Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  Anger, hurt, and jealousy churn my insides like a washing machine on a spin cycle. I’m messed up. In the kitchen, Preston’s back talking to a few girls I recognize from his biology study group, but I couldn’t care less. Gage has the audacity to even look at the red-headed she-devil, and I’m out for blood. For clumps of red stringy hair on the floor. For fake nails ripped off and shoved down her stupid junior throat.

  Blind rage comes on like heated fingers grappling with my skin from the feet up. He smiles at her, and my knees burn. She lays her hand on his bicep, and my hips burn. She leans in close, whispering, and my stomach burns. He runs his fingers through his hair, and she wiggles her spirit fingers, and I want to slap them both. Rap music is blasting in the background, the bass turning into a pseudo-second heartbeat, bumping deep in my chest. It lulls me into a dangerous tunnel vision. One should never listen to rap music when murder feels imminent.

  Maybe I’m more like Mama than I want to admit. She’s a victim, now I am, too.

  No. Not tonight. I’m going to kick my own butt into shape. I run over, grab his arm, and pull his chiseled torso into mine. “Where’ve you been all night?”

  Preston smiles and wraps his arms around me. “I could ask you the same thing. I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. Why don’t we go upstairs and let me show you how much?” I grab his hand and pull him toward the stairs.

  “Upstairs?” he asks, both eyebrows arch as far as they’ll go.

  I swallow the last of my reluctance along with the promise I made myself years ago about not having sex until I was eighteen. At this point, being with Preston is the only thing that’ll dump Gage from my mind once and for all. After tonight, no one can say I got in my own way ever again.

  “Upstairs.” I point above us, then tug him into me and pull his head down close, unleashing a firestorm of hard, heavy kisses. Through slitted eyes, I see Gage across the room, staring in our direction. I grab a handful of Preston’s shirt and pull him up the stairs behind me but keep turning around to look at Gage.

  He’s ignoring Mallory, eyes fixed on us puppy-dog like. No. I’m not changing my mind. Preston’s my boyfriend. Gage… he isn’t. And he has no excuse to guilt me while he’s standing there with her.

  On the landing, Preston grabs both my shoulders and meets me eye-to-eye. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” I scream, more desperate than excited, and shove him toward the bedroom door. Let’s get this over with, and then everything will be fine again.

  Preston slams the door and locks it, his face flushed and sweaty, eyes focused on me. He untucks his shirt and pulls it over his head in one easy movement and throws it across the chair. In the next minute, he unbuckles his belt, unzips and lets his jeans puddle on the ground. He stands there in all his gorgeousness, in nothing but boxers.

  My eyes instantly rove his abs and not because of their rippled goodness. God knows Preston’s hot and cut to shreds. But I’m looking for a tattoo. A tattoo that doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to Gage. Oh my God. I’m getting ready to have sex with Preston while I’m thinking about his brother. I sit on the side of his plaid comforter wanting to pluck my brain out through my left ear. Too much thinking. That’s what’s causing this. I need to just go with it. Let Preston run his fingers over my stomach. Really feel his skin burning against mine. Then it’ll be good.

  His breath licks across my face in warm bursts, his lips hovering a whisper away from mine. I clamp my eyes shut, waiting. Every muscle in my body shivers with tension, the way you do when preparing for the doctor to give you a shot.

  Did I really just compare this to a shot?

  His lips crush mine, fierce, hot, and hard. There’s no sweet, romantic anything to it. It’s straight up hormonal frenzy, and I freaking don’t know what I’m doing.

  I open my eyes to look at him as he grabs the hem of my dress and tugs it upwards, past my waist, then raises both my arms. In one swipe, it lays crumpled beside me. Preston stops to slowly look me up and down, and all that’s crossing my mind is how bad I want to die right now. He sees me in my underwear. Oh my God. Mama’s going to flip if she finds out.

