Pretty Broken Bastard: A Standalone Novel

by Jeana E. Mann

  “Mind? Hell, I’m ecstatic.” I dragged a barstool from the island, my stomach rumbling enthusiastically, and took a seat across from her. On most mornings, I rolled out of bed, rumpled, smelling of stale beer and sex, to an empty apartment. If I was lucky, breakfast consisted of leftover pizza or takeout from the night before. Lately, I’d made the trek to Joe’s Java Junction for espresso and one of Jo’s specialty muffins. Having her in my kitchen was much, much better. She dropped a stack of pancakes onto a plate and nudged it toward me. My mouth watered at the sight of the golden circles of batter and her blue eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever cooked for me.”

  “Seriously?” With a hand on her hip, she searched my face. “Not even your mom?”

  Sardonic laughter burned my throat. The idea of Honey in front of a stove tickled my funny bone. “The most my mother ever did was open a bag of potato chips and hand it to me. She was always too worried about her figure to eat and too obsessed with my father to care whether I ate or not.”

  The brightness of her eyes dimmed. I hated that look, one I’d seen so often in my childhood, tinged with pity. “What did you do?” She slid a bottle of warm syrup across the counter.

  “I managed.” I didn’t want to dwell on the quiet nights, the empty house, or the loneliness that had characterized my childhood. The syrup drizzled over the golden pancakes, oozing over the sides with grand slowness. My mouth watered at the sight and scent of the gooey, sticky sweetness. “Most of the time I ate at Rhett’s house. His mom loves me.” I smirked to lighten the mood, but Jo remained somber, reminding me that a rift still existed between us, and I had no idea how to span the distance.

  “Mealtime was fun around my house. Bronte and I would help my mom fix everything. She loved to cook and taught us all of the family recipes.” She dipped a finger into the syrup on my plate and sucked it from her finger. I stared, mesmerized, remembering how her lips felt around my dick. I suppressed a groan and turned my attention to the food. The tip of her tongue swept over her lower lip. “I can’t imagine what that was like for you.”

  “My family isn’t normal.” Since birth, I’d been trained to hide the relationship to my father, and to call my mother by her first name in public. She didn’t like people to know she was old enough to have a twenty-nine-year-old son. As a result, I never spoke of my parents to anyone, not even Rhett.

  “And mine is?” Her laughter rang across the table, warm and tinkling. The light returned to her eyes. “My dad spends his days and nights watching reality TV in his underwear. My sister is an autistic genius. I’m a stalker. No one would consider us normal.”

  I placed my fork beside the plate and lifted my eyes to meet hers. Unlike most of the people in my life, I knew I could trust her. She’d been forthright about the most embarrassing details of her past. I wanted to do the same, but I couldn’t quite make the leap. “My mother is Honey Wilkes,” I said, and waited for her to process this tidbit.

  “Honey Wilkes.” She rolled the name over her tongue, thinking. At last, her eyebrows lifted to her hairline. “The Honey Wilkes? From the music videos? No way.”

  “Yes way.” Over the years, I’d become accustomed to people’s reactions.

  “She was very beautiful. No wonder you’re so handsome,” she said, a faint flush coloring her cheeks at the admission.

  I shrugged. “She still is beautiful. She’s the mistress of someone very famous and he got her pregnant, but he doesn’t publicly claim me.” It was the best I could do, the closest I’d ever come to admitting the truth about my birth.

  “But you know who he is?” Soft, liquid eyes bored into mine.

  “Yes, and he knows who I am. All this is the price of my silence.” I waved a hand to encompass the building. The words sounded far away, like they were spoken by someone else, my voice altered by the thickness in my throat. I wanted to tell her everything, to confess the sordid details of my birth, to bury my face in her silky hair, to be comforted, but I couldn’t continue. If I lowered the barrier around the vault of secrecy, I might break. “I stay away from him, and he stays out of my life. It’s better this way for both of us.”

