Perfectly Broken

by Prescott Lane

  “Unfortunately, it’s not always frequent.”

  Bret laughed out loud, nearly choking on his pie, but came to order with Quinn’s side-eye.

  “I thought I was training you better than that,” she said.

  Reed raised his eyebrows. “Training?”

  “That’s the old me, baby,” Bret assured her and kicked Reed under the table.

  “It better be,” Quinn said then turned to Reed. “Peyton’s too sweet for you.”

  Reed bit his tongue, if only for the sake of Bret. He was used to people judging him — everyone seemed to have a preconceived notion about the son of Richard Langston — but he hated it coming from Quinn, a spoiled, debutante princess from the Dupuis clan. He wasn’t sure what Bret even saw in Quinn — other than perhaps a hot body — which Reed suspected she probably didn’t even know how to use.

  “Now, honey,” Bret said, “you can ask any of the dozens of women....”

  “Just dozens?” Reed quipped.

  “Whatever the number,” Bret continued, trying not to laugh, “all his women love him.”

  “My women. I like the sound of that.” Reed winked at Quinn then took a huge bite.

  She wrinkled her nose but knew Bret was right. All of Reed’s girls never had a bad word to say about him. They all seemed to love him, even though he’d never been in a serious, committed relationship.

  Peyton checked on her friends. “So how are we doing?” She looked down at Reed’s plates.

  His eyes followed hers, finding he’d eaten every last bite of the devil’s food chocolate praline and only one small bite of the apple. “They distracted me!”

  “Right,” Peyton said.

  Reed pulled out a chair for her. “How’d you know?”

  “I can just always tell.” Peyton took a seat. “It’s weird.”

  “You have any other talents?” Reed asked, then cringed at perhaps the lamest shit he’d ever said.

  “Of course,” she teased, “but I’m not sure about sharing them with you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  PEYTON SLIPPED ON some cotton pajamas and plopped down on her bed, a vintage French-inspired piece with fluted bed posts carved with delicate rosettes. With a carton of ice cream beside her, she turned on the television and waited, expecting the phone to ring any minute. It always seemed to ring around this time each week, right before a new House Hunters came on.

  The phone rang on schedule. Peyton smiled and put down her spoon. “Is my baby sister there?” Griffin asked.

  “No, I tell you the same thing every time. Quinn’s never here. You should try her on her cell.”

  “I forgot,” Griffin said and stretched out in his Chicago apartment.

  “Quinn actually was supposed to be home tonight but ended up going over to Bret’s again.”

  “Whatever. What are you up to?”

  “Eating ice cream and getting ready to watch House Hunters.”

  He flipped on his television. “I’ll follow along with you.”

  Peyton and Griffin played this same game every week. At times, she wondered whether he just wanted to talk to her, and not his sister Quinn. But she always dismissed the idea, knowing Griffin had been dating a girl for nearly three years, a lawyer like him in Chicago.

  “How’s Stephanie?” Peyton asked.

  “Pissed at me.”

  “What did you do now?”

  “She didn’t like what I got her for her birthday, so she’s pouting.”

  “You got her a vacuum cleaner?”

  “No, I asked Quinn for suggestions, and she told me to get Stephanie a nice handbag, so I bought an Hermes one.”

  “Damn, that’s expensive!” Peyton had grown up well off — her grandfather was a successful oilman — but it never ceased to amaze her how the Dupuis family threw around money. They took it to a whole new level.

  “And she threw it at me!”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “What?”

  “First of all, you shouldn’t have to ask your sister what to buy. And second, Stephanie wants a ring.”

  “Shit,” he groaned. “I know that.”

  “Well, you have to figure out if you want to marry her. Because if you don’t, you should tell her and not waste any more time. Her clock is ticking. That’s why she’s pissed.”

  “I’m pissed I got hit with a $10,000 bag! Any ideas on what I can do with it now? I can’t return it.”

  “Maybe get a little chihuahua and carry it around?”

  “Very funny,” Griffin said. “Oh, House Hunters is starting.”