  “Oh, Rayne…” he mumbles, husky-voiced, wraps his hands around my shoulders and pushes me back onto the bed, the Egyptian cotton comforter like silk to my bare skin. He moves on top of me, one hand cupped behind my head, one hand exploring my breasts while his lips graze my neck. But the warm kisses can’t squelch the endless thought-loop in my head that tells me this is wrong. Wrong timing. Wrong place. Wrong person. Gage’s face is ever-fixed in my mind, his eyes haunting me. The hunger I saw earlier in the mudroom and the hurt when I came here with Preston. Worse than anything is how I imagine they’ll look the first time he hears from Preston what we did.

  “Stop,” I say quietly at first, and then yell. “Stop!” My hands are against his chest, pushing him off.

  He jumps to his feet in one move, eyes wild, mouth open and breathing hard. “What’s wrong?”

  I hate myself. I sit up, crossing my arms over my chest to cover up as the tears sting my eyelids and drip in crooked rows down my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Preston,” I repeat over and over.

  “What is it?” He stares down at me, hands planted on his hips.

  “I’m… not ready.” He exhales loudly and throws his head back. “I thought I was, but…”

  He turns away from me and looks out the window. I can’t blame him if he hates me, but all I can do is sit here like a criminal waiting on a sentence. He slams his hand on the wall, stomps over and grabs his jeans from the floor, and glares at me while pulling them on then grabs his shirt from the chair. He stands there frozen, the shirt dangling from one hand, the other hand balled into a fist against his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s trying to choose his words or stop himself from cussing me out. Taking a few deep breaths, he pulls on his shirt, tucks it in and walks to the door, then turns back, his hand on the knob.

  “I never pushed this on you. Never. I’ve been way more patient than ever before, but… pretending you’re ready and getting me all riled up and then… I don’t know… unbelievable.”

  I grab my heap of a dress and slide it back on. “Please forgive me, Preston. I really thought I was ready… I really did…”

  He smashes his lips together and scratches his head before responding. “Take your time getting dressed. I’m going back down to the party.” He unlocks the door and walks out, pulling it shut behind him with a soft click. It sounds final, like he’s closing more than a door.

  I lean over his dresser, rubbing away the black mascara streaks from my face. What the heck do I do now that I finally realize it isn’t me standing in my way? It’s something much bigger than me. It’s him. It’s us. Something I never expected to happen. I stop and stare at myself in the mirror, splotchy skin, tangled hair, and a shiny glint in my eye that wasn’t there before. The truth? I’m dating a wonderful guy, but I’m in love with his brother.

  It’s amazing the rush that takes over, first realizing I’m in love. Like suddenly the world falls away and nothing would feel better than holding or kissing him. Endorphins are funny like that. Suddenly I feel invincible, untouchable, but it’s all a lie, because that stuff doesn’t matter. Other people matter, and I can’t go running around reckless no matter how much I want to.

  I sit down on the corner of his bed, finger-combing my disheveled hair. There’s no simple solution. If I tell Gage, he’ll have to choose me or his brother. Either way, one relationship goes down. I can’t live with causing problems between brothers. I can’t live without Gage. If Preston and I break up, Gage’s loyalty will automatically fall to his brother. That’s one of the unwritten rules, right? There’s only one way—keep things as is. If Preston even still wants me after tonight. If I can pull this whole thing off without hurting him.

  Too many ifs.

  I’m in love with Gage, but I can’t have him. Not the way I want. I�
�ll have to settle with being his friend even when it hurts—because losing him would be worse.

  I walk back downstairs, stopping on the bottom step to sweep my eyes around the room.

  “Hey.” Jaycee walks up beside me looking sheepish, twirling her bracelet around her wrist. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “You need to quit drinking,” I say flatly, meeting her with a hard stare. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

  “I… I was wrong. I know there isn’t anything going on between y’all.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and tilt my head. “And how did you finally figure this out?”

  “When I found out Gage is into Mallory. He was probably asking you about her, and I took it wrong.”

  Her words are like a vacuum sucking the air from my lungs. “Mallory… yeah. By the way, where is she now?” I need to find them. Stop this. He can’t hook up with Mallory.

