The Broken Hearts' Society of Suite 17C

by LeighAnn Kopans

  Amy forced her lips up into a smile, despite the adrenaline still licking at her insides.

  Matt must have noticed, because he kept talking after a single beat. “Look, we even have something to do. It’s clear out tonight. The stars are out.”

  “That’s unexpected, with the humidity,” Amy blabbered, hoping the mundanity of the conversation would help to calm her insides and steady her limbs enough to get going. Rion’s shift was certainly over by now, and it would only take her a minute or so to get all her stuff together. If Amy was lucky, she’d be good to go in just a few more minutes, and Rion wouldn’t have to wait that long.

  Amy had to admit she was slightly scared of what Rion’s mood would be like if she was super late. She didn’t know the girl well enough yet to know how she’d react.

  “I don’t know. I’m from Chicago, so I hardly ever see them.”

  “Why?”

  “Too much pollution. But this is one of the things I loved about Northern when I came to visit. There’s space, all around it. Room to breathe. I love watching the Indiana Northern stars at night almost as much as I love watching the clouds during the day.”

  “So, do you take all the girls star watching?” The question made Amy’s head spin with confusion as soon as it left her mouth. Even if she was thinking about looking for a relationship right now, which she so definitely wasn’t, he was not her type. Only a couple inches taller than her, wiry frame, light brown hair tinged ginger. He was so…unexceptional. She’d always been attracted to tall guys with lots of muscles, guys who could make her feel like Thumbelina when they gave her a bear hug. Guys who were so larger than life that she practically disappeared when she stood next to them.

  Except there never had been guys. There had been one guy—the guy, or so everyone had thought.

  “Yeah,” Matt said, and Amy found herself surprised at his reaction. “I’ve brought one or two out here. That’s why I like you. You’re the one who brought me here.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “And I have to say, I’m very glad you did. I’m just now noticing that constellation, right there. It spells your name. “S-A-R-A-H.”

  Oh, so he was a joker. Amy smiled even as she wondered how much of what he’d just said was part of the joke. “Excuse me. That is not my name.”

  “No, of course not. My mistake. There’s your name. J-U-L-I-E.”

  Amy’s smile stretched muscles that hadn’t been used for weeks. “What makes you think there are five letters in my name? Do I seem that complicated to you? I’m a three-letter girl. Simple. Unremarkable.”

  Matt shook his head slowly, catching her eyes again. “Not unremarkable in the least.” Amy looked, suddenly, down at her fingers, which were woven together, and bit her bottom lip. “Okay,” Matt continued. “Duh. There it is right there. S-A-M.”

  A laugh bubbled out of Amy’s throat, and Matt let one loose to match. “Well?” he asked, turning to her. He was only a few inches away from her now, and Amy wondered when he had gotten closer to her. “Three letters. An M, a Y, and an A.”

  “Oh, that’s a beautiful name. Delicious, in fact.”

  Amy’s eyes flared wide. “Excuse me?”

  “Y-A-M. My favorite at Thanksgiving.”

  Now she was grinning, and let the laugh move down to her belly. He looked at her with a mischievous sparkle in his eye, and she smacked him on the shoulder in response.

  “Obviously, Amy, your strength and resolve have returned. Where are we going next?”

  “Oh, no. I can make it to the Studio by myself.”

  “Of course you can. But the only thing left on my to-do list today is sleep, and I won’t be able to unless I see you safe back in your dorm at the end of all this. Okay?”

  Amy took a deep breath, pushing the night air, which suddenly felt clean and new, down into her belly. She relaxed back onto the bench, mimicking Matt’s pose. “Well, only if it’ll help you sleep better.”

  Rion

  “God fucking dammit,” Rion whispered as she slumped against the rough brick of the Studio. She’d managed to keep her head down for her entire shift, answering the phone and completely re-organizing file drawers on her first day. If she had to work there, she was determined to avoid contact with any of the tattoo artists and piercers, half of whom reeked of pot. She thought it would be no problem.

