Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  “A thousand times, cos people have a habit of lying to me.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Why?” he asked, his expression dubious.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you think I’m bright? You’ve only seen two pieces of my work.”

  “You picked up the part of Othello incredibly fast,” I replied, finally feeling comfortable enough to sit down next to him. “You don’t make any mistakes, whereas Phelia constantly trips over her lines.”

  “It’s cos she’s hot for me. A lot of girls stutter around me.”

  “Yes, I did notice she likes you,” I said, unhappy about it. I didn’t delve into the reason why it bothered me, fully aware I wouldn’t like the answer. “Is she harassing you? I noticed you getting mad at her for touching you the other day.”

  He dropped his gaze, focusing on the stack of papers. “Everyone touches me, so no worries, I’m used to it,” he said, not sounding convincing.

  “What do you mean by everyone touches you?” I asked, now concerned. “And deFINE everyone.”

  He shrugged. “Girls at school have a habit of brushing up against me, while the ones gagging for it, like Phelia, outright feel me up. Also, some of the gang moles grope and kiss me. I tend to tell my dad ’bout those mangy bitches and he sets them straight.” He paused for a moment, a frown creasing his brow, his expression turning troubled. “For once it would be nice if a woman I wanted touched me.” He looked up at me. “Like you.” He leaned forward, giving the impression he was going to kiss me.

  I shot up off the couch. “What are you doing?”

  He exhaled, his expression disappointed. “I’m guessing not you?”

  “You got that right! I’m married.”

  “I’ve had married women hit on me loads of times, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “I’m not hitting on you,” I replied, annoyed he’d directed the conversation back to sex. It made me want to throttle him.

  He pushed to his feet. “Maybe, maybe not, but like Phelia you’re still hot for me. And since your husband’s away, we can fuck without gettin’ caught.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t want to have sex with you, and how did you know my husband’s away?” I asked, now worried. “Have you been spying on me?”

  He snorted. “No. I only knew he wuz away cos you lied to me.”

  “About what?”

  “Him comin’ home. If you’re gonna lie convincingly look the person in the eye. Don’t twitch and drop your gaze, it’s a dead giveaway. Even better, actually believe it. Half the shit I say, I talk myself into thinking is real even when it ain’t. It’s how no one can tell when I’m lying.”

  I didn’t reply, again upset he could see right through me, not to mention a little concerned by his lying admission.

  He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you’re uptight. Chill, it’s only words. Not like I’m gonna jump your bones if you don’t want my dick.”

  He slumped back down on the couch and picked up a pen. He refocused on the notes, asking me a question about a word I’d used. I mumbled the definition, not sure if I could handle sitting next to him again. No matter what he promised, he wouldn’t stop provoking me, continually throwing me into a flustered state.

  He looked back up at me, asking me what another word meant as though he hadn’t just propositioned me, the way he moved between talking about sex and study deeply unsettling.

  “I mentioned the meaning in class,” I replied, rubbing my left arm nervously.

  “I don’t remember, maybe I wuzn’t there.”

  I repeated what it meant. He scribbled on the paper, writing down the definition. He inquired about another word, making me relax enough to sit down on the armrest, the two cushions between us enough of a buffer.

  My skirt rode up my thighs. I tugged it down, freezing as his eyes locked onto what I was doing, his gaze directed between my legs. He shook his head and refocused on the notes, mumbling something under his breath I couldn’t decipher. He turned the page, asking a few more questions. I answered them all, eventually wrestling control of the tutorial, Dante surprisingly paying attention to what I was saying. It allowed me to relax enough to sit down on the cushion a space away from him. Though, I still felt on edge—until the end, when he asked how Old Major in Animal Farm could possibly represent John Lennon. I’d stared at him blankly for a moment, then burst out laughing, realising he’d gotten Lennon mixed up with Lenin.

  “Why are you laughing?” he snapped, his angry scowl amusing in itself.

