Best Kind of Broken

by Chelsea Fine

  I quirk a teasing brow. “Am I showing too much tragedy?”

  He meets my eyes and smiles. “Not at all. I think you look badass. Like a pirate or something.”

  “A pirate?”

  “Yeah. Like a sexy Captain Hook.”

  “He’s the least sexy pirate ever.”

  “Okay, Jack Sparrow, then,” he says.

  I frown.

  “Captain Morgan?” He looks supremely uncomfortable, like he’s not sure if it’s okay to joke about my scar, and I almost feel sorry for him.

  I wrinkle my nose. “How about we stop comparing me to sea criminals and alcohol mascots?”

  “Brilliant idea. I’m a stupid boy.” He smiles at me, but I can see small red splotches of nervousness creeping up his neck.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ethan looks at Jenna as she squeezes into the barstool between him and Jack. “You can’t sit next to me. You’ll ruin my game.”

  “What game?” she says. “You’re a white guy wearing a gold chain. You have no game.”

  “Oh, I have game. And you’re cock-blocking it. How am I supposed to pick up hot chicks when a hot chick is sitting right beside me?”

  Jack leans over. “For starters, maybe don’t call them chicks.”

  “I’m not cock-blocking you,” Jenna says.

  “Yes, you are,” Ethan says. “You do it every time. Switch seats with Jack.”

  “Oh my God, you’re such a girl.” She stands back up and waits for Jack to move.

  “Musical barstools. Yeah, that’s not lame.” Jack grudgingly scoots over so he’s next to Ethan, and Jenna is next to him, and I’m next to Jenna, and Matt is next to me.

  “Happy now that my hotness isn’t screwing up your sex life?” Jenna glares at Ethan.

  He gives a slight bow. “Me and my penis thank you.”

  “God.” She rolls her eyes and leans over to me. “We need new friends, Sarah. Like immediately.”

  “Hey,” Jack says in offense. “What did I do?”

  “You’re Jack,” she says. “That’s enough.”

  Jenna and Jack always bicker, but I see the way they look at each other and I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping them from tearing each other’s clothes off at any given moment is the fact that they’re usually in public. And really, I wouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t hold them back much longer.

  “What can I get you guys to drink?” The bartender—who looks like she could be a supermodel—directs her question at Jenna and me, but her eyes travel to Matt. I can’t really blame her.

  Matt’s pretty in that Abercrombie kind of way. All blue jeans and designer shirts, perfectly styled blond hair and a killer smile. He’s stunning, really. And he’s totally humble about it, which makes him even hotter.

  I’m not really sure why he’s with me. He could do better. Not that I’m hideous or anything, he just… he could do better.

  When I first met Matt, he pursued me for weeks with his soft brown eyes and dashing manners. I was such a wreck at the time and had no interest in starting a relationship with anyone. I’d gone on a few disappointing dates and decided that boys were the last thing I needed in my life, but something about Matt made me feel… normal. And soon enough, all that charm and goodness of his wore me down until I was agreeing to a first date. Then a second. Then a third. Before I knew it, he was calling me his girlfriend and I wasn’t correcting him.

  He made me feel unbroken and I clung to the illusion.

  We place our drink orders, and the supermodel bartender gives Matt a sexy smile before walking away. He pretends not to notice and squeezes my knee affectionately.

  “So how’s life on the prairie?”

  Bell peppers flash in my mind.

  “Boring,” I say. “How’s your internship at Edgemont going?”

  Matt’s an artist, but of the left-brained variety. The kind that likes math and perfection and drawing ninety-degree angles on everything. His internship at Edgemont Design is the perfect launching pad for his future career in architecture.

  “It’s great, actually.” His hand moves from my knee to my thigh, sending a pleasant warmth up my leg. “I’m making some good contacts. Hopefully, they’ll consider keeping me as a part-time employee through the year, just until I graduate.”

  The hope in his eyes makes me smile. “They’d be crazy not to. You’re amazing.”

