Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Page 13

  I was twelve when Jeanette got sick. Dane was sixteen, the darling of the high school, gorgeous, but so sweet and full of life and laughter. I would give anything to bring back that boy—laughing and playing pranks as he ruled the school.

  Jeanette collapsed at homecoming. It was a late October game, and we were sitting with Grace, Jeanette wrapped around a UB student. One minute she was on her feet cheering as Dane caught a spiral pass, headed for the end zone, and the next she was on the ground, her blonde hair crumpled around her, pale as death. By New Year ’s Eve, she was gone—a cancer that spread so fast and had gone undetected for so long, there was never any hope.

  Dane changed after that. He idolized his sister—and he blamed his father. Jeanette didn't say anything about the fatigue, the pain and bruises, because Grace was under so much stress from Tripp leaving her for his secretary, and she didn't want to make things more difficult.

  The leaves crunch beside me, and I blink, looking up at him. His eyes are bleak and empty, devoid of the warmth I've gotten used to seeing. I know he visits once a month—but seeing the headstones of your sister and mother can't ever get easier.

  "She'd be turning thirty next week," he says, and his voice breaks a little. Without thinking, I hug him. His arms come up around me, a desperate grip as he clings to me, his breath shuddering in and out. His head drops to the top of mine, and I can feel the slightest moisture in my hair.

  I've never been held like this—like I am the only thing keeping him from falling completely apart.

  "I miss them," he whispers. I know he does. He's been missing them for years.

  "Talk to me?" I ask, softly. He doesn't loosen his grip, but some of the tension eases in his big body.

  "She wanted to wait till she was thirty to get married. Wanted to travel after graduation—see something beyond the south and here. It was hard for Jeanette to be anything but perfect, especially after Dad deserted us. I think she got tired of that, and leaving was a way she could escape it. Does that make sense?"

  I nod. "Mom never cared—she just wanted us to be happy—I mean, she had high expectations for both of us, but she didn't really care what we did if we were happy. Jeanette could have been a waitress married to a mechanic, and she would have been okay with it. But they fought so much—over her choices and Dad and just stupid shit. Why do you only realize how petty you were being after someone is gone? By then it doesn't matter."

  "It matters, if it changes how you deal with other people."

  "Other people don’t matter to me," he says, loosening his grip on me.

  I stare at him. It’s a lie, and we both know it. He cares about Atticus. He cares about his little law office and his clients, his staff, Mel. Me.

  Dane’s problem has never been that he doesn’t care. It’s been that he cares too much.

  "You sleep with them because it's easier," I say, and Dane stiffens, pulling farther from me. "Because if you screw a random stranger in the bar, you can justify not getting close to Mel, or anyone else. But the thing is, you do care. You worry about Atti and his career, about Avery and how she'll change things. About Nik and the divorce. You worry about your staff and your clients, and the Foundation recipients, and the girls you don't sleep with—you care about all of them. You even care about Tripp and his stream of wives," I say, softly. "Although, I know you wish you didn't."

  "You forgot someone," he says, staring at me. I tilt my head, a silent question, and he reaches for me, a hand around my neck drawing me forward. "I care about you, Scout. I care so damn much it terrifies me." I melt into him, a little. Because this strong man, this broken boy who can't stand being close to someone, is letting me in.

  "Scout?" he says, holding me against his chest.

  "Hmm?"

  "I don't know how to not screw this up. And I know you’re scared that we will, but I want you to know I'm trying."

  "I think, D, that's all we can do." He nods, and I lean up, going on tiptoes to find his lips. They’re cool from the wind, and he tastes of coffee and the air. And salt, from tears he won't let me see him shed.

  And as he kisses me in the cool fall air, the quiet graveyard around us, I decide that whatever it takes, I won't screw this up. Because as much as I've needed a safe place, he needs one too. And I don't want any girl but me being that to him.

  Chapter 13

  Dane

  I shouldn't have gone to the graveyard. Visiting Jeanette and Mom always makes me anxious—it winds me up even more than normal. The sex last night was insane and amazing and I can't get over how perfect it—she—was. But the itchy, tense feeling is already back, and I know why.

  Tripp. Heidi. The fucked up shit that is my family—all the family I have left, anyway.

