Beautifully Broken Read online

  “It’s eleven-thirty. Let’s grab some brunch.” Rex runs up to the tiki booth and collects his keys; they held them hostage to ensure payment. I slip on the cotton floral dress I found in his mom’s closet. It’s pretty and flowy and made by some chick named Lily. I wouldn’t be caught dead in it at school. It’s too colorful, but for the beach, it’s nice. By the time I’m dressed Rex is back at my side. He slips his shirt on then holds his hand out for me again. “Ready?”

  I suck in a breath and reach out. My fingers touch his, inch by treacherous inch until our hands link together. I haven’t held anyone’s hand since I was twelve. Even then it was in a hurry-up kind of way. This kind of hand holding comes with an unspoken announcement that we are something. What...I don’t know. But something.

  Rex’s black Oakley’s rise at an angle from his lopsided smile. He squeezes twice. My heart mimicking it. “Breathe, Piper. You’re alright.”

  And just like that, I release the air trapped in my lungs. We walk the shoreline with waves nipping at our toes. I’m flying high above cloud nine, soaking up the sun and what is probably the most perfect day I’ve had all year. Aside from this morning’s panic attack.

  We walk about a mile, hand in hand, to the boardwalk. Rex lets me go, following close behind as we ascend the not quite wide enough for two stairs. Once at street level, he links his fingers with mine again and leads us down the sidewalk. The hair on the back of my neck raises when I realize where we’re going.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How did you—”

  Rex chuckles and pulls me closer, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Your brows knit together when you’re worried.”

  I try my best to smooth my forehead by spreading my eyebrows as far as possible. A lady walks by with her kid. The girl’s five, maybe six, and she’s staring. I must look like a freak in this bright dress making a weird face. I bite back a laugh. I’m being stupid. I should be flattered Rex notices little things about me. “They do not.”

  “Yes, they do. You wear your heart on your sleeve, Piper. If anyone paid attention they’d see everything.”

  No one pays attention to me. I’m not pretty enough, or rich enough. I’m like a shadow in the dark, merely existing until someone brighter comes into the room, and everyone’s brighter than me. “Like what?”

  “Like how the tough girl act you put on at school is just that, an act. You walk with your head held high but clutch your books tight to your chest like your life depends on them. Your muscles tense and all color washes from your face when people touch you, even accidently. Yet, if you touch them first, you’re almost fine. At first, I didn’t see it but once Cooper told me about how you don’t like to be touched, I saw it every time.”

  For the second time today, Rex takes my breath away. “You talked to Cooper about me?”

  He shrugs. “From the first day we ran into each other, I knew you were different. You didn’t know who I was.”

  I knew. Whispers of Rex’s arrival spread through the halls weeks before he came. Everyone wanted to meet him. Girls fanned themselves, saying how Rex would take them to New York or Paris when they dated. They’d giggle and go on and on about the life they’d have as the girlfriend of a country star’s son. I swear some of them even began planning their weddings in Martha’s Vineyard.

  “Or maybe you did and didn’t care. Whatever the case, it put you on my radar.” Rex laughs but there’s a sadness in his eyes when they reach mine again. “Having a famous father means I have to be careful. People use me to get to him or further their own agendas all the time. I needed to make sure you weren’t that type of person.”

  “And what type of person am I?”

  “The kind who would rather sit alone under a tree during her free period at the end of the day than deal with the bullshit that is our school.”

  I tear my gaze away from Rex’s gorgeous face, needing a moment to think. I look up at the same door I’ve walked through three days a week for the past two years. I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose.

  Fuck. We’re here.

  9

  Rex

  An over the doorbell chimes when I pull the door open, holding it to let Piper pass through first. Our fingers untangle as she walks by me, but I quickly claim them again once we’re both inside.

  Logan stands behind the counter, staring, eyes bouncing from Piper to me. Back and forth more times than I’m comfortable with. He takes his phone out of his pocket, snaps a picture, then sets it on the counter. Piper pulls her hand from mine. I grit my teeth and walk toward him, my mood instantly soured. He’s probably gonna sell that photo to the tabloids for a few hundred bucks. That’s the only reason anyone randomly snaps pictures of me or my parents. Give it a week and people across the country will be talking about my new raven-haired girlfriend.