  I mean it. Matt really is talented, and I have no doubt he’ll go on to build epic skyscrapers and buildings and whatever else he sets his mind to, because he’s that kind of guy. A go-getter. An overachiever.

  He’s only two years older than me, but he’s a good decade ahead of me in maturity and, well, life in general.

  He’s got a list of life goals and a ten-year plan and probably some kind of color-coded flowchart to keep them both straight.

  Me? I’ve got a fake ID and a loose itinerary for tomorrow. No flowchart.

  “Thanks, babe.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer. He always smells good. Clean.

  The drinks arrive, and I suck on the straw in my ginger ale while Jenna takes a gulp—not a sip, a gulp—of her Manhattan. Jenna orders cocktails like an old man and drinks them down like a desperate housewife. I love her.

  Matt turns to me and lowers his voice. “So you didn’t call me back all week.”

  I make an apologetic face. “Sorry about that. I just got so busy. You have news?”

  He nods. “Remember Tyson, my roommate last semester?”

  “Yeah,” I say, watching as Jack reaches for the plastic spear of olives garnishing Jenna’s drink. She swats his hand away.

  “Well, he works at New York University now, in the admissions department,” Matt continues. “And he said he might be able to get your transfer application reviewed again.”

  I whip my eyes to him. “Really?”

  I’ve been applying for transfers all year. California. Colorado. New York. Virginia. I just need something else. Something other than Arizona and all the familiar people and places I can’t hide from.

  New York was the first school to get back to me with a denial letter. The others followed suit shortly after. Fickle undergrads majoring in art don’t seem to be at the top of every university’s wish list for transfer students.

  So the idea that Tyson could get my application reviewed again—that I might be able to transfer after all—is thrilling. For the most part. My palms start to sweat.

  He nods. “Yeah, but he needed you to submit an appeal by last Thursday.”

  My heart dips, but comes right back up. “Well, that sucks. I guess I’m stuck at ASU for now.”

  “Giving up so easily?” He smiles at me mischievously.

  “What?” I eye him.

  His smile grows. “I submitted an appeal for you.”

  “What?” I squawk.

  He nods excitedly. “Tyson said I could fill one out for you and, since you refused to answer your phone, I took the liberty of doing just that. So there’s still a chance you could transfer there this fall. We could go to school together.”

  My mouth falls open. “Wow.”

  Matt starts his graduate program at NYU next semester, which explains the smile on his face. But me… I’m equal parts thrilled and panicked.

  “Aren’t you excited?” His smile slips.

  “Yes.” I force my mouth into a grin and nod. “Very excited.”

  Balls of stress tighten in my stomach.

  Jack goes for the olives a second time and Jenna slaps his hand. Again. “Back off my olives or I will voodoo your ass.”

  Even though Voodoo is a peaceful religion that has nothing to do with cursing people, Jenna takes full advantage of others’ ignorance and plays the Voodoo card every chance she gets.

  “Oh please. You’re not going to voodoo my ass.” He tries again, only to be smacked harder.

  “Keep playing,” she says. “See if you wake up with all your appendages.” Her eyes drift over to me and she cocks h
er head. “You okay?”

  I lift my brows. “What? Yes. Yeah, I’m okay.” I push out a smile.

  I’m okay. I’m totally, completely okay.

  Hours go by until everyone is drunk except for Matt and me. I’ve never seen Matt get wasted. He’s too responsible for that.

  Again, why is he with me?

  We don’t mention NYU or school again, so the stress balls in my stomach slowly unwind until I’m actually enjoying myself.

  When Jenna, Jack, and Ethan decide to move the party to the bar next door, Matt and I opt to head to his place to watch movies. Matt cracks joke after joke on the way there, and by the time we reach his apartment, my stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

  After choosing a movie, we go to his kitchen and make popcorn. Five minutes and four handfuls of salty popcorn later, we’re kissing against the fridge, the wall, the counter… until we’re kiss-walking our way back to his bedroom. It’s dark in here, the only light being the soft orange glow filtering in through the window from the streetlamps outside.

