Beautiful Broken (9 page)

Four years clean—no pain pills or drugs—and I still think I’ll relapse.

The group leader is looking around the room—meth mom has fallen silent, and he's searching for someone to share. I see his gaze settle on Scout, and I shift, drawing his attention.

"Would you like to share?" he asks.

I hesitate—I'm only here to support Scout. But I can feel the tension radiating off of her, and I know she isn't ready. I shrug.

"I'm Dane. Four years clean. It's been a while since my last meeting."

"What brought you back?"

My gaze darts to Scout. "It's been a while. Support is always good, right?"

I don't like them watching me. Don't like how they want to know why I used and what and my darkest moments—it's all shit that doesn't need to be dragged up, and I just want to shut it down. But if I share, I’m giving Scout a little time to get comfortable. So I do.

After group ends, I feel raw and exposed. It doesn't matter that I didn't reveal anything important to a roomful of strangers. The sensation is there, and it makes me feel itchy, like my skin is too tight.

"What do you wanna do for dinner?" Scout asks, and I pause to glance at her.

I want to go to a club and find some girl to screw—anything that will work off the energy buzzing under my skin. But instead I say, "Order Chinese. We'll pick it up on the way home."

Scout grins as she slides into the Viper, already dialing.

After she's repeated the order—three times—she hangs up and looks at me. "We've got thirty minutes."

We end up going to Walmart, stocking up on orange juice and cookies before picking up a new board game to play. It's domestic and calming—I'm startled by how calming. The annoyed antsy feeling fades as I watch her try on sunglasses and scarves.

"Dane!"

I jerk around at the sound of Mel's voice. I stare as she pushes a cart full of groceries at me, an elegant older woman at her side.

Her mother.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, starting to go up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek.

Scout steps out from the rack of scarves, some fluffy purple nonsense wrapped around her neck. I watch Mel drop back down, watch the smile leech from her face, replaced briefly by shock and anger. And then she's just blank.

"Oh. I didn't realize you were with someone," she says, giving Scout a questioning look.

Scout smiles. "Hey, Mel. It's good to see you again."

"
Scout
?"

She doesn't look the same—I knew it, but hearing the shock in Mel's voice confirms it. Scout grins. "Yep. It's good to see you." Her smile dims a little when she looks at the other woman. Mel looks flustered. Off balance.

"Um, I'm gonna go check out, Dane. See you at the car?"

I nod, passing her my keys and wallet. She gets a mischievous gleam in her eye, and I add, "Do not move my car, Grimes."

Then I turn back to Mel. She's regained her composure and motions at her mother. "Dane, my mother. Mama, this is my boyfriend, Dane Guillot."

Beth Philips is a pretty woman—what I imagine Mel will look like in another thirty years. Her hair is soft and has a hint of gray. She is somehow elegant and refined, despite wearing jeans and a button-down top.

"It's nice to meet you, finally," she says, a hint of censure in her tone.

I bare my teeth in a parody of a smile. "Likewise."

"You should join us for dinner," Mel says, almost desperately.

What the hell am I doing with her? It's not like I'm ever going to give her what she wants. I'm not cut out for picket fences and two point five kids.

I should cut her loose—for her own good as much as mine. It's a relationship that was dead before it started, and, I don't even want her. I want the girl with my keys and the taste of oranges.

"Dane?" Mel prompts, and I shake my head, sharply.

"Sorry, I can't tonight. But maybe we can do lunch tomorrow, Mel. Just us?"

Something flickers in her eyes, and she nods. "Of course. I'll have Lane set it up with Glenda."

I nod and turn away, desperate suddenly for space. I can't deal with Mel and her silent demands right now. Can't deal with her mother's judgment. The itchy feeling is coming back. I want to punch something.

Scout is waiting, bags safely stowed in the tiny backseat. She gives me a questioning look, and I shake my head a little. I don't want to talk about it—I just want to get dinner and go home and pretend this evening never happened.

I wake up in my bed, the darkness broken by light from the hall. My sheets are sticking to me, tangled and sweaty, and my throat feels raw.

Like I've been screaming.

The bedroom door bangs open, and I shriek. Then his arms slide around me—comforting, bracing, protective. I whimper and close my eyes.

He
is there, leering at me from the darkness, his breath hot and reeking of tequila. I gag and bolt from Dane's lap. I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm violently and messily sick.

Dane's hand on my back tells me he's here. "Shh, easy, Scout. Just breathe." I can't—I keep heaving even after my stomach is empty and my muscles cramp. Finally, he pulls me away from the toilet. He settles me into his lap, one hand wrapped around the back of my neck, the other a band around my hips, gently kneading the skin there.

"Talk to me, Scout. Tell me what's going on in that beautiful head of yours," he murmurs.

"He was there. Holding me down—like it all happened again. I screamed and no one came, Dane. No one fucking came." I shudder and tears leak out, despite my best efforts.

He's still, tense under me. "How often do you dream, Scout?"

"Every night."

His grip tightens, and I make a low quiet noise. His grip tightens more. "How long?"

"Since the attack. It's why I started using. When I was high enough, or crashing, I didn't dream."

He shifts me off his lap, slapping my butt until I stand. He rises gracefully and turns to the shower. The water heats, steam billowing around us. Dane looks back at me. "You didn't have nightmares last night."

It's a statement, but I nod anyway. "You’re safe—you always have been. You keep the nightmares away."

He visibly flinches at that, and I almost apologize. Instead, I wait, watching him. He fiddles with the faucet then nods. "Get in. I'll get you some clothes."

Without waiting for me to respond, he stalks out of the bathroom.

I strip slowly and step into the water. It's almost too, hot but I like it, the needles stinging against my skin. I scrub twice, and then a third time because I can't shake that dirty feeling. I can still feel
his
hands on my skin, his weight holding me down. Tears trickle down my cheek. I try to pretend it’s only water, but I'm on my knees, sobbing, and I can't stop.

