Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (24 page)

“What’ll happen to you?” she said, looking
shocked over what I’d done.

“Nuthin’, cos my dad and his mate went to
see one of the mechanics to ask him to get the charges dropped.” I sniggered,
my father’s version of
asking
not like other people’s. Hemi had told me
that my dad had barged into the guy’s house, slamming him up against the wall.
The mechanic had pissed himself, crying he’d do whatever my father wanted.

Mrs. Hatton frowned, still not looking
happy.

“Don’t look so worried, miss, I’m all good
now, plus I’ve had a lot worse than this done to me,” I said, touching my
bruised cheek. “This is nuthin’.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me and I
don’t like seeing you hurt.”

I smiled, her words sweet.

The corner of her mouth pulled up a little,
looking like she wanted to mirror my smile, but was too upset to, my bruised
face obviously affecting her more than it should. Again, I found it sweet,
making me like her even more.

She glanced past me. “I made you some
notes,” she said, changing the subject.

I glanced over my shoulder, spotting a
pile of papers stacked on a small glass coffee table. I turned my head back to
her, catching her ogling my body. I was wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a
black T-shirt, with a weather-beaten leather jacket over the top.

I slipped the jacket off slowly,
emphasising what I was doing, a slow striptease for her. Her eyes instantly
flicked back up to my face, obviously startled that I’d caught her.

I smiled. “Like what you see?”

She shook her head vigorously. “I wasn’t
looking at you like that.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said with more force. “So stop
fishing for compliments. You’re here to study, not to hit on me.”

I barked out a laugh, thinking she had a
nerve. “You were the one checking me out.”

“I was not!” She lifted her chin up,
looking so damn cute that I wanted to give her a big hug. “And I think we need
to set some ground rules before I start tutoring you.”

I smirked, finding her words amusing. Only
hours ago I was at the police station for stealing and she expected me to
follow some lame arse rules?

“I think you already know I’m not good
with rules,” I finally said.

“Too bad, you’re in my house and will
abide by them.”

“You sound like an old fart sayin’ that,”
I replied, the woman definitely not looking like one. She was wearing a pink T-shirt
and a faded denim skirt, while her face was makeup free, making her look a lot younger
than she normally did, so young she could easily pass off as a senior. I
wondered what she’d look like in a school uniform. The thought made my dick
twitch.

She scowled at me. “Regardless, if you
want me to tutor you, you have to do as you’re told.”

“Okay, hit me,” I replied, willing to give
her some leeway.

“I’m not going to hit you!” she spluttered
out.

I rolled my eyes, stupidity contagious
tonight. “I meant, tell me the rules.”

“Oh, okay.” She cleared her throat, appearing
embarrassed. “You’re not to say or do anything sexual. You will also not swear
or be rude to me.”

“I often blurt things out before I think.
It’s not always intentional.”

“Try your best.”

“Whatever.” I tossed my jacket onto a
stand by the front door and headed for what looked like a passageway.

She rushed after me. “Where do you think
you’re going?”

“To the bog.” I glanced back at her.
“Where is it?”

She pointed to a door on my right. I
entered the toilet and did my business quickly, then zipped up and headed back
out into the passage, glancing through the doorway on my right, the large bed
catching my attention. My gaze flicked to the other doorway that led to the lounge,
spotting Mrs. Hatton sitting on the couch, flicking through her notes. Unable
to help myself, I turned and walked into her bedroom. It was blander than the
other rooms, a tan colour coating the walls. I ran my fingers over the cabinet,
seeing my reflection in the dresser’s mirror. As usual, my hair was unruly, while
the skin around my left eye was colourful, along with a reddish bruise on my
cheek. Added to my ripped jeans and black T, I looked like one of my father’s
biker mates, someone who should be fixing engines or drinking at the bar
instead of in a clean-cut, suburban house.

I picked up a framed photo off the nightstand
and ran a finger over a picture of Mrs. Hatton and a man, who I assumed was her
husband. They were a visual match made in heaven, with their blonder than
blonde hair and shiny Colgate smiles. But like one of those teeth adverts, it
came across as fake, the smiles disappearing once the cameras had stopped
shooting. Instead, they looked like two attractive
Pakehas
—white folk, who’d
been put together purely because they fitted the sweetsie, middle-class stereotype
the advertiser wanted to convey, one so different from my world.

