Beautiful Broken (University of Branton)

by Nazarea Andrews

  Irritation slipped across his face. "Look, Wil said I'd get something out of this—you didn't think I drove you around and gave you José for nothing, do you?"

  I laughed at him. "I don't care what you think you’re getting. What I'm doing is leaving. Spend some time with your hand, if you feel the need."

  I turned away, trying to hide how much I was shaking, and made it two steps before he slammed into me, shoving me down on the table. My breath rushed out as his hands locked down on me, bruising against my hips.

  "What the hell?" I shouted, and he slapped me. Hard enough that my head bounced off the tabletop and I saw stars.

  That's when I felt the first real fear.

  "What happened then?" Carrie says, startling me into now. I blink at her, and she stares at me, endlessly patient.

  "He had to let me go for a second—to get his pants off," I say, dully. "Atti had taught me some self-defense. When he let me go, I elbowed him in the face—broke the fucker's nose. Took off running."

  She stares at me, and I look across the room, at the exit sign. I'd hightailed it for that exit, too conscious of Boyd cursing and Candice and Wil, peering from around the stacks. They'd seen—from the flash of surprise in Candice's eyes, she knew exactly what was going on. But Wil pulled her away, and, without much hesitation, she'd gone.

  She'd left me alone with him.

  "He caught me in the stairwell. We were there after hours, and no one could hear me. Candice and Wil weren't coming to help," I say, my voice empty. "He raped me there. Made me go down on him. He used a condom, and afterwards, shoved it in my mouth, full of his semen. He said if I liked shots so much, I could do a shot of—" I break off, struggling not to gag.

  Tears blur in my vision, and all the emotions from that night—fear, rage, helplessness, betrayal—spiral through me. I need something. I need a hit, anything that will get this feeling to go away. Anything that will make me feel steady.

  "Did you file a report?" Dr. Carrie says, her voice quiet and soothing.

  "No!" I snap, looking at her sharply. "I was a high school student, drunk off my ass, hanging out with a college boy. Do you really think they'd have taken me seriously? Especially when my friends weren't going to help me out with anything?"

  She doesn't say anything—doesn't tell me I should have filed charges, that Boyd might rape again, that it was or wasn't my fault. She just stands there as I struggle to get my shit together.

  When my breathing evens out and I can stand straight without shaking, she cocks her head. "What happened next?"

  What happened next? I wasn't thinking. Boyd left me, muttering something about needing a drink. I was shaking, in so much pain I couldn't see straight—I think he broke my ribs when he threw me down the staircase. I forced myself up and went to the only place I knew I'd get no questions—Atti and Dane's dorm room.

  Most nights, they stayed at the frat house. But Dane liked the ability to retreat, and it wasn't like they didn't have the money to pay for both. So they did. It was a Friday night, and their dorm room was empty, but I had a key. Atti had told me, earlier in the semester, that if I ever needed a place to crash and sleep off any alcohol, it was always open to me. I stumbled into the suite, barely making it to the bathroom before I threw up, all the tequila and the meager dinner I'd eaten, everything that was in my stomach until I was dry heaving and sobbing, my sides aching. Then I crawled into the shower, sitting on the tile floor sobbing until the water was so hot it scorched my skin, and then turned icy cold.

  When I was shivering so hard I could barely feel my toes, I turned off the water, pulled on a pair of Atti's sweat pants and a sweatshirt from Dane's closet. Then I crawled into his bed and lay there, waiting for the nothingness of sleep to settle around me. I needed that, so damn bad. But it didn't come—only tears, silently tracking down my cheeks, my thoughts chasing each other round my head, searching for some clue as to why this happened.

  I never figured it out. Dane came back from wherever he'd been, and my thoughts scatted as he saw the truth in my eyes. And then I did everything in my considerable power to never think about that night again.

  "I need to leave," I say again, and this time, Carrie doesn’t stop me as I bolt. I trip over a bag some student has left in the walkway, and I fall against a table. I can feel people looking at me, but I don’t even care. All I really care about is the way the table presses like a dagger into my hips. I want to yell—I want to burn the whole place down and scream in the ashes.

