Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Page 3

  I run for an hour, until I'm panting and doubled over on the side of the road, a stich in my side. I'm streaked with sweat, and tears are burning in the edges of my vision, and I wonder, vaguely, if I'll be able to get home. I'm in front of the campus, which makes me nervous. I've avoid UB as much as I can—especially alone.

  Across the street is a little café, and I head to it without thinking.

  The scent of pastries and coffee slaps me in the face as I push into the little shop. A tall man is behind the counter, and his gaze meets mine as he makes an espresso—not the hostile looks I'm used to, but a quiet greeting. I make my way to the counter, and he hands the coffee to a soccer mom chatting a mile a minute on her phone.

  Then he turns his full attention to me. "What can I get for you today?"

  "What's good?" I ask, scanning the menu half-heartedly.

  A smile twists his lips. "Everything is good at the Hill. Depends on what you’re in the mood for."

  "Not coffee," I say automatically, and his brows shoot up. "A smoothie? Do you have those?"

  He nods. "Go have a seat. I'll bring it out in a few minutes."

  I flash a quick flirty smile before I find a seat and drop into it. Send Dane a quick text to let him know where I am, and then drop my phone, fidgeting.

  I used to have so many people calling and texting, I never had down time. There was always someone to reply to, to make plans with.

  But that sorta dried up, between leaving Branton and falling off the face of the earth when I went to rehab. Although, I am a little surprised Kevin hasn’t called me.

  The bells on the door ring, and I hear a startlingly familiar voice. "Hey, Jeff!"

  Avery is followed by muscular guy, and my gaze narrows as I watch them. She sits next to him and peers at the book he opens in front of them, but she doesn't have her own books.

  What. The. Fuck?

  The barista—Jeff—clears his throat, and I jerk my gaze away from Avery to look at him. His expression is amused and a little too interested. "Your smoothie?"

  His voice draws her attention, and Avery looks up, her eyes widening as she sees me sitting there. I throw a few bills on the table and grab my smoothie. Cheating bitch would look surprised. My brother gave up everything for her and she's doing what? Flirting with some idiot jock at the coffee shop? What the hell?

  I don't want to make a scene, so I snatch up my smoothie and head for the door.

  "Scout!" she yells behind me, but I don't bother to listen to her excuses. I'm so tired of excuses.

  I just want to go home. I’m a block away when a rusty pickup I would know anywhere pulls over in the middle of main street.

  Kevin grins as he hangs out the driver side window, a leer on his lips. "Need a ride, sweet thing?"

  I hate that name. But Avery is coming out of the coffee shop, and I don’t want to deal with that. So I give him an easy smirk. "You want to give me a lift home?" He makes a sharp motion toward the passenger side of the truck, and I hurry around and slide in.

  The scent of smoke and weed, cloying and slightly disgusting, fills my nose, and for a moment, I almost bolt. Almost face Avery rather than this. But Kevin is already hitting the accelerator, pushing the car into motion. I try to relax into the seat, but it's not working—the music is too loud, the scent of Kevin's cigarette turning my stomach.

  "So, sweet thing, how'd rehab treat you?"

  I give him a glance—we didn't tell anyone about rehab before I left. How did he find me? Dane got me into the program and out of town almost before I could process it. Kevin grins. "People talk, Scout. You dropped out of the scene, didn't show up in Baton Rouge or New Orleans. Nowhere—the only place you could be is rehab."

  "That how you found out I was getting out?"

  He shrugged, easily. Gave me a cocky grin that had nothing on Dane. "It took a little digging, but come on, Scout. Those places are some of our hottest selling places."

  I stiffen—here it is. The real reason Kevin chased me down, the real reason he wants me back.

  I was his best dealer. Moved more drugs than any of his dealers, and used enough that what I didn't sell couldn't be counted as a loss. Not when I was using it.

  "I'm out, Kevin," I say, my voice dry. "I'm not interested in dealing."

