Broken

by Lauren Layne

  And if there’s the slightest undercurrent of loneliness, I ignore it.

  Chapter Nine

  Olivia

  After my shower, I go looking for Paul.

  He’s not in his library or the kitchen. Halfway back up the stairs, I hear the hard, driving music from the direction of his bedroom. I didn’t grow up with a brother (or a sister, for that matter), but I’m pretty sure all that scary guitar noise is dude code for “keep the hell out.”

  Fine with me.

  I’m not sure which encounter feels more strange: the kiss in the library last night, or the unexpected predawn walk/run, where we almost connected for like a half second before he reverted to asshole mode.

  Returning to my bedroom, I check my email, ignoring everything except the message from Harry Langdon. I hit reply and proceed to vomit out a bunch of lies about how “Paul and I are going to do just fine together!”

  It’s not like I can tell him the truth: that I’m not at all sure how to survive three months with his gorgeous, tormented son.

  And then, because I have no idea what else I’m supposed to be doing, I take myself on a little tour of the Langdon estates.

  The compound is just as enormous and impressive in the morning as it was at twilight, and although everything is state-of-the-art, right down to the sound system in the small house, which Mick insists on showing me, I can’t help but feel I’ve stepped back into another era where some desolate duke reigns over a semi-abandoned estate.

  The gym in particular is depressing. It has enough equipment for an entire football team, which is a little pathetic considering there’s only one person using it, and according to Harry Langdon’s earlier emails, Paul only works his upper body—not the leg that so desperately needs rehabilitation.

  Yet…wasn’t lying this morning when I pointed out that he doesn’t seem to need his cane. Admittedly, my psychology expertise is limited to one throwaway psych class my freshman year at NYU, but I’d bet serious money that Paul Langdon’s issues are a lot more in his head than in his leg. And I suspect that, deep down, he knows it too.

  Which is why he’s avoiding me.

  He’s not trying to run me off with the same sort of hostile enthusiasm he displayed yesterday, but he’s certainly not seeking me out. I’m disappointed but not surprised. After all, he’s made it very clear that he can’t stand anything about me. Not my personality, not my running technique, not my pink shoes…

  Later, Lindy asks me to take Paul lunch—homemade minestrone and a ham sandwich—but when I bring it into the study, the room is still empty. However, there’s a glass of some brown alcohol on the desk that I know wasn’t there earlier, so he’s obviously not locked in his bedroom anymore.

  Yup. Definitely avoiding me. I take the tumbler of liquor out with me after setting the tray on the desk. I’m not a teetotaler by any means, but the last thing this guy needs is to be drinking before noon. When I get back to the kitchen I dump the alcohol down the sink, perversely hoping that I’ve just tossed something extremely expensive.

  I spend the next couple of hours in my room. I call my mom and give her a glossy, half-truth-filled version of my first day. Next I call Bella, and although I fill her in on the fact that Paul is younger than expected and ridiculously sexy (best friend privilege; I can’t not tell her), I stop short of confiding that I’m both drawn to him and utterly terrified by him. I certainly don’t tell her about the kiss.

  Then I kill as much time as I can checking in on the various social media stops, spending an extra few minutes studying the newest pictures of Ethan and Stephanie, just to punish myself.

  Seeing the wide smile on my ex’s face when he looks at the tiny brunette feels a bit like a knife in the chest. He used to look at me that way. Didn’t he? Ugh. What if he didn’t? What if nobody does again?

  Once I’ve exhausted every social media network and every celeb gossip site I know, I’m about to close my laptop when a new email comes through.

  It’s from Harry Langdon.

  Ms. Middleton:

  Glad to hear you’re settling in nicely. I hope Paul wasn’t too unwelcoming. He can be a bit rough around newcomers given his condition. I know he’ll be difficult, but I’m confident that even just an hour or two of human contact each day is vital to his recovery. Be patient with him. He’s a good boy.

  I’ll be in touch,

  Harry

  P.S.: Watch his drinking.

  I read the message twice. Really? “A good boy”? Clearly Harry hasn’t spent much time with his “boy” in a while, because the guy I met is far from good, and well on his way out of boyhood.