  I'm hiding in my room, on a pretense that I need to get ready for dinner. Despite telling him to find a hotel, he's still here, Heidi sitting neatly in one corner of my couch, her perfectly straightened hair hanging around her face as she pages through some idiotic magazine. Scout has retreated to her room, thank god. It means Tripp can't stare at her, mentally undressing her in front of his wife.

  Pedophelic asshat.

  My phone rings, and I answer it without thinking, "Guillot."

  "Dane, what the hell happened at Speakeasy last night? Why was Scout even there? She's supposed to be staying sober—you’re supposed to help her with that, remember?" Atticus is pissed, and I'm not in the mood to deal with his shit—I shouldn't have to. I'm doing him a favor, after all.

  "You know, I rearranged my life to take care of her. And she hasn't contacted any of her dealers or touched anything stronger than some OJ since she showed up at my doorstep. So why don't you back off, Atticus," I snap.

  "What the hell, dude?" he says, honest confusion in his voice.

  I rub my face. "Quit. Just quit, Atti. I'm doing the best I can, and if that's not good enough...I don't know what to tell you. She's clean, and she's got a job, and I'm not doing anything I think will trigger her. She wasn't supposed to go to Speakeasy, but she did. I got her out again—Avery did tell you that, didn't she?"

  "Yeah," he says, grudgingly.

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "The problem is that she was there to begin with! It makes me worry, dude."

  I bite back the retort that springs to my lips—it's cruel and unnecessary, and I only think of it because Tripp is sitting in my living room.

  "Dude. I slipped. I needed to get out—Mel and I broke up. For good, this time. And I just needed some space."

  "Whoa. What happened, man?"

  "I ended it," I say, forcing my voice to be empty. "She deserves better than all my issues."

  Atti is quiet—not surprising. We don't talk about real issues very often, and he's not terribly comfortable with it. The door to my bedroom opens a crack and Scout slips in. She's wearing a tiny pair of lace black boy shorts and a matching bra, both trimmed in startling white.

  I want her. I want her so damn bad, and I don't even care that my dad is two rooms away—it almost makes it better.

  "I gotta go, Atti. Don't worry, I'm taking care of everything here. Finish the book so you can come back to the land of the living."

  He laughs. "I miss you too, brother."

  "Screw you," I scoff, and end the call. Toss the phone on the bed.

  And stalk toward Scout. She's in my bathroom, leaning in toward the mirror, studying her makeup as she carefully applies a line of something around her eyes. Whatever it is, it makes her eyes huge and smoky and I love it.

  She catches sight of me in the mirror, and her eyes get bigger. She licks her lips.

  "What?" I ask, stepping up behind her.

  "You've got that look," she says, shivering as I kiss the nape of her neck. She loves that. I love the breathy catch in her voice as I bite down, softly.

  "Which one?"

  "The prowly one—you’re looking to get laid, to get your mind off whatever the hell's going on that you don't want to deal with. You've been using that look
since you were sixteen."

  I meet her gaze in the mirror and smirk. "You’re right, Ittybitty. I am. The only real question is, are you going to give me what I want?"

  She inhales again as I pull her hips back against me, grinding my erection against her panty-clad ass. She goes up on tiptoes, and I take the silent invitation, rolling on a condom and pulling her panties down. I leave them on, a little bit of a restraint that keeps her from widening her stance any. She pulls against them, but it's not enough to change her angle. I put a hand on her back, holding her in place while I position myself. I can't stop the groan as I slide into her. She's wet and ready—she's always ready—and I slip into her with breath stealing ease, her body tight around me. The way she's standing, her legs so close together, changes the feel and grip she has on me, and I lean my head back, catching her by the hips as I pump into her slow and easy. This is how I want her—sweet and slow, nothing between us, her eyes hot and hungry on mine in the mirror. She shifts, bracing herself on one hand while the other reaches down, toying with her clit, and she whimpers, "Oh, God. Dane." Her eyes drift closed, and I growl, slapping her ass lightly, just enough to make her eyes snap open and find mine.