  Dr. Carrie has an arm around me, steering me toward the front door, and my breath is hitching in my throat as I struggle to keep from falling apart. I see something, in the corner of my eye, and I glance up sharply. But whoever was there is gone. I’m just seeing things. There’s no way Boyd is really here.

  No fucking way.

  Dr. Carrie unlocks the door to her office, and I follow her inside. We haven’t spoken since leaving the library.

  She gets two Cokes from the fridge and hands me one. I take a large sip and collapse into the couch. Carrie eyes me with real concern. I stare at my drink as I say, hoarsely, "Do you think, Doc, that it helped?"

  Dr. Carrie takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "No. No, Scout, I don't suspect it did. Do you want to use?"

  Dear Jesus, so much. The need to score is like a weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I close my eyes, and Boyd's muddled brown eyes stared back. My phone vibrates against my leg, jerking me from my thoughts. I stare down at it, at the picture of Dane. He's smirking into the camera, shirtless. You wouldn't know he'd just fucked me in the backyard, but I can't forget the way he'd felt as he braced me against the side of the house, his hand on my mouth to muffle my cries as he pounded into me.

  The tight, breath-stealing pressure eases a little. In my hand, the phone goes still, his picture blinking away. I can think, past the fear and the memories.

  "Scout?"

  "No," I say, strongly. Surprising both of us. "No, I just want to see Dane."

  "Dane means a lot to you," she says slowly.

  I nod, not responding. "Have you ever told him everything that happened that night?"

  "No. I've never talked about it—not before today."

  Something flickers across her face, like guilt, gone faster than I can assess. "Scout, I need you to be careful. Dane is important, and I get that you care about him. It's good that you have someone in your life that you can lean on. But he's also a temporal fixture. If you lean too much against him, when he's removed, you'll be devastated. I'd hate to see that."

  "Dane isn't going anywhere," I say, fiercely. "He loves me."

  "I don't doubt that at all. But sometimes, it's not enough. Sometimes people leave even when they don't mean too. I don't want to see you hurt."

  "I think we're done for the day," I say angrily. She opens her mouth, and I shoot her a warning look. After the disaster that was exposure therapy and insinuating that Dane would leave me, I don't have the energy or patience for any more pearls of wisdom from the good doctor.

  "I'll see you next week," I say, and she doesn't try to stop me as I stride out of the office.

  Chapter 16

  Dane

  I’m pacing when I hear her pull up. Finally. My breath leaves me in a rush, and I jerk the door open as she walks up.

  There’s something wrong—she’s moving almost gingerly, like she’s afraid to move too fast, or she will break. Like she’s taken one too many blows today and can’t stand to take another.

  "Scout?" I ask, softly. Her eyes lift, slowly, and the blankness in them scares me. I’ve seen her this blank—that night in my room, and again, over the years, when she was in the worst slumps of her drug usage. It terrified me then, but it’s nothing like the panic I feel now. I can’t lose her to drugs—not this time. I don’t know how to bring her back, from wherever she is in her mind, and I have no fucking clue what put her there.

  I step toward her, my fingers brushing the soft curve of her cheek, and she shudders, her
eyes closing as she leans into my tentative caress. Then she’s in my arms. I hold her as she shakes, silent sobs wracking her frame as night falls around us.

  I scoop her into my arms, and she doesn't even protest as I carry her into the house, kicking the door shut before taking her to the couch.

  I need to tell her about Atticus—I've gotten increasingly irate texts from him. Whatever I might be hoping for, this isn't blowing over. I need to deal with it. But right now, she looks so damn breakable. I can't bring myself to add to that. So I jerk the quilt she's been leaving on the couch up around her, curling against the arm with her sprawled across me.

  "Want to talk to me? Or do you want to just sit?" I ask quietly.

  She shakes her head slightly against my chest, and I tighten my grip on her, holding her as she rides out whatever emotional storm she's going through.

  The door slamming wakes us both, and Scout jerks upright with an ear-splitting shriek. I catch her, holding her so she's forced to look at me. "It's okay. Shhh, it’s okay. See? I'm right here." Her eyes are impossibly wide, and I lean in to kiss her forehead.