  Also, what condition? Hostility? General asshole-ness? Being allowed to wallow in self-pity for too long?

  Plus there’s a detached quality about the email that’s bugging me. Sure, the man is paying ridiculous amounts of money to hide his son away in luxury, but can paid babysitters really make up for the lack of family? And where’s Paul’s mom? I make a mental note to ask Lindy.

  The only thing about the businesslike email that gives me any peace of mind is Mr. Langdon’s mention of “an hour or two” of human contact. I admit I’ve been feeling a little weird about getting free room and board plus a decent salary to watch over a guy I can’t even seem to locate. But hey, if they want to pay me to intrude on his morning walks and dump out his booze, bring it on.

  I set the laptop aside and reach for the book I brought with me. One of my personal goals for this little Maine adventure is to read more. I mean, I’ve always been really good at reading gossip magazines, and I read my textbooks carefully enough to get good grades. But lately I’ve had a little craving to get more substance into my life.

  I pulled a biography of Andrew Jackson off the shelf in my dad’s library when I was packing, mostly because it was big and had “Pulitzer Prize Winner” printed on the front. Impressive, right? So maybe I hadn’t known straightaway that Andrew Jackson was a former president, but that only reinforced my resolution to read it. The new and improved Olivia is going to know shit like that.

  I open my bedroom door, listening for the music coming from Paul’s room. Nothing. I hope this means he’s down in his study. Poor guy doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to have some company doing whatever it is he does in that room for unhealthy amounts of time.

  I put on a quick swipe of mascara and pink lip gloss. I try to tell myself that it’s out of habit (my mom is of the opinion that ladies should always be groomed), but I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m trying to make up for the fact that the last time Paul saw me, I had major boob sweat and a greasy ponytail and was short on oxygen.

  My dark jeans and cream sweater aren’t exactly sexy, but they’re a big improvement on my running gear. As is the fact that I’m showered.

  You’re an employee, my brain reminds me. So not the time to cultivate your inner tramp.

  At the library door, I start to knock, only to realize that’ll give him a chance to throw himself out the window or sneak out some secret passageway that I’m only half kidding about. Instead I go right in, and the scene in front of me is…well, it’s ridiculously appealing.

  The roaring fireplace in the corner, the sexy guy in the big wingback chair by the fireplace with a book and another of those amber-liquid filled tumblers. It’s all very après-ski chic.

  For the first time since arriving in this hellish place, I feel a true pang of regret for intruding on him. He doesn’t seem like a victim who needs a keeper so much as a guy trying to read a book in peace by the fire on a blustery afternoon.

  I’m thinking about backing away and leaving him to the quiet when he opens his fat mouth.

  “That liquor you tossed earlier came from a five-hundred-dollar bottle.”

  Ah. Back to normal. I use my foot to close the door behind me. “I’m sure that really made a dent in the family coffers. You know, right, that all of the artwork in your halls is original?”

  “Come on,” he says, still not looking up fr
om his book “You’re a rich girl. Surely you know how stereotypical comments like that can be.”

  “Yeah, you look really torn up about it,” I mutter, moving closer to him. “And how do you know I’m rich?”

  “Google. Your family’s a big deal.”

  I ignore this. We’ll both be better off not talking about me.

  “So what is it?” I ask, tentatively sitting in the chair across from his even though I’m uninvited and clearly unwelcome. I study him. Paul has just a bit more stubble than he did yesterday. Normally I prefer a clean-cut guy, but this slightly rough look really, really suits his golden-boy-meets-jaded-war-hero vibe. I wait for him to look at me, mentally bracing myself for the shock of it.

  As though he’s sensed my thoughts, his blue eyes flick to mine, and I’m not sure why I thought bracing for it would make a damned bit of difference. It still sends ripples of want from my eyelashes right down to my toes.

  “What is what?” he asks.

  It takes me a moment to realize that I asked him a question. “The precious liquor I threw out. What is it?”

  His eyes flicker in irritation and I think he’s going to tell me to get the hell out, but something seems to stop him, and he very slowly lifts the crystal glass from the table and hands it to me.

