Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Page 15

  Dane flicks a glance at me and turns the stove off. "Breakfast is ready." I stare at him, silently demanding, and he busies himself making us plates. I turn away, slathering butter and raspberry preserves on the toast before carrying them to the table. Dane sits down next to me and snags one of the slices.

  "Talk to me, D."

  "Atticus."

  I nod, my appetite waning. That's what I thought.

  "What are you planning when he comes home?" Dane asks.

  I shrug. "I haven't thought about it." He gives me a pointed look and I flush. "Fine. I haven't wanted to think about it. I don't know what to do when he gets home—I know he'll want me to move in with him and register at UB."

  "You still don't want to go to school?"

  "I don't want to go to school there, that's for damn sure," I say.

  "What about us?"

  My heart twists, and I open my mouth, but he's still talking. "Scout, we can't do this, when he comes home."

  "Why?"

  "Because you need someone better than me," he snaps. "Because Atticus is my best friend, and every time I look at you, every time I kiss you, touch you—it's a betrayal. You know it. You know he wouldn't be okay with this."

  "You’re good enough to be my friend, but not my lover?" I demand.

  "Scout," he sighs, "you need to be with someone who can be strong and put together and not a messed up head-case. I know you don't honestly believe that's me."

  "I don't care," I say, quietly. His eyes flash, but he's not backing down.

  "You said this was a safe place," I say. He goes still. "Did that change?"

  "Of course not," he says, leaning forward. He catches my hand and squeezes it. "Babe, of course not. I'll always be that."

  "I'm not the only one who needs a safe place, Dane. You need one, too."

  His eyes go wide, so many emotions in them that my heart squeezes. "Scout, I...I can't be what you need. I'm too broken to be what you need."

  "You don't get it, Dane. You've always been what I need. That night—I went to you because I knew you could be exactly what I needed—a calm in the middle of the storm. Every time I've run to you over the years, I knew exactly what I was doing. I could have gone to Atti. I could have gone back to my mother. But you get me. You get that I'm broken and flawed, and you don't expect more than that. You expect me to try, and when I mess up, you don't give up on me. Even before I came back from New Horizons, you accepted me."

  He's quiet, and I laugh, a little hysterical. "You’re going to take that away. This—this conversation right here, is why I didn't want to get involved with you. Because you are the only one who doesn't care if I'm broken, and now you’re going to let me go because of my brother. I don't know how to be with someone who expects me to be anything more than what I am."

  He slides out of his chair, crouching next to me. "Scout. You know what I love about you? I love that you have been through hell and you still fight. You know that you’re broken and you still try. You want to be strong for people even when you don't realize how strong you are. You’re amazing—I wish I could be as strong as you."

  His words shake me—that he loves me leaves me breathless. I wonder if he even realizes he's said that, but I shake my head, quietly. "I'm not strong, Dane. I'm a mess—a broken, fucked-up mess."

  "You’re beautiful broken. I wish I could let you see through my eyes. See how strong you are." He leans up, kissing me softly, and I want to melt against him, want to bury all of my problems and the past and my brother—everything—behind us. Because us is the only thing that matters.

  "Atticus doesn't come home for another three weeks," I whisper against his lips.

  "Do you think it will be easier, in three weeks? To walk away?"

  No. Of course not. I don't answer, and he sighs, standing. "Doesn't matter, does it?" Dane mutters, and I glance at him, curious. He smirks, tweaks my hair. "I can't walk away now even if I wanted to. And I don't."

  Chapter 15

  Dane

  It’s been two weeks. Two weeks, four meetings and two counseling appointments. Her nightmares have stopped—that she’s spending every night in my bed probably has something to do with that. Last weekend, she invited Lou and Luke over, and we watched movies while the girls giggled and exchanged inside jokes. When they left, I’d taken Scout in my shower, at a slow leisurely pace, until she was screaming.

  Scout, coming apart and screaming my name, was probably the sexiest thing I’d ever heard.

