Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  Hemi’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Get the fuck outta my car. I’ll be back in an hour. If you’re not ready you can walk home, you ungrateful sod.”

  “That’s like two hours’ worth of walking.”

  A mean smile spread across his fat face. “I know.”

  “You won’t make me walk cos of my dad.”

  Narrowing his eyes at me, he took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke in my face.

  “You a-hole,” I spat, waving the disgusting smell away.

  He smiled wider.

  Pissed off, I pushed out of his car. It was a souped-up black Holden with red, orange, and gold flames emblazoned across its side, along with an engine sticking out of its hood, the evening sun making it glint.

  I started backing away from it. “Hey, Hemi! I’ve got a theory why you love to suck on cancer sticks so much. You like tiny dick.” I made a cock-sucking action.

  He squeezed out of the driver’s side and rounded the car. He had a huge potbelly and was wearing the same leathers as my dad, just the XXXL equivalent.

  He waved a fist at me. “Get inside the house or I’ll kick you in your tiny dick.”

  I covered my crotch. “I’m onto you, perv. Insult my dick so I pull it out to prove it’s huge.”

  “I don’t wanna see your dick!”

  “While I don’t think it’s humanly possible to see yours.”

  Hemi yelled out and ran for me. Laughing, I spun around and sprinted for the front door, which flung open. Mrs. Hatton ushered me inside, her eyes wide with fear, suggesting she’d been spying on us through the curtains.

  Once I was inside, she slammed the door shut and bolted it, then peered through the curtains, giving weight to my thoughts. She let out an audible sigh when Hemi’s V8 engine roared to life. Letting go of the curtains, she turned to me, her relief quickly morphing into upset.

  She rushed over and took hold of my face. “Did that man do this to you?” she asked, examining my black eye and bruised cheek.

  “No,” I said, liking her touch.

  “Then who?”

  “You don’t needa know.”

  “Was it your father?”

  I yanked my face free, annoyed she’d thought he would hurt me. “No! My father’s never hit me, only my big bro.”

  “He hit your brother?”

  “Ages ago, before he went to prison. He hasn’t hit him since. While this,” I pointed to my face, “wuz done by some mechanics who caught me stealing their hubcaps. Feel better now you know?” I said sarcastically.

  She dropped her hands to her side, concern still painting her brow. “Why did you steal them?”

  “Duh, for a car.”

  “But you’re too young to drive.”

  “No, I’m not. I got my license as soon as I turned fifteen.”

  “Oh, I thought the age was sixteen.”

  “Nope, I just don’t have a car yet, but I will soon. My dad and his mate are fixing one up for me. I wanted the hubcaps for it. They were really cool, modified chrome ones. Fuckin’ sucks I got caught. I thought the mechanics had gone home, but they were upstairs. Two of them held me down, while the third one called the cops. I almost got away when I kicked one in the nuts. It’s why the other one punched me in the face.”

  “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 stopp
ed 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?”