I put the picture down and turned to the bed,
which was perfectly made. I wondered where her husband was. Even though I knew
it was wrong to do, I flopped back onto the mattress, wondering what it would
be like to live in a place like this and to have a nice woman like Mrs. Hatton
to wake up to. For a moment, I felt jealous of her husband, wishing I had what he
had.

“Dante?” Mrs. Hatton called out. “Where
are you?”

“In here, miss,” I called back, having no
intention of getting up. I didn’t care if she found me on her bed. If anything,
I wanted her to. It excited me, making me wonder whether we could do more
interesting things than study.

She appeared in the doorway. “What are you
doing?!” she yelled. Her horrified gaze lowered down me, her eyes widening
further. I glanced down at what she was looking at. The bottom of my black
shirt had ridden up, displaying part of my abs, while the top of my jeans was hanging
low, the waistband of my underwear only just covering my cock.

Pushing up onto my elbows, I stared at her
from under the fringe of my messy hair. “I wanted to lie down where you fucked,”
I said, interested in seeing her reaction.

“You’re unbelievable,” she gasped.

I winked. “Only in the sack.”

Her steel-grey eyes flared at me. “Get off
my bed!”

“Chill, there’s no needa flip out,” I
replied, the woman wound up tighter than a nun’s cunt.

“I will
not
chill! I just told you
not to do anything sexual, yet here you are,” she waved a hand at me, “already
breaking my rules. Worse, you’re not only disrespecting me, you’re
disrespecting my husband.”

I flopped back onto the mattress, doing a bed
angel on it. “Not like he’s gonna find out,
unless
you tell him.”

“Will you just get off my bed!”

“Nah,” I glanced at her, feeling like I
could fall asleep here so easily, her bed much more comfortable than mine. “When’s
your man back?”

“Soon. And if he finds you in here, he’ll
kick you to kingdom come.”

I laughed. “You said
come
.”

“Stop being childish, and for the last
time,
get off
my bed or I won’t tutor you, which means you won’t get to
see your grandparents.”

I tensed at the mention of my grandparents.
Although I knew it was an empty threat, I couldn’t stop the sudden onslaught of
anger. It was hard to explain, especially since I’d been happy a second ago.
No. I was wrong. One of my doctors had explained why. He said I was bipolar.
Just like my dad.

23

CLARA

Dante pushed up off the bed, the mention
of his grandparents wiping away his humour in the blink of an eye. He was now looking
at me like his father had, a mixture of anger and lust rolled into one. Not
only that, his hands were clenching, as though he wanted to throttle me, the
sudden change in his demeanour startling.

He advanced on me, making me back up into
my vanity. He stopped in his tracks, a frown pulling at his brow. “Are you
scared of me?” he asked, his expression a touch surprised, like he didn’t
realise how terrifying he looked.

“No,” I forced out.

His upper lip twitched, a slight sneer
pulling at it. “Liar, liar, your G-string’s on fire.”

I didn’t deny it, knowing he would see
right through me anyway.

He cocked his head to the side, blatantly
staring at me. Freaked out, I held his gaze, too afraid to look away.

“Meow!” he said loudly, making me jump.

I placed a hand on my chest, feeling my
heart pounding against my palm.

He sneered at me. “You’re such a pussy.” He
spun on his heel and disappeared out of my room, leaving me standing there,
shaking from what he’d done. “You comin’?” he called from the lounge. Laughter
followed. “I bet you are. Just do it quick, cos you hafta teach me.”

I clenched my hands, his words angering me.
He’d scared the living daylights out of me and now he was laughing? It was
probably all a joke to him, a big fat joke.

“
Miss?
” he called out again.

“Just wait!” I snapped, not only annoyed
with him, but with myself for taking his bait.

“I’m not a doctor, so hurry up.”

Not knowing what he was talking about, I headed
for the lounge. He was sitting on the couch, looking up at me with a question
in his eye, the air of smugness I’d expected to see absent.

“You gonna teach me or what?” he asked.

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared
down at him. “I think you should leave.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“I won’t tolerate your behaviour.”

“Then, call my dad and tell him you don’t
wanna tutor me anymore.” He smiled.

“He can’t make me tutor you,” I replied,
fully aware he was using his father as a threat.

“Didn’t say he could, but it’ll be a
whole
lot easier for you if you don’t get on his wrong side. According to my
baba
,
he’s ‘
not a very nice man’
, which translates to
‘he’s a gang-banging
bastard, who’ll rip you a new hole if you don’t do what he wants
’.” Dante laughed.
“So, what do ya say, miss, you gonna teach me?”

