Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  Even in this state the concern comes into his dark eyes. “Where were you?”

  “There’s this guy.”

  “Only sad stories start like that.”

  My heart squeezes. “I know.”

  “Don’t get attached, Ash. You know that.”

  “I messed up,” I whisper.

  His eyelids droop heavy, and I know he’s about to sleep again. I hold his hand so he’ll know he’s not alone. Even if he can’t hear me, he’ll know that much. “Not your fault,” he mumbles, and I don’t know whether he’s talking about his bad trip or getting attached to Sutton. Maybe both.

  * * *

  Sutton

  I’m nursing the same glass of bourbon. It doesn’t taste like anything. Hugo’s here with me. If I had to guess, Damon Scott called him. He loves to pull our strings like we’re puppets. He has a glass of water, because as soon as he’s done, he has to drive home to his wife and baby.

  “Get the hell out of here,” I say, clenching my hands around the glass.

  “There’s no need to get hostile, mon ami. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sometimes Hugo really is a bastard. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Oui. Bon. I’m not going to nurse you.”

  I swear he gets more French the more he wants to annoy me. “I’m not having some kind of weird rebound relationship because Harper and Christopher got married. I just got to know her, and I care about her as a friend, so I’m making sure she’s okay.”

  There. That all sounded very reasonable.

  Too bad it’s a bunch of shit.

  Hugo gives a French sigh and takes a sip of water.

  The Den is pretty empty. It’s a Wednesday night, but even so this is sparse. It’s more than a bar. It’s the playground of the rich and licentious. It’s also a modern-day salon for free thinkers. “Where the hell is everyone?”

  “I think they took one look at your face and ran away scared.”

  I run a hand over my face and hair. “I’m not that bad.”

  “Well, I think Damon Scott may send you a bill for lost service.”

  Before I can respond, the door opens. Blue comes inside, bringing with him a wave of cold, damp air. It must have started raining. Now I’m very sure that someone called them. Hugo and Blue were two of my closest friends.

  Along with Christopher.

  The four of us met every week, no matter how busy we got with work. We’re sounding boards and support. We’re steady rocks in an upside-down world. We even had a name, being the ambitious bastards that we are. Thieves Club. Because every dollar earned is a dollar taken from someone else. Whether we earned that money through investments or buildings, or in Hugo’s case, sleeping with wealthy women.

  Blue sits down with that damned military bearing. “What did I miss?”

  “Sutton’s feeling very sad over la courtisane.”

  My eyebrows go up. “You know what she does.”

  “But of course. I recognize her from the street corner. Very pretty girl.”

  “Do you know how old she is?”

  Hugo gives it a quick thought, as if doing a calculation. “I would say, seventeen.”

  “Damn.”

  “My knowledge of women is unrivaled.”

  “Then can you talk to her. She feels ashamed of what she’s done to survive.”

  “Is she ashamed? Or are you?”

  “Hell,” I say on a growl. “I’m not ashamed of her. I’m goddamn pissed at everyone who made this her only choice. Her mother and father and whoever else made this happen.”

  “I don’t think she wants to hear from an old colleague, but I’m always here if she needs me. There are some stains that never go away.”

  That makes me raise my eyebrows. Even Blue looks surprised. He’s the one who speaks first. “You always seem so damn self-assured. I didn’t think you minded.”

  “I don’t mind the good nights, of which there were many. The bad nights tend to linger.”

  “I think she’s had bad nights.”

  “You will help her through them more than I. Be patient. Be kind. Be loving.”

  The word is like a slap. “I don’t love her.”

  Blue clears his throat, and I follow his blue gaze. Ashleigh stands there looking like a betrayed goddess, hurt and proud and unbearably dignified. I don’t love her. The words echo in the air around us. There’s nothing I can say to fix them, nothing that wouldn’t sound false.