  "You've got to be kidding," Atticus snaps, standing behind the couch. Scout makes a startled noise, but she still isn't speaking, not really. I stare at her for another second, letting the questions fill my eyes. She gives me a minute head bob, and I let her go. Stand up and stare at my best friend.

  He looks good, for a guy who clearly just drove straight through for almost ten hours. It's impressive he made the trip as fast as he did. I don't say that, though. I cock an eyebrow, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Forget you have an apartment now?"

  He glares at me. Clearly, he's just as furious as he was this morning. "Scout, can I talk to you?"

  "No," she says softly.

  We both give her a sharp look, and she heaves a sigh. "I'm going to bed."

  She starts to stand, and Atticus grabs her arm. She gives him a look, and I step forward. "Atticus," I say, my voice tight and full of warning.

  "Stay the fuck out of it, Guillot. This doesn't concern you," Atti snarls without looking at me. Stunned, I take a step back. I don’t look at her. He doesn’t want me here—me, who has been his go-to to take care of her for years.

  "How long?" he asks, tightly, still holding her arm. "How long has he been fucking you?"

  I’m shocked when she slaps him. "How dare you?" she hisses. "Do I ask about your love life or the fact that you’re sleeping with your student? What the hell gives you the right to ask me shit about mine?"

  "The fact that he’s my best friend. That he’s only taking care of you because I asked him to." He hesitates, and then: "He didn’t even want to, Scout. He didn’t want you staying here."

  She flinches, but doesn’t respond to that. Instead, she says, softly, the anger draining from her voice. "You don’t own him. Dane’s been part of my life as long as he’s been part of yours. I’m sorry you’re upset, but this? Us? It doesn’t concern you."

  "It does when you’re a damn druggie, Scout."

  "Enough," I snap, stepping into her space and wrapping an arm around her waist. She’s shaking, and I squeeze her, trying to steady her. "She’s clean, Atticus."

  "She looks strung the fuck out," he spits, and she laughs, hysterical.

  "You have no fucking clue!" she screams. "You’re so damn worried about my using, but you never once asked why. What drove me to it. All you see is a screw up, a problem to be dealt with. And you’ve been letting Dane deal with it ever since that night."

  Atticus’ eyes narrow on her, and he goes completely still. There’s a long moment, and then he says, his voice sharp and even, "What night?"

  She looks at me, panicked, and then bolts. She moves faster than I can catch her, snatching my keys from the counter and darting into the night. I hear the Viper rumble to life, and Atticus starts to follow her. I catch his arm. "Let her go."

  The punch catches me in the eye, pain blossoming like a mini-explosion. I grunt and walk away. Outside, into the rain, where the taillights of the Viper are turning off my street.

  "Don’t do that," Atticus shouts. I sigh.

  "Do what?"

  "Run away."

  I turn, cocking an eyebrow, rain pelting me. "That’s funny, coming from the guy who sent me to get his sister from rehab, left her in my house while he went back to the mountains. Or the guy who left his sister with me in a dorm room while you screwed that whore."

  This time, when he swings, I’m expecting it. I duck under it and punch him in the kidneys. Atticus grunts, jerks his knee up to catch me in the gut. It’s a sharp blow that drives my breath from me, and then we’re pummeling each other, scrambling for footing in the wet grass and the rain. I can’t think after that, struggling to hold my own against him. Atticus fought the underground cage matches when he was in college—and he was damn good at it.

  "You fucking. Shit." Atticus punctuates his words with blows, and I grapple to get a grip, finally kicking him off me and climbing to my feet.

  "Just stop!" I scream. "Jesus, you don’t even know—she’s hurting and you don’t even care. Didn’t you see her? Whatever she went through today—it shattered her. You asshole, you didn’t even care!"

  I punch him, once. Twice. A third time before a girl screams, and I blink the rain from my eyes, letting Atticus go to stare at Avery.

  She’s bedraggled, her blonde hair turned dark by the rain, a look of disgust and fury in her eyes. "Get off the damn ground, both of you."

  Without waiting to see what we do, she stalks into my house, shouting for Scout.

