Broken: Flirt New Adult Romance

by Lauren Layne

  I don’t go out. Not anymore.

  “Thanks for making me dinner,” I say gruffly.

  This time she doesn’t even turn around. “Just doing my job, Langdon.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Olivia

  I’ve never been to a bar by myself.

  And I can’t say I’ve ever imagined my first foray into solo drinking being at a tiny local bar on the outskirts of Bar Harbor, Maine. But tonight I force myself.

  Lately I’ve been terrified that Paul’s reclusiveness will be contagious. Like if I don’t get some outside human interaction, I’ll turn into a hostile turd like him, and become this wretched beast who doesn’t have to be accountable to anyone for my pissy moods.

  Actually, that’s only part of the reason I left the house tonight. Truthfully? I hoped he’d come with me. Not that I asked. I intentionally didn’t ask, being stupid enough to imagine that the thought of being left all alone might be enough to spur Paul into leaving the house of his own volition.

  My plan was to make it look very much like I wanted him to stay. I made what Google claimed to be the Ultimate World-Famous Chili, avoided him all day (actually, he avoided me first, but whatever), and I dressed carefully in an outfit intended to be sexy but understated. You know, a girl going out on the town for her own amusement, but if she happened to meet a cute guy, then hey, why not?

  But Paul didn’t take the bait. I guess I should count it as progress that he even came out of his lair in search of food, but the truth is, I’m disappointed. It’s just not right for a twentysomething guy to be cooped up in the house for years. How long until all of that isolation turns him into one of those weird hermits who can’t function in normal society even if he wanted to?

  I’m parked outside of Frenchy’s. I want to turn right back around and go home, but Lindy’s lecture from earlier that afternoon is still rattling around in my brain. Just because he wants to pretend he’s dead doesn’t mean you have to. We may not be New York City, but we have good people here. Work your thing, sister.

  Okay, so the talk had been half sweet, half awkward, but Lindy made a good point. I don’t want to end up like Paul: socially stunted and on a one-way street toward freakdom.

  I get out of the car.

  From the outside, Frenchy’s—I assume the name comes from its location on Frenchman Bay—looks like a combination of ski lodge and roadside dive. The wood beams give it a homey, welcoming feeling, while the smattering of neon beer signs in the windows lends just the right amount of bar vibe. On the right side of the building is a covered deck, which I imagine is the place to be on a clear summer’s day, but in late September it’s deserted. However, the faint thump of music shows that inside, at least, there’s some activity.

  I take a deep breath and open the door.

  My worst-case scenario is that the entire place falls silent as everyone turns to stare at the newcomer. Best case is nobody notices me and I can find a bar stool, preferably on the end, where I can sit and get my bearings.

  The reality is somewhere in between. The old-school rock music rocks on as I step inside, and although the majority of the clientele is far enough along in whisky and beer to be oblivious to my arrival, people at the handful of tables nearest the door turn to glance at me. And then glance a second time.

  Lindy assured me that this was a local hangout, a place where I’d fit right in, but I think she may have been forgetting the not-so-tiny detail that I’m not exactly a local. I don’t fit right in. Not even a tiny bit.

  Even if my clothes don’t scream city girl (which they do), I stand out just by virtue of being a girl at all. I count maybe five women, sure, but the majority of the clientele is men. Fishermen, judging from the attire.

  Still, it’s not quite the painful scene I was fearing. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but most of the looks are curious, not lecherous or leering. I give a tentative smile at a middle-aged couple, and the woman gives me a half smile back as her companion turns back to his phone and beer, totally disinterested.

  Although there are plenty of available tables, sitting alone at a table somehow seems a little too lonely considering I’m after human companionship, so I make my way to a cluster of empty bar stools.

  Almost immediately a glass of water is in front of me, followed by a white paper coaster with Frenchy’s scribbled across the middle in a no-nonsense font.

  “What can I get ya?” asks a friendly voice.

