Beautiful Broken (22 page)

I’m pacing when I hear her pull up. Finally. My breath leaves me in a rush, and I jerk the door open as she walks up.

There’s something wrong—she’s moving almost gingerly, like she’s afraid to move too fast, or she will break. Like she’s taken one too many blows today and can’t stand to take another.

"Scout?" I ask, softly. Her eyes lift, slowly, and the blankness in them scares me. I’ve seen her this blank—that night in my room, and again, over the years, when she was in the worst slumps of her drug usage. It terrified me then, but it’s nothing like the panic I feel now. I can’t lose her to drugs—not this time. I don’t know how to bring her back, from wherever she is in her mind, and I have no fucking clue what put her there.

I step toward her, my fingers brushing the soft curve of her cheek, and she shudders, her eyes closing as she leans into my tentative caress. Then she’s in my arms. I hold her as she shakes, silent sobs wracking her frame as night falls around us.

I scoop her into my arms, and she doesn't even protest as I carry her into the house, kicking the door shut before taking her to the couch.

I need to tell her about Atticus—I've gotten increasingly irate texts from him. Whatever I might be hoping for, this isn't blowing over. I need to deal with it. But right now, she looks so damn breakable. I can't bring myself to add to that. So I jerk the quilt she's been leaving on the couch up around her, curling against the arm with her sprawled across me.

"Want to talk to me? Or do you want to just sit?" I ask quietly.

She shakes her head slightly against my chest, and I tighten my grip on her, holding her as she rides out whatever emotional storm she's going through.

The door slamming wakes us both, and Scout jerks upright with an ear-splitting shriek. I catch her, holding her so she's forced to look at me. "It's okay. Shhh, it’s okay. See? I'm right here." Her eyes are impossibly wide, and I lean in to kiss her forehead.

"You've got to be kidding," Atticus snaps, standing behind the couch. Scout makes a startled noise, but she still isn't speaking, not really. I stare at her for another second, letting the questions fill my eyes. She gives me a minute head bob, and I let her go. Stand up and stare at my best friend.

He looks good, for a guy who clearly just drove straight through for almost ten hours. It's impressive he made the trip as fast as he did. I don't say that, though. I cock an eyebrow, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Forget you have an apartment now?"

He glares at me. Clearly, he's just as furious as he was this morning. "Scout, can I talk to you?"

"No," she says softly.

We both give her a sharp look, and she heaves a sigh. "I'm going to bed."

She starts to stand, and Atticus grabs her arm. She gives him a look, and I step forward. "Atticus," I say, my voice tight and full of warning.

"Stay the fuck out of it, Guillot. This doesn't concern you," Atti snarls without looking at me. Stunned, I take a step back. I don’t look at her. He doesn’t want me here—me, who has been his go-to to take care of her for years.

"How long?" he asks, tightly, still holding her arm. "How long has he been fucking you?"

I’m shocked when she slaps him. "How dare you?" she hisses. "Do I ask about your love life or the fact that you’re sleeping with your student? What the hell gives you the right to ask me shit about mine?"

"The fact that he’s my best friend. That he’s only taking care of you because I asked him to." He hesitates, and then: "He didn’t even want to, Scout. He didn’t want you staying here."

She flinches, but doesn’t respond to that. Instead, she says, softly, the anger draining from her voice. "You don’t own him. Dane’s been part of my life as long as he’s been part of yours. I’m sorry you’re upset, but this? Us? It doesn’t concern you."

"It does when you’re a damn druggie, Scout."

"Enough," I snap, stepping into her space and wrapping an arm around her waist. She’s shaking, and I squeeze her, trying to steady her. "She’s clean, Atticus."

"She looks strung the fuck out," he spits, and she laughs, hysterical.

"You have no fucking clue!" she screams. "You’re so damn worried about my using, but you never once asked why. What drove me to it. All you see is a screw up, a problem to be dealt with. And you’ve been letting Dane deal with it ever since that night."

Atticus’ eyes narrow on her, and he goes completely still. There’s a long moment, and then he says, his voice sharp and even, "What night?"

She looks at me, panicked, and then bolts. She moves faster than I can catch her, snatching my keys from the counter and darting into the night. I hear the Viper rumble to life, and Atticus starts to follow her. I catch his arm. "Let her go."

The punch catches me in the eye, pain blossoming like a mini-explosion. I grunt and walk away. Outside, into the rain, where the taillights of the Viper are turning off my street.

"Don’t do that," Atticus shouts. I sigh.

"Do what?"

"Run away."

I turn, cocking an eyebrow, rain pelting me. "That’s funny, coming from the guy who sent me to get his sister from rehab, left her in my house while he went back to the mountains. Or the guy who left his sister with me in a dorm room while you screwed that whore."

This time, when he swings, I’m expecting it. I duck under it and punch him in the kidneys. Atticus grunts, jerks his knee up to catch me in the gut. It’s a sharp blow that drives my breath from me, and then we’re pummeling each other, scrambling for footing in the wet grass and the rain. I can’t think after that, struggling to hold my own against him. Atticus fought the underground cage matches when he was in college—and he was damn good at it.

"You fucking. Shit." Atticus punctuates his words with blows, and I grapple to get a grip, finally kicking him off me and climbing to my feet.

"Just stop!" I scream. "Jesus, you don’t even know—she’s hurting and you don’t even care. Didn’t you see her? Whatever she went through today—it shattered her. You asshole, you didn’t even
care!"

I punch him, once. Twice. A third time before a girl screams, and I blink the rain from my eyes, letting Atticus go to stare at Avery.

She’s bedraggled, her blonde hair turned dark by the rain, a look of disgust and fury in her eyes. "Get off the damn ground, both of you."

