Anything but Broken

by Joelle Knox

  Evie beats me to him, and she grabs his arm as he draws it back for another swing. “Gibb, stop it!”

  He hesitates—not for long, but long enough for me to reach his side. Mason’s cursing, struggling to break free of the friend holding him back, and he spits at Gibb’s feet. “Keep your attack dog on a leash, Whitlow.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Mason.” I edge between them. If he takes another shot, I want it to be right at me. “Any bruises he put on your pretty little face? You deserve them.”

  “Out!” Joe bellows, coming around the edge of the bar with his baseball bat in hand. “All of you, out before I call the damn cops!”

  The last thing any of us need is to get hauled in for fighting, even though it wasn’t much of a scuffle, so we head for the door. It takes me a moment to realize we’re not the only ones—it seems like half the bar is leaving.

  A familiar face materializes from the cluster of people who drifted out after us. Colin Finlay, a driver from the Renegade division, shakes his head. “Don’t sweat it, Blair. Shaw was looking to start something.” He grins and jerks his thumb toward the highway. “Party at the lake. Y’all want to come?”

  “You want to?” Hannah asks Evie.

  She shrugs. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

  Gibb answers by opening the passenger door on my car, flipping the seat forward, and grinning at Evie. “After you.”

  There’s a whole line of cars headed out to Flat Rock Lake, and I fall in behind them, half my attention on the woman beside me. Hannah sits, her hands folded around her phone, her nerves evident in the way her knee is bouncing.

  The back seat isn’t very big, and Evie is squinched over as close to the door as she can get. “You’re crazy,” she mutters. “Taking on three guys in a bar fight?”

  “I only took on one,” Gibb retorts. “The other two piled on, because Mason’s a fucking coward.”

  I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Parking lot. We had an agreement.” Joe probably won’t let Hannah back in now. If he had called the cops, we’d all be in serious shit.

  Gibb breaks eye contact, and I know he feels guilty. He’s hard on himself, always has been—especially when he loses his temper. I think it makes him feel too much like his old man.

  Evie steps into the silence. “You could’ve been hurt.”

  He shrugs that off. “I could have gotten Hannah busted. Sorry.”

  It’s grudging, but it’s a big gesture, and Hannah seems to realize it. She twists in her seat and smiles. “I’m the one taking that risk. It’s on me.”

  “Still.” Gibb snorts. “Maybe a dunk in the lake will cool me off.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” The absurdity of it all comes crashing in on me, and I can’t help it. I laugh. “You ladies ever been bounced out of a bar before?”

  “No.” Hannah relaxes back into the seat, but her arm settles on the console, close enough to brush mine when I shift gears. “I’d say that definitely qualifies as a little bad.”

  Exactly what she wanted, and I’ve discovered something I crave even more than her smiles—her laughter.

  9

  »» hannah ««

  The party is spontaneous and glorious. There’s a roaring fire, a couple coolers full of beer, and a few daring people jumping into the lake in their underwear. Gibb heads straight for a cooler, but when he pulls out a bottle, he holds it to his face instead of opening it.

  I wince. “Are you sure he’s okay?”

  “He’ll be all right.” Sean snags two beers from a tub of ice and hands one to me. “Gibb knows how to take a hit.”

  It seems like some fundamental truth, which is sad and horrible. I don’t want to feel bad for Gibb tonight. I don’t want to think about him at all, and I’m selfishly grateful to Evie when she follows after him.

  Evie knows the people of this town better than I do. She’ll be fine if I lose myself in Sean for a while, and I can’t deny that I want to. Not when I’m strung out in anticipation of his next touch, no matter how innocent.

  I sip my beer, as if that’s going to help, and Sean’s bare arm presses against mine. “Want to take a walk?”

  “Yeah.” It’s dark, and no one’s watching. It shouldn’t feel so scandalous to slip my hand into his. But everything’s a little wild tonight, a little surreal. I’m living someone else’s life—and loving it.

  Sean rubs his thumb over the neck of his beer bottle and shakes his head. “Not much of a date, is it?”