  Ignoring people was harder work than she’d anticipated. These people loved to talk, and especially on weeknights, the Studio could be pretty empty. That gave them even more time to loiter around Rion’s desk and talk her ear off. One of the piercers, Stephanie, spent 20 minutes bent over her shoulder clicking through a Facebook album that only showed furniture her husband had designed for some famous supplier in New York City. Rion knew she was supposed to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and probably say how adorable the two little kids photobombing half the pictures were. Rion knew damn well what that would do, though. It would make Stephanie think they could be friends—and they definitely could not. She only had enough energy to give a shit about herself.

  Ultimately, that was why she’d taken the job at the Studio, even after the idea of working in the same square footage as the wall o’bongs had sent her storming out of there on her interview day. After a quick job search, she’d realized that every single application included that tiny box you could click if you’d ever been convicted of a crime. Everyone knew what checking that box did to your application—got it tossed directly into the circular file. The Studio really was her only chance, so she’d have to make it work. If she stayed behind her desk, and didn’t get involved with any of the loser employees, it would almost be like she wasn’t even associated with them, like she wasn’t even really in that building at all. Almost.

  She had let out a huge sigh of relief when her shift ended at nine and Crash hadn’t showed once. He might as well have been sitting beside her the whole time, though, for as often as he crossed her mind. She scolded herself for her ridiculousness as she packed up her stuff. He’d told her he only worked at the Studio occasionally, which turned out to be correct—if “occasionally” meant “every fucking time Rion was working.” His presence, and his unending glances her way, seemed to scream “I’m a copy of Tate Donovan with extra hotness and extreme fuckability, and if you get involved with me, I’ll ruin your life even more than he did.”

  Rion knew exactly why she’d thought that, too. Crash was try-to-get-a-selfie-with-him-so-you-can-look-at-his-gorgeous-face-any-time, could-probably-work-as-a-romance-novel-cover-model, make-your-pussy-wet-just-by-looking-at-him attractive. It wasn’t just that he was everything that she had always found hot in a guy—beautiful art on his arms, subtle inked designs just under his collarbones—but that the tattoos she could see hinted at the ones covered up by his clothing. And what she couldn’t see was clearly delicious.

  Because Crash worked out. If he was really an artist, and all he did was paint or take pictures or whatever, there was no way his job could give him a body like that, with muscles obvious in every inch of his arms, and a flat stomach that showed ridges through his thin t-shirt. He definitely pumped iron on the side.

  Gym rats were really not typically Rion’s thing, but the more she let her mind wander on the glorious piece of art that was Crash, the more she thought of what he might look like lifting weights, and the more her animal-girl instincts took over. And they told her that she wanted to see Crash again, and that if she did, she’d probably be forced to jump him.

  Which was not, of course, ideal. Because guys who had tattoos and jewelry like that, worked in places like this, and gave themselves names like Crash, clearly had at least one thing wrong with them. At best, it was a humungous self-constructed ego of badassery, and at worst, it was rampant delusions of grandeur bolstered by getting stoned off his ass every chance he got.

  Rion shook her head at her own stupid thoughts as she hitched her bag back up on her shoulder, impatiently scanning the sidewalk for Roommate Goody Two Shoes. It didn’t matter, beca
use there would be no getting stoned, or even drinking. No falling for guys who are clearly punks. No getting wrapped up in shit that could land her in the same lame ladies’ prison as her mother. No negotiation. The deadly combination of pot, stupidity, and being broke had almost ruined her entire education as it was. She wasn’t going to open herself up to it again.

  She picked up her phone and checked for a text message, email, hell, Facebook post, anything from Amy to tell her why the fuck she wasn’t here on time. Amy was the kind of girl who was endlessly careful, who worried that maybe even seatbelts didn’t make a car safe to ride in, and maybe she should drive around wearing a helmet, too. Rion hadn’t realized nine o’ clock would be so fucking dark in the last week of September, but the blue sky was quickly turning navy. It cast an ominous haze over the roads and deepened the shadows in the Francis Street alleyways.

