Perfectly Broken (33 page)

Peyton gripped the edge of the island for support, certain he was going to bang her right off. She clenched her muscles around him, as he rammed in and out.

“Jesus, you’re so tight,” he said, grabbing her ass. “You’re gonna make me come like this.”

He tried to hold back, trying to wait for her, wanting her to finish again — and this time with him. He slid his hand from her hip, reaching around, and moved his finger in small circles. Her head grew dizzy and her legs weakened, on the verge of coming again. Reed gave her a little flick on her sweet spot and thrust from behind one last time, finishing her off and calling out her name.

Peyton lay on the island, trying to catch her breath, thankful Reed was holding her up. She felt his arms slide under her.

“You’re sexy as hell,” he whispered, pulling her down to the floor, cradling her in his arms.

“I’ll wear that apron every time I cook for you, if that’s my reward.”

“Well, not for a few days.”

“No sex for a few days?”

He smiled and stroked her hair. “I just meant we’ll have to be quiet for a few days.”

Peyton pouted her lip. “I guess it would be rude if Bret and Quinn heard us during the storm.”

* * *

The storm was coming, about a day away now, but there was no reason to panic. New Orleans had seen worse – much worse. In fact, at this point, it was just another reason to throw a party.

The time-honored tradition of the hurricane party was as much a part of the city as a Gospel brunch on Sunday and greasing the French Quarter light poles during Mardi Gras. But make no mistake, the party wasn’t just about getting lit up to calm the nerves, though that was certainly an important goal. It was about getting rid of all the food in the refrigerator before the electricity went out and making the best of a bad situation alongside friends and family. With the alcohol flowing and the lights out for sometimes several days, hurricane parties occasionally could lead to a baby boom nine months later.

It was Peyton’s turn to host this storm. She actually seemed to host every one of them since her house was the biggest and she had a generator to make things as comfortable as possible.

“We are so late,” she said, her cheeks still flush, desperately trying to calm her hair while walking towards her front door. “We were supposed to be helping them get the house ready.”

“We had things to do,” Reed teased. “Besides, I’m sure Bret and Quinn handled it.”

She looked him up and down, appearing no different than usual. “Why do I look like I just got bent over, and you look like you came from church?”

They walked inside, and blaring pop music hit them. Peyton yelled out for Quinn, but there was no response, the music drowning out her words. They entered the den, littered with red Solo cups and beer bottles, and found a sight scarier than any hurricane. Reed fell back against the doorframe, laughing his ass off.

“Shut up, man!” Bret yelled, gyrating his hips and flailing his arms. “You’re messing me up!”

“You didn’t learn shit from that guy on YouTube,” Reed said.

Bret extended his middle finger and continued his
Dance Central
battle with Quinn, who’d so far nearly doubled his score. Bret was going down hard. If Reed and Peyton didn’t know he was playing XBOX and trying to dance – a rigid, highly-individualized interpretation of the Dougie, which occasionally slipped into a bastardized version of the Macarena – they likely would have called the paramedics. Bret appeared to be in the middle of a seizure, or perhaps even on the verge of death.

Moving with the beat, Quinn flashed a smile to Peyton. “God, you two have been at it again?”

“We have not!” Peyton cried, still fixing her hair with her hands.

Quinn tripled Bret’s score just as the game ended. “I kicked your ass,” she told him.

Bret picked up his beer bottle, as the on-screen character — whose dance moves Bret attempted to mimic — shook his head in disapproval. “Fuck you!” Bret shouted at the character.

Peyton laughed. “It’ll be OK, Bret. Just need some more practice.”

“I got it for Bret for Valentine’s Day,” Quinn said. “If we have to play XBOX, I figured he could at least learn a thing or two.”

“I’m glad you guys brought it over,” Peyton said. “It will be fun until the lights go out.”

Bret took another swig. “I brought my most prized possessions since we’ll be stuck here a few days.” He pointed to a box in the corner.

“You put your dick in that box?” Reed teased.

Reed and Peyton walked towards it and found an autographed Saints football, a vintage
Playboy
from the 1960’s, baseball cards, and a few other items.

“Quinn, your training has
not
worked,” Peyton said.

“There’s only so much I can do,” she replied.