  “It’s been a perfect date,” I counter. “I got to watch you race. I got to watch you win. And I got to watch Gibb punch someone. All fun things.”

  “But none of the stuff you do for fun in Atlanta, right?”

  My idea of fun in Atlanta was staying in to read, or working late in the art department. The nights out at bars and frat parties were things I did because I was supposed to, not because I wanted to. “That doesn’t make it bad.”

  “Nope.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Makes it a risky move, though. This is all a little lowbrow for a woman like you.”

  That stings. It’s a reminder that I don’t fit in, though it’s framed as a compliment—and one I don’t deserve anyway. He’s a stable business owner, and I’m well on my way to becoming a broke college dropout. “I’m not like my parents.”

  He stops under the deeper shade of a tall oak tree. “That isn’t what I meant, Hannah. Not even close.”

  “Then don’t talk like that.” I tilt my head back. He’s close, temptingly close, but this is too important for distractions. “I’ve had more fun with you since I came back than I ever had in Atlanta. You know me. And you’re…careful with me.”

  He sways toward me. “Not as careful as I should be.”

  “In the ways I need.” His lips are so close it literally aches—in my chest, but also lower, like all the hunger I felt in the bar is rising up again, and if he doesn’t touch me, it will hurt.

  Closer, and his lips brush mine. They move, a fleeting caress that’s not quite a kiss, and he smiles. “Tell me about you. So far, all I really know is all the things you’re not.”

  “I like art,” I admit softly. “Not like Evie. I don’t know if I’m any good at it. But I’ve taken all the different classes I can. Sculpture and photography and drawing.”

  He flashes me a skeptical look. “I’ve never met an artist who didn’t make art. So what do you make?”

  “Well, it’s not art—”

  “Bullshit. What do you make?”

  Feeling self-conscious, I tug my phone from my back pocket, pull up my gallery, and find my collection of pictures of my last finished project, the one I used to combat insomnia and my increasing dread of my future in law school.

  I hold my phone up with a forced laugh. “Quilts. I find the fabric in thrift stores.”

  He takes the phone and slides his fingers across the screen to enlarge the photo. “That’s really pretty.”

  He’s not scoffing, which is what my mother did the first time she visited my college dorm and saw one of my creations spread out on the bed. She insisted on taking me shopping that afternoon and brought me back with a pricey silk duvet set.

  I reach for the phone and close my hand over his fingers, too. Not even to take it away from him, just to have an excuse to touch him as I search through the photos for my current project. This one is in its own folder, with hundreds of pictures documenting my progress. No one else has ever seen them. There’s never been any reason to share these—not with friends online or family who would think they were silly.

  It’s a whole part of my life that no one has ever asked about, and I feel like I’m baring my soul to him, so maybe that means they’re art after all. That’s what art is supposed to do—show people the parts of you that won’t come out in words.

  “This is my new one,” I whisper, stopping on a shot of four blocks pinned together, all in relentless shades of midnight blue and black. “I’m still working on finding fabric, because it’s all scrap
s. Nothing new except for the backing. I want to do sunset colors. Sunset over the ocean.”

  Sean stares at me, his face shadowed except for the glare from my phone. “Maybe I can help you look.”

  I have my supplies in the trunk of my car, because that’s what I grabbed when I came home to face grief. My computer, my phone, and the tiny bits of secondhand fabric that feel like something special now. “Are you asking me on another date already?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He shuts off my phone and hands it back to me. “I still might blow this one.”

  “You might,” I agree lightly. Teasingly, as if I’m not staring at his mouth and wondering where he’s going to put it. My ear, maybe. My throat. Lower. “You’ve been way too sweet for the past five minutes. Now we need to do something bad.”

  “Falling short on dickhead behavior, huh? Sorry about that.”

  “Not mean.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “Just bad.”

  “Like driving too fast,” he observes solemnly. “Or fighting in bars. Or skinny-dipping because we didn’t bring our bathing suits.”

