by Payne, Lyla
BROKEN AT LOVE
A Novel by Lyla Payne
Copyright 2013 by Lyla Payne
Cover art and design by Sarah Hansen
Editing: Jim Thomsen
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Praise for Broken at Love:
“If you like Abbi Glines, you'll love Lyla Payne…Broken at Love is a sexy new adult novel that will leave you breathless for more!” – Denise Grover Swank, bestselling author of The Chosen series.
“Broken at Love is sexy, engaging and unputdownable! Emilie and Quinn sizzle on the page.” – Jennifer Iacopelli, author of Game. Set. Match (forthcoming from Coliloquy, May 2013).
The U.S. Open
Chapter One
Quinn
“And Alexandria Ikanova, the eighteen-year-old from Russia, takes her fourth-round match in straight sets, knocking off the reigning U.S. Open champ.”
A headache started at the base of my skull at the beginning of the short match, and by the end had settled behind my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can we turn that off, for Christ’s sake?”
My half-brother Sebastian shot an amused look my direction. “We’re throwing a U.S. Open party. We can’t turn off the U.S. Open.”
I didn’t bother answering, turning my back on the television. The last thing I wanted to see was the hottest Russian girl to ever play tennis—and that was saying something—coyly answering interview questions, bathed in a post-match glow.
I’d seen that glow up close and personal, with substantially less clothing to hide it.
“Hey. Stop glowering at the bar, Q. You’re irritating the vodka. So, Alexandria dumped your ass like a hot potato after you had to leave the tour. There are going to be so many hot girls in this house tonight you’ll forget her name, I promise.” Sebastian got up from the polished barstool, knocking back another shot of vodka. “I’m going to make sure the bouncers are set up.”
My eyes wandered back to the television for the briefest of moments, and the sight of her flushed cheeks and wide grin turned my stomach sour. Alexandria had no right to break it off. Anger churned, still as strong as the night she’d flippantly informed me we were done.
“Come on, Quinn, what did you think would happen? You’d travel with me, following like a gimpy puppy on a leash? I’m eighteen, and you’re broken. I don’t have time for a dog.”
The simple memory of her words drew a growl from my throat, and I swallowed three shots, one after the other, of the leftover whiskey.
Chatter and laughter met my ears, signaling the arrival of our guests. Throwing these parties around the four tennis majors was my idea—a little extra fuck you to Alexandria—but making them exclusive, invitation-only events had been Sebastian’s doing. Every kid at Whitman University salivated for their golden ticket, and Sebastian loved nothing more than playing Willy Wonka, lording our family’s money and influence over our classmates.
Over everyone, actually.
He had a knack for accumulating power. He’d even snagged me in his net.
Instead of following him outside or playing the good host, I wandered out back and down to the beach. The loose footing settled an ache in the goddamn knee that cost me my career.
Waves crashed on the shore, sucking the sand from underneath my callused toes. The sound of the water unwound the tight muscles in my shoulders. At least an hour passed while I stared out to sea; by the time I turned around, people spilled out of the house, down the deck, and into the sandy yard. Dusk fell, and the lights flicking on inside the house made my guests visible through the giant picture windows.
I didn’t want to go inside. Those kids might be my classmates now, but they were not my people. My friends were gathered in Flushing Meadows, New York, playing night matches or winding down from the day session. A glance at my watch said another two hours remained before my own game began, but the peace of the sunset fell away with the sounds of the party. I needed a drink.
Alcohol helped the hours pass quicker than anticipated. The more whiskey that burned my gut, the easier it became to smile and laugh, to chat about classes and frat parties and girls without wanting to ignore every single person asking for my attention.
Then Annette Davis walked in the front door, right on time. Chin-length blond hair, pale blue eyes. Smoking body, with legs that disappeared into a barely-there black dress at the top and into strappy heels at the bottom. I could see why Sebastian chose her; she was easily one of the most attractive girls I’d seen since I’d begun my forced matriculation.
She was rumored to be a bit of an uptight tease, too, flaunting the goods but refusing to play when it came to the business end of the night. She’d shut down at least half a dozen of my frat brothers since the beginning of freshman year.
Sebastian bumped into her a few paces inside the door, his darker gold hair barely topping her height in those killer shoes. While two of my frat brothers waylaid her friends, ushering them toward the keg on the back lawn with practiced charm, Sebastian steered Annette—tonight’s top seed, if we’re using tennis terminology—toward the deck bar.
The next part was easy. Brush past her on her way outside, make eye contact. Give her a smile, let my eyes linger on her mouth until her cheeks bloomed pink, then keep walking.
After that, I drank with some of the guys. Flirted harmlessly with the mediocre, dull, predictable girls shoving themselves in my face, tripping over their feet and spilling cheap beer all over their overpriced designer dresses.
Tried not to kill myself.
Definitely didn’t watch the night matches spinning across the television screens in every room. Ignored the fact that not one of these girls, not even the sexy target of the night, compared to Alexandria’s exotic beauty, her flaunted confidence. Or her body, toned by hours and hours of chasing little green balls across tennis courts.