  We fall on his bed and the kissing turns into something more, which is right about the time my eyes—and my mind—start to wander.

  Why is his room so clean all the time? I mean, seriously. Everything is tidy and organized. His desk is spotless. His shoes are in neat little pairs in the closet. It’s not natural.

  And why is it so quiet in here? He lives in a campus apartment, for God’s sake. His neighbors should be throwing a kegger and blasting music through the walls.

  Before I know it, our shirts are gone and his hand moves down my rib cage as he settles on top of me, trailing kisses along my neck. I stare down his broad back and frown. I should probably do something here, like sink my nails into his shoulder blades or grab his butt or something.

  Meh.

  I slowly flatten my palms against his back in a symmetrical way and try to relax my arms. Why is he always so warm? And why the frack is he still sucking on my neck?

  He just ate popcorn and now he’s tonguing my throat and leaving a trail of buttery germs in his wake. And I swear to God his scruffy jaw is going to rub my skin raw.

  The butter germs start to spread lower as my eyes wander back to his desk. There’s not even a pen out of place. Left-brained artists are so weird. Should I have my eyes closed? Why is he breathing so hard?

  Focus, Pixie. Focus.

  His hands run over my body but avoid my scar completely. He never touches my scar. I’m not sure if it’s because it freaks him out or if he’s just being careful. Probably a little bit of both, which is unfortunate because, well, my boobs are right there and I don’t want my boyfriend to be afraid of my boobs—which are flawless, by the way. I might have a nasty gash marring the valley between the girls, but the boobies themselves are pristine. Still. Matt avoids my chest for the most part. Such a shame.

  Is that a piece of gum on his ceiling?

  My eyes flutter a bit as his hand glides over my thigh and up between my legs. My skirt has ridden up, so I’m pretty much just lying here in my panties, holding on to his overly warm back as his jeans press against the inside of my legs.

  He brings his popcorn tongue up to my mouth and kisses me deeply. I force my eyes shut and try to concentrate on kissing him back as the scruff on his jaw scratches against my face like a bristle brush. I just know my face is going to be all red after this. Maybe I’ll buy him a new razor. But not an electric one. Those aren’t always reliable.

  Who invented electric razors? What guy was shaving his face one day and thought, You know what this flat knife against my throat needs? A battery. Perhaps I should invent a razor with a cord—

  Matt yanks back from me and sits up on his knees with a frustrated exhale.

  “What?” I sit up and cover my boobs. “What’s wrong?”

  I notice his hair looks perfectly styled, not a single blond strand out of place. Aren’t people supposed to have messed-up hair after sex—or almost sex? That’s probably my fault. Shoot. I need to remember to mess up his hair.

  He runs a hand over his mouth. “Maybe I should ask you.”

  “Uh…” I glance at his spotless desk again.

  “You’re not into this, Sarah.”

  “Yes, I am,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Sex. Let’s do this.” I roll my hips in an embarrassingly unflattering way and clap my hands together like I’m breaking up a football huddle.

  Go team, go!

  He shakes his head. “This happens every time. It’s like the moment we start getting hot, your head goes somewhere else. If you don’t want to have sex, that’s fine. Really. But I can’t keep doing this almost-but-not-really thing when you’re not into it. It makes me feel like an ass. Like I’m pushing you or something.”

  “No, no, no. You’re not pushing and you’re not an ass at all. It’s me. I swear I can do better. I will do better.”

  I stare at his bare chest, shadows of orange lining his hard muscles, and try to feel something naughty.

  Nothing.

  Maybe I am a lesbian.

  He sighs. “I don’t want you to do better, Sarah. I want you to want it.”

  “I do want it.”

  Right?

  Right?

  He looks at the bed for a moment before slowly climbing off and pulling his shirt back on. “Why don’t you get dressed and we can talk about this later, okay?” He attempts a smile, but all I can do is nod back.

  I hide my face in my hands and let out a long, heavy breath. Why don’t I want to have sex with my superhot and totally sweet boyfriend?