Bret grabbed his box and moved it away from them, but not before Peyton took out a long cardboard tube. “What’s in here?” she asked, tapping it in her hands.

“He won’t tell me,” Quinn said.

Reed swiped it from Peyton. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked. Bret nodded, a devilish smile on his face. Peyton and Quinn exchanged a concerned look. “Do you think they can handle it?”

“No,” Bret said, as serious as his dance moves, “they’re not ready for this. But then again, no one really is.”

“Enough of this bullshit,” Quinn snapped and swiped the tube from Reed. “What the hell is in here?” She tore it open and pulled out a poster from the tube. She took off the rubber band and rolled it out in her hands. Then her eyes popped with a touch of sadness and disappointment. She swallowed hard then spoke slowly and directly. “Bret, what the hell are you doing with
this
?”

For a moment, Bret was speechless. It was such an awesome poster, the subject of so much analysis and intrigue — by him, by Reed, by folks at the gym and elsewhere. It brought back such good memories. And he hadn’t seen it in years.

Quinn stomped her foot. “Answer me, Bret. What the hell are you doing with a poster of
The Little Mermaid
?”

Bret’s face lit up. “It’s not just
any
poster. This poster,” he said, pausing for effect, a certain pride in his voice, “is an original.”

Quinn winced. “An original?” Just when she’d become somewhat used to his penchant for video games, he revealed a soft spot for fairytales. “So, Bret, what the hell are you doing with it?” He took the poster in both hands, inspecting it like a detective at a crime scene. “What are you doing now?” she asked, trying not to laugh – or cry.

Bret rested the poster on the coffee table and blew some dust from it. “Look closely at the the castle in the background,” Bret said, encouraging his friends to gather round, speaking as if he were teaching a graduate school seminar in archeology. He ran his hand up along the edge of a pillar and then back down, making a semicircle in the middle. “Do you see it?”

“See what?” Quinn asked then looked at Peyton, believing Bret was pulling some trick on them.

Reed stepped up and traced the outline himself, slower and more carefully this time. “Do you see it now?”

Peyton’s blue eyes bulged. “Oh my God!”

“Isn’t that cool?” Bret cried, so proud of his find from long ago, as if it were the Lost Ark.

Quinn squinted her eyes, still not able to see it, but after Peyton whispered something in her ear, she shrieked. “Holy shit!”

Bret smiled. “I know it’s a lot to process.” He gave Quinn a moment to take it all in, to think through it all, to grieve, before starting back up again. “And it’s only on the original artwork,” he continued. “Many later editions and reprints don’t have the erection on the castle — or any penis at all for that matter. It was subsequently removed.”

“
Subsequently removed
?” Quinn replied, looking at Bret with great confusion, wondering when he’d become the curator at the New Orleans Museum of Art. “This is all so very troubling. You are telling me things I don’t want to hear.” Quinn took the poster from him and rolled it back up, twisting the rubber band around it, trying to protect what now was left of her innocence. “Why do you even have this?” She put it back in the tube.

Bret ignored her. “And that’s not all,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

“What?” Quinn shook her head. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“You
need
to know,” Bret said, looking at Reed.

“They
have
to know.” Reed said, poking Peyton in the side.

“That movie,” Bret said, trying to find the right words, “that movie is like one big porno.”

“What?” Quinn cried. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Peyton looked at him, confused. “It’s about a mermaid and her father and Ursula and....”

“It’s a porno,” Bret said calmly.

Peyton looked at Reed for support, but he had none to give. “It is,” he agreed. “Bret told me about it years ago.”

Quinn glared at Bret. “You told him? Where do you find out these things?”

Bret ignored her again. “How does that sea song go?”

“Which one?” Quinn asked. “‘Under the Sea’?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Bret said. “Sing it, girls.”

Quinn and Peyton looked at each other and began to hum the melody. Then they started to softly sing the chorus — before Peyton abruptly stopped. “No way!” Peyton cried.

“What?” Quinn wondered, continuing to sing the next line.
Darling it’s better / Down where it’s wetter / Take it from me
.

Bret flashed a mischievous smile. “I’d happen to agree.”

“Me, too,” Reed said, pulling Peyton to him, burying his nose in her hair.

“You two idiots have totally ruined my childhood now,” Quinn said, reaching for her red Solo cup and downing it. Then she turned to Bret. “As payback, I’m making you go to a dance instructor.”

