Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Page 4

  Scout isn't the only one with a shit ton of issues.

  I throw the bowls in the sink, shove my feet into some shoes, and grab my keys.

  "Where are you going?" she demands, her voice rising a little.

  "Out. You aren't interested in talking, and the entertainment I have in mind, you aren't cut out for." I run my eyes suggestively over her little body, all the lush curves. It's a lie. She's perfectly cut for it. But it makes her stop, pushes us into territory she isn't comfortable with—sex may be familiar, but me and sex have never been something that overlapped in Scout's world.

  It's best if it stays that way.

  Victorie is crowded. A roped-off line is keeping the horny freshmen out while frat boys parade in. I nod at the bouncer as I stride past the line and shove my way into the strip club.

  A new girl is working the pole, and I pause for a few minutes, watching her gyrate on the stage. She's cute—a better body than face, but there are two great reasons she's a stripper.

  I find a table near the back, and it takes only three minutes before a co-ed approaches my table. She's gorgeous, drunk, and probably exactly what I need. "Want to dance?"

  I give her a mocking smile, "Sugar, unless you’re working the pole, I don't think this is the place for dancing."

  She giggles, an annoying, high-pitched noise that makes my skin crawl. Sways closer to me. "I could do a private dance. I bet you'll like me."

  She leans closer, and I'm about to push her away—send her back to her friends—when I catch her scent. Clean, slightly citrusy.

  It's not the same as the scent now permeating my bathroom and clinging to the blanket Scout left on the couch—but it's close enough that I can close my eyes and pretend.

  So I drag her the girl closer, tuck her into my lap, and murmur, "What's your name, sugar?"

  "Rose" she says, her voice a little breathless.

  "I'm Dane."

  The girl on stage is being joined by another, the music pounding through the club. She twists, a pouty look on her face. "I want to go somewhere private."

  I kiss her and let my hands wander. She whimpers when my fingers dig into her hips and shift her so she's firmly pressed against my dick. I stifle a groan—it's been almost a week since I got laid, and, Jesus in heaven, it feels amazing. I nibble at her lips. When she gasps, I really kiss her, letting my tongue flirt with hers, sliding into her mouth with a strong stroke as my hand slides up her shirt. Her bra is lace, and I find her nipple, tight and puckered, begging to be kissed.

  She shifts, and I pull away. "Watch." I twist her in my lap, and when she starts to protest, I bite lightly on her neck, licking the spot and sucking softly on the skin while I slip a hand up her skirt. Her panties are wet, and I lift my head, licking the shell of her ear before murmuring, "Watch them, lovely girl." Her gaze goes to the stage, where both dancers are swinging on the pole. One is naked, her pert breasts dusted and glittering in the light. Rose shifts, watching them, and I slip two fingers into her panties, into her.

  She groans, and I swallow hard. God, she's hot. Wet. And she's doing what I wanted. Because I don't really give a shit who she is. I move my fingers, and she whines, a low noise as I bring my thumb into play, toying with her clit as I finger her in the middle of a packed room.

  When she comes, she's loud, and I pull her back for a kiss, swallowing her shriek as she bucks against my hand. "I want you," she mutters against my lips.

  I drag her from the little table and into a dirty bathroom. She's on me before I've even got the door locked, kissing me and jerking at my clothes. I close my eyes when she drops to her knees, willing to forget. She's good, bobbing on my cock until I'm riding that amazing edge, on the verge of coming. I groan, loudly, and she pulls away with a laugh. I grab the condom she retrieves from her purse, rolling it on and lifting her onto the sink.

  I slide into her without fanfare, and it's good. It's hot and wet, and it does what it's supposed to. I screw her like it’s my job, until she's screaming and panting through her orgasm. And then I close my eyes and let the smell of oranges drown out everything but the sensations on my dick, and if I picture Scout, no one knows but me.

  Chapter 5

  Scout

  I hear him, when he comes in. I'm awake, but when he peeks into my bedroom, I lie still and quiet, and he buys it—he goes away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  I can smell him, though—the distinct scent of smoke and sex and alcohol that makes my stomach twist and tells me one thing.