  “You know,” Peyton said, “I’m always bothered when the people on the show say dumb stuff like ‘nice hardwoods’ or ‘nice built-ins.’ It really grates on me for some reason.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And they always pick the wrong house.”

  “They do,” Griffin agreed. “Oh, this first house looks nice. It has a pool.”

  “Did you ever tell Quinn about that afternoon we spent in your parents’ pool house?”

  “No way,” Griffin said. “Did you?”

  “Nope.” Peyton blushed. “She has no idea you were my first kiss. Do you know how hard it is to keep that from my best friend?”

  Griffin almost dropped the phone. “That was your first kiss?”

  “Come on, you knew that!”

  “No way! You were 15!”

  “And you were 19!”

  “Yeah,” Griffin said, “but I’d kissed a lot of girls. I had no idea that was your first kiss.”

  “And as I recall, you were also my second, third, fourth....”

  “It was a rather lengthy make out session that day.”

  “What were we thinking back then?” Peyton wondered, but he didn’t answer.

  Peyton never knew what Griffin was thinking that afternoon. He’d seen her grow up in braces, a once flat-chested tween. But she knew exactly what she was thinking. My best friend’s older brother is hot. And Griffin was a great guy, too, the kind who’d charge her phone when she forgot, let her stick her cold feet under him while watching a movie, and defend her in an argument even when he knew she was wrong. So growing up, she’d always had a little crush on him, but over time, he became more of a brother to her — though still a flirt.

  “By the way, what are you wearing right now?” he asked.

  “Oh, same as always when I watch HGTV — a lace corset. But it’s so tight, I think I’ll take it off.”

  “Go for it, baby. Take out your built-ins.”

  She bit her tongue hard. “And don’t forget your hardwood.”

  * * *

  Reed’s head hit his pillow, but Peyton landed on his mind. He couldn’t get her baby blue eyes or full pink lips out of his head and could still feel the aftershocks from her hand touching his. He had an aching need for her touch, knowing that he’d be unsatisfied until she was in his arms or under his fingertips. He buried his head under the pillow, aggravated for letting this girl — any girl — get into his head. Then he closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to sleep.

  But even in sleep, he couldn’t escape her. He heard a noise in his kitchen, a strange sound filling the dark silence. He searched his mind, stumbling upon what it must be — some old ghosts, perhaps old sailors or merchants, still occupying the converted warehouse loft where he now lived. After all, he lived on the third floor. As a child, his mother warned him about third floors, explaining New Orleans residents, for fear of ghosts, didn’t keep on lights there, and certainly didn’t live there. You can turn a scary movie off, his mother would say, but you can’t turn off a ghost.

  The noise stopped for a moment, then it came again. He listened closer this time, straining his ears to hear. He could make it out better now. It couldn’t be an old sailor or merchant. They’d never make such a peaceful humming sound. He floated out of bed, totally naked, the sweet melody beckoning him to come. And there she was, standing in his kitchen, wearing nothing but a tiny black apron, the recessed l
ighting forming a blazing halo around her body.

  “What are you doing here?” Reed asked.

  Peyton peeked her baby blue eyes at him and flashed a radiant smile, continuing to hum peacefully while forming a pie crust with her hands. Then she gave a little spin, the halo turning a dark red. As she moved, Reed glimpsed her ample cleavage and side boob, her toned legs seemingly endless, the apron so short it barely covered the promised land, with a bow tied neatly above.

  Suddenly Peyton was right in front of him. He tried to touch her, but she was still too far away. He reached again, this time as hard as he could, but she slipped further away. He pushed and pounded against the air, desperate to reach her, some invisible wall making it impossible. Peyton put a pie in the oven then saw him struggling. She smiled and shook her rolling pin at him. Her mouth didn’t move, but she was telling him something. Somehow he could hear her. Stop fighting. Be patient.

  Reed sprang out of bed, his heart racing, his face full of sweat. He took a few deep breaths to relax himself — to convince himself that it was just a dream, though a delicious sneak peek at what he knew Peyton had to offer. But it was scary, too. He wanted her and couldn’t have her, and worse, couldn’t even reach her. He rubbed his temples, her words echoing a warning to him.