  “I wasn’t talking about the singer,” I said, not even feeling sorry for laughing, Dante not deserving my consideration after the way he’d treated me. “I was referring to Vladimir Lenin, the Russian communist revolutionary.”

  “How the hell am I s’posed to know that?” he pouted. “Lennon is more famous than some Russian dude I’ve never heard of.”

  I laughed again, finding what he’d said hilarious.

  “Stop laughing at me!”

  I covered my mouth. “I’m sorry,” although I wasn’t. “It’s not your fault. It’s just... Lenin is extremely famous. He was one of the most important political figures and revolutionary thinkers from last century.”

  Dante scowled at me. “Lennon was revolutionary too. He even wrote a song called Revolution. It wuz one of his most political songs, a response to the Vietnam War. Bring on the Lucie wuz another one. It’s a protest ’bout war and killing. He believed in peace and a perfect world, like he sung in Imagine. Personally, I don’t believe a perfect world is possible, since there are too many crims and psychos in the world for it to work. It’s a nice idea, but only a fantasy, a dream that hateful people will stomp all over if they get half the chance. Anarchy is more likely than John Lennon’s ideal. Violence and greed is in our blood, our psyche a minefield of imperfection.”

  I blinked, not believing what I was hearing, his words impressive.

  “Do you go to church?” he asked.

  I nodded, still dumbfounded by his intelligent spiel, the boy a contradiction in so many ways.

  He narrowed his eyes. “The next time you go there, look at the people on either side of you, then the ones in front and behind you, as well as the people raising their hands in prayer. Also, listen to the churchgoers who sing the loudest and open their mouths to take communion on their tongues instead of their hands. At least one of ’em will steal from you if war breaks out. They’ll even bash you to get what they want, their base needs more important than this bullshit ’bout loving thy neighbour. And I guarantee at least one of the men in that church will rape you, not caring a shit as you scream for them to stop, if anything, they’ll pro’bly get off on it.”

  My eyes widened. “Dante! That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  He grimaced. “Maybe, but it’s still the truth. Bosnia’s enough proof of that.” His lips twitched in anger. “My cousin’s neighbour, a man who’d lived next door to her all her life, raped her as soon as the Serbian bombs hit their town. Humans are savages, no worse than animals, preying on the weak and vulnerable for their own gain. They’ll even bring down the strong with the right words, grinding them into the ground, making them do what they want.”

  “Not all people are liked that,” I said. “Some will go out of their way for others.”

  “You’ll need a hundred of those to make up for the few who’ll fuck you over, though, all it’ll take is one person to make you wanna blow your brains out.”

  I wondered whether that one person was his stepfather. “I hope you’re not talking literally.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suicide. You don’t think about it, do you?”

  He scoffed. “Fuck off.”

  “Dante! Don’t be rude, I’m being serious.”

  “Well, it’s none of your business, and anyway, I’d rather die from liver failure, cos at least I’ll have fun gettin’ there.” He glanced at his watch. “Looks like it’s time for me to fuck off-ski. But knowi
ng bloody Hemi, he’ll be late.” He dropped the pen on the table and stretched out his arms, resting them on the back of the couch, his left hand a whisper away from my shoulder. He tickled it with his fingers, giving me a flirtatious smile, as though we hadn’t just been talking about suicide. “Can I have a drink?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I jumped up and headed for the kitchen, relieved to be away from him. I hoped his ride came quick, the feeling between us once again lapping into awkwardness. I grabbed a glass tumbler from the cupboard, then removed the orange juice from the fridge. The sound of a car caught my attention, drawing me to the window. I glanced through it, hoping to see Dante’s ride, but instead a blue Hyundai pulled into the driveway across the road.

  Sighing, I poured some juice into the tumbler, then put the bottle away. I picked up the now full tumbler and headed back to him. He was sitting in the same spot, with his arms still spread out over the back of the couch, but with a friendly smile instead of a flirtatious one, the boy having a large repertoire of smiles.