My right hand flexed, the desire to slap
him running high, but instead I glanced at the phone sitting on the side table,
contemplating calling his father.
And dreading it.
One conversation with
that man was more than enough. I could still see his harsh, tattooed face
staring down at me, the hostility in his dark eyes menacing. I looked back at
Dante, thinking he was the better of two evils—and he
was
an evil
bastard with the way he was smirking at me. I didn’t know how he could go from
nice to nasty within seconds. He had such a conflicting personality, a variety
of moods that popped up at any given time, changing from one to the other without
warning.

“Well?” he asked.

I didn’t reply, still wanting to kick his
arrogant arse out of my house—and with a steel-capped boot. I was starting to hate
the control he had over me, and it wasn’t to do with how attractive I found him.
It was his personality. He had an annoying ability to twist everything his way,
forcing me to relent to what he wanted, even after he’d done something horrible.

“You gonna answer me?” he asked.

I wrapped my arms around my midsection. “Stop
provoking me. I’m doing you a favour here.”

He frowned, giving the impression I’d made
him feel guilty. He looked back down at the pile of notes on the coffee table. They
were a thick stack of A4 sized sheets of paper, something I’d photocopied from
an old tutorial I’d taught on
Animal Farm
.

He ran a finger over them and looked up at
me. “Are these for me?” he asked.

I nodded. “They’re this week’s notes,” I
replied, wanting an apology, but not willing to press for one, at least happy
he was getting back to what he was here for.

His eyebrows shot up. “You’ve gotta be
shitting me?”

“No, why?”

“There’s a mother lode here. There’s no
way we’re gonna get through all of this tonight.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to take them
home to study.”

He gave me an incredulous look.

I shook my head at him, exasperated with
his slack attitude. He hadn’t done any homework for me whatsoever since the
start of term, even after I’d agreed to listen to his poem. I wondered how he’d
managed to worm his way into Year Eleven, because he didn’t deserve to be
there.

“Don’t look at me like that, Dante, you
can’t expect to do no homework.”

Grumbling under his breath, he focused on
the front page, his annoyed expression growing. “How am I s’posed to study at
home when I can’t understand half the words you use?” he said, glancing back up
at me.

“What do you mean?” I asked, the notes written
for his age level.

He pointed to something on the page. “I
have no idea what this means. Or this,” he said, jabbing at my notes. “You
needa simplify the motherfuckin’ shit outta things.”

“What did I say about swearing?” I growled.

His upper lip twitched. “Spank me later,
cos right now you needa fix this.”

“No, I don’t. You
are
learning
English. If you don’t understand something just ask.”

“What about when I’m home?”

“Use a dictionary or the internet.”

“I don’t have a computer,” he grunted. “I
live in Wera, not your prissy neighbourhood, where everyone shits diamonds. And
that dipshit who dropped me off stole my dictionary to make spliffs.”

“What are spliffs?”

“Like hand-rolled cigarettes, but with pot
inside. He fuckin’ smoked my dictionary. I used it for rhyming since it had a thesaurus
at the back. I reckon he did it to get back at me for calling him Jabba the
Hutt. He’s a vindictive bastard, even more than Adolf Aston.”

I bit back a smirk at the jab at Paul. “You
have an interesting way of speaking,” I said, wondering whether he ever
censored himself. It was abundantly clear why he was one of the most unpopular
students amongst the teachers, his name thrown around the staffroom with venom.

He frowned. “You’re not calling me dumb,
are ya? Cos I
hate
it when people call me that. I know I ain’t bright,
but it doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I get by, plus I’m real good with money, well,
sort of.” He grimaced. “I just can’t seem to keep it.”

I shook my head, his words amusing me. “I’m
not insulting you; I already told you I think you have a clever way with words.
You also have a unique way of speaking.”

“I like the way you speak better. You
pronounce everything perfectly. When I speak, people assume I’m a dumb cunt cos
of my accent,” he said, seemingly incapable of not swearing. “It’s just the way
I wuz brought up to say things, it doesn’t reflect what’s in here.” He tapped
his head.

“You’re quite right.”

He paused for a moment, looking like he
hadn’t expected me to agree with him. “So, you truly don’t think I’m dumb?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that
before you believe me?”

“A thousand times, cos people have a habit
of lying to me.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Why?” he asked, his expression dubious.

“Why what?”

“Why would you think I’m bright? You’ve only
seen two pieces of my work.”