  He reached for his phone on the nightstand and searched her name and pie shop. He found the shop website. The home page was, of course, pink and green, with a few pictures of pie. There wasn’t much else there. He clicked on another website which directed him to a grainy photo of Peyton from her Sweet Sixteen party. Then he found another website listing her as a National Merit Finalist for which she earned a college scholarship. He tried a few more searches but couldn’t find out anything else.

  He went back to the shop website. He clicked around and came upon another screen. It was another grainy photo, this one of the shop opening a few years ago, with Peyton surrounded by about a dozen people. He surveyed each face, an elderly woman, members of the Dupuis family; a few people looked familiar, and a few he’d never seen before. His eyes landed on a guy he hadn’t seen in a long time, his hand wrapped around Peyton’s waist. That cock.

  Reed grabbed his neck and shut off his phone. He wondered if Griffin would be trouble.

  * * *

  “I saw you checking out Peyton yesterday,” Bret said, holding a punching bag.

  Reed jabbed with his right hand. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No, I was surprised you didn’t make a move.”

  “Maybe I will today.”

  “Store’s closed on Sunday. Mondays, too.”

  “Damn.” Reed landed a left cross on the bag. “Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?”

  “I don’t really know. Would it matter?”

  Reed smiled. “Probably not.” He came with a combination before dropping his hands.

  “Just a word of warning,” Bret said and tossed Reed a towel, “Quinn will kill you if you hurt her.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Quinn.”

  “I do. And Peyton, too.”

  Reed began to throw again. “How about you just worry about keeping Quinn happy, OK? That’s probably a full-time job.”

  “Dude, all I’m saying is Peyton is a friend. She’s had some hard knocks in her life.”

  Reed lowered his hands again. Hard knocks?

  * * *

  Peyton used her off days to clean and do odd jobs around her house — the same large Garden District house where her grandparents raised her. There was always a broken gutter or stripped door needing attention. And she didn’t mind the work; it was a welcome diversion from the stress and routine of the pie shop. She also found time for a run in Audubon Park and made sure to hang out with her phantom roommate, which usually meant doing what Quinn loved most — shopping trendy boutiques and pouring over the latest designers whose names sounded more like exotic foods than clothing labels.

  “I need something sizzling hot,” Quinn said, holding up a black Jimmy Choo dress and wrinkling her nose, thinking he should stick to making shoes. “I want the dress just high enough to drive Bret crazy wild.”

  “I think Bret’s wild enough about you,” Peyton said.

  Quinn flashed a wicked smile. “Last weekend, we did it six times. Bret’s like a bunny on steroids.”

  “I’m going to start calling him Bugs!” Peyton cried, handing Quinn a royal blue tube dress with an asymmetrical hemline. “Vera Wang?”

  Quinn’s eyes lit up. She grabbed the dress and disappeared into a dressing room. “I think Reed liked you,” she called out.

  “No way. I’m not his type.”

  “I’m not sure he has a type. He will screw anything in a skirt.”

  Peyton smiled. “I bet women throw themselves at him.”

  “They do,” Quinn agreed. “And he catches them all and tosses them back.”

  “So he’s a man slut.”

  “Bret tried to tell me all this nice crap about him, but the bottom line is he’s a commitment-phobe. You don’t want to get with a guy like that.”

  “Relax! I’m sure he hasn’t given me a second thought.” Peyton held an emerald green dress by Tahari in front of a mirror. She undid her ponytail and tilted her head, finding the dress too short, in length and on top.

  Quinn came out of the dressing room. “You should so buy that dress!”

  “It’s not really me.” Peyton put the green dress back on the rack.

  “Why’d you turn down the cover for the Young Women to Watch story?”

  “I just wasn’t interested.”

  “It could be really good for business.”

  “Business is fine,” Peyton said.

  “It could be really good for you.”

  “I’m fine, too. How did you find out anyway?”