  Rion’s body tensed. If there was one thing spending those sixteen hellish months in the group home had done for her it was teaching her how to throw a punch. College town skeezebuckets couldn’t be more dangerous than group home douchebags. She would have bet her scholarship that Amy had no clue how to fight, though, and Rion suddenly felt a twinge of guilt for asking her to meet her after work. She’d been desperate for some plan to buffer her from any interactions with Crash.

  It didn’t help that Amy really didn’t seem like the kind of girl who was okay with saying no. And Rion really felt like a giant piece of shit for asking her to meet her now, in the dark, alone, just to avoid some pothead, aimless, loser-ass, completely gorgeous guy. A guy who smelled just as delicious as he looked, and—now that she thought about it—not at all like pot.

  Fucking shit, Rion. Focus on avoiding him. Who’s controlling you, your brain or your pussy? You’re worse than a guy.

  She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her bag, closed her eyes at the familiar feel of the smooth paper cylinder passing between her fingers, and lit up.

  Ever since the arrest, she’d been trying to cut back on these cancer-causing sons-of-bitches, and she’d been doing pretty well, too. Three a day the week after she left the group home, then down to two. She’d passed up one and only had one the day after the first Society meeting, and another couple days after that when she couldn’t figure out some dumbassed reading comprehension question to save her life. And now. Now when her head was swimming with a hot guy with full tattoo sleeves. Now when she was surrounded by bongs when she never wanted to see another one in her life. And freaking out over keeping a scholarship that she needed, absolutely needed, to survive.

  Because surviving meant graduating from college, and that meant being able to go it on her own.

  She took a drag off the cigarette and let the sweet, sharp smoke fill her lungs, closing her eyes to take in the feeling and letting herself lean against the building again. She was smoking a cigarette after three days of nail-chewing and willpower. She hadn’t seen Crash today. Amy would be here soon. Things could be much, much worse.

  “You know, those things will kill you,” a smooth baritone voice rumbled out right beside her. She startled and opened her eyes, and the sight of him made her jump. His dark brown hair covered his left eye and made her want to run her hands through it. His lip ring caught the light, calling into focus the sharp angle of his jaw, the beautiful lift of his cheekbones. Worst of all, that art—crisp and decisive, yet intricate art, covering every inch of firm, strong arm— it was like Crash’s entire purpose on Earth was to get Rion to touch him. Her fingers twitched.

  Don’t do it, you bitch. Don’t even think about it. He’s only trouble.

  “We’re all gonna die,” she drawled, fighting to keep her words smooth as butter. “I just might go a few years sooner than I would have otherwise.”

  Crash scoffed. “Okay, sure. Coughing up blood and in incredible pain.”

  Rion’s eyebrows pinched together. “Okay, Principal Buzzkill. Is there anything else I missed in health class?”

  “Yeah. You need to eat three meals a day, especially breakfast.”

  “What makes you think I don’t?” She didn’t. Communal dining situations always made her anxious, almost certainly a holdover from the group home, where mealtimes were a prime setting for fist fights. She hadn’t really considered that when she’d scheduled classes that kept her away from her dorm for a whole day, but with breaks only short enough to let her eat in a dining hall, not take anything back to her room.

  “You’re thin.” He shrugged, letting his eyes sweep down over her.

  “Not where it matters,” she mumbled. She had a great rack and a great ass even if they had shrunk in size too. Crash raised an eyebrow while looking down at her chest.

  “Eyes up here, asshole,” Rion said, and it surprised even her when it came out through a smile, a large part of which was a knee-jerk satisfaction that he was definitely not gay.

  “You mention your boobs, I have to look.”

  “I didn’t say boobs.”

  “But you must have meant them, because you’re right. You’re not thin where it matters.” a slight smile twitched at his lips. “Regardless, I have a weird sort of sixth sense about food. I know when people are hungry. I feel it.”