  He laughs, turns down Dane's street without my prompting. It makes something in me go cold—that he knows where I'm living is terrifying. He pulls up to the house and idles in the street. "Sweet thing, getting out isn't something girls like you are good at. You like the shit you sell—and eventually, you'll need a hit bad enough you'll move some shit for me."

  He digs in his pocket, pulling a small baggie out. The white powder is too bright in the dimness of his truck cab. My mouth goes dry. My fingers twitch, and I shove them under my thighs, looking away. "I'm clean," I grit out.

  "You sure that's what you want, baby? Not what the douche or big brother wants for you?" He lays out a line. I ache to take the hit. I want it so bad I can taste the coke, sliding down my throat, burning and producing that beautiful numbness.

  A hand jerks open my door, and I almost fall out, into his arms. I shudder, and then guilt slams into me as he closes the door, deliberately soft. I hear his voice, feel it stir my hair, and I shiver at the quiet menace in his voice. "Get the fuck off my property. Come near her again, I'll slap you with a restraining order and search warrant so fast, you won't figure out what hit you until you’re sitting in prison, wondering how you became some redneck's bitch."

  "She owes me, man. Don't think I'll let that pass."

  I want to die. Four grand. The reason I came home for the summer—the money I owed Kevin. Even when I lived in Baton Rouge, I dealt for him. I sometimes think he'd kill me if I tried dealing for anyone else.

  "Scout?" Dane says, a question in his voice.

  I nod, refusing to look at him. He mutters something in my hair and then nods. "I'll get it for you. Stay the hell away from her, Kevin. Do you understand me?"

  He pushes me lightly toward the house. I go. Because I would do anything to get away from this clashing of my two lives.

  Dane

  Something is bothering her. Something beyond that dickhead I found her with today.

  Scout has been on edge and snapping since I got home. I change into some jeans and t-shirt and go back to the living room, where she's sitting on the couch, her knee bobbing unevenly.

  "Want to tell me what's wrong?" I ask, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water.

  "Nothing."

  It’s a lie, and we both know it. Her gaze darts to mine, a hint of a challenge in it. Whether I let her get away with the lie is the real question. Neither of us wants to address Kevin and what happened in the driveway.

  "I want to get a job," she says when I don't push.

  I nod. "Probably a good idea. Something temporary—you don't need anything serious if you’re going back to school in a few months."

  She looks away, and I feel my stomach drop. "Scout?"

  "What?" she snaps, and I drop down next to her.

  "Tell me what happened."

  She goes still—it's what I asked for, all those years ago. And though I know she won't, a tiny part of me wishes she would trust me enough to tell me now. Frankly, I’ll take anything—what upset her today, why she was with Kevin, anything.

  "I went for a run. Stopped by that new coffee shop."

  I can see where this story is going. "Hill of Beans. And what, Avery was there with someone?"

  "You know? And haven’t told Atti?"

  "Told him what? That his girlfriend is a tutor? He knows that, Scout."

  She stares at me, her eyes wide, and then slowly narrowing. "So she isn't cheating?"

  Ah. This is what it really is. "Avery isn't a repeat of Nik. Whatever else she is, she isn't that," I say softly. Scout sighs and leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder.

  Every nerve ending in my body fires, sharp with longing, and I take a deep breath before sliding an ar
m around her, pulling her closer.

  She's Scout. My best friend, the girl I couldn't protect. "Do you like her?" she asks, the words brushing against the skin of my throat.

  I shrug. "I think, despite the upheaval she's caused, she's good for Atticus. And I think we had better learn to like her, because he won't let her go."

  I kiss her hair and force myself to push her away. "I'm hungry. Is chicken scampi okay with you?"

  Scout grins, reclining on the couch. "Sounds perfect. I could probably get used to this."

  My breath catches, and I force it to go normal, cocking an eyebrow. "Get used to what?"

  "This." She gestures. "You cooking while I paint my nails. No school, no expectations—just being."

  I smirk, a deliberately panty-dropping expression, as she would call it. "Well. There is the expectation that you clean your mess up."

  She flips me off, and I laugh as I retreat to the kitchen, taking the chicken and bell peppers from the bag I'd carried in.

