Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Page 10

  "Nah, Tripp's been busting my ass about an upcoming case."

  "I'll let you go work," He says.

  "Don't worry about Scout so much, Atti. I'll take care of her."

  Atti laughs, softly. "You've always been really good at taking care of my baby sister, man."

  I hang up and shake my head. I haven't. That's the problem—I should have taken better care of her.

  Scout is staring at me, hard, picking at a tiny piece of bread. "You didn't tell him about us."

  "Hard to tell him about something that hasn't even been defined by us," I say, lazily.

  "Do you want to define it?" Nerves flicker in her eyes, like she's not sure how to handle whatever I say next. And even though I'm ready to tell her yes, I back down. Because I can't scare her off.

  "I just want to be with you, however you think that should be," I say, softly. "I don't need a definition to know I enjoy spending time with you."

  "You don't spend time with the girls you sleep with, Dane. You screw them and toss them out."

  I nod. I can't be angry when she's pointing out the truth. "You aren't those girls, though, Scout. This isn’t like that. And you and I both know it. I don't want you to be scared, but I'm enjoying this—the time we spend together even outside of my bed. I like being with you. Do you want to change that? Quit spending time with me?"

  She shakes her head, quick and hard. Something tight and worried loosens in my chest, and I draw her close. "Then, for now, let's just go with what we've got. Okay?"

  She nestles there, feeling so damn right it's crazy, and lets out a tiny sigh. "Okay."

  Chapter 11

  Scout

  I slip out of the Viper, and Dane leans across the seat to peer up at me. "Be careful in that thing, okay?"

  "Quit worrying," I say, exasperated. "I'm just driving to work."

  His expression eases a little, and he nods. "Text me if you can get away for lunch."

  "I will." I shut the door before he can say anything else, because I know Dane—he'll go on and on with instructions for as long as I'll let him. And we're both running late this morning.

  Yesterday had been good—we'd ended up watching movies on the couch and ordering pizza for dinner. Dane worked, lazily, and I wrote in the journal the group leader suggested, and it was a good, quiet day. The sort of quiet companionship that we hadn't had since I was in high school.

  Jason called around six and asked if I could come in today to go over some paperwork and shadow him a bit. Which is why I was up so early, picking up my new Jeep and heading to work.

  I smooth a hand nervously over my pencil skirt and tug my button-down straight. I have no idea what Jason expects for work attire, but I figure business casual can't hurt—and Dane's eyes went dark and hot when he saw me. So I was doing something right.

  Curtis Interiors is downtown, a good ways away from the University. I park my Jeep across the street and take a deep breath. I want this. And I don't want to screw it up.

  The office is lovely—a pale lavender with low-slung white couches and a small round glass coffee table. A neat white desk sits empty to side.

  Jason steps out of the back. Without a baby on his hip and his best friend teasing him from across the table, he looks like the award-winning designer I've been studying for the past few months. A rectangle pair of glasses sits low on his nose, and he scans me with a quick, appraising eye.

  Since he's wearing grey suit pants and a teal button-down with a gray tie, I'm suddenly glad I decided on the skirt and dress shirt.

  "Come on into the back. We're actually closed today—you should know I don't work most Fridays. I like to be at home with the baby, and Jeff opens the Hill late on Friday, since we keep it open so late in the evening. But I did want to get a chance to talk to you, and get an eye for your design aesthetic."

  "I know you hired me because of Avery. I really appreciate you taking a chance on me," I say, and Jeff waves a negligent hand.

  "I hired you because I'm desperate and there aren't a lot of people in Branton looking to work in design. And most who are interested will leave after graduation."

  "And you think I won't?"

  He sits back in his chair. "You are Scout Grimes. Born and raised here. Your brother is a local professor. You've had a rocky few years, but spent the past three months in rehab and are now living with Dane Guillot—another local and family friend. Your best friend is Lou Randall. You and Atticus own a home on the outskirts of town that you've never tried to sell."