  My whole body tingles just thinking about it. Sure, there are other people in the lake—I can hear them splashing and shouting. But we could strip off our clothes and slip in right here. No one would notice us in the darkness, not if we’re quiet.

  I toy with the hem of my top and tilt my head toward the water’s edge. “Is that what we’re about to do?”

  His teasing amusement fades, but instead of a denial, I get another smile. A slower one. “I’m game if you are.”

  The old Hannah Casey would never get mostly naked in front of a man. She’d have been too scared of the consequences, or of putting herself out there.

  I think the old Hannah Casey is gone for good. Without looking away, I grip the hem of my shirt and lift it. It’s too late to stop now, even when my heart pounds. The fabric tangles in my hair, but I tug it free and let it fall away.

  His breathing quickens, but he keeps his gaze fixed on my face for several long moments. Then he breaks—a glance, followed by a lingering perusal that leaves my skin feeling tight, achy.

  Then he drags his shirt over his head, too, and everything aches.

  I don’t have the same self-control he does. I stare at his chest, his shoulders. At the flexing muscles in his arms and stomach. My fingers itch to touch, even though—in some insane, incomprehensible way—this is better than touching. Contact makes everything fast and blurry, impossible to fix in my memory.

  And I need to fix Sean Whitlow, shirtless in the moonlight, in my memory. Nothing is ever going to be this perfect again.

  But I’m so wrong, because the next thing he does is kick off his shoes, strip off his socks, and drop his hands to his belt buckle. “Pony up, Hannah.”

  I shiver and reach for the button on my shorts. They already bare most of my legs, but taking them off is different. We both know it’s different. His gaze is hot enough to send a flush through my skin as I ease the zipper down and push the fabric off my hips. “You too.”

  The buckle clicks, metal on metal, and he leaves the leather in the loops as he unbuttons—and unzips—his jeans.

  I’m not the only one turned on, and he’s...he’s… My brain stutters, trying to find words to describe Sean’s dick, and I can’t even see it yet.

  His jeans hit the grass, and he slides one thumb beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, right over the muscle arrowing down past his hip. “You keeping yours on?”

  The first hint of panic spikes through me, and I can’t believe it took this long. I can still hear the sounds from the party, the people close enough to make this recklessness almost safe.

  Almost safe.

  I touch my bra, easing my fingers up until I can edge the strap off one shoulder. “Maybe not this.”

  The muscles in his shoulders bunch and flex. “It won’t cover much once it’s wet, anyway.”

  His voice is low and rough. It wraps around me like he’s touching me, and my nipples tighten. Shivering, I turn my back to him. “Unhook me?”

  His fingers drift over my shoulders before sliding down to the hook on my bra. He opens it with one smooth movement. “You could have done this yourself.”

  “Maybe I wanted you to touch me.”

  “Maybe all you had to do was ask.”

  That’s a dangerous thought, and it changes everything. It’s one thing to follow a bad boy down a questionable path. But if I ask him, I won’t be following. I’ll be leading us both, and I don’t have a damn clue where I’m going.

  “Sean?”

  His breath warms the spot just behind my ear. “Yeah?”

  Touch me. I can taste the words on my tongue. I’m so close to being this person, this wild, carefree woman who knows what she wants and reaches for it. Asks for it.

  Takes it.

  I’m close, but not there yet. “Are we getting in the water?”

  He doesn’t answer. The heat of his body vanishes, and by the time I turn around, he’s nearly to the edge of the lake. He glances back at me over his shoulder, then dives off the bank.

  Self-consciousness almost overwhelms me, and that spurs me to follow him. The water is cool on my overheated skin, but nothing can chill the warmth throbbing through me as I swim out to meet him.

  I stop a foot away, treading water as I meet his gaze. “I get nervous,” I admit, blurting out the truth because it’s not like my awkwardness is some big secret. “You’re out of my league, Sean.”

  He wipes water away from his furrowed brow. “Says who?”

  Says the world and the laws of nature. “I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m terrified that if you figure out how much, you’re going to run like hell.”

