Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

His words broke the spell and heart pounding, I stepped back but I didn’t leave. Like a fool, I stayed.

  He didn’t have to be a Morelli to be trouble. Or to get me in trouble.

  This man was lethal. And so attractive it hurt. It actually hurt.

  “Who are you?” I asked, licking the blood off my lip. Hoping for a lingering taste of him.

  He shook his head. “I am no one.”

  Someone came to stand in the doorway, breaking up the light, casting a shadow across the stranger’s beautiful face. Both of us turned to look.

  “Jesus, Princess,” my Irishman whispered when he saw who was standing there and he must have realized who I was.

  “Poppy?” It was the Senator, and I went cold. Tried so hard not to, but head to toe the chill settled over me. “Everything all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said and smiled to prove it. He always believed my smiles. Everyone did. They were very good smiles. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

  “We’re about to make the announcement,” the Senator said, and he summoned me with his fingers. A kind of snapping thing like you’d do with a dog, and I told myself, like I had for a while now, that it wasn’t personal. It was actually the opposite of personal. He treated everyone like that. That that made me feel better wasn’t something I was actually proud of. But I was seeking comfort from any corner.

  “I’ll be in in a second,” I said. I wanted to say goodbye to this stranger. To these quiet moments of rest.

  Or maybe I just wanted to pull my leash as taut as possible, to see how far it would stretch.

  “Poppy?” The Senator smiled when he said my name, but the steel was there. That terrifying sharpness. Turns out my leash didn’t stretch far at all.

  “You heard her,” the Irishman said from the shadows. “She needs a second.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Jim stepped into the light; he was smiling but it was the razor’s edge. Jim was blonde and blue eyed. He wore glasses that made him look smart. He worked out just enough that the suits he wore looked good.

  Everything about him inspired comfort and confidence.

  Voters loved him.

  I’d never been so scared of someone in my life.

  “I’m coming,” I said, and I stepped into the light with Jim Maywell the junior senator of New York who was 28 years older than me, and at midnight, we were announcing that I would be his wife.

  Jim grabbed my hand too hard. But I expected it, and made my hand as small as I could in his. There was a trick to it funneling my fingers, so he couldn’t grind the bones together. I’d learned that fast. I wondered if that would be interesting on my application to the catering company.

  Experience: eating canapes off trays and mitigating the pain my fiancé wanted to inflict on my body.

  We stepped off the small patio into the doorway with the sound of the party filtering through the walls.

  Don’t do it, I told myself. Don’t look. He’s not for you. Not ever.

  But of course I couldn’t stop myself, and I looked back over my shoulder, but the Irishman was gone.

  Nothing was left of him but the taste of blood in my mouth.

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  Mating Theory

  Skye Warren

  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

  And sorry I could not travel both

  And be one traveler, long I stood

  And looked down one as far as I could

  To where it bent in the undergrowth;

  Then took the other, as just as fair,

  And having perhaps the better claim,

  Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

  Though as for that the passing there

  Had worn them really about the same,

  And both that morning equally lay

  In leaves no step had trodden black.

  Oh, I kept the first for another day!

  Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

  I doubted if I should ever come back.

  I shall be telling this with a sigh

  Somewhere ages and ages hence:

  Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

  I took the one less traveled by,

  And that has made all the difference.

  Robert Frost

  Prologue

  Sutton

  Tearing the mold off bread so I have something to eat.

  A black eye on the first day of school. Two dollars to my name.

  Rock bottom looks different every time, but it’s never looked like an empty bottle of Jim Beam until tonight. My daddy told me I wasn’t better than him, and I told him to go fuck himself. He punched me in the stomach, and I told him again. And again. And again, until I spit blood onto the worn gray carpet of our single-wide.

  Always had more pride than sense, which I guess is how I ended up on top of a hollowed-out building. I’m surrounded by the biggest goddamn block party without a single drop to drink. Only Harper St. Claire could have turned the razing of a prized old building into a celebration.

  Half the city showed up for the big demolition. They’re dancing on the bones of that long-abandoned library, praying for a fresh harvest like it’s a sacrifice.

  Christopher and Harper, they’re the gods in this ritual.

  They’re the ones we pray to.

  A sound makes me tense. This may be a hollowed-out fucking building, but it’s my hollowed-out fucking building. Some of the veneer that lets me wear a suit and smile and pretend I’m in control of myself has broken down. It crumbled along with the library when the wrecking ball crashed into it. There’s only the feral part of me now, and my back’s against the wall. I’m ready for a fight.

  The rusted metal stairs creak and whine at someone’s weight.

  My skin ripples with awareness. I can almost imagine the hair on my back rising up like some kind of wild animal. I’m two seconds away from baring my teeth. You don’t come near someone bleeding, even if the pain is only on the inside. Really fucking poetic, watching the two people I’m in love with end up with each other. Even from ten stories high I can see the way her eyes shine when she looks at him.

  And I can see the way his body tightens when he looks at her.