  The door opens again, and I half expect to see Christopher. Which would be ridiculous as he’s on his honeymoon. But he would complete the four of us. He would know what to do about Ashleigh. I need to stop fucking wanting him.

  Instead it’s a man I don’t recognize, someone tall and lean, wearing a suit. He looks like any one of the men I’d pass in the high-rises around downtown.

  Ashleigh’s brown eyes widen. “You.”

  He gives her an empty, implacable stare. “And you are?”

  “I’m Ky’s friend. And you aren’t going anywhere near him.”

  “Ah.” The man doesn’t look worried about her pronouncement. “So he is here.”

  “You don’t really care about him. You only want him for sex. You have more money than you know what to do with, but you don’t love him. You can’t love him.” Her lower lip trembles. “You refuse to love him.”

  The man looks back at her gravely. “I never claimed to love him, but I can take care of him. A good deal better than you, I’m willing to bet.”

  “I don’t care,” Ashleigh says. “You’re Mr. Monopoly, made of paper and plastic. You’re not real. You don’t get to visit him once a month and then come here and pretend to care.”

  “Ash.” The word comes soft and weak from the top of the stairs. It’s the boy. Ky. He looked young when I found him barely breathing. He looks even younger now, clinging to the post. In a few seconds the man—Mr. Monopoly—has climbed the steps and captured Ky in his arms. “Shhhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

  “You’re not taking him,” Ashleigh warns, looking ready to fight him off physically.

  “Ashleigh,” Ky says, reaching for her with a weak arm. Ashleigh clasps his hand in hers. “Let me… go with him. Let me… go.”

  She looks sick, like she might throw up. I want to take her in my arms, but I can’t. I can’t forget that she’s seventeen. I can’t forget the sins I’ve already committed. If she wants to fight this asshole, I’ll do it for her. But she takes a step back. “Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t get attached.”

  “You too.” An uneven laugh. “You too, Ash.”

  The man gathers Ky in a secure hold and strides out. There are a driver and Bentley waiting outside. Mr. Monopoly isn’t so wrong of a name. It makes me wonder what he’s doing strolling the streets for his lovers. I suppose people could ask the same of me. As if they’re some lower class, some undeserving group of people. They don’t need love, right? Not when I’m paying them.

  You have more money than you know what to do with, but you don’t love him. You can’t love him. You refuse to love him.

  She wasn’t only talking to him. She was talking about me.

  22

  Ashleigh

  Sutton takes me home and brings me inside. I'm too exhausted to protest. It's the kind of exhaustion that hollows me out.

  Sutton puts me in the shower and washes my hair. Then he puts me in an armchair clad only in one of his white T-shirts. He brings me a steaming cup of tea, but I can’t drink anything. I’m tired but plagued by an agitation that makes it impossible to rest.

  He stands in front of me. “Tell me where you're from.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have family that could help you?”

  “I told you. My secrets are my own.”

  “Not if you're in danger on the streets. If nothing else, Ky proved that much. I care about you.”

  “The way Mr. Monopoly cares?”

  “Yes, damn it. Is that so wrong? Why can we pay money
but not give a damn?”

  “I don’t owe you this. You didn’t buy my secrets.”

  “I bought your time,” he says, as if cataloging a purchase order. “I bought your body. Your kisses. Is that right? Only those things?”

  “Yes.” And my love. I gave that to him for free, though he doesn’t know. It would probably horrify him to know that I feel that way. Maybe he’d run away then. Except I can’t bring myself to tell him. It would strip me naked in a way I haven’t been.

  “Then let me buy your secrets.”

  “What?”

  “How much are they? Name your price.”

  I stare at him. “My secrets aren’t for sale.”

  “Everything is for sale.”

  God. Maybe this is the problem with being rich. You feel entitled to everything. I give him a ridiculous amount. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Done.” He walks over to a desk and pulls out something—a small leather rectangle that looks like a checkbook. A pen. He scribbles something down. Then he walks over to me and hands me the check. One hundred thousand dollars.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, but I sound more panicked than doubtful. “This isn’t real.”

