Unbroken (7 page)

The longer I stare at him, the more my panting morphs from anger to lust. I want him so bad, it’s fucking insane.

“You’re a bitch,” he says, the first time he’s spoken directly to me tonight.

My heart drops to my feet and I stagger fractionally like I’ve been hit. He may as well have hit me, saying that to me.

My mind flashes to that night, to Maddox, to Bianca, to the vulnerable look on her face and the malicious one on his as he pinned me to the wall, spat at the ground near my feet, and called me a bitch…

I almost let it consume me, that feeling of inadequacy, but I don’t. I blink at Brody and give him a smile.

I laugh. “And you’re pathetic. Great to meet you.”

Nickayla gives me a peculiar look before she grabs Brody by his shoulders, physically turning him around and ushering him toward the door. “Come on, B.”

I sit back on the bar stool, reaching for the Oreo milkshake, holding it in my lap as I cross my legs.

I reassess the last five minutes, realizing that because of my assault on him and my damned soliloquy, I’ve likely ruined any chance I might have had—no matter how miniscule—to get his attention in a romantic way.

I practically inhale the milkshake, letting that image of him dripping wet and incredibly sexy slip into my psyche. I memorize every inch of him, fairly certain that I’m never going to see Brody again after this.

I don’t bother looking to the door, and I don’t bother hoping that he’ll walk through it again. It’s useless.

The only thing I have to look forward to is seeing Maddox for another week until he goes back to school, and I’d much rather stick pins in my eyes than have to look at that piece of shit one more time.

I hear the front door close again, and I know it’s not a customer because we’re officially closed for the evening. It could only be an employee coming in. So I look up from my pitcher and watch as Nickayla wearily makes her way over to me once more.

“Interesting choice of friends you’ve got there, Nickayla,” I say, setting the milkshake down.

She winces at my words, and she plops down on a stool beside me. “I’m sorry. He’s not normally like this. He’s had a rough—”

Now it’s my turn to wince at hers. “Day?”

Shaking her head, I notice how sadness takes over her expression. “No. Brody’s had a rough LIFE. And then, to top it all off, the only girl he’s ever loved slipped right through his fingers last summer.”

With a sigh, I close my eyes. I run through my head all the physical injuries he has, and I can’t help but wonder how many emotional ones he has to accompany them. Guys my age don’t just get white girl wasted just because they have nothing better to do. There’s something ailing his heart and his mind, and shit, I probably made it all worse with my comments. God, he was right. I really
am
a bitch.

I look up at Nickayla for any sign of judgment in her expression, because as his friend, I’m sure that she’s going to take his side in all of this. She doesn’t even know me. But when I catch her gaze, I’m surprised at what I find. She’s smiling, and all I see is understanding etched upon her face.

“So you’re saying I should forgive him for calling me a bitch?” I ask her.

With a laugh, she shakes her head. “Well, to be fair, you doused him with water and called him pathetic.” With a cock of an eyebrow, I’ve silenced her, because that’s hardly the point. I was always taught that it was never okay for any man to call any girl a bitch, no matter what. “I’m not saying you have to forgive him. Nor does he have to forgive you. But, when he returns to apologize—and he will—just…go a little easy on him. Please? The last thing he needs is another girl he thinks hates him.”

Her words resonate with me, even after she swivels around on her bar stool, hops off, and heads out the door without another word or a backward glance.

I’m left completely dumbfounded and feeling guiltier than ever over the things I’ve said to him.

FIVE

“DURHAM, YOU’RE OFF THE CLOCK,” Mr. Hastings, the owner of Hastings Auto Repair says, snapping his fingers in my general direction. “I can’t pay you for overtime this week.”

Rolling the creeper out from beneath the car I’m working on, I wipe my brow with the back of my hand and glare up at him.

At sixty five, he’s probably the best friend that I have in my life besides Nickayla and Colin.

He’s an old family friend. Mr. Quinn worked here when he was in high school, and he gave his old boss a character reference for me when I needed it.

I’ve been working at Hastings every summer since I was thirteen, and every day after school since I was sixteen. I’m the best mechanic he’s got, taking all my lessons and pointers from Nickayla’s oldest brother Nathan, and their father.

I’m not like most people.

I don’t find my solace or my safe haven in songs, or books, or movies. I don’t have that one special friend who magically makes everything in the world better. My heart won’t be healed because one girl comes in and declares that she’s the one who can fix what ails me.

No.

I feel at my safest when I’m under the hood, in a beater and an old pair of jeans, getting down to the nitty gritty. It’s the one place where I can focus on one thing and one thing only. When I’m working on a car, I don’t have a large enough attention span to focus on anything but the issues in front of me at the time. So when I’m working on a car, all I focus on is why Miss June Morgan, daughter of our mayor, Eugene Morgan, can’t get her Malibu to start. Everything else is locked away until later, because I can’t risk fucking up on something that belongs to our best customer.

It’s the only break I get, and I relish every second I’m in this auto shop, because every second I’m here, nothing else matters.

“C’mon, let me finish June’s car. It’ll only be an hour more,” I implore. “I can lock up for you, too.”

Mr. Hastings shakes his head and peers down at me. “Not this week, Brody. Get up.”