  A head appears over the rim of the building, blocking my view. The girl is hallowed by the spotlights on the street, her hair almost shimmering from the force of the light behind her. Or maybe it only looks that way because I’m wasted. “This roof’s taken,” I say, my voice hard. “Now fuck off.”

  She does not fuck off.

  Instead I’m treated to the sight of backlit breasts and a slender silhouette as she climbs onto the roof. I made a chair out of an old radiator. Front row seats to heartbreak. Maybe she’s one of Harper’s friends from prep school. It might be a good time for her, watching me pant over what I can’t have. She stretches her legs out in front of her, settling in beside me, using her warmth like a weapon against my numbness. “You excited about the park?” she says, her tone challenging.

  “Hardly.”

  “It’s going to revitalize the west side of Tanglewood.” A spitfire, this girl. Her sarcasm so sharp I can feel it against my throat like a blade. “All the sad little poor people can finally see what a flower looks like. They’ll have art and plants and magic, so who cares that they don’t have food?”

  Not a friend from prep school. Maybe she’s some kind of do-gooder in Tanglewood, an activist, a volunteer, working with the poor. “Why are you at the groundbreaking for a park you don’t want?”

  “I could ask you the same question.” She holds up my bottle to the sliver of orange sunset. It gleams empty. “How long have you been up here, anyway?”

  I climbed those shaky metal stairs to the roof before the first crush of steel against concrete. The crowd gasped when the dust cleared, their eyes on the two-story painting revealed on the building behind. I w
as too busy watching the only two people I’ve ever loved share a private kiss on the scaffolding that serves as their temporary stage. And then drinking, drinking, drinking. I’m not sure I could make it back down the stairs without breaking my neck, so I’m trapped here.

  How long have you been up here, anyway? “It feels like a goddamn lifetime.”

  Her gaze follows mine. A woman throws her arms around a man’s neck. He leans down to whisper in her ear. They could have been any couple in love. “Which one?” she says, her voice soft.

  “Which one what?”

  “Which one broke your heart?”

  I couldn’t describe the sledgehammer I’d taken to the brain when I met Christopher in a dimly lit private club. Too dark to be called lust or even love. Competitive and all-consuming. I couldn’t describe the desire that slammed through me when I met his stepsister.

  There was no way I could choose between them, but it had not been a choice. They wanted each other. Electricity crackled in the air whenever they were in the same room.

  Well, I could be happy for them.

  That’s what a good man would do. A gentleman, and I’ve worked so fucking hard to pretend that’s what I am. Until the liquor stripped my skin away. Until this girl sat beside me, asking which one broke my heart. She watches me with clear eyes, her gaze impossibly wise. What does she see?

  “Both of them.”

  A sympathetic sound that feels like a stroke to my cock.

  She doesn’t look shocked that I fell for a man, even though it shocked the hell out of me. I questioned my sexuality, fought with it—lost myself to it. Wanting Harper did not diminish wanting Christopher.

  There’s something worldly in that dark gaze. Any other day I would find out what.

  Tonight, I don’t care. She isn’t a person with wants and dreams and needs of her own. I’m going to use her body the same way they used mine. I’m going to take what they took from me.

  “Your name,” I say, though it doesn’t really matter.

  “Ashleigh.” She sounds uncertain for the first time tonight, her name drawn out into two parts. Ash, like the soot in a fireplace. And leigh, leigh, leigh. She’s beautiful, and I’m wasted.

  “Come here, Ashleigh.” Except I don’t give her a chance to come here. She might use it to leave, to disappear down that metal staircase where I can’t follow.

  My hand wraps behind her neck, pulling her close. My lips are harsh against hers, hungry and hard. I want to punish her for the emptiness inside me, except when she makes a little sound of fright, it fills me up with something else. Pleasure like black velvet, the kind of darkness I want to stroke my fingers over, back and forth, to feel the fibers pull against me.

  Her shuddery breaths are like water, and I drink and drink. My tongue slides against hers. It’s a graphic act, this kiss. More obscene than actual sex could be. More invasive as I push her head back and explore her mouth, not waiting for permission, not leaving any place untouched.

  I must taste like whiskey, but she doesn’t pull away.

  I’m the one who breaks the kiss, panting hard. Liquid dark eyes stare up at me.

  Surprise. More than that. There’s outright shock in her expression. Is she younger than I thought? More innocent than anyone I ever met? I should ask her about sex, but those aren’t the words that come out of my mouth. “Have you ever been in love, Ashleigh?”

  A slow shake of her head. “No,” she whispers.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “I can pretend.”

  “What?”

  "For a hundred dollars."

  There's a drum in my head, pounding, pounding, telling me I've got something wrong. Really wrong. "A hundred dollars," I repeat, wishing my veins weren’t running hot with liquor.

  "For an hour. I know how much that suit costs. You can afford it."

  I pull back, moving careful so I don’t tip over. “What are you talking about?”

  A cool breeze skates over us, and she shivers. I want to comfort her, but that’s not what this is about. A fast fuck on an abandoned rooftop while the sounds of a massive block party bounce off the buildings around us. And a hundred dollars, apparently. Jesus. I was about to fuck a prostitute.