  “The editor called me. He knows we’re friends and was hoping I could convince you. They really want you.” Quinn batted her eyes. “Do it for me?” She walked back into the dressing room to change.

  “For you?”

  “Yeah, it would make me look good to land you for the article.” Quinn stuck out her head. “And the cover, too. Please!”

  Peyton rolled her eyes. “Fine, an article — and pictures of the shop and pies. But no cover and no pictures of me.”

  “The readers want to see young, hot, successful New Orleans women.” Quinn batted her eyes again. “Please! I will supervise the whole thing, I promise.”

  “Wait! Is this your story?”

  Quinn stepped out with the blue dress in hand. “It will be if I can get you on the cover. Please do this for me! I’ve never had a cover. Please, please, please!”

  Peyton twirled her locket. “This is a nightmare.”

  “I could always just use the photo of you from spring break our freshman year — the one where....”

  “OK, stop! You are impossible! I’ll do it for you.”

  Quinn squealed. “I’ll let you know when!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TUESDAY AFTER WORK, Reed raced in and out of traffic on Magazine Street. He loosened the tie around his neck and gripped the wheel tighter, flying past employees sweeping their front entrances and bringing sidewalk sales back inside. He knew if he didn’t hurry, he’d see a “closed” sign hanging on Peyton’s picture window. And his patience was wearing thin. He’d already waited three days to see her — to take her to bed then hopefully get her out of his mind. But he knew it was more than that. He’d never been unable to forget about a girl before.

  Reed spotted the green-striped awning a block ahead, and a rare parking space along the curb in front. He took a deep breath and swerved across oncoming traffic to grab it, ignoring car horns blaring from every direction. He turned to see the “open” sign still hanging.

  The little bell jingled as he pushed open the shop door and walked to the counter. A slightly chubby, blonde girl greeted him with an enormous smile. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Peyton.” The girl looked Reed up and d
own, her eyes huge, ready to devour him like a pie. Reed waved his hand in front of her face. “Is Peyton here?”

  The girl motioned towards a door with a small glass opening. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  “Well, could you please get her?” He looked down at her name tag. “Julia?”

  Julia snapped out of her trance, the mention of her name reviving her. “Oh, I’ll go get her.” She walked towards the kitchen door, but before reaching it, she turned back for one more look. “And you are?”

  “Reed Langston.”

  Julia disappeared into the kitchen, finding Peyton putting away a jar of flour. “Some hot guy is here to see you.”

  “What?” Peyton froze. “Who?”

  “Does it really matter? He’s gorgeous.”

  Peyton peered through the small glass opening, the butterflies storming back. Reed looked as good as she remembered, even better in a suit and tie. And she had no idea why he was back in her shop, why he wanted to see her, why he had to look so completely delicious when she had a dash of flour and syrup in her hair. She steadied herself, knowing it didn’t matter what she looked like. There was no way Reed was interested in her, and she couldn’t handle a guy like that anyway. She didn’t want to, either. Sorry, Dr. Lorraine. She had enough problems already. “Julia, can you please finish up in here for me.” She wiped her hands on her apron and adjusted her cap then pushed opened the door.

  Peyton offered Reed a polite “hello.” A huge smile crossed his face, but no words came out. He’d given no thought what to say, too busy racing to see her, too busy thinking about her body. He grabbed his neck and darted his eyes around the shop, hoping the pinks and greens would somehow inspire him. What the hell is wrong with me? He saw Julia staring through the small glass opening. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that pie.”

  Peyton wondered why he hadn’t just asked Julia. “I’m glad you liked it, but we are sold out of the devil’s food chocolate praline today.”

  He frowned. “Perhaps you can recommend something else?”

  “We are closing soon,” she quickly replied, “so there’s not much left.”

  Reed felt his stomach churn, his hands begin to sweat. Peyton wasn’t giving him anything to work with, not even the slightest opening. He tried to think of some angle, some place for the conversation to go, but there was nothing coming to mind. He leaned forward on the counter, peering into her baby blue eyes, and fell into old habits. “I’m sure you have something I’d like.”