I give him a scowl and when I get to my feet, he chuckles under his breath.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and glare at him. “What’s so funny?”

With a shake of his head, he continues to laugh. “I can’t tell you how many times your mom stormed through that front door with that same exact look on her face.” He pats me on the shoulder, and squeezes it. “She used to come in here every day after school looking for someone to talk to about your dad. And she’d have
that
look on her face every single time.” He pauses. “You have to go home, Brody. Shit, I can barely live with myself knowing that I work you like a dog for minimum wage and groceries every Friday when you’re the best fucking mechanic I’ve got. I’m not gonna overwork you knowing good and damn well I can’t pay you for it.”

I don’t know what I’m more pissed about. The fact that he brought Mom up, the fact that he’s talking about her early relationship with my dad, or the fact that he’s putting me out of the only place I feel safe.

“C’mon, Eddie, you know I don’t give a shit about that. Just let me finish—”

“No. You get the Hell out of my shop and go be a kid. Me, I’m gonna go spend time with my wife.”

“Eddie!”

He braces both hands on my shoulders and shakes his head. “No. You’re eighteen. Go
be
eighteen.”

I know he means well, but that’s fucking impossible for me. I don’t get to be a reckless, carefree eighteen year old. Shit, I didn’t even get to be that way as a kid. I took care of Mom after she came home from chemo, both times she was diagnosed, making sure she was well-rested and stress-free. I took care of Dad as he drowned his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle after hearing the second time that the prognosis wasn’t good, crying and punching holes in the wall of his man cave. I took care of Dalis and Cason so they could never see how fucked up things really were in our household.

I never had the chance to take care of me.

Being eighteen isn’t an option, especially now. There’s too much at stake, too many people counting on me.

And what’s worse is, thanks to my dad, all my dreams have been reduced to dust. I can’t afford to go off to college—if I
had
even applied to any besides the local community college—and even if I could, I can’t afford to go off to college and take Cason and Dalis with me.

I shake my head at all the thoughts racing through my head.

“Fine. Whatever. I’m the only worker willing to put in over time and you treat me like this.
Fine
.”

Eddie blanches. I’m pissed and he knows it. Shit, I’m
right,
too.

“Listen, I love you, kid. You know I do. And I loved your mom growing up. It’s because I love you that I’m doing this.” My head jerks away from my shirt that I’ve worried over putting on. “You’ve been dealt a lot of shit hands in life, Durham. Your parents got married, had you too young. They made it work, and then your mom goes and gets sick. She finally gets better, and the cancer comes back and offs her. Your
dad
—” I notice the contempt dripping from his tone as he says it, “is one sorry fucking excuse for a human being, and you’re left to take care of everything at twelve. I know what your life is like; I’ve lived it with you since the day you showed up here six years ago asking for a job. It’s for that reason, and that reason alone that I need you to get out of here.
Now.
”

I don’t bother looking back at him once I grab my shit and get out of the shop. I reach in my backpack for my hoodie and pull it over my head. My phone’s in the pocket of my hoodie, my earbuds wrapped around it.

I’m thankful for Mama’s insistence that I have one, because then I wouldn’t have a kickass soundtrack for my walk to the bus stop.

By now, I’ve already decided what my mission is: I have to apologize to Sabrina.

Now that I can put a name to her face, I feel an even stronger pull to her than I did before. She’s been haunting me ever since that fateful day two years ago, and now that I know she’s still here, she’s within reach, she has a
name
and she works with Nic, there’s no chance I can screw this up now.

I can’t get the look on her face out of my head, the one she wore for just a millisecond when I called her a bitch, and how it was a punch to the gut. I caught a flash of emotion in her eyes then, and it’s one I never want to see again. Her eyes begged someone to help her with her struggles, but you wouldn't know by looking at the smile she had mastered over the years. She looked straight through me with an icy stare that cut me wide open. Like there’s some asshat out there who’s called her a bitch before, sober, and he meant it. For a second, in her eyes, I was that guy. And I hated myself for it. Then she hit me with a poker face, smiled, and called me pathetic.

What the Hell was that?

I didn’t know. But I wanted to.

God, how I wanted to.

I bob my head to Avenged Sevenfold’s
Welcome to the Family
as I make my way down Fairfield. It’s one of the main streets, and if I catch the number 8 from Fairfield, it should drop me right in front of
Le Chateau D’If.

I sit down on the bus bench, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees as I wait on the bus to come.

The bus ride shouldn’t take too long, as long as it gets here quick enough.

I don’t wait long. Eight minutes, tops. The bus pulls up and I climb on, tapping my bus fare card.

I take a window seat, leaning my head against the window and watching the streets of Harlow pass by me.

Making this trip is the best thing I can do right now. She deserves better than what I gave her, and I want her to know that I’m not normally that way. Seeing Mom, and then seeing her with that guy…it did something to me. I wasn’t myself, and I hate myself for talking to her the way I did, for letting her see me vulnerable.

I want to make it right, no matter what it takes, I’ll do it.

“75TH AND FAIRFIELD” reads the LED sign in the front of the bus. I push the button to signal that I want to get off the bus, and I stand up to await my stop.

When the bus stops, I hop off and thank the driver as I do so. I’m all about thanking the everyday people who do the littlest things, because they do the things that no one else would.