  He was out getting laid.

  Why the hell does that bother me so much? It's not like Dane means anything romantic to me. I know better than to think he ever could. Not like that, anyway.

  I close my eyes, ignoring the tears in my eyes, snapping the rubber band on my wrist as I try to sleep.

  I don't get up to see him out. I'm awake—how the hell could I not be? But I lie in my bed, tense and unmoving as he showers and dresses and makes his coffee. Once, he pauses by my door, and I almost think he'll come in. But a minute later, he's shutting the front door, and I hear the Viper roll down the driveway.

  I lie in bed for another twenty minutes, nerves stringing tighter and tighter. Even though it's Dane's house, and that has always been synonymous with safety, I can't relax. So I slip from bed and hurry to the front doors, checking the locks.

  Of course he's locked the door. He'd never leave me exposed like that.

  A smile tilts my lips up, and I go to the fridge, pouring a cup of OJ before I retreat to my bedroom.

  There's a note stuck to my door, Dane's scrawl messy and familiar.

  If you want to work with Curtis Interiors, call Avery. She can probably help.

  D.

  I crawl back into bed and dial his number.

  "I didn't mean to wake you up," he says immediately, his voice rough and tired. It pulls at things low in my belly, and I shift in bed.

  "You didn't," I lie. "I got up for some OJ—must have just missed you."

  "Did you need something?"

  "Why can Avery help? How?"

  His voice is a husky laugh, burning through me. I shouldn't have called him from bed. It's a bad idea—making me think things I can't afford to.

  "Call her and find out. I'll text you the number."

  I hesitate, and I think he'll end the call. But he doesn't. He's there, quiet as he drives across town. Or maybe he's already at his office, and he's just humoring me. It's not a long drive.

  "Where did you go?" I ask, softly. Immediately hating myself for asking.

  He sighs. "Scout, don't ask me that. I don't want you to look at me like that."

  "Like what?" I demand.

  "Like a whore," he says, without inflection. "Like I'm only good for a one night stand. Even if it's true, that's not what I want you to see. I wish..." He trails away, his voice unusually soft.

  "I don't," I whisper. "I've never seen you as that. I couldn't—you are so much more to me. Don't you get that?"

  "I'm not," he says. I can hear loathing in his voice that he's not even trying to hide from me. "Don't see more in me than is here, Scout. I'm not a good guy. If I was—" He cuts off abruptly. "I'll be home late. I have to meet Mel for dinner," he says, the softness fading from his voice. He's gone before I can tell him that it wasn't his fault.

  What happened to me wasn't his fault.

  I close my eyes. I hate that he thinks that—that he is killing himself over it, all these years later. And yet, it’s not terribly surprising.

  Dane has always been really good at absorbing the pain of those around him. And since he was the one to find me—is it any wonder he thinks it’s his fault?

  My phone vibrates in my hand.

  Dane: 871-7021. Call Avery.

  That's it. He's shutting himself off, for now. And as much as I hate it, I have to let him. If I want space, I have to be willing to give it.

  So I get up and make a bagel and dial the number.

  "Hello?"

  Avery's
voice is warm and sleepy, melodic and beautiful even first thing in the morning.

  "This is Scout," I say, awkwardly.

  "Oh! Hi!" She sounds startled, but pleased, and I wonder if I shouldn't give this girl a chance. For Atti's sake. "What can I do for you, Scout?"

  "Um. Dane told me to call. I mentioned wanting to get a job at Curtis Interiors, and he said you might be able to help. Not really sure why."

  She laughs, and I frown. "I'll make some calls. Want to meet for lunch?"

  I agree, and we make plans to meet at a local sandwich shop—close to UB, but not on the campus. It's a minor distinction, but it matters to me.

  Avery is running a few minutes late. I find a table for us, and a waiter swings by to drop off menus. Next Best Thing is crowded with college students breaking away for a decent lunch, and I feel a little nervous. I snap the rubber band on my wrist.