  I held out the tumbler for him to take. He took it and sniffed at the juice, wrinkling his nose as though it was off, which I knew it wasn’t, since I’d had some earlier in the day.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He looked up at me with a disgusted expression. “I wanted a real drink, not kids’ stuff. I don’t drink orange juice unless it’s laced with vodka.”

  “Orange juice isn’t kids’ stuff and I’m not giving a minor alcohol.”

  “No one will find out if you don’t tell ’em,” he said, putting the tumbler down on the coffee table, the glass surface making a clinking sound. “And I drink all the time.”

  “That doesn’t make it right, what you did at school ample proof of that.”

  “I lived and you’re not a cop, so stop bein’ a prude and gimme sumpthin’ with bite.” He snapped his teeth. “Or I’ll give you a bite.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I think you should wait outside for your ride.”

  “And I think you should suck my dick, but it doesn’t mean I’ll get it.” He pushed up and stepped over the coffee table, his long legs clearing it easily. He headed for the tall cabinets lining the far wall, his boots clomping against the floor.

  “Dante! What are you doing?”

  “Gettin’ a real drink, foxy lady,” he said, singing the last two words. He ran a hand over the red-varnished wood. “Now, which one has the booze?”

  I stalked over to him. “None, and I told you to leave.”

  “Not until I get a drink.”

  Despite my protests, he opened the cabinet doors, letting out a loud whoop of joy when he spotted Markus’s liquor collection. He grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and whipped the cap off, taking a swig before I could stop him.

  “Dante! Give me that!” I shouted, trying to take it off him.

  He turned and gulped down more, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed the whiskey like it was soft drink. I moved in between the cabinet and him, pushing up onto my toes to grab the bottle. He pulled it away from his lips and let out a loud burp, looking pleased with himself. I snatched the bottle out of his hand, sloshing a little onto my shirt, but too angry to care.

  “Don’t you dare tell anyone I let you drink alcohol,” I snapped, furious with him.

  He smirked at me, his lips wet from the whiskey. “But you didn’t let me.”

  “Just don’t say a word.”

  “I wouldn’t cos it’ll get you into trouble, like I wouldn’t tell anyone if we fucked.” He stepped closer, backing me into the cabinet.

  I shoved him with my free hand, forcing him to take a step back. “If you do that one more time, I won’t tutor you again.”

  He snorted out a laugh. “We both know you’re talkin’ shit.”

  My cheeks flared up, angry over the way he was dismissing my words, which he constantly did, my opinion meaning nothing to him. And I let him get away with it, too much of a pussy, like he said I was.

  He laughed. “I’m surprised you’re so full of shit, considering how many times your cheeks flush.”

  “Why do you say the most horrid things to me?” I snapped, my anger spilling over.

  “They’re not horrid; it’s just the way I speak.”

  “No, you purposely provoke me, and you shouldn’t even be talking about sex. You’re fifteen years old, so act it!”

  His smile disappeared, a flash of anger replacing it. “Fifteen isn’t my age, it’s just the years I’ve spent in this hellhole called earth.” He taped his head. “I’m older in here, much more than you, cos I’ve seen and done things no fifteen or even fifty-year-old has. Age is just a number, so stop lettin’ it get in the way of what you want. And I know you want me. It couldn’t be more obvious.”

  Before I could reply, his lips smashed against mine, much harder than the first time at school, but still laced with liquor. Shocked, I wrenched my head to the side and slapped him. He jerked his head back and glared down at me with a pained expression, making me realise I’d hit his bruised cheek. But I didn’t apologise, because he’d deserved it. Instead, I returned his glare, almost daring him to try it again, my hand itching to hit him one more time.

  His pained look disappeared, replaced by a sly smile, giving me the impression he was going to kiss me again. I hit his other cheek before he could, what he was doing winding me up more and more.

  He winced and brought a hand to his face. “Stop doin’ that!”

  “Not until you back off.”

  He glowered at me, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I ain’t backing off, ’specially not to some cock tease who pro’bly frigs herself stupid thinking ’bout me.”

