"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.
Chapter 8
Scout
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. Y
ou 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 step-mother'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."
"Get your lazy ass into the office, or I'm coming up there to take the case."
I bite down on the response that rises—telling my father to go screw himself will do no one any good, and I don't want him here, in the same house as Scout with his wandering hands and eyes.
"One day, Tripp. I need one day to get some personal shit sorted. And then I'm headed back to the office. Okay?"
He grumbles and curses some more, but finally agrees—without me throwing his last month-long honeymoon in his face—and I'm able to hang up.
I take a minute to breathe, getting a grip on myself before I face Scout.
Tripp always has this effect on me. Mom used to say it was normal. It is, in a way, but hating a man whose approval you also crave is a head-trip. And not what I need. I slide out of bed, pushing thoughts of my father away. I have one day to spend with Scout without worrying about work or anything else. I'm damn well going to make the most of it.
An hour later, I usher Scout into Bubba's Budget Cars. I can look around and tell that there's nothing here I want her driving, but she's determined to buy her own car and the Volvo S60 that I'd like to put her in is a little out of her price range. Bubba, a whip-thin man who defies a name like Bubba, approaches, a greasy smile on his face. I expect Scout to shrink away from him—she doesn't like men like him—but she doesn't. She strides along at his side, chattering away with questions and comments about the cars we're passing.
We pass row of sedans and then SUVs. I pause. "S? Isn't this what you’re looking for?"
Her eyes get a gleam that I recognize—whatever she's about to do, I'm not going to like it.
Scout
He's been distant since he emerged from his bedroom in a pair of worn jeans and faded t-shirt. Paired with his scuffed boots and leather jacket, he looks yummy enough to eat.
And apparently that’s an option.
I ignore that thought and return my focus to the row of cars we’re passing. Bubba keeps throwing me lecherous glances that made my skin crawl— I can feel Dane's temper rising behind me. I put an extra swing in my step when I see it. The sky-blue Jeep Wrangler with a tan cloth top, screaming my name. It’s a little more than I wanted to spend, but it’s gorgeous, and I love every gleaming inch of it.
"No," Dane snaps before I say anything. "Absolutely not. That thing is a death trap."
"It's perfectly safe," I shoot back, but I'm not really arguing—it's a dangerous vehicle that will roll faster than a dog. But what really matters is that I want it. I turn to him, letting him see just how excited and determined I am. He deflates some.
"Is it the color, Scout? I can have a safe car painted for you, you know."
"I want this one." I hesitate, and then: "Please. It's important to me."
He gives me a hard look then glares at Bubba. "I'll give you eight grand, in cash."
It's two less than the asking price, but Bubba is a greedy son of a bitch, and he jumps all over the cash.
We're filling out paperwork, and Dane is leaning against the wall of Bubba's dirty office with a kind of exasperated indifference. Bubba flicks a look at him. "Are y'all together now? I heard you were seein' Ms. Melanie still."
My grip on the pen tightens, and I pause in the middle of signing. I don't know what I want him to respond with—I just know that if he says he's with that perfect little princess, I might throw up.
"Not sure why it matters, Bubba," Dane says, lazily. "You get paid no matter who I'm with. I want the car, not a conversation on who I might or might not be sleeping with. And that's Atticus Grimes’ sister. Think he'd appreciate the way you keep stripping her with your eyes?"
I glance up and watch Bubba pale. I remember that he’d always had a bit of hero worship for Atti and Dane in high school—not that either of them had time for him. He was almost as sleazy then as he is now.
"Just a few more signatures," he says, and I scribble. Three more quick signatures and it's done—the car is mine.
"You'll do the tires and oil change today. I'll be by in the morning with Scout to pick it up," Dane says, and I stand, hooking my purse onto my shoulder as I follow him out of the office. He's being extra bossy, and it's starting to grate on my nerves.
Once I'm tucked into the passenger seat of the Viper, he circles and slides into the driver's seat. She comes to life with a purr, and he whips out onto the empty street with enough speed to throw me around a little. Dane spares a single glance in my direction and growls, "Put your seatbelt on."
I bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him, and grab the belt, clicking it into place. Then I twist to stare at him. "What the hell is going on with you?"
His jaw tightens, and I reach out, feathering my fingers over it. He jerks away, and I let my hand drop into my lap. Look away.
It hurts, that he wants to be there for me, but refuses to let me be there for him. I know—better than anyone but Atticus—that Dane has a truck load of issues. But he's never been one to open up about them, not even when we were younger and he was living in the basement.
"Is the big house still empty?" I ask, idly.
"Yeah. You’re between renters, right now. Why?"
"I want to go see it."
Dane darts a look in my direction. I know it's an odd request. But he doesn't say anything. Just twists the wheel and turns the car toward the edges of town.
River Drive looks the same. Golden and flaming red and bright orange in the mid-morning light, the brilliant colors of fall bringing the tree-lined street to vibrant life. Our house—the big house—is the only one on River Drive, a short little road that barely qualifies, with a single sprawling plantation home set in at the end of it. We used to laugh, because River Drive is just a glorified driveway, but it was ours—a little piece of heaven tucked in the middle of the country, where the forest still held the land from the swamps.
The house is achingly familiar—the river rock chimney against the whitewashed siding and green trim and wraparound porch. That the screen door wasn't banging in the wind, the porch swing hanging still—it made it seem deserted.
It was, in a way.
"I should sell this place," I murmur, and Dane tenses in the seat next to me. "Let some family love it, the way we can't anymore."
"You still love it," he says, not looking at me.
"But we're not a family. Not anymore."
He frowns at that, opens his mouth to say something, but I slip out of the car before he can. I don't want a lecture about family—and I don't want him to say that we are. It's kinda squicky, when I'm thinking about sleep
ing with him.
The door slams behind me, and the leaves crunch as he follows me across the yard and up the steps. I hold out a hand, and he laughs softly, handing me his keys. There it is—Dane still carries the key we gave him almost eight years ago when he lived with us.
There's a sparkle to the counters of the kitchen that makes me think someone's been here recently. I give him a questioning glance. Dane primarily does insurance law, but he handles all of our family’s legal affairs, so he knows better than me what's going on here.
"We send a cleaner out twice a month when it's not being rented," he says.
Walking through the house is like stepping back into my childhood. The walls have been patched and painted, the scars of our life here quietly erased, but I can picture them—the dent Atti put in the wall, the spot Dane fell and broke his arm when he jumped from the second story, the stair I sat on when I talked to Mama about school—so many good memories.
And the bad ones—the corner I'd huddled in when Dad died. I turn away from there, and into Dane. I didn't realize he was so close, and I take an automatic step back, but his arms come up around me, holding me. There's a quiet sort of tenseness to him, and he drops his head to mine, his lips against my temple as he murmurs, "Come downstairs with me."
I nod, and he releases me, but catches my hand. I'm not sure what to make of this side of Dane—his previous tension has dropped away; he's being sweet and attentive, not the normal snarky sarcasm I'm used to. I like it, but it's a little unnerving outside the confines of his bed.
The basement is a separate apartment. There's a closed off bathroom and a tiny kitchen—not that Dane ever used it—and enough room for his bed, a couch, and a TV. I used to love sitting down here, curled up on his bed while he and Atti played some idiotic video game and Nik painted her nails. Then, when they went to college, I just liked coming down here. It made me feel closer to them. Dane would come home for a home cooked meal to find me sprawled across his bed, reading and doing homework.
He never seemed to care, and I can't remember a time he ever kicked me out. "I love it down here," I say into the dimness.
Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Page 7