  "Sorry!" Avery says, sliding into a seat. She's dressed in a pair of tight jeans, an oversized cream sweater that hangs off one shoulder, and a ridiculous ball cap that I recognized as Atti's on her head, keeping her ponytail off her neck. She looks fresh and clean and effortless, and I feel grimy in my t-shirt and yoga pants.

  "Ladies?" A smooth, effeminate voice is tilted up in question, and I glance up as Avery stands, grinning at the man standing near our table, a bright-eyed baby on his hip.

  "You made it!" she says, snatching the baby from him and kissing her hair. "Jeff wasn't sure you'd be able to."

  "I'm confused," I say, blankly. Both of them turn to me, his expression assessing, hers hopeful.

  "Jason Curtis," he says, extending a hand. My heart stops, a painful freezing between one second and the next. "And my daughter, Sydney. I hope you don't mind her tagging along—I didn't expect to have any meetings today. But Avery said it was important, and she promised me lunch."

  There's a pause while the waiter arrives with a high chair and Jason arranges the little girl in it. Then we're sitting there, and I'm not sure how the hell this even happened.

  Jason and Avery are gossiping, his hands dancing through the air as he tells her some story about the baby. The subject of their story is staring at me with wide, curious eyes, so I wave at her. She smiles, a shy sweet smile that sorta melts my insides.

  "She likes you," Jason says, interrupting his story to make the observation. He glances at Avery. "Who wants to tell me what I'm doing here? Not that I mind a free lunch and babysitting, but usually my dates tend to the more male persuasion."

  Avery rolls her eyes. "Shut up, Jason. This is Atti's sister. She's looking for a job."

  His expression brightens, and he studies me with renewed interest. "A job, hmm? What do you do?"

  "Not a lot of anything, honestly. I've been...distracted. School, life." I dart a glance at Avery, but she's staring at her menu, letting this play out without any more interference.

  "Hm." Jason glances at Avery as well, something serious in his laughing eyes. The waiter makes a reappearance, and we place our order. Then the menus are gone and there is nothing but the three of us and this awkward, unlikely conversation.

  "Well. I need someone with experience," Jason says, his expression apologetic. "And if you say you have none..."

  "Jason," Avery says. He looks at her again, something wordless passing between them.

  "Fine. You can do paperwork, billing?" He asks, the flaky demeanor vanishing, his expression turning serious.

  I nod, swallow. "I'm good with computers and scheduling. And I want to learn."

  "I'll be honest, Scout. I'm not looking to teach. But we'll see what we can do," he says. He smiles, an impish expression, and says to Avery, "You, lovely, owe us a weekend of babysitting."

  Dane

  I'm a bastard. I know it—know from the way my office staff is ignoring me as much as they possibly can—but I don't really give a damn.

  She's been here three days, and she's already getting into my head, under my skin. It's a bad idea. I don't know why I agreed to it. I feel antsy, too tight in my skin. I want to score.

  Jesus. She's got me that rattled, that I'm ready to go hunt down the nearest dealer at UB and pop a handful of pills.

  My phone rings and I grab it, "Guillot."

  "Dude. You sound tense. What's wrong?"

  "You dumped Scout into my lap like I've got nothing going on in my life, and then you think asking what's wrong is a good idea. What the hell?"

  Atticus laughs. "She's not so bad."

  Then why am I the one dealing with her? "And yet," I say, my voice patronizing.

  "How is she? Seriously."

  There it is—the concern that Atticus is good at, when he can remember. Atticus is a good guy—one of the best, and a helluva a lot better than I'll ever be. But sometimes, he's a shitty brother. I should tell him about Kevin, but all that will do is bring Atticus back early, hounding her. She doesn’t need that.

  "She's good. Avery is trying to get her a job today," I say.

  "Why? She'll be starting school in a few months," Atti says, bewildered.

  "Because Scout needs something to keep her occupied and away from drugs," I say patiently. "And don't push the school thing. It might not be what's best for her."

  There's a moment of quiet and then: "What's going on there, Dane?"

  I fill him in on our conversation, about Scout's hesitation to go back to school. I don't go into why the UB campus makes her so nervous. It’s not my story to tell.

