Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Read online

  I need a drink.

  "How you feeling, sis?" Atticus asks, his voice cautious and hopeful.

  "Uh, sorta gross. Dane, can I take a shower?" she calls, lifting her voice.

  "Stay out of my bathroom," I call back, and she laughs, a soft noise that warms me. I shake my head, hard. Swallow a shot of SoCo and reach for a beer.

  Avery is eyeing the drink. "Is that gonna be a problem, with Scout here?" she asks.

  I stare at my best friend and the girl he loves. The girl he threw everything away for. If I had known, last May, how things would turn out—would I have placed that stupid ad?

  Yes. Because Atticus deserved to be happy. And God knew he never would be with that harpy he married.

  "Scout isn't staying here. So it shouldn't be a problem."

  Avery darts a glance at Atticus, and I lower my drink, slowly. No. Hell, no. Even if some part of me wanted it, I know he wasn't about to suggest...

  "She needs some accountability, Dane," Atticus says.

  Shit. He was. "I'm a lawyer, Atticus. Not a damn babysitter or sober companion." I lift the beer, wave it mockingly. "And this isn't the best sober environment for Scout."

  "It's just a month. Till the end of the fall semester when Avery graduates. I'll move home and take care of her."

  "Dammit, Atticus."

  "She'll relapse if she's left alone," Atticus says, quietly, and I know it's true. That's the hard part. I know he's right. And even though I know it's a stupid thing to do—the stupidest thing I've done in years—I breathe a curse.

  "She could relapse before then," I snap, and I tell him. About Keith and the hunger in her eyes as she watched him. She’s clean—but there is no promise she’ll stay that way.

  "That’s why she needs you, Dane. She needs someone who understands," Atti pleads. I flinch, hating that he’s right. I do understand. I don’t want to. But I’m the one who’s been in her shoes—and I know what’s driving her, better than Atticus ever could.

  "Fine. One month, Atti. Then you get your ass home and take care of your sister. Do you understand?"

  Atti's expression—sheer relief—is enough to convince me I'm doing the right thing. I'd do just about anything to see that look on my boy's face.

  Her scent precedes her down the hallway. Light, clean, and softly citrus—so feminine it makes my head spin.

  A month. A whole month of her in my house, and my perverted thoughts. Oh, god, I was going to go to hell for this.

  Scout

  I lick my lips, snap my rubber band, and stare at my brother, unblinking. "I don't get it."

  "Scout, I can't stay right now," Atticus says, his voice soft and pleading. Asking me to understand why he’s putting something—someone—before me. "Dane understands what you’re going through. He’s the best person to help you."

  I flick a glance at Dane. It’s true, and Dane taking care of me is nothing new—but part of me still wants my brother. "You can finish the book anywhere."

  Atticus is shaking his head. "I can’t, Scout. I need to some distance. I can’t stay in Branton right now."

  "Because if you do, UB and Randall might realize you’re screwing a student," I snap.

  "Scout," Dane says, amusement and warning in his tone. I make a face. "It won't be so bad. I mean, before graduation, you practically lived with me, and Atti was always with Nik."

  I blanch. Did he really just bring that up? I swallow the acid rising in my throat, and say, hoarsely, "Yeah, that wasn't the best arrangement in the world, if I remember right."

  "It's temporary, Scout," Avery says quietly, and my eyes narrow.

  "Look, I know my brother likes you, and that's great and all, but I don't know you. I don't want to know you. I don't want your opinion on my life," I say bluntly.

  Avery flushes, looking down. Atticus pulls her to him. I stand, cutting my brother off before he can start his lecture. Atticus is damn good at giving lectures.

  "One month. If you aren't home, I'll find my own place. I'm not staying with Dane forever."

  God knows, seeing Keith was going to be hella difficult with Dane around.

  Chapter 3

  Dane

  Scout takes long showers. Long, hot showers full of loud music.

  It's almost as bad as living in the frat house again. Almost. At least I can make a decent cup of coffee to counter the hellacious singing. One month of her. Already, she’s putting her touches on the place—magazines on the couch, an un-rinsed cereal bowl and half empty carton of orange juice. A citrusy smell that I can only classify as Scout coming from the guest room.