“You picked up the part of Othello incredibly
fast,” I replied, finally feeling comfortable enough to sit down next to him. “You
don’t make any mistakes, whereas Phelia constantly trips over her lines.”

“It’s cos she’s hot for me. A lot of girls
stutter around me.”

“Yes, I did notice she likes you,” I said,
unhappy about it. I didn’t delve into the reason why it bothered me, fully
aware I wouldn’t like the answer. “Is she harassing you? I noticed you getting
mad at her for touching you the other day.”

He dropped his gaze, focusing on the stack
of papers. “Everyone touches me, so no worries, I’m used to it,” he said, not
sounding convincing.

“What do you mean by
everyone
touches you?” I asked, now concerned. “And deFINE
everyone
.”

He shrugged. “Girls at school have a habit
of brushing up against me, while the ones gagging for it, like Phelia, outright
feel me up. Also, some of the gang moles grope and kiss me. I tend to tell my dad
’bout those mangy bitches and he sets them straight.” He paused for a moment, a
frown creasing his brow, his expression turning troubled. “For once it would be
nice if a woman I wanted touched me.” He looked up at me. “Like you.” He leaned
forward, giving the impression he was going to kiss me.

I shot up off the couch. “What are you
doing?”

He exhaled, his expression disappointed.
“I’m guessing not you?”

“You got that right! I’m married.”

“I’ve had married women hit on me loads of
times, it doesn’t bother me.”

“I’m not hitting on you,” I replied,
annoyed he’d directed the conversation back to sex. It made me want to throttle
him.

He pushed to his feet. “Maybe, maybe not,
but like Phelia you’re still hot for me. And since your husband’s away, we can
fuck without gettin’ caught.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “I
don’t
want
to have sex with you, and how did you know my husband’s away?” I asked, now
worried. “Have you been spying on me?”

He snorted. “No. I only knew he wuz away cos
you lied to me.”

“About what?”

“Him comin’ home. If you’re gonna lie
convincingly look the person in the eye. Don’t twitch and drop your gaze, it’s
a dead giveaway. Even better,
actually
believe it. Half the shit I say, I
talk myself into thinking is real even when it ain’t. It’s
how no one
can tell when I’m lying.”

I didn’t reply, again upset he could see right
through me, not to mention a little concerned by his lying admission.

He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you’re uptight.
Chill, it’s only words. Not like I’m gonna jump your bones if you don’t want my
dick.”

He slumped back down on the couch and picked
up a pen. He refocused on the notes, asking me a question about a word I’d
used. I mumbled the definition, not sure if I could handle sitting next to him
again. No matter what he promised, he wouldn’t stop provoking me, continually
throwing me into a flustered state.

He looked back up at me, asking me what another
word meant as though he hadn’t just propositioned me, the way he moved between
talking about sex and study deeply unsettling.

“I mentioned the meaning in class,” I
replied, rubbing my left arm nervously.

“I don’t remember, maybe I wuzn’t there.”

I repeated what it meant. He scribbled on
the paper, writing down the definition. He inquired about another word, making
me relax enough to sit down on the armrest, the two cushions between us enough
of a buffer.

My skirt rode up my thighs. I tugged it
down, freezing as his eyes locked onto what I was doing, his gaze directed
between my legs. He shook his head and refocused on the notes, mumbling
something under his breath I couldn’t decipher. He turned the page, asking a
few more questions. I answered them all, eventually wrestling control of the
tutorial, Dante surprisingly paying attention to what I was saying. It allowed
me to relax enough to sit down on the cushion a space away from him. Though, I
still felt on edge—until the end, when he asked how Old Major in
Animal Farm
could possibly represent John Lennon. I’d stared at him blankly for a
moment, then burst out laughing, realising he’d gotten Lennon mixed up with
Lenin.

“Why are you laughing?” he snapped, his
angry scowl amusing in itself.

“I wasn’t talking about the singer,” I
said, not even feeling sorry for laughing, Dante not deserving my consideration
after the way he’d treated me. “I was referring to Vladimir Lenin, the Russian
communist revolutionary.”

“How the hell am I s’posed to know that?”
he pouted. “Lennon is more famous than some Russian dude I’ve never heard of.”

I laughed again, finding what he’d said
hilarious.

“Stop laughing at me!”

I covered my mouth. “I’m sorry,” although
I wasn’t. “It’s not your fault. It’s just... Lenin is extremely famous. He was
one of the most important political figures and revolutionary thinkers from
last century.”