Dane

I can hear her crying, her sobs shredding through me like sharp knives. I don't even know what to do with her quiet words.
You keep the nightmares away
.

I'm not good at this. I've been broken and breaking things for years. The best—smartest—thing to do would be to call Atti and have him come take care of her.

But I want to be strong for her.

That's the thing—I know I can't be, but it doesn't stop the want to be
better
for Scout. I shake my head and open the door, dropping clothes on the counter. In the foggy mirror, I can see the shape of her, huddled on the floor of the big shower. "Are you okay?" I ask.

She sniffles. "I'll be out in a minute."

It's a clear request for space, so I back away, reluctantly giving it to her. Pull on a pair of faded flannel pants that I wear when Dad comes to town, and sit on her bed.

Scout comes in a few minutes later, wrapped in the scent of oranges and soap and wearing a shirt three sizes too big.

My shirt looks amazing on her.

"Do you want to sleep here or my room?" I ask.

Her eyes widen. She might ask—almost opens her mouth to ask—but then she shakes her head and says, "Yours."

I nod and switch off her lamp, leading the way down the hall. I let her crawl into bed, tucking the blankets around her when she shivers, then slip in on my side and hit the lights. "Dane?" she whispers in the dark.

"We'll talk in the morning, Scout. Go to sleep."

There aren't any more nightmares. For either of us.

I grab the OJ, a muffin, and my laptop, and pad back to my bedroom. Scout is curled up on her side, soft and innocent while sleeping. I put the muffin and OJ down and settle against my headboard, half-watching her while I search listings at local dealerships.

I don't have long to wait. Within twenty minutes, she's twisting, stretching like a lazy cat before she rolls on her back and peers at me. "What are you doing?" she asks, her voice hoarse.

"Looking at cars." I hand her the juice, which she sips before setting it on the table and leaning against my arm. "Bubba's has a few little cars that would be good for you. Good safety ratings."

"What time is it? I guarantee it’s too early for you to be talking about safety ratings."

I grin. "It's just after nine." She looks up at me, startled, and I kiss her forehead. "I took the day off."

Which means in about thirty minutes, I'll be fielding a furious phone call. But for now...I close the laptop and wrap my arms around her, pulling her tighter to my side. "When do you see your therapist?"

"Friday." Two days.

I nod. Clear my throat. "Scout, I can't deal with those nightmares. I can't see you like that."

She curls in on herself and I curse. Drag her onto my lap so she's straddling me and force her to meet my gaze.

"Seeing you like that killed me, Ittybitty. I can't handle it—and there is an alternative."

I take a deep breath. I'm gambling. "I want you to stay with me, while you’re here."

She freezes, stiff in my arms. I rub her arms, staring into her eyes.

"This is a safe place, Scout. I'm not asking for you to screw me—I want to help you."

She takes a shuddering breath and blinks. A tear breaks free, trailing down her cheek.

"You don't want me?"

I shift her, and her eyes dilate as she hits my erection. I hiss—I can feel the heat of her through her thin panties, and it's not enough. I grip her hips, pulling her tight against me, thrusting against her hot core. She whimpers, her head falling forward to rest in the crook of my shoulder. I nip at her earlobe. Suck it softly and whisper, "What do you think, Ittybitty? Does this—" I grind her hips into me. "—feel like rejection?"

She gasps, and I shove my hands into the soft silk of her hair, bringing her mouth to mine. Her lips part, and her tongue darts out, rubbing against mine. She sucks my bottom lip into her mouth. I groan.

Scout smiles, a saucy mischievous grin that makes me want to tie her to my bed and lick her until she's screaming my name.

My phone rings and she jerks away. I glance at it, not terribly surprised. "Get dressed and we'll go find you a car." She slips out of bed and I call her name. "Scout?"

She looks at me, her lips red from my kiss, her nipples tight against the cotton of my shirt.

"This is safe. Whatever does or doesn't happen in this room—it's your choice, and it is
safe
. Do you understand?"

She nods, a tiny smile on her lips. I watch her slip out and grab my phone. It's gone to voicemail, but I know he'll call again.

True to form, he does.

I swallow my sigh and answer. "Hi, Dad."

"Why the hell are you not in the office?"

No "Good morning." No "Is something wrong?" This isn’t a social call from my father. It’s an ass-chewing from the man who still thinks he’s my boss. "I took a day off. It's one of the perks of owning the firm."

"You have the Simpson case in a week and a half. You don't have time for messing around."

I take a deep breath. "It's not your concern, Dad. I don't work for you. Remember?"

He's quiet—a loaded silence that expresses all of his anger and disapproval. Nothing new there—Dad has been angry and disapproving since I was in law school. Since before that, but who’s counting?

"Are you coming down for Thanksgiving?" I ask, just to kill the silence.

He makes an aggravated noise. "I don't know, Dane. Does it matter? I'll come there, or you can come to me and Heidi."

I wince at the sound of my stepmother's name. "No. I'm not coming to visit y'all."

"You haven't been home in years."

Five years, eight months. That's how long it's been since I went back to Miami.

"I can't come to you this year," I say. "Scout's staying with me, and I can't just leave her here while I traipse over to see you."

"What is that tramp doing with you?" Dad snaps. He hates Scout—he always hated the entire Grimes family. Partly because Michelle gave me a place to stay when I needed one—a place in Branton that wouldn't uproot what little stability I had senior year.

"She's here because I want her here," I answer, forcing my voice to stay even. I hate talking to Dad. It's infuriating and sends me right back to high school, when I still cared about what he thought when he disapproved of me. That was before I knew about Lynnette, the girl two mistresses ago. "And I have to go."