  How do I always end up with a Grimes in my guest room?

  My phone vibrates on the counter. Melanie. My on-again-off-again girlfriend. Not that I ever called her that, not to her face. There's no point in encouraging her delusions.

  "What's up, Mel?" I ask, sipping my coffee.

  "My parents are having a get together this weekend—I want you to go," She says without preamble.

  This is the problem. This meet-the-parents bullshit. I don't know where she got the idea that I even want to meet her parents. Or maybe it's that she doesn't care if I want to. She's so convinced that we'll become something permanent, it doesn't matter what I want.

  Scout comes strutting out of the bathroom, and my eyes narrow, a smile on my lips. Maybe she can be useful. "I can't, Mel. I have some unexpected relatives in town."

  Scout gives me an amused look, but thankfully keeps her mouth shut.

  "And you didn't tell me? We should have a dinner party!"

  For a smart girl, she's as dumb as a box of rocks. "No," I say sternly. "This is definitely not dinner party kind of people. I just need to spend some time at home."

  Mel is quiet for a few minutes—silence stretches between us like a tangible thing. I make no effort to break it. I like silence. It's a natural state of being for me.

  "Fine. I'll reschedule with my parents for next Wednesday. We have reservations at Chris Angelo. They can join us."

  I don't respond, and she takes my silence as acceptance. She usually does.

  Scout is standing by the fridge with a glass of orange juice, watching me with her big green eyes, clearly amused. As I hang up, she laughs, a mocking little laugh. "Why does a girl like Mel put up with your shit?"

  I shrug and sip my coffee. I feel itchy and anxious—could be because my best friend's baby sister is standing in my kitchen in a pair of tiny shorts and a skin-tight tank top, with no bra. Idly, I wonder if she's wearing panties.

  "She puts up with it," I say, unreasonably pleased by the steadiness of my voice, "because she has dreams of marrying a lawyer and raising babies. And also because I give her the best orgasms she's ever had."

  Scout's eyebrows go up. "They can't be that good."

  I give her a cocky, panty dropping smirk. "You’ll never know, will you?"

  Something—desire—flickers in her gaze before she shrugs, and I force myself to back away from her, away from this conversation that should not be happening.

  Scout

  He looks completely unruffled as be strides from the room, and I fight the urge to chuck my OJ at his head. What the hell? I've seen Dane like that—all prowly and seductive. I used to giggle and call it him hunting. That was before, back when men on the prowl were amusing, but harmless.

  Then there was the attack, and it quit being cute and funny. I think he realized, because he stopped acting like that in front of me. He was always sweet and considerate, unless I needed an ass kicking. Dane was my safe place—and I loved him for it.

  Loved in a sisterly way, of course. It could never be more than that and I didn't want more—I liked having him looking out for me and willing to fight with me when Atti refused to.

  But his cocky self-assurance has me anxious and hot—part of me wants to claw out the eyes of any girl who dares look at him, and another part wants to get the hell away.

  Maybe it’s that I've been celibate for over three months. Maybe it isn't Dane
at all; it’s just a lack of sex. That makes a lot more sense, and relief makes my shoulders sag.

  We spend the day in our respective corners. He's working, and I curl on the couch and leaf through a magazine until boredom has thoroughly set in. I toss the magazine down and stare at him.

  "Quit staring, Scout. I'm working."

  "And I'm bored."

  "Watch a movie. Paint your nails. Do a damn crossword."

  "That's all I've been doing for months. I want to get out. Have a little fun."

  His eyes flash when he looks up at me. "Fun is where you get into trouble, S." I flush and he rolls his shoulders. "Give me thirty minutes. And then we'll go get dinner."

  I grin at him and bounce down the hallway to get dressed.

  The thing about Dane is that he knows exactly how sexy he is. He's known for years and had those years to develop it, fine tuning his sheer appeal until it’s second nature. Even in loose, worn jeans and a sweatshirt, he's positively yummy, and it takes a moment to remember that he isn't for touching.