I shook the remnants of my old life away and checked my watch again. Right on time, a guy named Toby crashed into Annette from behind, spilling a carefully planted Irish Car Bomb down the front of her dress. The Irish crème meant she couldn’t stay in those clothes, not unless she wanted to reek like spoiled milk inside an hour, and she wasn’t one of the invited overnight guests. Which meant she didn’t have a change of clothes.
Gracious host Quinn Rowland to the rescue.
“Oh, what a mess,” she sighed heavily, mopping fruitlessly at the gobs of curdled crème and whiskey with flimsy bar napkins.
I liked that she smiled while she tried to clean herself up; a lot of girls would have lost their minds and screamed at Toby. If he hadn’t immediately disappeared.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Sebastian lamented. “Parties. What are you gonna do?”
The apology sounded false to my ears, like everything that emerged from Sebastian’s mouth. Probably because I knew better than anyone that every time he spoke, he was either lying or scheming.
“I guess I’ll go home.” She gave up with the napkins, slapping the used, shredded ones on the bar top and scanning the room. “Where are my friends? It’s not like them to disappear.”
I stood close enough to smell her perfume—something floral that smelled deliciously musky against her skin—and raised my eyebrows at Sebastian.
“Oh, Q! How fortuitous. One of your guests has been soiled by a nefarious frat brother.” He grinned at me, well aware of how much I hated his devolving into formal langua
ge at this point in the game. “Do you know Annette?”
She turned, her pale eyes widening when she recognized me. I stepped closer, invading her space enough to make her decide she liked it.
“Not officially,” I reply, letting her know I remember seeing her earlier. Our fabricated “connection.”
“Nice to meet you.” Annette bit her lower lip, flushing prettily.
My eyes slid from her mouth down her neck, over her very nice chest, and finally settled on the growing off-white stain covering the front of her dress. “That’s a shame. But please don’t leave. My father keeps the closets filled, so there are plenty of clothes upstairs.”
Indecision warred with desire in her gaze. “Well, I…”
I reached out and took her hand, suppressed a shudder at the contact, and offered her a small smile. “Please. I’d really like you to stay. The night has barely gotten started.”
She nodded, not noticing that Sebastian had disappeared a couple of minutes before, and let me pull her by the hand up the staircase in the foyer. Blessed quiet surrounded us upstairs, the pounding music downstairs reduced to a throb. One of the spare bedrooms housed a walk-in closet full of women’s clothes and Annette gasped slightly when I threw it open, revealing anything she could want, from cocktail dresses to jeans to some rather skimpy nightclothes.
“I’ll wait in the bedroom,” I said quietly. “Take whatever you like.”
The bed barely sank under my weight, the mattress top of the line like everything else in this house. Quiet noises emanated from inside the closet and I let myself wonder what she looked like naked, tried to get excited for what was coming. Her choice of clothing would tell me a lot—I could almost estimate how long it would take me to get her out of it based on what she selected.
The French doors pulled open and Annette stood framed by the golden light, angelic and certainly desirable. She watched as I took in the simple cotton sundress, a bright red with skinny straps that couldn’t hide the fact she hadn’t worn a bra.
Game.
Desire crowded out my anger—the temporary release from its hateful clutches was the real reason I willingly played Sebastian’s game. “You look better than before, and that’s quite the achievement.”
A smile lit her pretty face. “Thanks. It’s a great dress.”
When she came and sat next to me on the bed instead of making for the door, I knew I didn’t have to worry about losing this round. Annette would be mine as long as I wanted her. “It’s nice up here, don’t you think? Quiet.”
Her eyebrows went up in surprise, a skeptical tilt making me smile. “You don’t like parties? That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“Oh? And what have you heard?”
“That you like parties,” she responded, a little wary now.
Wariness could add hours to my victory, and I didn’t feel like waiting. “Well, it’s possible people don’t know me as well as they think they do.”
I met her eyes, giving her my best wounded-puppy look. She reached out and took my hand from my lap, threading her thin fingers between mine. A necessary step, the affection, but not my favorite part. The idea of someone tethered to me made me nauseous.
“I’m sorry I said that. It’s not fair; I don’t know you.”
“It’s okay. It’s only natural for you to assume what you hear around campus is the truth. I’m the new guy.” I shrugged, letting my shoulders slump.
Her eyes went soft around the edges. The tension between us ramped up; I knew Annette would describe it as electricity, as a sign of attraction on some deep level when all it meant was that our bodies demanded physical contact.
She gave up a tiny gasp when my eyes found her mouth again. “Maybe we should go back downstai—”
I cut her off with a kiss, hesitant at first because that’s what she expected, and waited for the inevitable sighed acceptance. From there, sex was as foregone a conclusion as the meeting downstairs. But the night still required patience, so I eased back the moment I felt her start to relax into me.
