Beautiful Broken (5 page)

"I think there's some in the freezer outside. Check."

She flashes me a grin and steps away, letting me have a split second to catch my breath.

Oh, shit, I need to get laid. That has to be it—a simple lack of sex explains this irrational desire to kiss Scout senseless. I should text Mel—she'd be okay with a booty call tonight. Or if she isn't, there's the club—I could head there after Scout goes to bed.

Just because I agreed to let her stay here, it doesn't mean I have to be with her every second of the day, does it?

She comes back with a tub of ice cream roughly the size of her head and a grin as bright as the sun.

I don't
have
to be with her every second. But there is no denying that I love spending time with her—she's fun, sarcastic, and amusing, and never buys any of my shit.

"Where are you thinking for a job?"

She hesitates, and I arch an eyebrow, waiting. "Well. I was thinking about contacting Curtis Interior. He's a phenomenal interior designer who does a lot of work in Baton Rouge and even down to New Orleans. He's amazing."

"Why him?"

She's arguing with herself about something and assessing me. Finally she says, "I like design work. And I'm good at it."

"Do you think you'll study it in school?"

It's an innocently posed question, but from the way she tenses, it's not. Not really.

"Scout? What’s wrong?"

"What if I don't want to go back?" she asks.

"To school or to UB?"

She frowns, biting her lip. "Both?"

Frankly, I don't care what she does with her life as long as she's clean and keeps eating brownies with me. But trying to explain to Atticus why his baby sister is dropping out of secondary education is going to be hella hard to do.

I hand her a bowl of ice cream topped with a brownie and go to the living room. She follows, folding her legs under her as she situates herself on the couch.

"Scout, you know no one can force you to go to school, right?"

She's watching me, warily. "I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop," she says.

"There is no other shoe. You don't want to go school. It's your life. You have to explain it to your brother, but you can probably make him understand. If your reasons are good."

She tenses. Gives me a steady, angry stare. "Why do you keep pushing?"

I lean back, my bowl on the couch between us. "What am I pushing, Scout?"

"You
know
what. I don't want to talk about it—you need to get used to that. I'll talk about sobriety, and I'll get a job—I'll keep myself clean and be a productive member of society, but I don't want to talk about that night. Leave it the fuck alone."

"Watch your mouth," I snap, angry. She laughs and I stand. Screw this. I can't be around her when she's angry like this, and, frankly, being around her at all is self-destructive and stupid.

Scout isn't the only one with a shit ton of issues.

I throw the bowls in the sink, shove my feet into some shoes, and grab my keys.

"Where are you going?" she demands, her voice rising a little.

"Out. You aren't interested in talking, and the entertainment I have in mind, you aren't cut out for." I run my eyes suggestively over her little body, all the lush curves. It's a lie. She's perfectly cut for it. But it makes her stop, pushes us into territory she isn't comfortable with—sex may be familiar, but me and sex have never been something that overlapped in Scout's world.

It's best if it stays that way.

Victorie is crowded. A roped-off line is keeping the horny freshmen out while frat boys parade in. I nod at the bouncer as I stride past the line and shove my way into the strip club.

A new girl is working the pole, and I pause for a few minutes, watching her gyrate on the stage. She's cute—a better body than face, but there are two great reasons she's a stripper.

I find a table near the back, and it takes only three minutes before a co-ed approaches my table. She's gorgeous, drunk, and probably exactly what I need. "Want to dance?"

I give her a mocking smile, "Sugar, unless you’re working the pole, I don't think this is the place for dancing."

She giggles, an annoying, high-pitched noise that makes my skin crawl. Sways closer to me. "I could do a private dance. I bet you'll like me."

She leans closer, and I'm about to push her away—send her back to her friends—when I catch her scent. Clean, slightly citrusy.

It's not the same as the scent now permeating my bathroom and clinging to the blanket Scout left on the couch—but it's close enough that I can close my eyes and pretend.

So I drag her the girl closer, tuck her into my lap, and murmur, "What's your name, sugar?"

"Rose" she says, her voice a little breathless.

"I'm Dane."

The girl on stage is being joined by another, the music pounding through the club. She twists, a pouty look on her face. "I want to go somewhere private."

I kiss her and let my hands wander. She whimpers when my fingers dig into her hips and shift her so she's firmly pressed against my dick. I stifle a groan—it's been almost a week since I got laid, and, Jesus in heaven, it feels amazing. I nibble at her lips. When she gasps, I really kiss her, letting my tongue flirt with hers, sliding into her mouth with a strong stroke as my hand slides up her shirt. Her bra is lace, and I find her nipple, tight and puckered, begging to be kissed.

She shifts, and I pull away. "Watch." I twist her in my lap, and when she starts to protest, I bite lightly on her neck, licking the spot and sucking softly on the skin while I slip a hand up her skirt. Her panties are wet, and I lift my head, licking the shell of her ear before murmuring, "Watch them, lovely girl." Her gaze goes to the stage, where both dancers are swinging on the pole. One is naked, her pert breasts dusted and glittering in the light. Rose shifts, watching them, and I slip two fingers into her panties, into her.

She groans, and I swallow hard. God, she's hot. Wet. And she's doing what I wanted. Because I don't really give a shit who she is. I move my fingers, and she whines, a low noise as I bring my thumb into play, toying with her clit as I finger her in the middle of a packed room.

When she comes, she's loud, and I pull her back for a kiss, swallowing her shriek as she bucks against my hand. "I want you," she mutters against my lips.

I drag her from the little table and into a dirty bathroom. She's on me before I've even got the door locked, kissing me and jerking at my clothes. I close my eyes when she drops to her knees, willing to forget. She's good, bobbing on my cock until I'm riding that amazing edge, on the verge of coming. I groan, loudly, and she pulls away with a laugh. I grab the condom she retrieves from her purse, rolling it on and lifting her onto the sink.