  Screwing up the safe haven I have with Dane isn't worth any amount of sex. And I screw up all my relationships, so it's best to avoid this one altogether.

  "Where do you want to go?" He asks, starting the Viper.

  "Dolce," I say, slumping in the seat and propping my feet on the dashboard. Dane growls softly, and I smirk as I let them drop back to the floor, and reach for the music.

  "You know their Italian is shit, right?" he asks, backing out of the driveway. A scattering of leaves crunch under the tires, the scent of a fall and burning leaves bright in the crisp air.

  "Yes, Dane. I did grow up here, thanks."

  A smile tugs at his lips, that carefree smile that only comes out when he's with me and Atti—a smile I haven't seen in a while. I grin and lean my head back on the leather seat, closing my eyes as he weaves through the quiet streets of our home. The noise of the Pumpkin Festival fair reaches me, and I half lift my head, arching an eyebrow.

  "No, Scout. Absolutely not."

  I laugh soundlessly and reach for the radio, flipping through channels as he drives us to the tiny Italian eatery.

  La Picola Dolce is quiet, which I expected with the festival going full blast. A few older couples are eating the crappy Italian, and I wave at one—my old Sunday school teacher—as I slide into a booth across from Dane. "What are we doing, Scout?" he asks, and I can hear impatience in his tone.

  A perky college co-ed bounces up, a pad of paper out to take our drink orders. If she really needs to jot down two drinks, the girl will never make it at UB. Her eyes widen when she sees Dane, and I stiffen, a little annoyed.

  No, he's not mine. But for Pete’s sake, he came here with me !

  "I'm Chrissy," she says, flicking me a quick look before focusing completely on Dane. "Can I get you some wine?"

  A fist of want hits me. Wine. Alcohol of any kind, really. Jesus, I'd kill for that right now.

  Dane's gaze darts to mine, and he waits—waiting for me to take the lead. Because this is my sobriety, mine to fuck up or keep.

  "I'll have a hot chocolate," I say, as brightly as I can. Dane smiles, a tiny twitch of his lips, and I feel like I've passed a test as he orders a coffee and the co-ed waitress hurries away.

  "So. If we aren't here for shitty Italian, why are we here?" he asks, toying with the fork.

  Dane

  Her eyes light up with hunger, and I think it might even be stronger than the initial rush of desire I saw when she was offered wine.

  "Tiramisu."

  I swallow my laugh as Chrissy—what the hell kind of name is that, anyway?—puts down our drinks and beams at me. "Are you ready to order?"

  "I am," Scout says, her voice overly sweet, barely hiding the hint of venom in it. The girl is annoyed at being ignored. She orders a slice of tiramisu and chocolate cake, and then looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  I shouldn't be surprised that she came here for dessert. How many times, in high school, had I caught her here with some stoner, eating a slice of dessert while he felt her up under the table? I order quickly and ignore Chrissy as she retreats.

  Not that she knew I knew that's what was happening.

  She's glancing around, and I see it, the moment she realizes what booth we're sitting in. Her eyes go wide, and she clears her throat, grabbing her hot chocolate.

  I could let her stew in her embarrassment, but I take pity on her—and myself. I don't like her thinking about another man while she's with me.

  "So. Four weeks."

  Her eyes dart up to mine, the easy amusement fading as she looks at me. "Yeah. About that. Look, once Atticus is gone back to whatever hole he's hiding in, you don't have to worry about me. I'll find some friends and get out of your hair—Mel can't be happy about you having me as a house guest for the next four weeks."

  I lean back, quiet. Scout stares at me as the silence stretches. But she doesn't say anything, letting the quiet grow heavy and tense so that when Chrissy returns with the desserts, it's almost too much. I wait for the waitress to retreat, not speaking to her.

  Scout is three bites into her chocolate cake when I finally sit forward. "Who?"

  Her fork pauses, and she looks at me warily. "Who what?"

  "Who would you stay with?" I ask, taking a bite of the lemon cream cake.

  She shrugs. "I have friends, Dane. I could stay with Bree or Lacy."

  "Bree is married and expecting her second child. Lacy is in New Orleans."