  It’s been, if I’m completely honest, the best two weeks of my life. Being with her is easy and effortless, and I haven’t even missed the clubs. We went to Racks and Balls a few nights ago. She’d danced and laughed, flirting with a few of the boys drinking at the bar before hustling them in a game of pool. I’d avoided the eyes of the girls drinking in a cluster by the door, watching Scout as she bent over and cleared the table. And when the girl cleaned up, shoving the hundred and fifty into her bra, she strutted up to me, riding the high a little flirtation and bar games can produce.

  She sat with me while I went through paperwork for the Foundation, and later, when I drank myself into oblivion because not even Scout could chase away the ghost of my dead sister.

  I love her. A little more every day, and even though she hasn’t said it to me, I know she’s feeling the same way. I want to talk to Atti about it. I’ve never done this before—never been in a real relationship with expectations on both sides. I want to talk to him about this insane urge to buy her gifts, and the way the tension I feel all day loosens the moment I see her smiling from my couch, or the way she can make me laugh even when she’s being stupid ridiculous.

  And I can’t. Because there’s no way to tell him without telling him I’m sleeping with her, and I can’t do that.

  There have been a few times—after she burnt a pan of brownies and ended up eating Cherry Garcia perched on the counter, legs crossed below her; the time I came home and found her dancing around the house while she cleaned; or the morning I caught her humming as she painted her toenails, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth—that I’ve been tempted. It’d be difficult, and he’d be pissed, but surely he’d understand that I love her. Surely he’d get that she’s not a barfly, not one of the disposable girls I screw and forget.

  I don’t. Because we talked about this. She knows there’s an end in sight, and even though we haven’t talked about it anymore, maybe she’s happy with that. Maybe this is all she wants—after all, she hasn’t said she loves me.

  And I can’t see that disappointment in Atti’s eyes. I’ve seen it in Dad’s and in every stepmother, over and over when I send another girl on her way. In Melanie’s eyes, more often than I care to think about.

  I can’t see it in my best friend. And if I come clean about my affair with Scout—even though it’s different, that’s not what he’ll see. It’s a cowardly, dick move, but I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to ruin the second-best relationship I’ve ever had.

  But every day, it gets a little harder. A little bit more distracting. Which could be why I’ve been taking so long to finish this appeal. I glare at it then stand up. Maybe some coffee will help.

  "You need to leave here in the next hour if you want to get that appeal in," Glenda says as I stalk through the office. I shoot her a dirty look, and she closes her mouth. My staff is used to my shitty mood—Glenda’s been with me for almost a year. Dirty looks don’t do much to faze her anymore.

  I make some coffee and check in on Paul and Liam. They’re busy with an appeal; I make a few pointers then go back to my office. At my desk, I shove thoughts of Atticus and Scout out of my head and dig into the appeal. For about forty-five minutes, it works.

  Until my phone buzzes.

  Scout: Jason took me to lunch. You could always show up, and we could have a bathroom quickie.

  I smother a laugh and keep typing up the appeal. I should have filed it two days ago, but if I can get it wrapped up, I can still get to the courth
ouse before it’s too late.

  The phone buzzes again, and I grab it as I hit print.

  Thumb a quick response.

  Dane: As amazing as a quickie sounds, and as much as I know you’d love one, sex will wait till I get home, Ittybitty. I’ve got to head to the courthouse. Call me after your therapy session.

  I grab my briefcase and go out to Glenda’s desk. She’s sliding the appeal into a file. I wait patiently. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  "Glenda. Today. I’d like to get lunch and still deliver this."

  She gives me a sweet smile and moves even slower. I smirk. This is why Glenda has lasted with me this long—because I haven’t slept with her, and because she’s got enough fire to fight back when I’m a dick.

  My phone rings as she hands me the file. I wave, and head for the door. "I might not be back before you leave. I’ll let you know."

  "Oh, we’ll wait with bated breath, boss," she shoots back. I flip her off. The door shuts behind me as she laughs.

