If You Stay (Beautifully Broken)

by Cole , Courtney

  So I ask her that.

  And she’s the one who’s puzzled now.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asks, and then she pulls on her full lip with her teeth. My gut clenches again as I catch a glimpse of her pink tongue. “Anyone would be concerned. And it was the first time that I’d ever tried CPR. I don’t even know if I did it right. And it was the first time I’d ever seen someone overdose. I wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong when I first found you. But you didn’t seem like you were just drunk. I’m glad I called the ambulance.”

  I stare at her now.

  “You called the ambulance?” Interesting. I wonder what the hell happened to Jill? She probably left me to die, the fucking whore. You get what you pay for, I guess. A few snorts of coke apparently don’t buy much.

  Beautiful Girl nods. “Yes, I did. The girl who you were with wasn’t too happy about that. But I thought you needed it. And it turns out that you did.”

  Ah, so Jill was there.

  “There was a girl with me?” I raise an eyebrow, probing to find out what happened with Jill.

  Beautiful Girl shakes her head. “Not at first. She came while I was trying to decide what to do. She was mad at you for something- until she saw the condition you were in. And then she got hysterical. She left when the paramedics arrived.”

  That sounds about right.

  “Well, thank you for calling help,” I tell her slowly, eyeing her, taking her all in. “I’m Pax, by the way.”

  She smiles. “I know. Stalker, remember?”

  I smile back. “Well, you have me at a disadvantage. Because I don’t know you.”

  And that’s a damn shame.

  She holds out her hand and I take it. Hers is small and soft, almost fragile.

  “My name is Mila Hill. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  And it is.

  I know I should tell her to run far, far from me, but of course I don’t. She’s like a ray of sunshine in this bleak hospital room and I soak her up. She’s got good, healthy energy and I like the way it feels to talk with her.

  She’s like a breath of fresh air.

  I may be the Big Bad Wolf, but even wolves need to breathe.

  Chapter Four

  Mila

  I stare at the man in the bed, at this tattooed, hard man.

  Pax Tate is beautifully sexy in a very masculine way. There’s not an ounce of fat on him, he’s muscled and strong. I can see that from here. He’s got an air of strength about him, like nothing is too much for him to handle, although his recent overdose contradicts that notion. I feel like there’s a certain sadness to him, probably because his eyes hint at things that I don’t yet know about him, troubled things. His body is hard, his face is hard, his eyes are hard. Like stone.

  And even still, I am pulled inexplicably to him.

  I can’t explain it. It’s not logical.

  Maybe it is the vulnerable look hiding in his glittering hazel eyes; the eyes that almost seem warm, but contain too much past hurt to quite allow that, so they appear hard instead. Maybe it is the devil-may-care attitude that exudes from him. Or perhaps it is the jaded look on his face, the expression that tells me that he is simply waiting for me to show that I am only here because I want something from him, which isn’t true, and part of me wants to prove it.

  I don’t know why I’m here, actually.

  I don’t have a good reason.

  I reach over and graze his hand with mine, right in the spot where his thumb forms a V with his index finger. There is jagged scar there in the shape of an X and I remember seeing it the other night.

  “How did that happen?” I ask Pax curiously, as I finger it. It’s clearly old, but it’s apparent that it was a really deep cut. The scar hasn’t faded much, but the edges have that fuzzy look that old scars get. He looks unconcerned as he shrugs.

  “I don’t know,” he tells me casually. “I don’t remember getting it. There are a lot of things in life that I don’t remember. It’s all part of it, I guess.”

  “All part of what?” I ask. I feel like he is baiting me, challenging me. But challenging me to what? It almost feels like I’ve been invited to play a game, but the rules aren’t going to be explained.

  “Part of what happens when you fuck your life away,” he tells me, his voice harsh now, cold. I feel the urge to shiver from it, but I don’t. Instead, I simply pull my hand away from his. His eyes meet mine. He notices my retreat.