  My secretary, Glenda, knocks, her eyebrows raised. "Someone to see you, Mr. Guillot."

  Thank God. "Atti, gotta go. Appointment."

  "Do I need to come home?"

  A few minutes ago—before he called—I was ready to pack her up and ship her to Atti's cabin in the middle of the woods.

  Now the thought of her leaving me makes me want to panic. I shake my head before remembering he can't see me.

  "No. She's solid. We're going to a meeting tonight. Just give her some space. Try to be accepting."

  He sighs, but I know my best friend, and I know he's backing down for now. I hang up and call to Glenda, "Send in my appointment."

  Scout breezes into my office in a short sweater dress, torn tights, and black knee high-boots. She's got on a little bit of makeup, her long black hair pulled into a high ponytail on her head. She looks amazing, like sex on a stick, and she's staring at me with a challenging gleam in her eyes.

  "I thought I said I'd see you at home," I say, swallowing hard.

  She closes the door behind her. "How did you know Avery could get me a job with Curtis Interiors?"

  "Jason is one of her best friends. If anyone could, it's her," I answer.

  Scout nods, dropping into the chair across from me. Her dress bunches under her, and when she crosses her legs, I get a tantalizing glimpse of tight-encased thigh.

  Why the hell that would drive me crazy when she's been prancing around half-naked for three days doesn't make any sense. But it does.

  "Dane?"

  Her voice is different, and I look at her—really look.

  "Yeah?" I ask, my voice rough.

  "Did you ever talk to someone, after—after everything?"

  I freeze and look at her. She's so small and fragile looking, despite the kickass boots and attitude. Without thinking, I open my arms, and she immediately comes and snuggles into my lap.

  It doesn't mean anything. It's never meant anything—it’s just Scout and our weird almost-sibling relationship.

  "No," I say hoarsely. "I thought about it. But—" I shake my head, and she burrows deeper into my chest, the smell of her filling my head. "I didn't. I self-destructed instead. It's something I'm good at."

  "I think I should," she says softly.

  And I nod. Because she should—we both should, even if I won't. "Dane?" she whispers.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm sorry. For whatever I said that made you think you had to go fuck a stranger."

  I groan. The combination of Scout, soft and pliant in my arms, her
little body hot and pressed against mine, and talking about me having sex with someone—I couldn't stop my erection if I tried.

  And with her in my lap, I can't hide it.

  She tenses, and I freeze, trying to think unsexy thoughts—Atticus punching me, dead fish, Nik—and then she tilts her head up, peering at me.

  Shit.

  "Did you need anything else?" I ask, voice low.

  A little smile tilts her lips, and I don't think. I shift my legs under her a tiny bit, slip a hand behind her head, and kiss her.

  Her lips are soft, deliciously full, and I suck the bottom one lightly into my mouth. Her hand is on my chest, the other on my thigh, and both are clenching and unclenching, driving me crazy. I lick at her lips, and she sighs, a softening that I want desperately to take advantage of. The tiny taste of her isn't enough—it's sweet and clean and tasting slightly of citrus.

  I want more.

  Instead, I force myself to pull away from her. She whimpers, and I drag her closer, hugging her to me as she shifts on my lap.

  "You should go home, Scout," I whisper.

  "Don't want to."

  I laugh at the petulant tone, the glazed look in her eyes. "Go. I have to work." I kiss her forehead, and she wiggles against my cock. She smirks when I groan then stands.

  Scout hesitates by the door, looks at me and opens her mouth, like she might say something. But she doesn't—just leaves without another word.

  What the hell have I started?

  Scout

  It's one thing to say I want to talk to someone. It's another thing entirely to actually find someone. It’s funny, because I grew up here. I know this city better than any other in America. But finding a therapist is something completely different.

  I call Louisa.

  We both grew up around UB—her father is a professor there; he mentored Atticus. But before that, Louisa and I were in school together. From kindergarten on up, we were there. We were close until sophomore year, when everything in my life seemed to fall apart in a matter of weeks.