  The bartender is a cute brunette with freckles and warm honey-brown eyes. Her hair’s pulled up in one of those messy buns that some girls make look adorable. She’s one of those girls.

  “Um, white wine?” I ask, hoping it’s not a terrible faux pas in a place like this.

  “I’ve got a chardonnay or a pinot grigio. The chard’s way better.”

  “I’ll have that, then,” I say, returning her friendly smile.

  She plunks a glass in front of me before heading to the fridge and pulling out the wine bottle.

  “Not a lot of wine drinkers?” I ask, noticing that the bottle is unopened.

  She shrugs. “Beer’s definitely the drink of choice, but more people are getting wine now that I got rid of the sugary swill they used to serve here.”

  “Oh, wow,” I say as she fills my glass way beyond the typical pour.

  “You look like you need it,” she says with a wink before sliding back down the bar to check on the other patrons.

  She’s right on two fronts—the chardonnay is delicious, and I do need it.

  I watch the bartender out of the corner of my eye she chats up an old guy at the end of the bar, her laugh long and genuine as he tells her some story about his grandson’s antics.

  Lindy didn’t describe the mysterious Kali to me beyond saying that she’s a “good sort,” but the age is about right, and I wonder if this is Paul’s childhood summer friend.

  When she makes her way toward me again to refill my water, I get up the nerve to ask.

  “Yeah, I’m Kali,” she says, looking a little surprised by the question. “Have we met?”

  “Nope, I’m new to the area.”

  “Yeah, I guessed that by the silk shirt,” she says in a confidential whisper. “I’m betting it costs more than a car payment for most of us in here. Tourist?”

  “Sort of,” I hedge. “I’m working over at the Langdon house.”

  Her smile slips. “Paul’s place?”

  “Yeah.”

  She stands up straighter, her palms flat against the bar as she studies me, almost protective. “You don’t look like Langdon employee material.”

  Her tone isn’t unkind, but it’s clear I’m being evaluated. “What do I look like?”

  She shrugs. “A few years ago I would have pegged you as girlfriend material for Paul. But now . . .”

  We make eye contact and have one of those weird moments of female understanding. We both know he doesn’t do girlfriends anymore. “I’m the new caregiver,” I say quietly. “Although that word never quite feels right.”

  “Yeah, Paul’s never really been one to be taken care of. At least, not as I remember him.”

  I lean forward a little, desperate to keep her talking, but not wanting to come off as prying. “You haven’t seen him since he came back?”

  She shakes her head and needlessly tops off my wineglass—a good sign that she’s not trying to get rid of me. “Nah. My folks’ place isn’t too far from his house. The Langdons used to rent that place where they live, you know. Paul’s father only bought it a couple of years ago when he needed a full-time, um, retreat for Paul. I live closer to town now, but back when we were kids I lived for the day when Paul would show up for those couple of weeks in the summer.”

  I quickly stamp down the surge of jealousy. They were just kids, for God’s sake. Friends. At least I think they were just friends. And not that it’s any of my business if they were more.

  “He know you’re here tonight?” she asks, her tone casual. Too casual. I know what she’s
really asking: Why hasn’t he come to see me?

  “He, um . . . he’s not so much the social type,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she mutters. “I gathered that after getting turned away at the door every day for a month after he moved in.”

  My heart twists a little at the sadness in her voice.

  What the hell, Paul? It’s clear to me now that he’s friendless and alone because he wants to be. Not because everybody shunned him.

  “How’s he doing?” she asks. “I mean, we all hear things, but you know small towns and their rumors. It’s hard to pull out the facts.”

  “He’s probably about like you’ve heard,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “Rude, angry, and generally unpleasant.”

  “Well now,” a low voice says from behind me. “There’s something to make a guy’s heart skip a beat.”

  I freeze at the familiar voice. Too late I realize that the place has grown mostly quiet, save for the music. I turn around and realize that the awkward staring I’ve been expecting has finally commenced.

  Only they’re not staring at me.

  They’re staring at Paul.