  Her eyes narrow. "Fine. Phil."

  I drop my fork, my anger finally breaking free. "Phil. Really. You want me to lie to Atticus about you staying with me so that you can go live with Phil. Your ex. The one who you used to deal for. The one who, if memory serves, only quit harassing you because I put him in the hospital. You want to go to him."

  She bites her lip, and I lean forward, invading her side of the table. "I don't give a shit what Mel thinks of you being here, Scout. I don't really care what you want to do, either. You need family right now."

  "You aren't family," she says and I sit back.

  The words hurt, more than I expect.

  Possibly because very few ever hurt, anymore. But these—they sting. Because for a minute, I forgot the years of shit and the drugs, and even that night. For a minute, it was like none of it had ever happened. It was just me and Scout, sharing a dessert like we had shared so many ice cream cones on my back porch, waiting for Atti to come out of his history haze.

  Her face twists, and she drops her fork, reaching for me. "Dane. I didn't mean..." She takes a deep breath. "I didn't mean you aren't family. You are—of course, you are. But you've done so much over the years."

  I'm trying to focus on something other than her tiny hand on mine. Her fingers, moving restlessly. "Then why does it matter now?" I ask, hoarsely.

  "Because I know. I know you’re tired of me and my shit. I'm tired of making you deal with it."

  I close my eyes, shaking my head—trying to get that sad look out of my mind. I lean forward again, squeeze her hand tightly. "Scout, I want to help you. I would kill to help you—this isn't me doing Atti a favor. Don't ever think that."

  Her eyes are wide, and she nods, a short choppy movement.

  A fleck of chocolate clings to one side of her mouth, and I brush it away with my thumb, not really thinking as I bring it to my mouth and lick it clean.

  But the way she grows still and watchful—shit.

  "Eat your cake, Scout." I say, my voice rough.

  And she does.

  Chapter 4

  Scout

  Monday is a new sort of adventure. Dane has to work—his law firm across town is a classy little building with two paralegals, an office assistant, and a pissy cat.

  I think I’d rather be there than left home alone all day with nothing to occupy my thoughts.

  I watch him fix his tie, and fiddle with my orange juice glass, rolling it restlessly between my hands. "What should I do today?"

  Dane shrug
s. "Watch a movie. Find a meeting. Go to the library. Do whatever you want, Scout. I'll be home around five and we'll have dinner."

  I make a face. It sounds so damn domestic. "Want me to cook?"

  A slightly horrified expression crosses his face, and I laugh. He gives me a brief smile, and then he's grabbing his coffee and vanishing into the cool fall morning. I lock the doors, triple checking the front door before I go back to bed, but I'm restless and anxious. So I grab my pillow and pad into his bedroom, climbing into the middle of his bed. I click on the TV—he left it on Comedy Central—and half listen as I fall asleep, surrounded by his smell and blankets.

  And the feeling of being utterly safe.

  By noon I'm going out of my mind. I slept until ten, ate half a piece of dry toast, and showered, and now I'm anxiously pacing the living room, peering out at every little noise and wondering when the hell he'll be back.

  Me : When the hell are you coming home?

  Dane : I told you. 5. What's wrong?

  Me : I'm stir crazy and bored as hell.

  Dane : Scout, I can't entertain you every day. Go to the coffee shop. Go shopping. Go see a movie, for Pete’s sake.

  I can almost hear the exasperation in his voice, and I feel a little guilty. I put my phone away without responding and duck back into my room to change.

  A movie sounds almost as bad as sitting inside all day. But the coffee shop...or maybe a jog. I could get behind both of those ideas.

  I tug on my running shoes and tuck my phone into my pocket, pull my hair into a low ponytail and hit the sidewalk.

  I haven't run in months—we didn't do much exercising in New Horizons. And as my legs stretch, the burn pleasant and refreshing, the wind slapping my face, I laugh, a noise of sheer delight.

  For the first time in a long time, I'm alone with my thoughts, with no schedule, nowhere to be, no expectations beyond the road and the voice in my head urging me to run fast, go harder, longer.

  It’s a natural high, and I chase it down the street, almost drunk off the endorphins.