  “It’s real enough. Needs a last name, though. You ready to tell me that?”

  With my last name he could probably find out everything else. That’s another one of those rich people things. “I broke my mom’s favorite vase when I was eight. I was so afraid of telling her, and seeing her disappointed, that I buried all the pieces in the backyard. One day it just vanished and she never knew where it went.”

  “That’s not a real secret.”

  “You didn’t specify the kind of secret you were buying.”

  “My daddy used to hit me so hard my feet would come off the ground. I would try not to make a sound. I felt like that was how I’d win, by not making a sound. Now that I’m a grown-up I think, why didn’t I scream? Why didn’t I tell? Why didn’t I tell him he was a mean bastard?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t want to fall in love with anyone. Then I met Christopher and discovered I’m bisexual. He wasn’t. So I had to love him as a business partner. Then there was Harper.” He gives a soft laugh. “You’d think I would learn.”

  “Don’t,” I whisper.

  “Don’t get attached? It’s too late for that, Ashleigh. Love is the great human experiment. We try it again and again. It doesn't matter how many times we fail or how much it hurts.”

  “It always hurts.”

  “I have this theory that sometimes it doesn’t. If that person loves you back.”

  “My daddy never hit me.”

  Sutton goes still, knowing this is the real secret. “Ash,” he says, the way Ky says.

  “He never seemed to care much about me. I thought it was just—the way he loved me. That distant father kind of thing. More busy with work than his family. And then I turned fifteen. I needed to get bras—real bras, not training bras. And he started…”

  “I love you,” Sutton says, in this fierce way. It feels like swords and drawbridges, those words. Like he wants to go to battle for me. And when he says that, it doesn’t hurt.

  “He’d come up behind me. Always behind me. Never facing me. He’d reach around and touch me, and I’d go very still, because I was afraid. Why was I afraid? Why didn’t I scream or yell or call him a mean bastard?”

  “Because he’s your father,” Sutton says gently. “Parents have that power.”

  “He touched me under my shirt. Under my bra.”

  “Christ.”

  “I think I could have stayed living there, if it was that. That’s the worst part. I told my mother.” A hollow forms in my chest. “She didn’t believe me. She said I was lying, that if I wanted to say that, then I should just leave, because she didn’t want to see me.”

  “So you left.”

  “It hurt so much,” I tell him, tears slick on my cheeks. “She was my mother. My everything. Every day she’d say, I love you. But what did it mean? Nothing.”

  He holds me until the sobbing stops. I turn in his arms, press a kiss to his neck. He becomes very still, and I squirm, trying to get closer.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he says gently, and that sounds fine to me.

  He lifts me in his arms and carries me there. The sheets are cool on my legs. He pulls the covers up to me. I watch as he pulls off his clothes, leaving him in only boxer briefs.

  I curl into his arms, and he gathers me close.

  And then does nothing.

  My leg presses over his, and I can feel his arousal, but he only lies there holding me. I run my hand along his broad chest. My lips find his shoulder, his jaw, his neck.

  “Ashleigh.”

  “What?” I whisper. “I’m not tired.”

  “You’re exhausted, but that’s not the point.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “I can’t do that with you,” he finally says, sounding resigned. And very serious.

  “What?” I scramble up to stare at him. “Why?”

  “Because you’re seventeen.”

  “I was seventeen before when we did that.”

  “Yes. And that’s something I have to face, something I should have faced before I touched you. Maybe part of me knew, but didn’t want to think about it. It doesn’t matter, because I know now. And I want you more than life, but I can’t have you.”

  “I want to have sex with you.”

  He groans. “Ashleigh. I can’t do that and still respect myself.”