  I fish my phone out of my pocket while striding to the Viper and see two missed calls from Atticus.

  I hit his number and put the phone to my ear as I slide into the Viper and head toward The Hill.

  "What’s up, dude?" I ask when he picks up.

  "Good question," Atticus says, quietly. "Want to explain that last text?"

  I frown. "What text? I haven’t texted you today."

  "Check your phone, Dane."

  Something about his tone lets me know something is wrong—really wrong. I hit speaker and pull up my texts.

  Fuck. Shit. Motherfucking fuck.

  There it is, the text I meant to send to Scout.

  Dane: As amazing as a quickie sounds, and as much as I know you’d love one, sex will wait till I get home, Ittybitty. I’ve got to head to the courthouse. Call me after your therapy session.

  How to explain this? There isn’t much left to the imagination, no wiggle room. Bloody hell.

  My mouth is dry, and I can feel the tension and expectations stretching between us.

  "Tell me there’s a logical explanation—that there’s another girl you call Ittybitty you’re planning on meeting at home. Tell me you aren’t really sending this to my sister."

  Deny, deny, deny. It’s all my brain is screaming—deny it and take that tone out of his voice. He was never supposed to know.

  "No, Atti. I can’t," I say, hoarsely.

  "Jesus Christ, Dane. What the actual fuck?" he snarls.

  "You have to believe me. It wasn’t supposed to happen."

  "No, it wasn’t. She was staying with you to get better. Not so you could make her one of your little whores."

  "Don't do that, Atti. Scout has never been that," I snap.

  "She's my sister, D. She's a kid, for Pete’s sake!"

  I blink, startled. "Is that really the argument you’re going with? Age? She's the same age as your precious Avery, and I'm a year younger than you. So if it's okay for you, why is it different for me?"

  "Because I actually love Avery. I'm not just playing some damn game."

  Ouch. That stings. I didn't expect that kind of viciousness from Atti—not from my best friend. I'm quiet. I don't have to do this—hers is the only opinion that matters.

  Shit. Even I know that's not true.

  "Dane, break it off. Now. Before you break her heart."

  "No," I say immediately. Before I can even think. The response is instinctual—one I can't stop.

  "Seriously, D?" Atti says, his voice clearly expressing his disbelief.

  "Atti, you don't get it. She's—she's different. I'm not doing this to hurt you, but you can't stand in my way on this one."

  "She's moving out—she's moving into my apartment. Tonight."

  "We can talk about what Scout wants when you get home. I won't force her to do something she doesn't want."

  He curses, and I want to back down. Want to tell him I'll end the relationship, that I'll let her go. I want to do whatever it'll take to get him to quit hurting—but I want her more.

  I've never wanted a girl more than I wanted to protect Atticus. Why, for the love of all that's good, did that girl have to be Scout?

  "Look, you'll be home in a week. We'll talk about it then. I have to go into the courthouse now."

  "I'm calling her," Atti says.

  "She's at work, man. She's got a counseling appointment. She's not in a good place to handle this right now."

  "Why the hell is she in counseling?" Atti demands.

  This really couldn't get any worse. "You need to ask her about that. Later—wait until she's home tonight. I'll have her call you."

  He's quiet, deliberating. "I want to hear from her as soon as she's home, Dane. Do you get me? Not a minute later."

  Annoyance seeps through me. "I'm not an idiot, Atticus. I'll pass along the message. Just remember, we're both consenting adults."

  "So are the whores in bars. Doesn't mean you give a shit about them."

  With that parting shot, he hangs up. I slump in the driver’s seat, anger and frustration building in me. The itchy sensation whispering along under my skin. I can't do this right now—I have to work, to focus on something other than my screwed up love life and pissed off best friend.

  With a final curse, I toss my phone on the seat and head inside to get lunch. And hope that it'll be enough to distract me from the idea that getting laid would be the best thing in the world right now.

  Scout

  Dane: we need to talk. ASAP.