  “That must have been tough for you.” The smoothness of her palm covered the rough back of my hand. I stared at it, warring with shame over my upbringing and the lust that followed every time she touched me.

  “Yeah, well…” The topic of conversation rattled my nerves. I didn’t want to think about all the ways life had shortchanged me. It didn’t matter. Not anymore. The turmoil of my childhood had taught me to invest in the future. Nothing could be gained from lingering in the past. I moved my hand from beneath hers and shoved the pancakes away, my appetite destroyed.

  “You don’t like them? I usually make them from scratch. I did the best I could.” The wounded expression in her eyes brought me up short, and I thought about someone else’s feelings for a change.

  “No. They’re excellent.” I cut a bite from the stack, dipped it in syrup, and held it up to her mouth. Her lips parted before enclosing around the fork. Our gazes locked. I’d never fed a woman before. The eroticism of the simple act caused lightning to flash low in my belly. A drop of syrup landed on the corner of her mouth. I swiped it away with my thumb then rubbed the pad over her lower lip, spreading the syrup. Her tongue darted out to lick away the sticky residue. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pry my gaze from her mouth, that voluptuous, fuckable mouth.

  Silence blanketed the room.

  She looked away, breaking the delicate connection between us. “Well, I suppose, I should get dressed.” She stood and glanced around like her tail was on fire and she needed to escape. “I’ll come back and clean up the mess when you’re done.”

  I watched her swinging backside move toward the door. I didn’t want her to leave. “You don’t have to clean up. The housekeeper will be here today.”

  “No. It’s fine. It’ll give me something to do.” These last words were spoken over her shoulder, as if she didn’t trust herself to look at me directly.

  “Calloway—the attorney—he’ll be here at ten,” I called after her, remembering the grim task ahead of us.

  She paused, extending a delicate hand to the door frame, but didn’t turn around. “Okay.” Then she disappeared into the darkened hallway, leaving me alone.

  I don’t know why it bothered me to see her leave. I should have been relieved. This was how I liked my life. Solitary. No responsibilities beyond work, getting laid, and keeping my ass out of trouble. I was always alone, always had been and always would be. Unless…I sat up straighter. The future was mine to choose.

  Jo and I stood on a precipice with lies and misconceptions holding us apart. Before now, I’d never realized the fragility of our relationship. One wrong move could destroy any chance at calling her my girlfriend, because that was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To make her mine? To care for her and about her? This feeling, the insatiable yearning, was uncharted territory. I had no idea how to begin a serious relationship. I’d almost ruined things by withholding knowledge of the warrant, by screwing her at the hotel before telling her, and by putting my selfish, animalistic needs in front of hers.

  I huffed a heavy sigh and rubbed my forehead, hoping to clear the clutter of thoughts. Throughout my life, I’d always been a gambler, taking chances, risking everything to get what I wanted, everything but my heart. It was easy to risk it all when you had nothing to lose, but with Jo, the stakes were too high. If she rejected me again, I’d be crushed. The idea of failure tasted bitter, but the concept of doing nothing, of not trying, carried a higher penalty. How could I face myself in the mirror knowing I’d passed up the chance at something special without even trying?

  Chapter 19

  Jo

  Alan Calloway was a large man with a booming Texas drawl and hands the size of dinner plates. He dwarfed the suede club chair across from the sofa where I sat next to Carter. For more than two hours, he reviewed every detail of the charges filed against me, the nigh
t of the incident, and the circumstances of my breakup with Harold. I tried to focus on what he was saying, but it was difficult with Carter’s muscular thigh pressing against mine, the heat of his body burning through my jeans, lighting my skin on fire.

  “Lay it on us, Cal,” Carter said. At first glance, he seemed relaxed, one arm thrown over the back of the couch behind me, his long legs stretched in front of him, but I could feel the tension inside him, coiled like a spring, lurking just beneath the surface of his calm.

  “It’s a good-news bad-news kind of thing,” Calloway said, pushing his thick glasses up his nose with a forefinger. “Which do you want first?”