  Was he standing a little closer now? Her skin prickled at the thought. Control your breaths, Rion. But with him standing so close, she couldn’t help but breathe in his scent. It was sharp and boy-scented, not musky, clean. And absolutely no pot. Huh.

  “What magic is that? Is it the same magic that gave you the name Crash even though that’s not even a real name?”

  “Now that,” he said, standing up, “Is a great philosophical point. What is a real name? Something to think about, isn’t it? What did we read in high school with that theme? Great Expectations? Gatsby? The Count of Monte Cristo? No, I don’t think it’s any of those …”

  Rion glared, forcing her smile back, but sure it was still right there where he could see it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well if you aren’t familiar with those bastions of classic literature, then I certainly wouldn’t expect you to pick up the reference to the classic 1996 video game featuring a wily yet undeniably charming anthropomorphic bandicoot named Crash.”

  “I…um …”

  “I thought not.” Crash shook his head as though it was the biggest disappointment of his day. “But to answer your question, yes. It does come from the same place. My Catholic mother, who passed on her food-pushiness AND named me something so boring, bland, and proper that I could never use it to do the kind of art I want to do.

  “Okay,” Rion said, letting her head loll to the side, hoping the rough texture of the bricks against her scalp would ground her. She stared off down the street, not looking in his eyes, pretending not to be interested. “I’ll play. What’s your real name?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you that,” he said, stepping toward her. Where the air had felt damp moments before, it was now charged with electricity—a pull toward him that she fought against. Rion commanded her feet to stay planted on the concrete and forced the corner of her mouth to quirk up in a smile. He was probably right. If she knew his real name, she’d know that much more about him, be that much closer to him. Which she really, really wanted to do, even though she didn’t.

  She licked her lips and swallowed. Dammit, Burke, now he’s going to think you want him.

  But the only reaction from Crash was a quick flick up of his eyebrow, like she was interesting, but not compelling enough for him to say more. “I’d better not,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t want to ruin the mystery.”

  “What mystery?”

  “Well, it’s always good to have a little mystery on a first date.”

  Rion’s heart dropped into her stomach and started flopping around like crazy. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around her waist. She normally had guts of steel. What was this guy doing to her?

  He was being gorgeous and flirting with her, when nobody had ever done that. Ever. In the
last two years, the most romantic thing that had happened to her was Tate offering to share some of his “good shit” with her during a late-night basement pot party. She’d rolled her eyes and made out with him anyway.

  And look where that had gotten her.

  “Look,” Rion said, pulling every ounce of resolve to the fore, forcing herself not to look at those tattoos covering every inch of his arms, not to let her eyes follow his impeccable cheekbones to his—what color were they? Holy shit. Bright blue eyes. “I don’t date.”

  Every word was painful.

  “Well that’s a shame,” Crash said, closing the space between them in one long step. “Because I don’t kiss girls that don’t let me take them out at least once first.”

  He reached his hand up, slowly, toward her face. Jesus fucking Christ, if he touched her jaw, she would melt. She would seriously die right on the spot. She would beg to kiss him.

  Instead, he brushed a bleach-blond strand away from her forehead. She fought against letting her eyes flutter closed, but he smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. “You gonna be okay walking home?”

  “Yeah, man, we’ve got her.”

  The spell was broken. Every tense muscle in Rion’s body relaxed, which was kind of crazy considering a guy’s voice she didn’t recognize was speaking for her through the dark. But when she turned around, relief swept over her. Amy.

  “Fucking finally,” Rion said, smiling. Amy’s eyes flared like Rion had just called her a ho-bag or something. She came to stand beside Rion anyway.

  “Sorry,” Rion said under her breath. “It’s just that you’re a little late.”

  “I got a little lost,” Amy said, her eyes darting to the alley behind Rion.

  “And a little sexually harassed,” Mystery Guy piped up. Rion looked him over. He was a ginger, but an unusually decent-looking one, even if he wasn’t very tall. Normal jeans, generic brown oxford shoes, and a t-shirt with a bust of Jesus on it. Underneath it said “BRB.”