  His eyes hold mine for several seconds, his thumb doing that slow stroking over the head of his cane before his eyes move over my shoulder and lock on the girl behind the bar. “Hey, Kali.”

  Please don’t reject him, I silently beg of her. Please understand how big a moment this is for him.

  I don’t know if she hears my unspoken plea or if she’s just a really, really good sort of person, because she doesn’t throw a beer in his face or make any kind of snotty remark. Instead she launches herself across the bar and winds her arms around his neck. It’s a hug. The stunned look of pleasure on his face almost breaks my heart.

  When Kali releases him, Paul gives an almost shy smile and starts to sit on the stool to my right, but then inexplicably moves around to sit on the other side of me.

  The pressure in my chest tightens as I realize what he’s just done. He’s intentionally sat with the scarred side of his face toward me, his good side facing everyone else.

  He trusts me.

  The realization makes me ridiculously warm.

  “What can I get you?” Kali asks. “Last time we drank together, it was sneaking citrus vodka out of your dad’s liquor cabinet.”

  Paul laughs. “I’ve graduated. How about whisky and Coke?”

  Kali plops the drink down in front of him before reluctantly moving back down the bar to attend to a gesturing patron.

  Several people are still looking our way and whispering, but Paul seems determined to ignore them, and I follow suit.

  “So my chili was that bad?” I ask, taking a sip of my wine.

  He stabs at his ice with the stir stick. “I had some. It wasn’t awful.”

  “It was amazing, and you know it. Take back what you said about me not being able to cook.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “I found a sandwich in the fridge. I’m guessing you made it for lunch and then took it away because I was hiding like a little bitch?”

  I tap my nose. Bingo.

  He smirks. “Well, I had a bite of the sandwich. Completely pedestrian.”

  “It was turkey and cheddar on wheat. What the hell were you expecting for lunch, some sort of asiago soufflé and escarole salad?”

  Paul snorts. “Your New York is showing.”

  He has a point. I’ve long been part of the high-priced wine bar and frou-frou café set. Asiago soufflés used to be part of an average Wednesday. Even though I’ve been holed up here in Maine for all of a few weeks, those days feel like they were forever ago. It somehow feels exactly right to be perched on this worn leather stool at a wooden bar that looks older than I am, sitting next to a guy who’s one part beautiful mystery and one part unpredictable beast.

  “You can relax,” I say quietly. “Everyone’s gone back to their business.”

  “Only because they can’t see the scars from this angle. If they could, they’d be heading toward the door or puking up their onion rings.”

  “I see them, and I’m not running toward the door.”

  His eyes flick to mine then, and for a second there’s this moment between us.

  Kali comes back and the moment’s gone. I don’t resent her. Not really. She represents a normal side of Paul that I haven’t been able to access—his pre-Afghanistan self. And her response to his new appearance couldn’t have been more perfect.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to like the way he keeps laughing at every other thing she says, or the way they’re both dropping names of mutual friends I’ve never heard of. Five minutes ago I thought Kali was just about the cutest, nicest thing on the planet—definite Maine BFF material. Now I hate that she’s the cutest, nicest thing on the planet. I also hate the way Paul is smiling so easily around her. He never smiles like that around me.

  Pull it together, Olivia. This is what I want for him. A normal social life. Human interaction. Cute girls who can see beyond his scars.

  Annnnnnnd now Kali’s hand is on his arm. And he’s not removing it. Awesome. I take a huge sip of wine before leaning in and breaking up the sweet little tête-à-tête.

  “Hey, Kali, ladies’ room?” I ask.

  She shifts her friendly smile over to me and removes her hand from Paul’s arm—good girl—to point me in the right direction. “Follow the bar along this way, and then take a left. Ladies’ room is at the end of the hall on the right.”