  I blink staring at him, and he grins, mischievously. "I'm a bit of a gossip, and it's a small town. I did a little research."

  "I can see that," I say dryly. He laughs. "So you’re basing my permanence on my ties to the community?"

  He shrugs. "It's a gamble, Scout. But I like you, and something tells me you could use the chance to prove yourself. And I might not have mentioned—did I tell you I'm desperate? Because I'm very desperate. We just landed two big contracts. I'm thrilled about them, but if I don't get some help, I'll never get it all done."

  He stares at me, another long assessing look, and I smile, setting my purse down. "So let's get started. What do you need me to do first?"

  I spend the next few hours working on designing a large house on a computer program Jason gives me. He adds a few ideas, but mostly, he lets me work while he makes phone calls and orders couches. Around lunchtime, my phone vibrates, and I reluctantly drag my attention away from the room I've half finished. Dane's calling—I forgot to text him.

  "What's up?" I say, half listening as I tweak the wall color.

  "I take it you aren't going to get away for lunch today?"

  "Probably not," I say. "Especially since I'm going to be leaving early for my session."

  He's quiet, and I finally click the program closed, focusing on him. "What?"

  "I didn't say anything," he answers, evenly.

  "You manage to say more when you don't say anything than anyone I know," I shoot back. He laughs, and I shiver as the sound slides over me like warm honey. I don't have time for this—I need to focus on work and the meeting this afternoon.

  "I'm just curious why you’re able to talk to a stranger, but refuse to talk to me."

  "Because it is a stranger." I say, forcing my tone to soften. "And I don't even know that I'll be able to talk to her. This is just a test, D. I need to know if will help."

  "I want to be the one who helps you," he says, so quietly I can pretend I don't hear him. So I do. I jump all over the ability to pretend, because I'm damn good at it. Avoidance is one of my best defenses.

  "I've gotta go, Dane. I'll see you at home tonight?"

  His voice is chilly and distant. I feel some of the intimacy we've shared over the past week slip. "Yeah. I'm going to work late, so I'm not sure when I'll be in. But I'll see you later. Call, if you decide you need anything."

  He hangs up before I can answer, and my hands shake as I thumb my phone off. It wasn't fair—it was a parting shot he knew would leave me shaken and hurting. That he used it at all is infuriating. Why does it always have to be him? I don't know how to get him to understand that I need to be weak, broken, and I don't want him to see me like that.

  I don't want him to save me—I don't want to need saving. And he doesn’t seem to understand that.

  Jason leans into the room, clearing his throat softly. I flush, looking down at my phone. "Sorry."

  "I’m not worried about a phone call, Scout. One of the perks of your own business—or working for a small business—is that I’m pretty relaxed about personal calls, as long as they don’t interfere with your work." He eyes me, his gaze uncharacteristically serious. "You seem upset."

  "Dane has that effect on people," I say, forcing a smile.

  Something flickers in his expression and I frown. "What?"

  "Don't be offended, Scout, but Dane doesn't have the biggest fan in me."

  I blink as his words settle. And then I am offended. "Why?" I ask, surprised at how
calm my voice is—what I want to do is claw at his pretty little face.

  "Well, you know he's responsible for Avery even meeting Atticus, right?" He pauses. "You do know about Avery and your brother, don't you?" I nod, and he grins. Tells me about the ad that Dane placed one night last spring when both of them were drunk off their ass.

  "I guess I don't see the problem. It's a very Dane thing to do, but everything ended well."

  "He's protective. And when things started heating up between them, he tried to scare her off—ended up dumping coffee all over her," Jason says, his voice flat and unfriendly for the first time.

  Well. That sounds like Dane too, unfortunately. "He's a little over zealous sometimes," I say lamely. Jason laughs.

  "He's an overbearing ass who sleeps with too many women. But he eventually came around—and I'm trying to do the same, even though I still am not crazy about him. Jeff downright loathes the guy."

  Lovely. My new boss and his husband hate the man I'm seriously considering sleeping with. Ought to make work super interesting, and dinner conversation even more so.

