. I can't do more than that—you’re too important for me to risk that. I hope you can understand that. I hope you don't hate me." I take a deep, shuddery breath. "But if you want me to get out, I totally get it. So. Just...I don’t know. Let me know."

My hands are shaking, and I almost drop the phone. Then his voice fills the line: "Do you really think I'd kick you out because of this?"

I shrug. No. But I know he doesn't keep women around—Mel is the only one who’s lasted for any length of time. I sort of hate her for that.

"Safe place, Scout. That's all I want to give you—and you don't need the complication of romance right now."

I know it's true. I just freaking admitted as much, but it still stings to hear him agree.

"So, just friends."

He laughs, a noise that rubs me in all the right ways, in all the right places. "Scout, there is nothing
just
about us. There never has been."

I laugh, acknowledging his point. Hear a voice in the background—one of his paralegals.

"I gotta go, Scout. I'll see you in a while, okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

He hesitates for a moment, and I think he'll say something. He doesn't, though. He hangs up without another word, and I'm left a little worried—but, strangely, a little more settled than I was before I called him.

My phone rings a little after four, and I grab it from my purse as I walk down the street. I can't wait till we go shopping tomorrow. I'm sick of walking all over Branton.

"Hey, big brother," I say, my voice mocking.

"I've been calling all afternoon. What are you doing?"

"Right this very second, I'm walking to the Hill to meet Jason Curtis to talk about work. Earlier, I was getting my hair cut. Did you need something particular?"

He sighs. "Can't I just call to talk?"

I laugh. "Atti, you haven't done that in years. You call to check up on me, to make sure I'm alive and occasionally to yell at me. But you don't call to talk."

It's true—he's been distant since Daddy died. Almost like he knew what happened to me before. But he didn't know. Only Dane and I knew what happened—and
him
—and Dane would never have told Atticus.

"Tell me about the job."

"Not a lot to tell yet. He's an interior designer, and I'm good at that."

"I know what Jason does, Scout," he snaps. "But why do you need a job? Why can't you just go back to school?"

"Where?" I demand, stopping. My feet are killing me, and we're having this same conversation again, and I'm suddenly furious. "To Branton? There's no way in hell I'm going to school the same place you teach, Atti. And I found something to keep me busy—something that will keep me from relapsing. Isn't that what you want?"

He's quiet. I roll my eyes. He doesn't believe I won't. I've known for years that Atti lacked faith in me, but this hurts. And it makes me even angrier.

"I'm fighting to stay clean," I say quietly. "And you don't believe I can. But I will, Atticus. I'll fucking do it just to prove to you that I can."

He starts to say something, but I hang up on him. I'm late and I'm tired of his shit.

I haven't been to a group meeting in years. But sitting next to Scout in the basement of Sacred Heart, a cup of bad coffee in my hands, I have to admit that nothing has changed.

And I've missed it.

I glance at her, startled again when I see her short brown hair. She chopped it off, a mass of disheveled layers that frames her face and a honeyed brown color that softens the edges of her—she's not as unapproachable and untouchably beautiful.

It's new, and I already want to dig my hand into it and kiss her.

A meth addict, her hands still shaking from withdrawals, is talking about her kids being taken away, and it serves to kill my growing arousal.

There is nothing sexy about addicts. Nothing sexy about recovery—there is only the unending fight, and the relapses.