  Sean swims in a slow circle around me, making the water ripple against my bare skin. “This is your show, Hannah. You’re the one who wants to be bad, so you’re the one who decides what that means.”

  “Anything?”

  “Mmm, anything.”

  I close my eyes and spread my arms wide. It’s the opposite of everything I’ve ever done, every time I’ve curled my arms protectively around myself, gotten smaller. I may not be this person, but Sean’s giving me a little bit of his magic.

  I want more. I want him. “Touch me.”

  The water splashes softly, and his legs bump mine a split second before his mouth—it has to be his mouth, it’s hot and wet but so is everything right now—skates over my collarbone.

  Harmless—in theory. But it lights me up, makes my pulse race. Steals my breath. I lift my chin, baring my throat, but he doesn’t move his mouth. Instead, I feel a warm rush as he touches me under the lake’s surface, skimming his knuckles over the curve of my breast.

  The sensation is amplified by the water, especially when he does it again, this time with more pressure. His hand slides over my skin, and it doesn’t stop until he breaks through, up and out of the water to curl around the back of my neck.

  I can’t contain my moan as I reach for him. My palms find skin, still hot, even when I trace over his shoulders and down his back. I don’t know which of us moves, or if it’s just the water and the lack of friction, but in the next moment we’re crushed together, our legs tangled, my breasts against his chest.

  Sean touches my chin, tilts my head back farther. “Open your eyes, Hannah.”

  I do. The moonlight is refracted into a million broken, shining pieces by the surface of the lake, and Sean is staring intently down at me. I’m trapped by that stare, unable to look away.

  Then he whispers my name and kisses me.

  Fast and blurry. That’s how it feels when his mouth opens over mine. The first swipe of his tongue is electric, driving me to whimper against his lips and cling tighter. With my hands, and with my legs wrapped around his waist. I don’t remember doing that, but now his hips are grinding against mine—and God, why am I being prissy about it? It isn’t the pressure of his hips that’s curling my toes and sparking along my nerves.

&nb
sp; His erection. His dick. I know plenty of words for it, but I don’t know how to handle the way it makes me feel. It’s raw, undeniable proof that he wants me, and I’m already addicted to that.

  His tongue curls around mine, coaxing and hot, as we sink deeper into the lake. Suddenly, everything feels solid instead of floaty, and we’re up to our necks in the water. He’s standing on the bottom, he must be, because the next thing he does is rock against me even harder.

  I break free, but only to gasp in a breath that leaves me on a shaky moan. “Oh, my God.”

  “Too much?” he rasps.

  Yes. Too much to feel, to process. Fear turned me frigid at fifteen, and now I’m melting too fast. In the water, of all places, and maybe this is how my grief is going to work. I’m taunting death, tempting fate, with fast cars and deep water. All the things that stole my family, and I can’t get enough of them.

  And Sean. I can’t get enough of him, either. I slide one hand down his shoulder and grip the firm muscles of his arm, reminding myself that he’s strong. That he’s capable, in control, and I’m in his hands.

  “Not too much,” I say, tightening my legs around his hips. His erection presses right where I need it, hard against my clit, and I’ve never done this before. The few times some drunk boy at a party got close, I always distracted him from my pants by sticking my hand in his.

  I don’t think Sean will be so easily distracted.

  He kisses a path down to my throat, though calling them kisses is an understatement. He’s dragging his open mouth over my skin, and the slick friction of his tongue is a thousand times dirtier than a kiss could ever be.

  Water laps around my shoulders as he fixes his mouth over my pulse with gentle suction. His hips have settled into a maddening rhythm, one I can feel everywhere. My toes, the tips of my fingers, even sparking behind my eyelids.

  I’m spinning out of control again, panting into the muggy summer air as I try to move faster. But I can’t. The water slows everything down, and I bite my lower lip to hold back my whimpers because I know it makes sound carry, too. Evie and Gibb are over there somewhere, surrounded by dozens of oblivious partiers.