  “Oh, they left a while ago. You were… upstairs.” She nudges my side with her elbow, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

  “Oh.” I swallow back the tears. “Where’d they go?”

  “I don’t know, but Mallory looked happy about it.”

  I bet she did, and I’ll hear about it Monday morning, every excruciating detail.

  “Go. Have fun with Barrett.” I point to the couch where he’s sprawled out, legs resting on the coffee table. In the kitchen, Preston’s downing yet another beer and chatting up the “biology babes.” I’ve managed to drive away two good guys tonight because they both want easy, uncomplicated, one-track minded girls. I’m not. For the first time, their family resemblance is clear.

  I walk to Preston’s room, change back into jeans and chucks, and leave the black dress and heels crumpled in a pile on his comforter. At least if he tries scoring with a “biology babe” that’ll put a hitch in his plan.

  Sneaking down the stairs and out the back door, I walk home, counting the sidewalk cracks as I go, with only the lonesome howl of an occasional wind gust and the screaming thoughts of my conscience ramming into my brain for company. Mama’d love this—her innocent girl walking home alone in the dark—the stuff of her nightmares.

  Just past the library on Main Street, a familiar rumble cuts through muted sounds of background traffic. Over my shoulder two amber orbs approach from my six, and I squint my eyes for a better look. Gage’s hands are on the wheel, Mallory’s feet are propped on his dash and frizzy tendrils of red hair whip in the breeze from the open passenger window. They pass me without a glance, the air swirling behind them, blasting my face and whipping my hair around in a frenzied cloud. I stand paralyzed, watching his red taillights disappear into the distance.

  Chapter 22

  Gage

  H

  er shoes are leaving scuff marks all over my dash. I just polished it, too. All that hard work for nothing. And I’d yell at her to get them down if she’d shut up for two seconds. But she hasn’t. Not for the trip through the drive-thru to get her extra-large sweet tea, and not even after the straw is stuck in the middle of her lips. She just talks around it.

  Unbelievable.

  It’s not like me to bottle up my angry comments and not go ballistic on her, especially for screwing up my clean Scout. But right now, even as annoying as Mallory is, I’m enjoying the distraction. Anything to not think about what’s going on in my brother’s bedroom. Or that freaking dagger that plunges deeper with each heartbeat.

  As we turn out on Main Street, I roll my window down and motion for her to do the same. She stares at the armrest for a minute like some automatic button will magically appear, and when it doesn’t, she finally leans forward and cranks the lever, lowering the glass. The wind rushes in, pricking my arms with chill bumps, and funneling a loud whir of air into the space between us. Perfect. Now I can just pretend to listen.

  I lock my grip on the steering wheel, so tight a ripple of pain shoots over my knuckles and burns in my palms. As if the sheer force will stop the images from infiltrating my brain.

  It doesn’t.

  She was ripping at his clothes, fingers twisting in the fabric, hands running all over him. My stomach churns. God, just let this night be over. Please.

  Mallory’s voice rings out over the wind. “Do you know him?” I glance sideways. She’s leaning toward me, hand cupped around her mouth, as she yells.

  “Who?”

  She rolls her eyes as if I’ve asked her for some lengthy explanation. Wah. I wasn’t paying attention to her boy saga. Sue me.

  “The guy I’m meeting. You know him?”

  I shake my head, barely remembering the name she originally gave me back at the house. Something like Raymond. Or Drummond. Or… who cares? All I know is this girl needs to chill her jets. Who finds a random guy in a coffeehouse and less than 24 hours later sneaks off to meet him?

  A girl who wants to be a Criminal Minds episode, that’s who.

  I pull into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, driving slowly up the first row until I see his white truck, pulled catty-cornered across two spaces. He’s half-hanging out his window, waving us over, his black hair long and shaggy. I edge beside him, making a mental note of his license plate number, just in case.