  "He's always been good to me. I'm one of his family, so he's protected me and tried his damndest to take care of me."

  "Then why does he have you frowning now?" Jason asks softly.

  "He wants to be my knight in shining armor."

  "And you don't want him to be? Is there someone else you'd rather see in that position?"

  I shrug. "Actually, I don't want anyone to be. I don't want to be saved."

  Jason shoves his hands into his pockets. "Do you need to be?"

  That is the question. He doesn't wait for an answer, which makes me happy—I don't know what I'd answer with. "You said you had an appointment this afternoon?"

  "Yeah. Do you mind if I leave around two?" I know it's a bad way to start my new job, but this is important—almost more important than this job.

  "That's fine—like I said, Friday is usually a pretty easy day for us," he says, waving off my concern. "I'd like you to work on the rest of the house for the weekend, and I'll go over your design work on Monday."

  I nod, and he grins at me, an infectious smile that promises this job is going to be a lot of fun, even if he does see more than I probably am comfortable with.

  Carrie Bishop's office is downtown, in a small loft above a nail salon. It smells faintly of flowers and heavily of acrylic, and for a moment, I'm a hundred percent sure this is one of the worst ideas I've had in a long line of bad ideas. Then the office door swings open and she steps out.

  Something in me eases as I study her. She's short, carrying just a tiny bit of extra weight, with wild brown curls and chocolate brown eyes that smile at me when she looks up from her clipboard. "Scout Grimes, yes?"

  I nod and wipe my hands on my skirt. She motions. "Why don't you come on in, and we'll chat, hm?"

  She leads me into her office, and I sit nervously on the couch as she situates herself in an overstuffed armchair. There's a desk in the corner, a little disorganized, with a forgotten cup of coffee on it. The smell of it permeates the air, oddly reassuring.

  "So, Scout. Why don't you tell me why you’re here," Carrie says, giving me a brief, genuine smile.

  "I've been out of rehab for almost a week. It was my third time—and my longest. And I'd like to avoid going back."

  Her head tilts. "You think therapy will keep you clean?"

  "I think if I don't address what led to me using, I'll relapse."

  She's quiet, waiting, and I take a deep breath. I've never said it, out loud. I've never wanted to deal with it—I wanted to ignore it and the fact that Dane found me, wanted to pretend it hadn't happened.

  "About six years ago, I was visiting some friends at the college. My brother and his best friend lived there—in the dorms—and I had the habit of stopping by. They didn't mind, and I was fighting with my parents a lot, so it was a good place to hide."

  "Why were you fighting with your parents?" she interrupts, and I blink at her, startled.

  "Teenage shit. Dad didn't like who I was dating, Mama was wrapped up in her causes. I was angry because I was there with them and Atticus was living on campus and partying with his girlfriend. It was all very dramatic and completely stupid."

  She nods and sets the clipboard and pen to one side, watching me with avid eyes. "What happened?"

  I take a deep breath. I don't want to talk about this—but I can't keep having nightmares and dealing with it on my own. Eventually I'll leave Dane's house, and bed, and then what? Who will keep me clean if he's not there? "I was there one Friday night, with a few friends. We were hanging out at the library, waiting till it was safe to sneak into Atti’s dorm room. If they knew I was there, they’d send me home, so we were waiting until they left."

  "I was raped, in a stairwell. I screamed for help, and he didn't care—he laughed at me, and no one came to help me."

  She's very still, watching me. I feel tears trailing down my nose, dripping onto my hands clenched in my lap. "I don't know how long I was there—by the time he left me, the campus was deserted. I went to my brother's room and crawled into his bed and just waited for him to get back. I didn't know what else to do."

  "Did you call the police?"

  I blink up at her. "I've never told anyone before now."

  "What about your brother? Didn't he ask, when he found you?"

  "Atti didn't find me. I never would have gone to him if I thought he'd be the one to find me," I say, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "Dane found me. He didn't ask questions—and he made sure I was cleaned up before he snuck me out of the dorm room and took me home."