  “Good news, please,” I said. I clasped my hands in my lap, aware of the perspiration on my palms, hoping my nervousness didn’t show.

  “Fair enough.” Calloway opened a folder on the coffee table and squinted at the contents. “The good news is that I had breakfast with the district attorney. Great little place over on Elm Street, has the best Scotch eggs in the world. Ever been there?” I shook my head. “The chef is from Edinburgh, and he came over here a few years ago to marry a girl from Laurel Falls.” Carter scowled, and Calloway cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, given your lack of criminal record, the mitigating circumstances, and the D.A.’s personal dislike for your ex-fiancé, he’s willing to cut a deal. The courts are overflowing right now. The jails are full. They’re actually transferring inmates to other counties.” He huffed. “The state of this county’s government is in shambles. And with the recent uptick in drug use, they can’t keep up with the—”

  Carter interrupted, eyebrows lifting. “Cal, as I recall, I’m paying you an ungodly hourly rate. Do you think you could cut to the chase?”

  “Right.” He shuffled a few papers and blew out a breath, as if he’d lost his train of thought. “Anyway, you didn’t actually steal anything, and you had a key to the property. The defendant failed to properly evict you from the premises, and your name is still on the lease, which means you retain a right to access the property. The prosecution will have a difficult time proving guilt without any evidence. If you plead guilty to the misdemeanor charge of trespassing, the felony charges of breaking and entering will be dropped. The bad news is that you’ll have to pay a fine and be on probation for a short while, but that’s a helluva lot better than jail time, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Until this second, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. I exhaled and rubbed my palms over my thighs. “Much better.”

  “What are her other options?” Carter asked.

  “If you pass up the plea deal, it’ll go to trial before a jury. You’re looking at the possibility of a few years behind bars, although, like I said, they don’t have much evidence, and the odds are in your favor. With the current backlog of cases, it won’t go to trial for at least another three months. And you face the possibility of word getting out, something I’m sure you’ll wish to avoid, given the reputation of your coffee shop.”

  “What about my dog?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much to be done there. You can sue for ownership in civil court. At the very least, you should file a countersuit to regain your personal property and the cost of legal fees incurred by this frivolous indictment.” He patted my hand, his smile sympathetic. “Goodness, you’re white as a ghost.”

  “What do you think?” I asked, glancing at Carter uncertainly. He sat still as stone, chiseled features unreadable.

  “Take the plea. This will all be over in a week, and you can move on with your life.” He removed his spectacles, revealing kind hazel eyes. “Otherwise, you’ll stand to lose a fortune in legal fees and time.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do. I just want this to be over so I can move on with my life.” Unable to withhold the sudden flood of relief and gratitude, I burst into tears. The gazes of Carter and Calloway bounced from me to each other and back again with a comical air of male helplessness and confusion. I raised a hand, laughing through the haze of tears. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m just so—so relieved. You have no idea how much better I feel.”

  “Okay.” Calloway’s shoulders lowered. “Great.”

  “Thanks for taking this on with such short notice.” Carter sprang into action, like he was eager to escape my overflowing emotions. “Let me walk you to the door, Cal.”

  Their deep masculine voices rumbled as they left the room. I buried my face in my hands and tried to get a grip on my vacillating feelings. While part of me mourned for Zipper, the other part rejoiced to know I wasn’t going to jail. Now, I could put away the awkwardness between me and Carter. An unfamiliar melancholy threatened my newfound joy. I could go home now. Carter could go back to living his bachelor life. I took the elevator to the master suite and began throwing my things into my bag.

  “What are you doing?” Carter loomed in the doorway as I closed the zipper.

  “Packing.” My heart galloped in my chest, partly from his presence and partly from the prospect of beginning my life anew. “Should I call a cab, or do you think I can catch one on the street?”

  “Hold on. You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.” He stalked toward me, brows lowered. The breath caught in my throat at the sight of his penetrating brown eyes locked on mine.

  “I’m not?”