  Since the rest rooms are in the opposite direction of the front door, I pass a whole new set of tables and realize I may have been a little bit hasty in my assumption that I’d avoided the worst of people staring at the “new girl.” There’s a couple of middle-aged men in the corner who do that up-and-down leer and are either too crass or too inebriated to care how obvious they are. Whatever. We have those kinds of creeps in New York, too. I move on.

  At the table next to them is a group of older women who also give me the once-over, but more with an envious oh-to-be-young-again expression. It’s pretty universal female language, and I give them a friendly smile.

  The last table before the bathroom is the rowdiest. It’s a group of guys, close to my own age. They’re all wearing matching sweatshirts with their college name, although by the time I pass their table (to a few tacky whistles, I might add), I still haven’t figured out what the little logo on their sleeve is supposed to be. Crew, maybe? Alas, sports have never been my thing, and I don’t give it another thought.

  The guys, however, aren’t as quick to forget me as I am to forget them. I barely make it back into the main room of the bar after going to pee before three of them have me cornered against the wall. Not in a threatening way, not really. They seem more drunk and stupid than menacing, but I’m so not in the mood.

  I start to push through when a good-looking guy with an admittedly great—if sharkish—smile gently puts a hand on my arm. “Hey, can we buy you a drink?”

  My eyes flick to the table, where there are several half-empty pitchers of beer. “No thanks.” I give him my best not-interested smile and start to walk away again, but he moves so he’s still in front of me. Still not threatening, but increasingly annoying.

  I glance around as though surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I somehow give off the vibe that I came back here to be harassed by a group of boys?” It’s a low blow, considering they’re probably about the same age as me, but I mean it to be insulting.

  The handsome one’s eyes narrow. “No need to get bitchy.”

  “Actually, there’s every need if you don’t let me get back to my date.”

  “Date, huh?” He folds his arms over his chest. “What kind of date can a girl like you find in a place like this?”

  “The worst kind,” comes a low voice from behind my harasser. Paul.

  I immediately start to tell him it’s no big deal, that these boys were just about to let me pass, but then I see his face. This isn’t the friendly, at-ease Paul who was talking to Kali at t
he bar. This is the other Paul. The Marine Corps Paul whose anger at the world is wound so tightly that the merest spark will set him off in a dangerous way.

  And then it gets worse.

  The stupid kid turns around and visibly blanches at the sight of Paul’s ravaged face. Then his face turns cruel as he lets out a mean laugh.

  “This is your date?” he asks me, walking around Paul as though circling a circus spectacle. “This freak?”

  “Don’t,” I whisper, unsure if I’m talking to the jackass kid or Paul. Not that it matters, because neither of them pays attention to me.

  “What are you, an extra on a horror set?” the kid says, egged on by the laughter of his stupid, drunk friends.

  I close my eyes. This is why Paul doesn’t leave his house. This is what I forced him into.

  I risk a glance at him, but he doesn’t look offended, wounded, or even fazed. In fact, he looks amused. Deadly amused.

  Except the drunken assholes are too far gone to pick up on nuances, and they keep on, oblivious to the fact that the “cripple” in front of them could take them out with one swipe of his cane.

  “Why don’t you come home with us, sweetheart?” the ringleader says, sliding an arm around my waist. “Don’t you want to be with someone that won’t make you lose your appetite?”

  I start to put my hands on his shoulders to push him away, but Paul is faster. The handsy jerk is on the ground, howling in pain, before he’s even registered what happened. Acting on instinct, I start to kneel down beside the writhing kid, but I freeze when I see the look on Paul’s face: ice-cold rage.

  My hands are shaking when I straighten back up, although I’m not sure if it’s from feeling cornered by the frat boys or because of this violent, out-of-control side of Paul.

  But that’s not quite right. Violent, yes. But not out of control. I think I’d prefer it if he was, because this Paul is a lethal machine.

  The kid on the ground apparently realizes he’s not as injured as he initially thought, and with a sneer he starts to dive at Paul’s bad leg. Again, Paul is faster. With one hand he jerks the kid to his feet seconds before his other fist collides with the frat boy’s nose.