  "Watch," I order, and she inhales sharply. I keep driving into her, slow and easy until she's writhing, her fingers on herself slippery and frantic, searching for that little bit of something more that will make her come apart. When I see the desperation in her eyes, I pull out, slowly, until she's almost whimpering, and slam back. Again. A third time. She moans on the fourth, convulsing around me as she climaxes. Her eyes never leave mine, and I groan, my balls tightening an instant before I follow her over the edge. She shudders as my cock jerks in her, and I murmur her name.

  Even to my ears, it sounds like a plea and a prayer.

  We stay like that, me draped over her, deep inside her, for a long time. Until my legs are numb and I'm ready to collapse. And even then, I don't want to let her go. I straighten slowly, grimacing when I slip from her body. I roll off the condom, flush it, and reach for a rag to clean her up. She whimpers when I run the soft cloth over her pussy, and I lean down, kissing her shoulder again.

  The itchy tension is gone. I can breathe again. "Thanks, babe," I say, softly.

  She smiles, craning around to kiss my cheek. Then she goes back to the putting on her makeup, like nothing happened at all.

  I smile and leave the bathroom to get dressed.

  Tripp is furious when I walk out of my bedroom, and Heidi's magazine is closed in her lap, bright spots of color high in her cheeks. "You can't just spend a little time with you father, can you?" he spits. "You have to screw that tramp where your stepmother can hear you."

  I glance at Heidi. "Pretty sure it's nothing she hasn't heard or said before," I say, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water. "And since it's not like you told me you were coming, no. I'm not rearranging my life to accommodate you, Tripp. Deal with it."

  He opens his mouth to say something, but Scout choses that moment to come back into the living room. Her underwear is covered by a black sheath, silver heels adding a good three inches to her height. She grins at me. "Are we ready?"

  Dad hates a scene, so he nods, grudgingly, and I wrap an arm around Scout's shoulders, turning her toward the door while Dad follows with Heidi. As they pass me to reach his Town Car, I lean down and stage whisper in her ear, "I hope you left those panties in my bed."

  She laughs, a twinkling noise that makes me want to forget this screwed up excuse of a family dinner. All I really want is to take her back to the bedroom and make her scream my name again.

  The restaurant is one of the nicer ones in Baton Rouge There's a long line at the front door, but Tripp passes the hostess a hundred and points at the reservation book. Within a few minutes, we're being ushered into a quiet corner booth.

  I glance over the menu; it's mostly in French. Awesome. Just what I wanted—overpriced, pretentious food that will take for-fucking-ever to get here.

  A pretty blonde waitress approaches, flashing a too-white smile. "Can I bring a bottle of wine to the table?" she asks, brightly.

  "Yes, the Montrachet would be lovely," Heidi says.

  "And sweet tea," I say, pleasantly.

  The waitress pauses for a fraction of a second, and Tripp frowns at me. "Son, wine would be nice with the meal."

  "Scout and I don't drink."

  That's a blatant lie, and from the way Tripp's lips thin into a narrow line, he knows it. He's thinking about calling me on it, but he hasn't been around me lately enough to know for sure. And I'm not going to help him. I smile, blandly, and he nods sharply at the waitress.

  Dane, one point. Tripp, zero.

  "I was thinking," Heidi starts, and I swallow my laughter. Scout coughs into her napkin. I reach down, pinching her bare skin.

  What the hell? Heidi is talking. I hear the words Thanksgiving and snow, but I'm not really focused on that. I'm focused on Scout's skirt, which is indecently high, and if she really did leave her panties behind...suddenly that's the only thing I can think about.

  "I'm staying in Branton for the holidays," I say.

  "You always holiday in Branton." She pouts. "We'd love for you to come home."

  I fix my stepmother with an unfriendly stare. "You don't know me well enough to have the first clue what I do for the holidays. But I will spend it here—with my mother and sister. If you'd like to join me, I can't honestly say you’re welcome, but I won't stop you." I look at Tripp, challenging. "How 'bout it Dad? Spend a little time remembering your dead daughter? Your wife—the first one, anyway?"

  His eyes narrow angrily. "I don't think either are good dinner conversation, do you, Dane?"

  Fingers brush along the soft suit pant I'm wearing, dusting over my inner thigh, dangerously close to my cock. I swallow hard. "You never think its good conversation, Tripp."