  “No.” With gentle fingers, he pried the bag from my grip and set it on the floor. I sank onto the edge of the bed, feeling like my knees might give out if I stood for one second longer. “It’s Friday. Calloway won’t be able to meet with the D.A. until Monday. You need to stay low until he’s had a chance to file the paperwork and have the arrest warrant withdrawn.”

  “Oh. Right.” I stared at my toes on the jute rug, fighting the disappointment, until the tips of Carter’s boots rested next to them.

  He squatted in front of me, resting his forearms on the tops of his thighs so he was eye level with me. With a finger, he tilted up my chin. Our eyes met, and a tumultuous blend of lust and heat swirled through my chest. “Cheer up. It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “I’m just eager to get back to work, and I’m sure you’re ready to have this place to yourself again.”

  The pad of his thumb caressed the point of my chin. Delicious desire shimmered beneath my skin. The spicy scent of his cologne wafted through the air. I wanted to throw myself on him, pull him down to the floor, and impale myself on the steel rod visible behind the fly of his jeans.

  “You’re welcome to stay here.” If he was happy or disappointed to see me go, neither showed on his handsome face. Instead, he stood and looked down at me. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Think of this as a vacation. Relax. Hang out. Watch some TV. There’s a library on the third floor. Read a book.”

  I watched him leave, feeling more confused than ever.

  Chapter 20

  Carter

  A few hours later, I sat in Rhett’s office. He poured over a stack of reports while I stared into space. Outside the one-way glass wall, employees bustled about in conservative three-piece suits and dresses. Watching them renewed my happiness of being self-employed and free to wear anything I wanted. Although I admired Rhett’s ambition and success, I could never spend my days chained to a corporate desk.

  “I can hear your gears grinding,” he said without looking up from his paperwork. “What kind of mayhem are you plotting today?”

  “If you wanted to make an impression on a girl, how would you do it?” I blurted the question in my usual blunt, no-nonsense fashion. Rhett stared at me like I’d sprouted horns. A cold sweat sprung up on my chest. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  His brows lowered in mock concern. “You’re asking me for dating advice?” He dropped the papers, cocked his head, and picked up a pen.

  “Don’t be a dick.” With an index finger, I circled the rim of my coffee cup, once, twice, then once again. “You’re the only person I can ask shit like this.”

  “Anyone else would make you turn in your man card.” He smirked, and I
let him get away with it. Since grade school, I’d harassed him for his romantic notions, the way he’d wooed girls with his bright smile and sensitivity. While I’d been fucking the cheerleader captain beneath the bleachers, he’d been writing poems for the class valedictorian and winning the girls.

  “Who, exactly, are you wanting to woo?” While he talked, he scribbled comments on a notepad.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Say what?”

  “‘Woo.’ It’s weird and creepy.”

  “Alright. Who do you want to seduce?”

  “Not that it’s your business, but it’s Jo.”

  His ink pen stopped moving mid-sentence. Very slowly, he lowered the pen, placing it alongside the computer keyboard. “Hold on a second.” This was an obstacle I’d conveniently forgotten, his disapproval. He clasped his hands together and rested them on the desk between us. “Let me get this straight. You want a relationship? With Jo?”

  “Sure. Who else? Keep up, Easton.” I eased back in the chair, hiding my sudden anxiety beneath the cover of cockiness.

  “I don’t know. There have been so many others.” The iron edge to his voice made me wince. “If you’re just doing this so you can fuck her over later, I’ll kick your ass.”

  Of course, he’d have reservations about my sincerity. “I’m serious.” I scratched my beard. “I haven’t been with anyone since Jo and I started fooling around, and I don’t want anyone else.”

  “You say that today, but what happens two weeks or two months from now when things start to get tough? Or when you’re out drinking with your buddies and a hot girl hits on you? She’s like Bronte. The Hollander girls give one hundred percent to the people they love. Jo deserves someone who will love her back that way. Is that something you can do? Because, honestly, I’m not so sure.”