  “What can I get you?” Logan asks with a mocking grin.

  I don’t bother to smile but keep my tone light. “What’s good?”

  Logan tips his head side to side. “I say our lobster roll, made with real lobster on a toasted bun, smothered in butter and our almost-famous dressing, but Piper will say the BLT.”

  Neither sounds appealing. I’m a burger and fries kind of guy, but I’m not against trying something new, especially when I just found out one of my girl’s favorite foods. “I’ll take one of each.”

  “Oh, I don’t need anything,” Piper chimes from behind me.

  Somehow, she’s drifted towards the back of the room, near the door. Poor thing looks more uncomfortable than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. We should probably take our food to go and eat in the park a few blocks over. She seems to do better when it’s just her and I. “We’ll take them to go. Add two Cokes to the order too.”

  “Dude, Piper just said she’s not hungry. I’ll get you the lobster roll but not the BLT.” Logan writes a ticket then sticks it to a nail on the doorframe into the kitchen. A hand reaches out, grabs the paper, then disappears. “That’ll be eighteen-seventy-five.”

  Piper, not fifteen minutes ago, said that she could eat, but I’m not about to explain myself. Logan’s not her keeper. Or mine. I’ll order what I want and get it because the customer’s always right. I cross my arms. “I want both.”

  “I’m not stupid, Bro.”

  “Never said you were, but if you think you are, I won’t argue.” I know I’m a jock—so to speak— but high school football players have a stereotype more so than hockey players. Logan’s brother, Cooper, lives up to this stereotype. Good looking. Dumb. And a pussy magnet, although he does well to keep that on the DL. It only makes sense that Logan’s all of that with a dash of fuck-the-world.

  “Logan, it’s fine.” Piper steps into my peripheral vision. She drops her arms to the side and stands up tall, but red marks from her nails pepper her wrist. It’s obvious she has a history of self-harm; her tattoos do a shit job of hiding it. I hope I’m not pushing her too far out of her comfort zone.

  “No. It’s not okay, Piper. Why are you here with him?” Logan growls holding a hand out at me.

  I take a deep breath. Count to three in my head before exhaling. Try to think before I speak. All the things the counselor at my old school said to try to help keep my cool. His methods are bullshit. “Why do you care?”

  “Logan, stop.” Piper’s voice cracks. She’s on the verge of tears again and he doesn’t seem to notice. Poor girl might be about to have a repeat of this morning and this prick won’t back down.

  “Because she’s my brother’s best friend and practically my sister. And you’re a dick.” Logan barks.

  Just because I don’t want to deal with the everyday drama of people that I don’t give two shits about doesn’t make me a dick. Logan on the other hand is practically a modern day Edward Cullen with his dark hair, selectively social ways, and overall fuck you attitude. “Says the biggest asshole in the room.”

  “At least I don’t lead girls on. Fuck them and then purposely break their
hearts.” Logan’s voice is so loud it bounces off the walls.

  Everyone in the room’s watching, but I don’t care. He started this war and I’m going to finish it on principle. Besides, I love a good fight. Words, fists, or feet, the messier the better. “The hell you don’t! You’ve tagged more pussy in the past four months than Hugh Hefner did in his prime.”

  Logan’s face pinches together. “Who the fuck is Hugh Hefner?”

  All this yelling is bound to set Piper off, and I don’t want to be that catalyst. I take another slow breath and give him the calmest most placating tone I can manage. “I’m not a player, Logan. Whoever you’re pissed off about knew long before she crawled into bed with me that I don’t date.”

  “Exactly! And I don’t want Piper crawling in bed with you!” Logan yells.

  Fuck being calm! I’m so mad I could punch Logan in the face. He’s lucky there’s a counter between us and a room full of people. Too many cameras. I don’t need another lecture from my dad’s publicist about my temper. “Well I don’t think anything Piper does is any of your business!”