  What’s worse is that I still want to do it. More, because I know she’ll let me do anything.

  For a price.

  I fumble for my wallet, and she tenses. Maybe it’s her first time selling that sweet little body? Except that worldliness in her eyes… it’s not the first time. My cock is rock hard in my slacks. I pull out the wad of cash that’s inside and press it into her hand without saying a word. A few hundred, I think. “Take it.”

  I want to use this girl, but I’m not going to use her like this.

  She scoots herself back, only an inch. There’s shame on her face. And hurt, like maybe this rejection matters even though I gave her money.

  “I should go,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.

  “This roof’s taken,” I remind her, gently this time.

  I don’t tell her to fuck off again, but she gets the message. She scrambles to the edge of the roof and throws her leg over without looking back, taking the money with her. I watch the shadow of her ass in the moonlight, the same way a predator might watch its prey scamper off on a hot Sahara day. Sometimes it’s too much trouble to catch something to eat, sometimes survival is more trouble than it’s worth. I could have had her for a hundred dollars.

  A faint scratch of metal against concrete, and then she’s gone.

  Back into the seething mass of partygoers, the ocean of joy that I can’t join. I’m stuck on this island, and for maybe the first time, I’m glad of it. What I wanted with her wasn’t good or clean. It wasn’t kind.

  The scaffolding where Harper and Christopher had stood is empty. The people around it still do their ritual dance, but the gods are no longer listening. Having sex, that’s what the gods are doing now. I can’t see them, but I know it as surely as I feel the bass reverberate through the old building holding me up. I can imagine Harper’s red lips and Christopher’s dark eyes. There is no girl to use. Ashleigh. Ash. Leigh. I pick up the empty bottle of Jim Beam, the proof that I’m no better than my daddy, and throw it against the ledge of the roof, watch it shatter into a million sharp glittering pieces.

  1

  Sutton

  Pounding wakes me up.

  Meetings must have run late in California. I probably took the red-eye back to Tanglewood. The plane was almost empty, only a few rumpled businessmen like me and a sleepy family with Disney stuffed animals grasped in chubby hands. The airport, a ghost town. I bought a cup of lukewarm coffee on the way out so that I could make the drive home. The important thing is that I made the deal.

  That’s always been the important thing.

  The pounding grows louder, and I groan. I’m more than tired. Hungover? Maybe I stopped by Christopher’s place and had a celebratory drink. One. Maybe two.

  I swallow down stale vomit. Jesus.

  Every muscle screams a protest when I move my head. Sharp rays of light pierce my dry eyes. The digital clock face says it’s four thirty in the afternoon.

  That doesn’t make any sense. My alarm should have woken me up at six. I would be in the office by seven, ready to work on the next deal.

  Pain lances through my stomach, making my whole body shudder.

  I’ve never been sick a day in my life, but maybe I finally caught the flu. Or something worse. Ragged breaths saw in and out of me. I push up from the sofa, squeezing my eyes shut tight against the wild swirling of the room. What the hell’s in the water in California?

  “Sutton? Don’t make me break down the door.”

  That would be Hugo, and I snarl against the memories that want to flood me. He has no business showing up here. No business making all that noise.

  I stagger to the door, barely able to see, leaning against the door as it opens.

  My old friend looks disgustingly un-drunk in a crisp navy shi
rt and well-tailored slacks. “You look like shit,” he says, brushing past me into the house.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Your house looks like shit,” he adds, taking in the empty bottles and broken furniture. I’m not sure exactly when that happened. The realization hits me like a goddamn wrecking ball—I wasn’t in California closing a business deal. I wasn’t on a red-eye flight. I haven’t even gone to the fucking office in weeks. I’ve been drunk off my ass instead of working.

  I swallow the bile in my mouth. “What day is it?”

  A dark glance. “You don’t remember?”

  “What fucking day is it?”

  “I thought I’d check on you, because maybe you’d be moping. I didn’t know you’d completely implode.”

  I’ve been wasted for six weeks. Six months. I push past him to the living room, shoving aside dirty clothes and a pizza box. I find my phone between the sofa cushions, the screen black. Dead.

  There’s a roar that must be me. Frustration. An animal kind of fury. I hurl the phone across the room. It hits the wall with an ominous crack. “Why shouldn’t I get wasted? Everything’s gone to shit.”

  Hugo leans against the doorframe, looking almost bored. “At this point I can’t argue with you. This place is a pigsty. Where’s your sister?”

  “She left.” That’s what everyone does. They leave.

  He curses softly. “The wedding is tomorrow, you bastard.”

  I’d had fourteen-hour days of hard labor, my muscles burning, my stomach growling. My body was a tool, hard and sharp. I didn’t worry about how the hammer felt, whether the ax needed a break. My arms carried what I told them to. My legs walked me where I needed them, except for now, when they could not help me stand. Knees folded, and I sank, graceless and heavy onto the sofa.

  “Tomorrow,” I say, my voice hollow.

  “I suppose you could skip it.”

  “I haven’t eaten in forty-eight hours.”

  “Though unless something changed, you’re the best man.”