I slide into her without fanfare, and it's good. It's hot and wet, and it does what it's supposed to. I screw her like it’s my job, until she's screaming and panting through her orgasm. And then I close my eyes and let the smell of oranges drown out everything but the sensations on my dick, and if I picture Scout, no one knows but me.

I hear him, when he comes in. I'm awake, but when he peeks into my bedroom, I lie still and quiet, and he buys it—he goes away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I can smell him, though—the distinct scent of smoke and sex and alcohol that makes my stomach twist and tells me one thing.

He was out getting laid.

Why the hell does that bother me so much? It's not like Dane means anything romantic to me. I know better than to think he ever could. Not like that, anyway.

I close my eyes, ignoring the tears in my eyes, snapping the rubber band on my wrist as I try to sleep.

I don't get up to see him out. I'm awake—how the hell could I not be? But I lie in my bed, tense and unmoving as he showers and dresses and makes his coffee. Once, he pauses by my door, and I almost think he'll come in. But a minute later, he's shutting the front door, and I hear the Viper roll down the driveway.

I lie in bed for another twenty minutes, nerves stringing tighter and tighter. Even though it's Dane's house, and that has always been synonymous with safety, I can't relax. So I slip from bed and hurry to the front doors, checking the locks.

Of course he's locked the door. He'd never leave me exposed like that.

A smile tilts my lips up, and I go to the fridge, pouring a cup of OJ before I retreat to my bedroom.

There's a note stuck to my door, Dane's scrawl messy and familiar.

If you want to work with Curtis Interiors, call Avery. She can probably help.

D.

I crawl back into bed and dial his number.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," he says immediately, his voice rough and tired. It pulls at things low in my belly, and I shift in bed.

"You didn't," I lie. "I got up for some OJ—must have just missed you."

"Did you need something?"

"Why can Avery help? How?"

His voice is a husky laugh, burning through me. I shouldn't have called him from bed. It's a bad idea—making me think things I can't afford to.

"Call her and find out. I'll text you the number."

I hesitate, and I think he'll end the call. But he doesn't. He's there, quiet as he drives across town. Or maybe he's already at his office, and he's just humoring me. It's not a long drive.

"Where did you go?" I ask, softly. Immediately hating myself for asking.

He sighs. "Scout, don't ask me that. I don't want you to look at me like that."

"Like what?" I demand.

"Like a whore," he says, without inflection. "Like I'm only good for a one night stand. Even if it's true, that's not what I want you to see. I wish..." He trails away, his voice unusually soft.

"I don't," I whisper. "I've never seen you as that. I couldn't—you are so much more to me. Don't you get that?"

"I'm not," he says. I can hear loathing in his voice that he's not even trying to hide from me. "Don't see more in me than is here, Scout. I'm not a good guy. If I was—" He cuts off abruptly. "I'll be home late. I have to meet Mel for dinner," he says, the softness fading from his voice. He's gone before I can tell him that it wasn't his fault.

What happened to me wasn't his fault.

I close my eyes. I hate that he thinks that—that he is killing himself over it, all these years later. And yet, it’s not terribly surprising.

Dane has always been really good at absorbing the pain of those around him. And since he was the one to find me—is it any wonder he thinks it’s his fault?

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Dane
: 871-7021. Call Avery.

That's it. He's shutting himself off, for now. And as much as I hate it, I have to let him. If I want space, I have to be willing to give it.

So I get up and make a bagel and dial the number.

"Hello?"

Avery's voice is warm and sleepy, melodic and beautiful even first thing in the morning.

"This is Scout," I say, awkwardly.

"Oh! Hi!" She sounds startled, but pleased, and I wonder if I shouldn't give this girl a chance. For Atti's sake. "What can I do for you, Scout?"

"Um. Dane told me to call. I mentioned wanting to get a job at Curtis Interiors, and he said you might be able to help. Not really sure why."

She laughs, and I frown. "I'll make some calls. Want to meet for lunch?"

I agree, and we make plans to meet at a local sandwich shop—close to UB, but not on the campus. It's a minor distinction, but it matters to me.

Avery is running a few minutes late. I find a table for us, and a waiter swings by to drop off menus. Next Best Thing is crowded with college students breaking away for a decent lunch, and I feel a little nervous. I snap the rubber band on my wrist.

"Sorry!" Avery says, sliding into a seat. She's dressed in a pair of tight jeans, an oversized cream sweater that hangs off one shoulder, and a ridiculous ball cap that I recognized as Atti's on her head, keeping her ponytail off her neck. She looks fresh and clean and effortless, and I feel grimy in my t-shirt and yoga pants.

"Ladies?" A smooth, effeminate voice is tilted up in question, and I glance up as Avery stands, grinning at the man standing near our table, a bright-eyed baby on his hip.

"You made it!" she says, snatching the baby from him and kissing her hair. "Jeff wasn't sure you'd be able to."

"I'm confused," I say, blankly. Both of them turn to me, his expression assessing, hers hopeful.

"Jason Curtis," he says, extending a hand. My heart stops, a painful freezing between one second and the next. "And my daughter, Sydney. I hope you don't mind her tagging along—I didn't expect to have any meetings today. But Avery said it was important, and she promised me lunch."

There's a pause while the waiter arrives with a high chair and Jason arranges the little girl in it. Then we're sitting there, and I'm not sure how the hell this even happened.

Jason and Avery are gossiping, his hands dancing through the air as he tells her some story about the baby. The subject of their story is staring at me with wide, curious eyes, so I wave at her. She smiles, a shy sweet smile that sorta melts my insides.