  “Enough!” Piper shouts.

  Piper

  I should have suggested someplace different as soon as I realized where we were going. Being Saturday, I thought— no, hoped—Logan would be in the kitchen today and not at the counter. It’s not often, but when his hangover is bad enough, he’ll cook and let Juan man the counter. I crossed my fingers and wished that he drank too much last night.

  As usual, luck isn’t on my side.

  Logan’s beady brown eyes stare at me. Judging me for my bright colors and for walking in with Rex. The little blue vein next to his right eye bulges, a tell-tale sign that there’s a storm brewing inside him. I wiggle my hand away from Rex and take a step back. Logan’s never seen me with anyone other than Cooper. This protective big brother thing he’s got going on mixed with his temper is a recipe for disaster.

  I dig my nails into my wrist, hoping the pressure will stop the noose tightening around my neck. My scars hum, reminding me I’m weak and can’t even die when things get sticky. Even though I’m trying to move on with my life, every time things get hard my wrists scream: Try again. You’ll get it this time.

  I cover my ears with my hands. There’s too much yelling—both inside my brain and out. I can’t take it anymore. It's too much. “Enough!”

  Both boys stop arguing and stare at me.

  Silence. Thank God. I lower my hands and cross my arms. My body trembles, the invisible noose so tight around my neck I can barely swallow my saliva, but I keep it together.

  “I don’t want you hanging out with him, Piper.” Logan crosses his arms. “Dude’s trouble.”

  Logan has no idea what trouble is. He thinks losing a game is the end of the world. Grow up playing in the streets with no shoes, in tattered clothes while your mama screws someone in your bed, then talk to me about trouble. “Weren’t you just at Rex’s house last night?”

  “Yeah. And so were you,” Logan pauses. “Why were you there anyway? I thought you hated parties.”

  I flick my hand at him. “It doesn’t matter, Logan. You’re out of line. Rex has been amazing today. You owe him an apology.”

  Logan chuckles. He takes a small step forward and rests his hands on the counter. “Are you serious? What are you gonna do, Pipes? You’re all bark and no bite. Everyone knows it. You’re soft.”

  So much for brother of the year.

  Didn’t take long for the old Logan to show his colors. He’s been so sweet and caring the last eight months, I’d almost forgotten how much of a dick he could be. This was the Logan who hated me, the one who started the rumors.

  I step closer, reach across the counter and grab Logan by the shirt collar. His gaze meets mine, his nose barely inches away. “Try me Logan. I’ve been through enough shit to give your nightmares nightmares. Just because you’re family doesn’t mean I won’t put you in your place.”

  10

  Piper

  Ding.

  Ding.

  Ding.

  The alert of my phone breaks the silence around me, killing any chance I had at a stealthy entry. I should have put it on silent. I flip the button on the side of my phone, killing the ringer before I forget again. Stopping beside a bush I look around, making sure I’m not being watched before reading the text.

  Unknown Number: Hey! I looked for you at lunch.

  Unknown Number: I actually went into the cafeteria. You should feel loved.

  Unknown Number: Did you ditch?

  Unknown Number: It’s Rex btw.

  A small smile graces my lips. I checked my phone way too many times last week, waiting for Rex to text. After the first day, I thought he was doing that wait-so-you-don’t-seem-anxious-thing. After two days I began to worry and almost texted him but didn’t. I refuse to come off as that girl who can’t take a hit. Besides, on the off chance that I was a charity case, I didn’t want to embarrass myself. After three days, I gave up all hope of hearing from him. And then, a full eight days later, after I’ve washed all thoughts of Rex from my mind and accepted that last weekend was nothing more than a pity hang out, he texts me.

  My stomach flutters, but I instantly kill the feeling with emotional cyanide—this is probably just a booty text. Afterall, I’m supposed to be the school slut. Why else would he wait a whole week to text? Still, I save his number and shoot back a quick reply.

  Me: Yeah. Had some stuff to do that couldn’t wait.

  Like sneak into my bio-mom’s apartment and steal her child support check.