  What is wrong with me?

  10

  Levi

  What is wrong with me?

  I pull into the inn, sexually frustrated and generally pissed at the universe as I park in the back of the lot. Everything was going fine with Savannah—that was her name, right? Savannah? Susanna?—until she mentioned she was an art major, and any hotness I’d hoped to indulge in with her instantly evaporated.

  I turn off the engine and run a hand through my hair.

  Art? ART? What the hell, universe?

  The girl had a streak of green paint on the inside of her elbow, for God’s sake. And she was blonde. And smelled like flowers. She was two stained sneakers and a green-eyed scowl away from being Pixie, so I smoothly excused myself from her company and went in search of a different distraction. But by that time every girl in the mansion was either trashed or taken, and really, who was I kidding? No distraction in the world would numb the hot ache in my chest.

  Damn Pixie. Moving in next door and fucking up my sex life.

  As I exit my truck, a black car pulls up to the front of the inn. I look at the time. 3:35 a.m. This is either a senior citizen arriving very early for check-in, which has happened, or it’s some kind of trouble.

  I stand in the shadows of the tall willow trees beside the lot and watch as the passenger door opens and a figure climbs out.

  Despite the darkness and the distance between us, I instantly know it’s Pixie. Her straightened hair hangs down her back, shining in the moonlight against her sweater as she steps forward in the same man-eating skirt she had on earlier.

  Trouble it is.

  A guy I’ve never seen before climbs out of the driver’s seat, and I straighten my shoulders.

  Maybe he’s a cabdriver in the nicest cab ever. Maybe he was the designated driver tonight and Pixie got a little tipsy. Maybe he’s a gay friend who gives her pointers on what to wear, like that damn skirt.

  The designated gay cabdriver leans down and starts kissing Pixie.

  Or maybe he’s the icing on this cake of despair I’ve been eating all night.

  Watching them kiss makes the ache burn hotter, and I absently push a hand against my sternum.

  They part ways and Icing Boy drives away as Pixie lets herself inside the inn. I wait a moment before leaving the shadows and following after her. The front door creaks a little when I step inside. The lights are dimmed and there’s not a soul around as I quiet
ly walk through the lobby toward the east wing staircase.

  Pixie’s at the foot of the stairs, silently cursing as she rummages around in the large purse slung over her shoulder. The floorboards beneath my feet groan as I move forward, and she whips her head up, relaxing a twinge when she sees me.

  “Oh,” she says. “Hey.”

  I slow my pace. “Hey.”

  Her purse buzzes and she drops down on the bottom stair, effectively blocking my path upstairs as she starts clawing through its contents.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and wait. “Lose something?”

  She sighs heavily as she digs. “I can’t find my phone because I packed liked a hoarder but I know it’s here because it keeps ringing and I’m pretty sure it’s Jenna because she’s the only person I know who would blow up my phone in the middle of the night and I don’t know why she’s calling but now I’m thinking there’s some kind of emergency which would be just perfect because my night can’t get any better and why do I have so many pens in my purse?” She holds up a fistful of pens. “WHY.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at the flustered expression on her face.

  A happy lilt sings from the depths of her bag, and she immediately drops the pens—which fall onto the step beside her before rolling off in every direction—and starts yanking things out of her purse, tossing them aside.

  A shirt.

  A granola bar.

  A sketchpad.

  A scarf.

  More pens.

  With the path to my room blocked and nothing better to do with my hands, I start gathering the runaway pens.

  By the fourth ring, Pixie finds her phone and answers with a rushed “What happened? Did someone die?”

  “Finally,” I hear a relieved voice say from the other line. “Where are you? I came back to Matt’s apartment to drop off Tweedledee and Tweedledum—”

  “Jenna.”

  “But you’re not here. I thought you guys were going back to his place.”

  Pixie glances at me, then drops her eyes. “We did. But then I had Matt drive me back to the inn.”

  Matt.

  I keep my gaze on the floor as I finish collecting pens.