  “Why do you think you’ve fucked your life away?”

  I have to make myself say the word. It feels so foreign in my mouth because it’s not something that I normally say. Pax smirks, almost as if he knows that, as if it sounds so out of place on my lips that it is funny. I fight the urge to scowl.

  “I don’t think it,” Pax answers tiredly. “I know it.” He settles back into the pillow of his hospital bed, wincing slightly as he moves, his face set determinedly as he tries not to show the pain. I remember the crack that his ribs had made on the beach when the paramedics were saving him and I wince too. It has to hurt him.

  “How many ribs are broken?” I ask. “I’ll never forget the sound.”

  Pax looks at me now, startled. “You saw it?”

  I nod. “I don’t know why I stayed. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there. I watched them work on you and load you into the ambulance. And then I stripped off my shirt and sweater before I drove home—because you puked all over me and I smelled like something died. I drove home in my bra.”

  Pax chuckles now, amused by this. As he laughs, his eyes do warm up; they flicker with something other than the jaded boredom that seems to normally live there. For some reason, that makes my stomach flutter. Maybe there’s warmth in there after all. Or maybe he’s just amused.

  “It sounds like I owe you a sweater, then,” he says, his lip twitching. I notice how he doesn’t apologize for puking on me, but then, for some reason that doesn’t surprise me. Pax Tate doesn’t seem like someone who apologizes.

  It’s my turn to shrug.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got more.”

  I pretend to be nonchalant, although in reality, that’s the last thing I am. I’m a planner, which is contrary to my artistic side. I carefully plot things out, I plan my life. Although, I certainly didn’t plan for this detour. I would never have expected that I’d be sitting in this hospital room with a stranger.

  My thoughts must be showing on my face, because Pax notices. Apparently, he doesn’t miss much.

  “You don’t like hospitals much, do you?” he asks gently.

  The kind tone in his voice seems both foreign and familiar to him, as though he can easily change in a moment’s notice from apathetic to genuine. The idea that I stirred him into feeling something strikes a chord deep down in me and I shake my head.

  “No. My parents died a few years back. I’ll never look at hospitals the same.”

  Pax is interested now and he cocks his head again, examining me. I can’t help but notice his strong jaw and the way his brow furrows as he thinks. His natural good looks combined with his rebellious and dangerous attitude make him gut-wrenchingly sexy.

  “They died at the same time?”

  He asks this strange question, rather than offering his condolences as normal people do. I find his honest curiosity refreshing, so I nod.

  “Yes. They died in a car crash. It was a foggy morning and they were driving on a little two-lane highway along the coast. A semi swerved into their lane and hit them. They died at the scene.”

  I don’t know why I just told him that. I don’t like to talk about it, but normally I don’t have to. Our community is fairly small and anyone who lived here during that time knows about it.

  “If they died at the scene, why do you have an aversion to hospitals?” Pax asks, his gaze thoughtful. And still genuinely interested.

  I think back to that morning, how I was in a Humanities class in college. I was tired and blurry-eyed from lack of sleep the night before. The Dean him
self had come to the classroom and pulled me into the hall. His face was twisted and awkward as he told me there had been an accident.

  I don’t know any specifics, he had said. But you should go.

  So I did. I rushed to the hospital and when I arrived, I somehow knew as I walked through the doors that something was very, very wrong. No one would meet my eyes, not the doctors or nurses passing in the halls and not my old neighbor Matilda, who had somehow managed to beat me to the hospital.

  She had wordlessly led me to an empty room; a chapel, I think, where she quietly told me that I wouldn’t find my parents there, that they’d been taken to the morgue. She had been so matter of fact. And then she had caught me when I had collapsed to the floor. I still remember my fingers releasing the leather handle of my purse, and how it had hit the ground, spilling all of its contents onto the blue carpet. My lipstick had rolled to Matilda’s feet and she had picked it up and handed it to me, her face white and solemn.