  The text is startling, but he's not answering his phone, and I'm expected at Dr. Carrie's office. I'm actually excited about our appointment today—Dr Carrie wants to do something new. So I stride up the stairs to the little office, the bell chiming soothingly behind me as I step into the ever-empty reception room. Dr. Carrie is stepping out of her office, buttoning a surprisingly chic coat, and I pause, startled. "Doc?"

  "Come on, Scout. I want to do a little exposure therapy."

  I freeze. "Exposure therapy?" I'm pretty sure my voice squeaks. My voice never squeaks.

  She smiles reassuringly, catching my arm and leading me out of the office. She locks it quickly then turns us in the direction of the university.

  "Exposure therapy is facing what you fear in a safe, moderated environment. I think that facing where this happened will help you get over your aversion to UB. Since your best friend goes to school here, and your brother is a professor—I don't want you to feel isolated from this part of their lives. This school is a part of our town—a large part. You need to be able to go there without feeling the need to use or having a panic attack."

  "I really don't think I do," I say, and Dr. Carrie stops, studying me.

  "You trust me, yes? And you've seen a lot of improvement in the past few weeks. You’re in a healthy relationship, have a good job you like. You need to face this."

  "We've been meeting for three weeks. Don't you think it's early?"

  "But you were in constant therapy for three months at the rehab center. And even if you didn't tell them about the attack, you know that the issues you face because of it were being dealt with along with your addiction. The two are too entwined to not treat both."

  It's true. So I take a deep breath, and we walk through the campus.

  To anyone we pass, it looks like we're two friends on an afternoon walk. Not terribly out of place on campus, despite our age difference. But they don't see the way my hands are trembling in my pockets, or hear Dr. Carrie's running encouragement as I retrace my steps from that night.

  We start in the parking lot. I parked close to the history hall—I expected to find Atticus there. But it was empty, the doors locked. The library was close, so I went there, with Candice, Wil, and Boyd. It was a good place to hang out till the dorm room would be empty. The frat house was swarming with people, but I didn't want to drink, and running into Dane there with Boyd wasn't an option. Candice and Wil were happy enough to head to the library—we'd all been drinking, and they quickly dese
rted me and Boyd. I could hear them making out in the stacks, her little whimpers and laughter. The unmistakable sound of sex.

  And I was with Boyd.

  "Scout?" Dr Carrie's voice is quiet. I blink, shaking the memories. We're standing outside the library, and I can't help but shudder. I haven't been back here in years—not since that night.

  "Do you think you can go in?" I hesitate, but force myself to nod. She rewards me with a blinding smile, and we climb the steps.

  The library is exactly the same—six years and nothing has changed. The reference desk is still a cluttered mess, two students gossiping behind it. The long, oak tables with uncomfortable seats and students surrounded by piles of books. The long row of computers and printers in a semi-circle. Behind them, spiraling like spokes on a wheel, are the stacks.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I turn away, almost bolting toward the door. Carrie's hand on my arm is hard and unyielding. "What is it?"

  I shake my head. "I can't do this." I whimper. I know how I sound—weak, falling apart. I don't care. I just want out—I want to find Dane and have him make this all disappear.

  "Just talk to me," she murmurs. "Walk me through what you’re thinking."

  I can't. I'm too lost in memories. Candice and Wil had forgotten us, and I could hear them having sex. It annoyed me—not because she was hooking up, but because she left me alone with Boyd. I didn't know this guy, but I knew Atti and Dane wouldn't be happy to find me with him. He was a freshman at UB, with scruffy cheeks and a gleam in his eyes that made me a little nervous.

  "You wanna smoke?" he asked, casually.

  I shook my head. "I think I'm gonna head out, actually."

  He approached me, stalking. It was different from Dane when he was prowly—it was dangerous, where Dane would never hurt anyone. Fear made my breathing tight, but I was feeling the shots we'd taken earlier, and I liked that he was interested in me. "Stay," he murmured, his breath hot against my cheek.

  His kiss was fierce—different from the boys I was used to. It made me want to gag, and I pushed him away.