  “Is that so?” I gritted out between clenched teeth, almost daring him to say one more word, one more insult, so I could have an excuse to wipe that sneer off his face.

  “Yeah.” He placed a hand next to my head and leaned his face down to mine, growling, “And you know it.”

  My hand whipped out. He grabbed my wrist before I could make contact. I yelled out and went to hit him with my other hand, dropping the Jack Daniels in the process. He grabbed that wrist as the bottle hit the floor, the amber liquid probably spilling all over my blue carpet. But I didn’t care, my focus solely on Dante.

  “Let go!” I hollered.

  “Not until you stop hitting me,” he growled. “Just look at my fuckin’ face, woman. I’ve been hit enough as it is. I don’t need you adding to my bruises.”

  “I wouldn’t have hit you if you didn’t keep pushing me,” I snarled back, wishing his face ... his beautiful, beautiful face ... wasn’t so damn close to mine. I wanted to kiss those full lips of his, to taste the liquor on them, to get drunk on him, the boy intoxicating. The temptation to do it started to claw at my insides, making my hands flex in his grip, my jaw clench, and my eyes flare at him, the rage he’d triggered transforming into full-blown lust, something that was ready to burst forth, giving a giant fuck you to reason.

  No longer thinking, I smashed my lips against his, hitting them hard, my teeth clashing against his teeth in my rush to taste him. He jerked his head back, looking shocked, but I didn’t care, my restraints completely stripped away. He’d taunted me, flirted with me, got me so wound up and needy that once I’d opened the floodgates, nothing was going to stop me.

  I stepped into him, pressing up against his larger body, while my lips ran across his neck. He shuddered and let out a low groan, mumbling, “Fuck, yeah.” He let go of my wrists and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer, making me groan too. I grabbed his head and yanked it down, planting my lips against his again. This time he didn’t pull away. Instead, he pushed me up against the cabinet, causing it to wobble. An ornament toppled over the side, smashing against the floor, shattering like my mind. I had placed a metaphorical gun against my head and pulled the trigger. My morals were now collapsing in upon themselves, shot to pieces, damning my conscience forever. But, I no longer cared. Not in this moment, not
when he was kissing me like this, touching me, giving me everything I’d fantasised about.

  Desperate for more, I slipped my hands in between us, flicking open his fly, then shoved my right hand down the front of his underwear, grabbing onto—

  A loud bang split the air like a thunderbolt. I whipped my hand out of Dante’s pants and jerked my head back. He appeared just as startled. His face was flustered while his eyes were round, a picture of innocence and sex all rolled into one conflicting package. We stood there in silence, just staring at each other, trying to process what had made the sound, our minds listing halfway between lust and confusion.

  Banging started up, pulling my attention to the front door. The realisation that someone was on the other side of it finally broke through my hazy, lust-filled mind. I held my hands up and stepped away from Dante, as though the police were on my front porch, ready to break down my door and drag me off to jail—where I belonged, what I’d done criminal.

  “Go,” I pushed out, my voice strained. My body was still throbbing, begging for release, but also knowing it wasn’t going to get it. “Leave,” I snapped, just wanting him gone, needing him to go. What I’d done... Oh, God...

  Dante opened his mouth, looking like he was going to say something, but jolted as a man with a Maori accent called out his name. Spinning on his heel, he rushed over to the coat stand and grabbed his leather jacket, yanking it on with a jerky motion. His fingers moved to his pants, quickly doing up his fly. Once decent, he reached for the door handle, hesitating to glance back at me. Again, it looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he opened the door and disappeared out of it, leaving me alone with my thoughts...

  ...and unbearable guilt.

  24

  DANTE

  In shock, I strode towards Hemi’s car, what Mrs. Hatton had done ... unbelievable. I knew she liked me but... Fuck! That had been amazing, better than anything I’d expected and if Hemi hadn’t interrupted us, I knew we would’ve had sex. I glanced over at Jasper’s dad, pissed off at him even more now, but kept my trap shut since it wasn’t his fault, the guy actually doing me a favour driving me home.