  "Did you get dessert?"

  I grunt an assent—would I dream of coming back without some form of chocolate?

  "Good. Dessert should always be eaten before dinner," she says, hoping off the couch and bouncing over to me. Her scraggly hair is pulled away from her face, exposing the soft planes and warm angles.

  I toss her the box of brownie mix and laugh as she cusses at me.

  Scout

  Watching Dane cook is a turn on. Watching Dane do much of anything is, if I'm honest. We work quietly in the kitchen, music pumping from my phone on the bar, and something in me relaxes. He isn't pushing, isn't demanding I talk—he's just letting us be. And I need that.

  Dane is good at knowing what I need. And even though he has to be wondering, he isn’t asking about Kevin.

  When the brownies are in the oven, and he's sautéing chicken and onions in a creamy garlic sauce, I pull out some vegetables and start chopping them into two salads.

  "I could probably make dinner," I say, breaking the silence. Dane glances up. "You know, before you get home from work. Make myself somewhat useful around here."

  His eyebrows go up,. "I thought you wanted to find a job."

  I do. I decided that on the way home—sitting around will give me nothing but time to stew in my own thoughts. I need to keep busy if I want to avoid a relapse—maybe Kevin will leave me alone if I look busy. Should I tell him that?

  If anyone would understand, it's Dane.

  "How did you stay clean?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can talk myself out of it.

  Dane goes still, the hand stirring dinner frozen above the hot stove. Then he blinks, and his gaze finds mine—wary and tired and resigned. "Do you really want to do this?"

  I nod, biting my lip.

  "Let's get dinner on the table."

  I help him carry the plates of salad and pasta to the cluttered dining room table. He shifts a few law books to a spare chair and nods at the space he's created. "Sit down."

  After moving some files and retrieving two glasses of iced tea, he joins me.

  I watch him, my appetite gone—nerves have overtaken me and are fluttering around my belly like crazy moths on meth.

  "You don't have to tell me," I say, quietly.

  Dane's grins, a little forced, but familiar. "You know I'd do anything to help you stay sober, Scout. Why do you think I wouldn't talk to you? That's the easiest thing in the world."

  I'm still stuck on the first thing he said. He'd do anything for me?

  Thinking back, I know it's true. He's always been there, protecting me from myself and the world. Even when Atticus wasn't, when he was too wrapped up in his own life to worry about mine, Dane was there. He never faltered.

  Except for the year he was lost to drugs.

  "Tell me?" I ask.

  His breath sighs from him in a rush. "There was a lot that drove me into drugs. You know that, right?" His gaze is demanding, and I swallow hard. Nod once. "It wasn't one thing. It was a lot of things—and then the accident happened, and it was definitely the tipping point."

  I don't push—if there is one thing I know better than to push about, it's the accident that took place the year Dane was a sophomore in college.

  "Getting into drugs is a helluva lot easier than pulling yourself out of it. But after a year, Atti found me in a shithole bar and told me I was disappointing Mom. That this isn't what she wanted for me. And it really got to me. But it's not even that—it's that when I was using, I couldn't stop it from happening again. I couldn't protect you, before. I couldn't protect Mom. And wasted, I couldn't protect anyone. So I went to rehab."

  His words floor me. And break my heart. "Dane, you weren't supposed to protect me," I say.

  He shakes his head. "You’re wrong. Scout, you were just a kid. A gorgeous kid in that shithole. We let you come there. We should have protected you."

  I'm nervous. I can't talk about that night. About any of it. I shift away from him, and his eyes, watching me, shutter. "So. Rehab. It was...well, you just got out. You know. Rehab is a shitty place to be. But there was this one guy—my group session leader—who told us that no one could force us to be sober. No one could make that choice but us. And it really stuck with me. I could do my stint there, and the day I got out, I could score some drugs and get high. It wasn't like the drugs went anywhere. And no one could stop me. Shit, at that point, I don't think anyone wanted to."

  "So why didn't you?" I snap the bracelet on my wrist, and his eyes drop to it.