  My heart seizes, freezing my breath.

  Scout. She’s gone.

  Scout

  I end up in the library parking lot. The rain is tapering off, and I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing here. I should go home—deal with the shit that Atticus is spewing. But I came too close to confessing everything that had happened, and if there is one thing I don’t want, it’s for Atti to ever know.

  I don’t know what to do. Dr. Carrie’s words from earlier today echo through my head. Could I handle losing Dane?

  No. The mere thought of spending a single night away from him is enough to make me shiver. I snap the rubber band on my wrist, the little sting of pain a welcome distraction.

  I can’t leave him. Not now—not when I know how good for each other we are. The problem is that Dane has always put Atticus before his own needs, before everything.

  Did I really think he would change that for me? Why? Because I was a hot mess and a good lay? He could get sex anywhere—he was hella good at that. Tears sting my eyes, everything from the day and my brother’s unexpected arrival slamming into me like a freight train. My head pounds, a migraine forming behind my eyes.

  Someone opens the door to the library, and a group of students and staff spill out into the rainy night. I glance up, half-watching them as I try to figure out what the hell to do. Waiting until Atticus leaves is an option—except I'm not completely convinced he won't just camp out at Dane's until I show up, and then drag me off.

  There's another option—the little shack in the backwoods that I used to run to when I needed to get away from everything. Dane knows I go there, sometimes. It's technically on our property, and Atti hasn't been there in years—he'd never look for me there.

  I glance up at the group again as I slide off the hood of the Viper. They've started to disperse, but one is sitting on the steps of the library, listening to two girls talking. Everything spirals away from me, narrowing until there is nothing but him, on the end of a long tunnel. I can't breathe—the air is trapped in my chest. I can feel his fingers on my throat as he forces himself on me, and I want to scream but I can't, and even when I do, he just laughs and slaps me. A scream builds in my throat, but I swallow, hard, choking it down.

  My keys fall from my nerveless fingers, the little shot-glass key chain clattering against the pavement, and his eyes, cool and hard, flick to me.

  Lazy interest. A predatory gleam as he tak
es in my lack of companions. He uncoils from the step, leaving the two co-eds and walking toward me.

  I grab my keys, reach into my purse for my pepper spray. I wish I had something stronger.

  I'm opening the door, sliding inside, when he reaches me. "You look lost, ma'am."

  Oh, Jesus. He doesn't recognize me. I want to throw up, want to scream, and he doesn't even fucking recognize me. He raped me, destroyed me, and he doesn't even remember me.

  "I'm meeting someone," I say, refusing to meet his eyes. I've seen them a million times in my nightmares—I can't see them again now.

  "Really?" There's a hint of amusement in his voice. Disbelief.

  He's laughing. The bastard is laughing. Fury makes me shake and I look up, glaring into his eyes. "Yeah, Boyd. I'm meeting my brother and boyfriend. And maybe swinging by the police station to let them know there's a rapist working at the library."

  He looks shocked, confused, and I shove him. "Get away from me," I snarl.

  "Who the hell do you think you are," he snaps. "What the fuck are you talking about, rapist? How the hell do you know my name?"

  "Think back. September of your freshman year—you got drunk with a couple local girls and took one to the staircase. Do you remember that, Boyd?" I spit. His face goes pale, and I know that he does. "Do you think I'd forget?" I demand.

  "It was a long time ago," he says, lamely. "And you were drunk—how was I supposed to know you weren't interested?"

  I slap him, hard. "I screamed it, you fucking bastard," I yell.

  His hands grip my arms, and panic erupts in me. I shriek, kicking and clawing my way free. He catches my purse, but I don't even give a fuck. I duck into the car and slam it shut as Boyd hammers on the window. Without looking, I jerk it into reverse and get the hell away from him.

  I'm three miles away, in the middle of town and headed for the big house, when I break down. All the tears from the past six years, all the frustration and rage and everything I haven't faced, come pouring out of me. I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe, the road blurry from my tears and the rain that has started again. I should pull over—get off the road until I get my shit together. Go to Dane. Something. I keep driving because I'm so tired of being still and stagnant.