  Hurt courses through me, followed closely by anger. The anger feels safer. “This isn’t fair. I’ve been on my own for six months. I’m more of a grown-up than some kid in college where his parents pay for everything.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’ve had sex before. Bad sex. Good sex.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re still not going to have sex with me? That’s bullshit, Sutton. I know you’re trying to do the right thing, but all you’re doing is taking away any power I might have had. This is my decision.”

  “Hell, Ashleigh. You’re right about every fucking thing, but I still can’t touch you. I’ve become too much like my father but it stops now. You made me strong enough to stop. If you can live the life you’ve had, if you can survive it, then I can get over the goddamn heartbreak. I’m not going to touch you without understanding the consequences. Not anymore.”

  “What consequences?”

  “That you care about me,” he says gently.

  I look away, but not before he sees the tears in my eyes. “I don’t.”

  “And that I care about you. Come here and let me hold you. Let me have that much.”

  I want to tell him no out of spite. The irony doesn’t escape me, that weeks ago I wouldn’t have wanted him to touch me, wouldn’t have wanted any man to touch me. And now I’m mad at Sutton that he won’t have sex with me. “Why is caring about me so wrong?”

  “It’s not. God, Ashleigh. It’s not wrong to care, but that’s going to make it hurt so much more when we can’t be together. You’re seventeen. You have a whole life ahead of you. I’m thirty-two, and I have no business tying you to me right now, when you’re vulnerable.”

  “I’m not vulnerable,” I say, but that’s so clearly a lie that I laugh softly. It’s a watery laugh. I’ve been sobbing and laughing so much that I feel a little unhinged.

  He gathers me close to him, his arms tight, his lips on my temple soft. “Do you know how much it hurts not to take you right now? But it’s right. It should hurt. That’s love.”

  * * *

  Ashleigh

  In the morning I wake up in bed alone. Sunlight streams through the window, drawing lines across the rumpled white sheets. Outside Bowie crows that it’s time to wake up. It’s a peaceful place to sleep, a home that isn’t mine. Or is it? Maybe Ky can live with Mr. Monopoly and I can live with Sutton. And maybe fairy tales come true.

  I find Sutton at
the kitchen table waiting for me. I recognize the check from last night. Dread forms in my stomach. No, I can’t expect anything. There is no happy ending for a prostitute who works on the street. Only tragedies for us.

  He hands me a slip of paper. Adeleide Johnson, it says in bold block letters. Along with an address. “My investigator found that this morning.”

  My heart clenches.

  “Mom,” I whisper.

  “It looks like she left him when you ran away.”

  She left him? That should make me feel better. I’m not sure if I can forgive her for not being there when I need her. I’m not sure I have a choice. The heart moves without permission. Before I’ve even decided one way or the other, I’ve forgiven her.

  I also know things can never go back to the way they were. After living on the streets, I can never go back to being a girl. Something broke when she turned away from me, some thread from mother to daughter. Even if I see her, and I want to, my breath catches with how much I want to, it won’t ever be the same.

  Sutton pushes the check forward, and I see that it’s not the same one from last night. It has a much bigger number on it. An additional zero, for one thing. I stare at it, uncomprehending. “What is that?”

  He meets my eyes with somber determination. “I can’t be with you. Not like this. Part of me will always wonder if you chose me because there aren’t other choices.”

  “Sutton.”

  “Maybe it does take away your power. God knows you’ve earned that much. But I love you too much to take the chance. If I took advantage of you now, I couldn’t live with myself.”

  The realization makes me ache. “So what are you saying? Goodbye?”

  He looks down at his hands, where they’re clasped between his knees. He’s masculine strength and contemplation. “Did you know I thought it was my fault? That Harper chose Christopher? That my love wasn’t as deep as his. That I was shallower, and she could sense that about me. That I was weaker because I loved two people instead of one.”

  “Sutton, no.”

  “Yes.” His voice turns hoarse. “The thing is, I was right. It was a shallower love than I was capable of, and maybe she did see it. It wasn’t diminished because there were two of them. It was diminished because I was waiting for you.”