Without waiting to see what we do, she stalks into my house, shouting for Scout.

My heart seizes, freezing my breath.

Scout. She’s gone.

Scout

I end up in the library parking lot. The rain is tapering off, and I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing here. I should go home—deal with the shit that Atticus is spewing. But I came too close to confessing everything that had happened, and if there is one thing I don’t want, it’s for Atti to ever know.

I don’t know what to do. Dr. Carrie’s words from earlier today echo through my head. Could I handle losing Dane?

No. The mere thought of spending a single night away from him is enough to make me shiver. I snap the rubber band on my wrist, the little sting of pain a welcome distraction.

I can’t leave him. Not now—not when I know how good for each other we are. The problem is that Dane has always put Atticus before his own needs, before everything.

Did I really think he would change that for me? Why? Because I was a hot mess and a good lay? He could get sex anywhere—he was hella good at that. Tears sting my eyes, everything from the day and my brother’s unexpected arrival slamming into me like a freight train. My head pounds, a migraine forming behind my eyes.

Someone opens the door to the library, and a group of students and staff spill out into the rainy night. I glance up, half-watching them as I try to figure out what the hell to do. Waiting until Atticus leaves is an option—except I'm not completely convinced he won't just camp out at Dane's until I show up, and then drag me off.

There's another option—the little shack in the backwoods that I used to run to when I needed to get away from everything. Dane knows I go there, sometimes. It's technically on our property, and Atti hasn't been there in years—he'd never look for me there.

I glance up at the group again as I slide off the hood of the Viper. They've started to disperse, but one is sitting on the steps of the library, listening to two girls talking. Everything spirals away from me, narrowing until there is nothing but him, on the end of a long tunnel. I can't breathe—the air is trapped in my chest. I can feel his fingers on my throat as he forces himself on me, and I want to scream but I can't, and even when I do, he just laughs and slaps me. A scream builds in my throat, but I swallow, hard, choking it down.

My keys fall from my nerveless fingers, the little shot-glass key chain clattering against the pavement, and his eyes, cool and hard, flick to me.

Lazy interest. A predatory gleam as he takes in my lack of companions. He uncoils from the step, leaving the two co-eds and walking toward me.

I grab my keys, reach into my purse for my pepper spray. I wish I had something stronger.

I'm opening the door, sliding inside, when he reaches me. "You look lost, ma'am."

Oh, Jesus. He doesn't recognize me. I want to throw up, want to scream, and he doesn't even fucking recognize me. He raped me, destroyed me, and he doesn't even remember me.

"I'm meeting someone," I say, refusing to meet his eyes. I've seen them a million times in my nightmares—I can't see them again now.

"Really?" There's a hint of amusement in his voice. Disbelief.

He's laughing. The bastard is laughing. Fury makes me shake and I look up, glaring into his eyes. "Yeah, Boyd. I'm meeting my brother and boyfriend. And maybe swinging by the police station to let them know there's a rapist working at the library."

He looks shocked, confused, and I shove him. "Get away from me," I snarl.

"Who the hell do you think you are," he snaps. "What the fuck are you talking about, rapist? How the hell do you know my name?"

"Think back. September of your freshman year—you got drunk with a couple local girls and took one to the staircase. Do you remember that, Boyd?" I spit. His face goes pale, and I know that he does. "Do you think I'd forget?" I demand.

"It was a long time ago," he says, lamely. "And you were drunk—how was I supposed to know you weren't interested?"

I slap him, hard. "I screamed it, you fucking bastard," I yell.

His hands grip my arms, and panic erupts in me. I shriek, kicking and clawing my way free. He catches my purse, but I don't even give a fuck. I duck into the car and slam it shut as Boyd hammers on the window. Without looking, I jerk it into reverse and get the hell away from him.

I'm three miles away, in the middle of town and headed for the big house, when I break down. All the tears from the past six years, all the frustration and rage and
everything
I haven't faced, come pouring out of me. I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe, the road blurry from my tears and the rain that has started again. I should pull over—get off the road until I get my shit together. Go to Dane. Something. I keep driving because I'm so tired of being still and stagnant.

I jerk the Viper around a corner, hearing a horn blare behind me as I swerve in the rain-flooded road. It's too much rain in the past few days—the swamp is rising, flooding the streets.

The very ordinary thought is the last coherent one I have before I turn onto the muddy back road that leads to the big house. I rev the engine, desperate to be somewhere safe, and the Viper jumps forward, racing over the muddy road, slipping around the curves. I love driving this car. I accelerate a little more and whip into a curve.

The branch is huge, sprawling across the road like a massive snake. I scream, jerking the wheel hard to avoid it. The Viper swerves, tires scrambling for purchase. I hear a sickening crunch as the back end slams into the fallen tree, and have a second to think that Dane is going to be
pissed
, and then the car is flipping, metal screeching as I scream. My head slams into something, and I feel something cold and wet against my legs, and then everything disappears in a black cloud of pain.

I strip down and grab the first thing I touch—a pair of jeans and UB sweatshirt. I rub a towel over my hair, drying it enough that it isn't dripping down my neck, and walk back into the living room. Atticus has changed and is leaning against the wall, scowling. Avery is drying her hair, studiously ignoring us both.

"Why the hell is there no beer in the fridge?" Atti demands. I laugh, shake my head.

"Because I'm living with a newly sober Scout. I'm at work most of the day—do you really think I'd leave her here with alcohol? That's just stupid."

"Well, I could use one."

We both could. It doesn't mean one will magically appear.

"I need to find her," I say, almost to myself.

"She'll come back," Avery says, softly. "Maybe you should stay and work this out."

I give her an icy look. "There is nothing to work out. Scout is my priority. You don't get that, but get this—I love her."