  "Who is Dane?"

  So many ways to answer this question, and so many of them would be more informative than the one I give. "My brother's best friend."

  Her eyes narrow a fraction, but she doesn't push me. She nods and scribbles something on the paper, and then she looks at me. "Six years is a long time to carry that kind of secret, Scout."

  "They were a little bit self-destructive," I say, smiling weakly. "Like I said, drugs. Rehab. All that fun shit that we're warned not to get into."

  "If you've waited six years to talk to anyone, why now? What makes this stint in rehab different from the last one?"

  I can hear Dane, his voice rough and convincing as he gives me his ultimatum. I'm through.

  "I'm tired of being broken. I'm tired of seeing his face every time I sleep and being afraid in my own city, and just—all of it. I'm tired. I want to put this behind me, and I can't if I don't deal with it—not dealing has just led to a shit ton of heartache."

  "Do you want to talk to the police?"

  "No," I say sharply, and her eyebrows go up. "Atti would find out. I don't want him to know, Doctor."

  "Call me Dr. Carrie. I'm not sure I agree with you on this, dear—your brother's support could be wonderful for you right now, and making your attacker face justice could help you heal."

  "Or it could take years and could rip open wounds that are starting to heal, and make me a victim in the eyes of the few people who love me. I won't take that risk."

  I close my eyes, ignoring the silent accusation. "I have to take care of myself," I say. It’s selfish and I know it. "I can't worry about who he might be hurting, because I'm still hurting and I need to heal myself. Does that make sense?"

  Dr. Carrie nods. "Perfect sense."

  Dane

  She's sitting on her bed, her legs curled and propping up a journal that she isn't writing in. I hesitate in the doorway, watching her with her head leaning back and resting against the headboard. Her breathing is even and slow, and for the first time, her sleep seems almost peaceful.

  "You really are a perv," she says, without opening her eyes.

  "How did you know it was me?" I ask.

  "You smell different than other guys—like sex and power and cookies, all wrapped up around you like a sexy blanket." Her green eyes open, and she stares at me, a tiny smile on her lips, and I feel things tighten. />
  "And you unlocked the front door. So that was a big hint."

  "Smart ass."

  She grins, and I turn away. "Dane?"

  "Yeah?"

  "It was a good idea."

  She doesn't specify what, but I don't need her to. I glance over my shoulder, and she's sitting up, her legs crooked under her, fingers playing nervously in the blanket that drapes over her lap.

  She's so beautiful and so damaged and I want to be everything to her. I'm stunned by just how badly I want that. So I nod, force a smile, "I'm glad."

  And escape to my room.

  "I want to go for a walk," Scout announces as I dry the last plate from dinner. I glance at her, and then outside. Daylight is fading, and it looks oddly ominous. I don't want her out there alone. "Okay. Let me get my jacket."

  She smiles and goes for her own before we meet back at the front door.

  We walk quietly, the crunch of leaves under her boots a crackly counterpoint to our silence. She's already told me about her new job, how much she loves it. And avoided talking about the therapy altogether.

  She's practically humming in appreciation of the streets around her.

  "What are we doing?"

  She freezes, for less than a heartbeat, so quickly that I can almost believe it didn't happen at all. "We're walking?"

  I catch her arm, turning her toward me. "Scout."

  Fear flickers in her eyes, and I almost stop. But it's important. We are important. "What is this, Sccout? We flirt, we get each other off, we sleep together. You make me laugh and feel whole—and I know I make you feel safe. I left my girlfriend for you."

  "You left Mel for your own reasons," she says quickly. I let go of her arm.

  "Does that mean you would have been happy if I hadn't? Would you be happy sharing my bed and making out with me if I were leaving you in the day to spend it with another woman?"

  Her lips peel back in a silent snarl and I nod. "That's what I thought."

  She takes a step back. "I told you, I'm not ready for a relationship. I need your friendship more than I need a relationship."