  I gulp now.

  And then I realize that I had just spoken all of this aloud.

  Pax is staring at me intently, the expression on his handsome face unreadable as he processes the details of the most painful day of my life.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That must have been horrible for you. I didn’t mean to dredge up old memories.”

  His words are simple, his voice is not. He is a complex person, which seems to be all I can figure out. He’s difficult to read, but his complicated and seemingly contradictory nature is intriguing. I feel my belly twinge as I stare back at him, as the gold in his eyes seems to swirl into green.

  “It was a long time ago,” I answer simply. “I’ve put it to bed.”

  “Have you?” he replies, his eyebrow raised. “You must be talented. Sometimes, the past doesn’t want to sleep.”

  “That’s true,” I admit. “You’re right. Sometimes, at the least opportune times, the past is an insomniac, alive and well.”

  He nods as if he understands and I wonder if he actually does. But he doesn’t say anything more and I let it go.

  In fact, I stand up, picking my purse up off of another hospital floor.

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I tell him politely. “Thank you so much for humoring me and letting me see that you are doing okay. You’re going to be just fine, Pax.”

  I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him or me. He looks like he isn’t sure either, but he smiles and holds out his hand. It is slender and strong and I take it. He shakes it, like we’re businessmen.

  “It was nice to meet you, Mila. Thank you for saving my life.”

  His voice is husky. I gulp and stare into his eyes and I can’t tell if he really means it. Somehow, it seems that he doesn’t really want saving.

  But I smile anyway and I turn around and walk away. When I am partway down the hall, I turn and glance back into his room. He is still watching me, his eyes intent and fierce.

  I swallow hard and turn back around, putting one foot in front of the other. Before I know it, I’m in my car. And I still don’t know what the heck happened.

  Chapter Five

  Pax

  A week in the hospital is one fucking week too long. That much is certain.

  I slowly curl up out of my pillows and sit perched on the edge of my bed. I wince a bit as the movement disturbs a cracked rib and I try to take shallow breaths so that it doesn’t hurt. The chest compressions from the paramedics did a number on my ribcage. I know they were trying to save my life, but shit. Did they have to crack four ribs?

  Fuckers.

  As I wait for the pain to settle and for my eyes to adjust to the light of day, I stare out the windows at the large lake that looms in front of me.

  Lake Michigan is huge and vast and gray, and my loft-style home is perched above it on the edge of a bluff. Each room facing the lake has floor to ceiling windows so I have a good view no matter where I’m at. And I never worry about who might be walking on the beach below and might see me walking naked through my house. It’s my private beach. If anyone is trespassing, they deserve to see my ball-sack.

  I reach for the vial on my nightstand, wincing again.

  Running my thumb around the metal rim of the lid, I absently let my mind wander as I try to clear the blur of sleep from my head. And then I give up on that and dump a little white pill into my hand, something to help me with that process because I’m too impatient to wait.

  I’m slacking off the other stuff for a while, though. Regardless of what my father thinks, I don’t need to take it. I’m not a fucking addict. And since it’s not fun to get my stomach pumped and my ribs pummeled, I think I’ll refrain from that particular activity for a while.

  I knock the pill back with a swig of water from my nightstand, ignoring the fact that I wish it was beer. It’s only 11:00 a.m. and I’ve decided that I’m not going to drink until 5:00 p.m. on any given day and I’m not going to have any of that “It’s 5:00 somewhere” bullshit. I’m not a fucking pussy. Regardless of popular opinion, I can restrain myself when I want to.

  I stumble from my bed, stretch as carefully as I can and make my way into the bathroom, stepping down into my shower.

  My shower is one of my favorite things about this house. It’s a huge tiled expanse, completely ensconced in stone and has four shower heads hitting me from all different directions. It was custom made to fit my tall body because I hate having to duck down to get clean. There’s room for a party in here, if I wanted. And I have had many a party in this very shower with groups of willing women.