  Mallory swings the door wide and slides off the seat, her feet slapping the pavement. She bends in front of the side mirror to swipe on lip gloss.

  “Hey.” I reach over and tap her shoulder. “You sure about this guy? I’ll be happy to drop you off at home if not.”

  She smiles as she slams the door, then leans back in the passenger window. “So you do have a softer side… just like Rayne said.” My mouth drops open, my brain hitting overdrive, as she saunters over and gets inside Shaggy’s truck. “Thanks for the ride,” she says as he revs the engine and they take off across the lot.

  She can’t just throw that into the conversation and then ride off into the night. What does it even mean?

  The drive home might as well be 200 miles instead of two minutes for the number of times I run Mallory’s comment through my head. A softer side. Just like Rayne said.

  So she’s been talking about me? In passing or conversation? She said I was soft. Like “Gage is nowhere near as strong as Preston” or was it more like “Gage is so sweet to me”? There’s no way to know exactly what was said or implied. But through all the chaos detonating in my thick skull, one question screams loudest.

  Why the hell do I care?

  Okay, so I do care. About her. Obviously. And she’s sending signals like crazy that she’s feeling it for me, too. Ridiculous and borderline torture since it’s all a flirting game, some kind of dance around each other because there are obvious lines that can’t be crossed. But damn. Rayne doesn’t realize how much she affects me. Too much. There are times I have to physically insert distance between us so I won’t do what I really want to.

  Like kiss her. And touch her. And hold her.

  Her invitation would be all the incentive I need, and that’s what scares me most.

  My stomach turns to fire. It’s unacceptable. So what if I think she’s possibly the most amazing human I’ve ever met?

  She’s dating my brother.

  Done deal.

  Too bad, Gage.

  That’s why I told her to stop earlier. It’s why after the finger-licking at the French project I basically pushed her back into my brother’s arms. Because no matter how many times we push the limits, we absolutely cannot cross that line.

  I sigh and turn into the driveway, dodging the cars still littering the pavement while making my way to the garage. The music’s bass thumps through the walls, and a sweetly-sour whiff of beer hits me in the face as I sneak in the back door and up the hidden staircase.

  My bed is where I want to be, but the only problem is getting there requires passing Preston’s. His door is ajar, a long sliver of yellow light cutting across the carpet.

  Damn. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know.

  I trudge forwar
d, scrubbing the side of my body into the wall, my eyes glued to the patterned carpet. But the temptation’s magnetic. I have to look. I have to know. Whether I want to or not.

  The edge of his bed is barely visible, and on it, Rayne’s black dress and heels lay in a crumpled pile. That can only mean…

  I stagger backwards, my feet tangling up on themselves. The background music fades to a loud buzz, and the oxygen stalls in my throat. Every nerve ending vibrates with one message: Leave.

  The stairs disappear two and three at a time under my feet as I dart back out into the garage and through the double doors to our home gym. The door slams shut, and I reach up to slide the lock in place. The heavy bag hangs solemnly from the ceiling mount, the cotton wrist wraps stacked on the shelves to my right. I grab them, twisting the strips over the bones.

  Rayne… she wrecks me every damn time she looks at me, and this infatuation isn’t going away. It’s growing. And I’ve lost all control.

  Inhale. Draw back. Exhale. Power.

  My knuckles connect with the leather, the anger exploding out from the point of contact, the incredible tension in the muscles becoming fluid and active. Repeated with a right, right, left, and each accompanied by a strong declaration, my voice getting louder with each one until it’s echoing off the overhead beams.

  Bam! She sang to me on karaoke night. To me.

  Bam! The way she tilts her head and fingers her curls when we’re talking in the hallway.

  Bam! Her warm fingertips on my tattoo.

  Bam! I can’t feel this way.

  Bam! This is wrong.

  Bam! She’s with him.

  Bam! I can’t have her.

  My last swing whizzes by the bag in a total miss, the momentum carrying me head over feet to the floor. I roll over on my back, the sweat trickling down my temples, the saltiness stinging my eyes.