  "Because it's my sobriety. I worked hard for it, and no one can take it from me but myself. And I owe too many people too much to throw it away."

  I'm quiet. I can hear the challenge in his tone, but I'm not ready to talk about that night. I don't think I'll ever be ready to talk about it.

  "How did you stay clean when you got out?"

  He heaves a sigh. "You aren't going to like this but—meetings. School. Law school didn't leave a lot of room for using, you know? And I stayed away from my friends who used."

  "Isn't that like, half your frat brothers?"

  He nods. "Yes. And for a long time, they were furious. Didn't really get it. But Atticus did, and he stood by me. It helps, having some support."

  I hear what he's not saying. That he will be my support. Tears sting my eyes, and I look away.

  "Scout?"

  I look back at him, and see questions in his eyes. Brace myself for him to ask about that night. Instead: "Do you want to stay clean, Scout?"

  Dane

  I'm still, not even breathing, for what feels like a lifetime. When she nods, it's like everything falls into place. All the pieces of the puzzle that make up my life—all of them shift just enough that things fit, and the centerpiece is her.

  It should freak me out. If it were Mel, it would. But it's not—it's Scout.

  "Will you go to meetings with me?" she asks, her hand creeping across the table. I catch it, squeeze it in my own and nod.

  "Of course. Tomorrow?"

  She nods, flashes a weak smile, and I stand, retreating to the kitchen to let her breathe. I feel shaky, and I know she has to be on the verge of bolting.

  "Do you want a brownie?" I ask, my voice loud.

  "With ice cream, if you have it."

  Her voice is startlingly close, and I twist to look at her over my shoulder. She's standing close to me, holding out our plates.

  "I think there's some in the freezer outside. Check."

  She flashes me a grin and steps away, letting me have a split second to catch my breath.

  Oh, shit, I need to get laid. That has to be it—a simple lack of sex explains this irrational desire to kiss Scout senseless. I should text Mel—she'd be okay with a booty call tonight. Or if she isn't, there's the club—I could head there after Scout goes to bed.

  Just because I agreed to let her stay here, it doesn't mean I have to be with her every second of the day, does it?

  She comes back with a tub of ice cream roughly the size of her head
and a grin as bright as the sun.

  I don't have to be with her every second. But there is no denying that I love spending time with her—she's fun, sarcastic, and amusing, and never buys any of my shit.

  "Where are you thinking for a job?"

  She hesitates, and I arch an eyebrow, waiting. "Well. I was thinking about contacting Curtis Interior. He's a phenomenal interior designer who does a lot of work in Baton Rouge and even down to New Orleans. He's amazing."

  "Why him?"

  She's arguing with herself about something and assessing me. Finally she says, "I like design work. And I'm good at it."

  "Do you think you'll study it in school?"

  It's an innocently posed question, but from the way she tenses, it's not. Not really.

  "Scout? What’s wrong?"

  "What if I don't want to go back?" she asks.

  "To school or to UB?"

  She frowns, biting her lip. "Both?"

  Frankly, I don't care what she does with her life as long as she's clean and keeps eating brownies with me. But trying to explain to Atticus why his baby sister is dropping out of secondary education is going to be hella hard to do.

  I hand her a bowl of ice cream topped with a brownie and go to the living room. She follows, folding her legs under her as she situates herself on the couch.

  "Scout, you know no one can force you to go to school, right?"

  She's watching me, warily. "I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop," she says.

  "There is no other shoe. You don't want to go school. It's your life. You have to explain it to your brother, but you can probably make him understand. If your reasons are good."

  She tenses. Gives me a steady, angry stare. "Why do you keep pushing?"

  I lean back, my bowl on the couch between us. "What am I pushing, Scout?"

  "You know what. I don't want to talk about it—you need to get used to that. I'll talk about sobriety, and I'll get a job—I'll keep myself clean and be a productive member of society, but I don't want to talk about that night. Leave it the fuck alone."

  "Watch your mouth," I snap, angry. She laughs and I stand. Screw this. I can't be around her when she's angry like this, and, frankly, being around her at all is self-destructive and stupid.