  The memories of those bare, wet breasts and long thighs all crowded into this very shower makes me instantly hard and I slather soap in my palms before I take things into my own hands.

  As I do, Mila’s face appears in my head. It’s unexpected and sudden, but I focus on it, on her soft voice and full tits as I take care of business. I close my eyes and pretend that my hand is hers. I picture her soft skin, sliding against mine. I picture slamming her against the wet shower wall and fucking her until she screams my name, all while her legs are wrapped around my waist.

  It doesn’t take long until I am finished.

  With a satisfied sigh, I wash myself and grab a thick towel, drying off gently. And I’m still thinking about Mila Hill. What the fuck?

  On the one hand, I suppose it’s normal. She did save my life, after all. And for the life of me, I can’t remember if I thanked her. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit, but there is something about her that makes me think about things that I normally wouldn’t. Something soft and sweet, something real and genuine.

  And now I’m acting like a fucking pussy.

  I grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and pull them on.

  I’m going to put this to rest right now. I’ll simply ask around and find out where she works, tell her thank you and get on with my life. She definitely isn’t the kind of person that I should invest time in. There’s no way that my lifestyle or my personality would ever please her, not in the long run. And I’m not in the business of changing myself for anyone.

  As I jam the key into my car, I think about her again, how the dark red shirt that she wore the other day was pulled so tautly across her perky, full boobs. It makes me wonder what they look like naked. Her nipples are probably pink and tilted toward the sky. My dick gets hard again.

  Fuck.

  ********

  Mila

  “Why are you giving me such a hard time about this?” I demand of my sister.

  Madison looks up from where she is sitting at a small table in my shop, browsing my latest black and white prints of the lake.

  Her blonde hair is draped over her slender shoulder, her body curled up into the chair. I had gotten our mother’s dark hair, while Maddy had inherited our father’s. She is taller than me, model tall. Lanky, thin, gorgeous. I’m the small and dark one. The baby of the family. Only now, she and I are our only family. The Hill family, party of two.

  Right now, Maddy looks surpr
ised by my question.

  “Why? Because you haven’t mentioned a guy to me for, like, two years. Maybe even longer. That’s why. It piques my interest.”

  I roll my eyes and wipe my hands on my smock, smearing the gray and black paint across my hips. I’m painting the full moon and landscape from the other night, and it seems like it should be portrayed by varying shades of black. A dark landscape, a dangerous night. I only hope that I can do it justice on the canvas.

  “Of course I’m going to mention saving a guy’s life,” I tell her matter-of-factly. “Anyone would. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Maddy arches one perfectly waxed eyebrow, her gaze glued to mine.

  I shake my head.

  “No. It doesn’t. A guy overdosed. I gave him CPR and called an ambulance. The End.”

  Maddy smiles the kind of smile that means she’s just getting started.

  “Yes, but you’ve elaborated several times about how good-looking he is. How dangerous. How fascinating. Seems to me that that doesn’t mean The End. And that both interests me and concerns me. This guy overdosed. On drugs. You found him convulsing in his car. That’s not exactly what I would consider relationship material.”

  Maddy pauses here, her face strict and stern. I roll my eyes.

  “Mila, I’m being serious,” she insists, perturbed that I’m not paying enough attention. “I haven’t personally met him, although I’ve seen him at the restaurant a few times. From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t even work. He’s a trust fund baby; a spoiled brat who doesn’t have to be responsible. Apparently, he’s a mess. A true bad boy. He would eat you for breakfast.”

  And this has gone far enough.

  “Maddy, let it go,” I sigh. “Seriously. It was just an interesting situation and I wanted to tell you about it. I won’t make that same mistake again, trust me, not if it’s going to earn me an unfounded lecture. You said yourself that you haven’t even met him. Besides, I’m not considering him for relationship material. I’ll probably never even see him again so you can turn off your mama bear instincts. Now, can you get back to telling me about the restaurant? What’s wrong?”