  Me: Where were you last week?

  Rex: It was Gretchen’s birthday. I flew back to New York to celebrate.

  Ah...the nanny. That was nice of him. Too bad he forgot how to use a phone in New York.

  Me: For a week?

  Rex: Go big or go home.

  Rex: Did you miss me? ;)

  A little.

  Me: You wish.

  …

  …

  Rex: I’m having a kickback tonight. Want to come by?

  Me: Seriously? A party on a Monday?

  Rex: Is there a better way to start the week?

  Me: I’ve gotta work. See you tomorrow?

  Rex: Definitely.

  I shove my phone back in my bag and take a deep breath. I hate coming home, not that I’ve ever considered this place home. It has four walls, a front door, a dirty kitchen, a bathroom, and two tiny bedrooms, but that’s all. There have never been any family pictures on the walls or home cooked meals, no kisses goodnight or how was your day hugs. These four walls are as empty of love and nurturing as my wallet is at this moment of money.

  With a trembling hand I turn the handle on our front door. I don’t have a key, let alone need one, because the house is never locked. Anything of value was sold years ago to feed Monica’s habits or stolen by the people she brought home.

  The door creaks as it opens. I peek my head in, making sure the coast is clear before stepping inside and closing it behind me. It’s been five weeks since I’ve been here last, but nothing’s changed, not that I expected it to. Flies buzz over molding pizza boxes and faded red solo cups on the kitchen counter. I cover my mouth, choking back a gag.

  I walk around the couch to the coffee table, where mail is piled a mile high, and freeze. Monica, my bio- mom, is passed out on the couch, one arm over her eyes. The other dangles off the side, her fingers brushing the floor. She’s even thinner than the last time I saw her, practically skin and bones. Box red hair, more of a faded maroon than the desired color, is splayed across her cheeks and pillow. Even in the dim light, there’s a yellow tinge to her translucent skin. Track marks scar her arms and for a moment, I feel bad for her.

  Life is just a catalyst of decisions, spinning you high above the clouds or burying you beneath the dirt. One wrong choice and I could easily end up like Monica. I can’t help but wonder, what happened to her? What terrible experience made her feel the need to banish all thoughts and worries with
heroin and alcohol and everything else she does?

  I push these thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter what happened to Monica. Nothing in her past will ever excuse what she did to me.

  I crouch down and sift through dozens of envelopes filled with past due notices and collection letters. It’s a wonder how she hasn’t been evicted yet. I used to pay everything— the lights, the water, most of the rent. The landlord when we were short, which was practically a monthly occurrence, would take payment in the form of Monica’s pussy. She probably still pays him that way. Finally, I find the envelope I’m looking for and tuck it into my back pocket.

  “Where do you think you’re going,” Monica mumbles as I rise to my feet. Her voice is nails on a chalkboard, grating my nerves and inciting a rage I’m not proud of.

  “Out.”

  “I have a client tonight,” She hollers from the couch.

  I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge. Unsurprisingly it’s empty. By the looks of things, it has been for a while. I slam it closed. Half empty bottles of liquor rattle like a deranged windchime on top of it. “You always have a client.” Or five.

  Monica quit working Avenue D when she met Gerald last year, which was more of a curse than a blessing. Gerald brought his clients, his drugs, and his thugs into my four walls and there was nothing I could do about it. What’s worse, he was Monica’s supplier, paying her with heroin more nights than not. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

  “When exactly was the last time you fed me, Monica?”

  She sits up and throws a wrinkled McDonalds’ bag at me. “There, I fed you.” It lands at my feet as she lies back on the couch. She clicks the TV on, watching static on the cableless screen. I pick up the bag and unroll it open. My stomach lurches into my throat from the smell. I crumble the bag and toss onto the mountain that is her trash can.

  “Yeah, because giving me rotten food counts as feeding me.” I roll my eyes and cross the room to the front door. I need to leave. These walls are paper thin. Someone is bound to hear us arguing and that someone will probably tell one of Gerald’s thugs I’m back. The last thing I need is a tail.