“What?” he cried.

“The video game is not helping,” Quinn said. “You haven’t been practicing. You need to go to a professional.”

“Please, no!” he begged.

Reed and Peyton took a seat on the sofa, her legs on his lap, ready to take in the festivities.

“Oh, yes!” Quinn said, pleased with herself. “I will not have you moving that way at our wedding. I simply will not.” Bret slumped in a chair. “And we are also going to decide on the invitation wording and ....”

Bret held his head in his hands. “Please no more wedding talk. I can’t hear one more thing about flowers, colors, seating charts.”

Peyton whispered something to Reed, knowing that wasn’t what Quinn wanted to hear.

“What do you mean, Bret?” Quinn asked, stiffening her spine. “Don’t you want our wedding to be nice?”

“Yeah,” Bret said nervously, “but we talked an hour this morning about plans, even watched that online video about how to fold the napkins.” He looked over at Reed. “Did you know there are like a dozen ways to fold a damn napkin?”

Reed shook his head, not wanting any part of this discussion, but wishing he had some popcorn.

Quinn turned to Peyton. “Napkins are important, right?”

“They are, but if you choose a Trifold over an Opera Fan,” Peyton said cautiously, “it’s not going to make or break your wedding.”

Quinn paused for a minute. “I suppose you’re right,” she said and sat down by Peyton.

Reed and Bret exchanged a confused look, neither of them having a clue why Peyton could make such comments, but not Bret.

“Which would you pick?” she asked Peyton.

“I like the French Pleat,” Peyton said. “It’s timeless and classic.”

A slow smile came over Quinn’s face, her nerves calming down, then she turned to Bret for his thoughts. Peyton flashed Bret a warning look — that he better not screw up her efforts to restore order to the universe.

Bret understood and forced a smile to Quinn. “Could you show me the one Peyton picked?” Delighted, Quinn hopped up and skipped into the kitchen.

Reed scratched his head, confused. “What the hell is going on here? The mood swings, and all this talk of napkins?” He popped open a beer and took a swig.

“She’s monster-ating,” Bret whispered.

Reed nearly spewed beer all over the floor. “That’s great,” Reed said, wiping his mouth and nudging Peyton to laugh, too. But she didn’t — her hurricane party now turning into middle school, if not daycare. “Don’t you get it? Monster-ating instead of menstruating.”

“Oh, I get it,” Peyton said, getting up from his lap. Reed quickly came to order, though Bret continued to laugh. “Idiots.” She lightly slapped Reed on top of his head.

Quinn returned to the den with a perfectly folded napkin. As she plopped down on Bret’s lap, proudly displaying it for him, Reed stifled a laugh, and Peyton smacked him on the head again.

Bret looked up at Peyton, who offered an encouraging nod. “It’s perfect,” he said, smiling at Quinn.

Quinn promptly exhaled, relieved to have that decision finally made, then took another drink. “Peyton, remember how we used to play wedding?”

“When we were
six
,” Peyton replied, giggling.

“Remember we would always pretend to marry brothers or best friends?”

“How much have you had to drink, Quinn?”

“Just a couple,” she slurred, tossing an arm around Peyton and looking at their guys. “And now it’s happening.” She reached again for her red Solo cup, and Peyton took it from her, handing it to Bret. “Isn’t it so great? Pretty soon, I’ll be married.
You’ll
be married.” Peyton tried hard not to look at Reed as Quinn lumbered on. “Our husbands will be best friends. And we’ll always be best friends.”

“Of course,” Peyton said, patting her on the back and trying to get her out of the den. “We will all be best friends.”

“And we’ll have babies at the same time,” Quinn said. Peyton’s eyes flew to Reed, all color drained from his face. “And our babies will be best friends. Won’t that be fun? We should get pregnant at the same time, too. That way we can share clothes and have showers together, and if you have a boy and I have a girl or the opposite way, they can grow up and get married, and then we will finally be related.”

Peyton hugged her. “You’re already my sister.”

“That’s
so
sweet.” Quinn picked up Bret’s beer and waved it around. “But I’m still hoping to be pregnant by the time we reach our first anniversary.” Quinn looked at Reed. “How’s that schedule work for you guys?”