“I couldn’t resist. We can go back to the party now.”
Pushing never got a guy in anyone’s pants. Okay, maybe it had, but that wasn’t my style. Quinn Rowland took what he wanted, but it needed to at least seem like her idea. Top seed or not, Annette was no different.
Instead of answering, she leaned back into my mouth. Her heart pounded against my chest, skin hot, hands busy. So I took, and followed the rulebook because it never let me down.
Kissed her neck. Let my forearm “accidentally” brush her boob, and when she didn’t protest, touched her on purpose. Watched her open up a little at a time, starting with her mouth and ending with every last piece of her. Including her heart. It had to be her heart, too, or I lose.
Sex and feelings. Shame and regret. That was the game.
Annette, the girl who had refused to let the rest of the guys inside her, paused only once. We’d gotten comfortable on the bed and with one another’s movements. The red dress lay on the floor in a crumple; her tanned, naked body stretched against me.
“Quinn,” she said quietly.
I raised my head, meeting her lust-filled gaze. “Are you okay?”
The expected question. Faked concern got them every time.
“Yes. I’m just…I’m not…I don’t usually do this. I never do this.”
She bit her lip again in that pouty way I had begun to suspect was orchestrated. It came across as hesitance, but under my hands her body screamed otherwise.
“Neither do I. No matter what you’ve heard. I feel…don’t you feel the connection between us?” I didn’t move, smiling at her and waiting for this unbearably predictable moment to end.
“I definitely feel something,” she breathed against my lips, kissing me with more urgency before wrapping her long legs around my hips.
That’s when phase one ended. The preliminary phase.
Set.
As she eagerly let me claim my prize for the next hour, the lie she’d believed so easily turned over in my mind. A voice deep inside me whispered the truth but she couldn’t hear it, even as our damp bodies moved in rhythm.
I do this all the time, Annette. All the time.
***
The guys hadn’t been right about Annette being hesitant to jump into bed, but she made me work for the rest of the victory. She wanted to feel important, considered, and like I desired more from her than the admittedly better than average sex we were having at least twice a day. So I let her believe I wanted more, too. If she knew the real me, she’d run.
And be the better for it.
Three days passed with me playing the dutifully interested frat boy. Annette and I danced. We held hands. I brought her drinks. Her friends were jealous. We had sex on the beach while the sun rose and I blatantly ignored advances from at least a dozen other girls I’d normally have boned and sent packing.
It exhausted me, the pretending to care. Listening well enough to respond appropriately. Finally, as the sun peeked over the horizon on the fourth day—the first day of semifinals at Flushing Meadows—she went ahead and took a hesitant step.
The bedroom we’d claimed warmed slightly from the rising morning, bathing our sweat-fresh skin with a cool breeze wafting in through the open balcony door. Sleep tried to drag my eyelids down, but nice guys who gave a shit didn’t fall asleep two minutes afterward, so instead I watched her chest as her heart stopped pounding.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, propping myself up on an elbow and reaching out to settle a hand on her flat stomach.
“I don’t know.” She rolled her head my direction, biting her lip in that playful way and sliding my hand upward, skin prickling in its wake.
She had a great rack. I might even miss it a little.
Her body responded to my teasing fingers, and if the game was going to last another day or so, I planned to take advantage. But as my lip pushed my fingers out of the way, Annette served wide. Double faulted. Handed me the win.
>
“I was thinking, Quinn.” She paused, gasping and fisting her hands in my hair, but I halted my efforts at the serious note in her voice. “I’ve got a sorority semi-formal next month. You’ll go with me, right?”
Our eyes met when I looked up; my eyebrows lifted in silence.
“I mean…I like you.” Annette looked away, her gaze sliding toward the open window, then back again. Hesitance hung there, but also hope. Happiness. Desire.
It would all turn to hate. I was a jumble of broken pieces, as Alexandria so sweetly pointed out, and Annette only liked the ones I’d let her see.
Even a whole Quinn Rowland wasn’t a pretty picture.
Relief lifted weight off my chest as she waited for me to return her admission of feelings, to echo her desire to take our relationship outside the confines of the party and the U.S. Open. I scooted away, the first real smile I’d shared with her stretching my cheeks. “I don’t think so. Now get the fuck out.”
Match.
The Australian Open
Chapter Two
Emilie
“Okay, so Dad doesn’t want to come, but are you going to be at the gallery show?” I paused, staring at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. My mother answered, giving me a bunch of reasons she couldn’t be at my first art exhibition, as I stared. It could be her face. Her Peruvian genes trumped every single one of my father’s Irish ones in the womb.
“Fine, Mom. I get it. There will be other shows…yes, there will. I’m not changing majors again and you can tell Dad the same thing…” My roommate Ruby threw open the door, letting it bang against the wall and launch closed behind her as she made a racket kicking off her shoes and flopping. “Yeah, Ruby’s home. I will. Love you, too.”
I hung up my cell phone and tossed it on my unmade bed, lying back on the tousled covers.