  The waitress is back, and we retreat to our respective corners. I grab Scout's hand, pulling it out of my lap, and pull her even closer to me. Her entire body is pressed against my side—we're almost indecently close, but Dad won't say anything. He'd rather ignore what's right in front of him than admit his son might embarrass him.

  That’s been his philosophy ever since Jeanette got sick.

  I catch Scout's hand, bringing it to the tabletop to play with it as I listen to Dad order something insanely expensive and hard to pronounce. When the waitress turns to me, I smile, the prowly smile, as Scout calls it. "I'd like the prime rib. Baked potato with everything. Caesar salad." The waitress looks a little confused, but I know it's on the menu. You can't have a restaurant in Baton Rouge without offering something as basic as steak and potatoes. "What would you like, babe?"

  Scout grins. "That sounds perfect, actually."

  I nod, and the waitress slips away. Scout pulls our hands under the table, into her mostly bare lap. I swallow hard, letting my fingers lay still. Fingering my date at the same table as my father seems like a bad idea—but holy hell do I want to.

  "You could join us for Thanksgiving," Scout says, leaning forward and putting one elbow on the table, blocking my hand in her lap as much as she physically can. "We’ll be spending it with my brother and his girlfriend and a few co-workers." She glances at me, her green eyes amused. "We’re having it at the big house, right, D?"

  "Yep. So—" I look at Dad. "—there will be plenty of room for you both."

  Heidi actually looks intrigued; Dad just looks annoyed. "We already have reservations in Aspen. But thank you," he says.

  "Then why invite me at all?"

  I can’t keep the question in, even though it means he wins. Scout shifts my hand, and I feel the damp heat between her legs under my fingers, steadying me when Dad smirks. "You’re welcome to join us."

  "I’m good," I say, and I am. Surprisingly.

  "Dane," Heidi says, leaning forward. Her tits are pushed into a dress that looks like it’s about to bust, and I flick a glance down at the impressive cleavage. Dad sure didn’t spare any
expense on those. "You should spend your holiday with family."

  Scout shifts next to me. My finger slips into her, the heat scorching. It’s shallow, almost not even inside her, but I can feel her muscles trembling in her pussy, clenching down on me.

  God, she’s flying on this—so turned on it’s a wonder she hasn’t come already. I want to look at her, but I don’t. I ease my finger deeper into her, smile at my stepmother. "Darlin’, you don’t get it yet. Holidays aren’t for family. Not in Tripp Guillot’s world. They exist merely to show off the arm candy of the season—" I flick my eyes over her in a deliberate perusal, and she flushes, sitting up. "—and to show off the things he feels like he can be proud of. That now includes the screwed up son—since I’ve cleaned up and gotten my shit together."

  "Language," Tripp snaps, and I grin. Slide my fingers deeper as Scout goes perfectly still next to me.

  My point.

  "I want you to meet the partners at my firm," Dad says, abruptly. And here it is. The real reason he’s here—not because he was worried about me, or to deliver Foundation paperwork. Because he wants to horn in on my practice.

  I grit my teeth as the waitress approaches, filling our glasses with tea. "Thank you," Scout says, her voice soft and undeniably throaty. My fingers are barely in her. I go still, until she grips my arm, hard. I smile, slowly.

  "Dad. I’ll say it again. I don’t give a damn what you want when it comes to my practice. It’s not up for debate, partnership, or anything else. It’s mine."

  I shove my fingers into her, hard, and she stiffens, her pussy spasming around my hand. I glance at her—I can’t resist. She’s smiling, but her eyes are slightly unfocused, full of lust and lazy satisfaction. "You okay, babe? You’re quiet."

  She takes a heartbeat too long to answer, drawing Dad and Heidi’s attention. I wipe my fingers discreetly on my napkin, and she says, faintly, "I think I need to go to the ladies room. If you’ll excuse me."

  "Oh! I’ll go with you," Heidi says, smiling. Scout hesitates for a moment before sliding out of the chair booth. Heidi hooks an arm through Scout’s, who gives a save me look before my stepmother hauls her away. I’m quiet for a few minutes, until Heidi’s phone blares some god awful pop song. Dad mutters, silencing it without bothering to check who’s calling.