  I sniff. “Scotch.”

  He nods. “A thirty-year-old Highland Park. Not the best we have, but not something to be tossed down the drain, either.”

  “Very alpha.”

  He rolls his eyes, and I take a tiny sip, knowing from past experience that I don’t really like Scotch. Turns out I don’t like the $500 one either, and I hand it back to him with a little shrug.

  “Want anything?” he asks. “Wine?”

  “I’m good.”

  Actually, water would be great right about now. Between the hot look in his eyes and the heat of the fire, I’m a bit, um, parched.

  “What are you reading?” I ask.

  He groans. “Not this again. I know we’re stuck with each other, but do we have to do the get-to-know-each-other chat? Can’t we just sit in silence?”

  The way he says stuck with each other gives me pause. I know why I’m sticking this out, but why is he? From what I’ve heard from Lindy and what I inferred from his father, Paul has no qualms about driving people away.

  Is he treating me differently? Or just biding his time until he figures out how to add me to his list of banished caretakers?

  I really, really want it to be the first one.

  “Fine,” I say, sitting back in the chair and settling in. “I’ll give you twenty minutes of silence in exchange for a shared dinner.”

  “Hell no,” he says calmly, his attention already returned to his book as he turns a page.

  “Thirty minutes of silence.”

  “I don’t share meals with anyone.”

  “Come on,” I cajole. “I promise not to try to feed you your soup airplane-style like a child.”

  “No.”

  “Paul.”

  His eyes flick up again, and for the briefest of moments the look on his face is almost one of longing. I realize it’s the first time I’ve spoken his name out loud.

  I’m pretty sure I’m not just another caretaker. Thing is, I don’t know what I am.

  “I can keep a one-sided conversation going for a long time,” I press on, quickly trying to move us away from the charged moment. “Let’s see, I was born on August thirtieth, which means that my birthstone is peridot, which is a fancy word for ugly green. And speaking of color, this hair color? So not natural. I mean, I was one of those adorable blond toddlers, but it all went mouse brown right about the time I started third grade, and I’ve been adjusting it ever since. I got my first period when I was—”

  “Okay!” he interrupts. “I cave. You give me an hour and a half of silence now, and I’ll eat dinner with you later, but we can’t talk during that either.”

  “No deal. I’ll give you one hour of quiet time now, but we talk at dinner.”

  He takes a small sip of Scotch and studies me. “You’re annoying.”

  I start to argue that annoying has never been one of my personality traits. I’ve always been more in the polite, mellow, and shy category. I always say the right thing at parties, I respect other people’s boundaries, and I dodge controversial topics like they’re land mines. But there’s something about him that’s brought out this other version of myself. I kind of like it.

  I shrug, refusing to apologize. Besides, the old, sweet Olivia would get stomped on by this guy.

  “So do you know who Andrew Jackson is?” I ask, pulling my legs beneath me and curling into the soft black leather of the chair.

  “Yes, I know who Andrew Jackson is. Old Hickory.”

  Old what? “Whatever,” I say. “Have you heard of this book? It’s called American Lion, and—”

  “Olivia,” he says mildly, turning the page of his book, “that hour of silence is effective immediately.”

  I sigh. Guess I’ll actually have to read this book instead of talk about it. So disappointing.

  “Okay,” I say as I open to the foreword. “But you should know that I plan to eat very, very slowly at dinner.”

  I ignore his groan as I settle in to read about this Old Hickory guy. And maybe sneak a few glances at the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.

  Chapter Ten

  Paul

  It’s hot. So fucking hot, but I’m not even aware of it. None of us are, because it’s always hot, and not worth complaining about because there are bigger things to worry about, like the helicopter that went down last week or the Humvee that didn’t return to base last night.

  The best you can do is ignore the heat, play football with your friends when you can, and pray to any god, spirit, or deity you can think of that you’ll be one of the lucky ones.

  Then Williams breaks the code.

  We’re out on standard patrol, and he breaks the damn code.

  “I fucking hate it here.”

  I’m in the process of mentally thinking about what the hell I’m supposed to write to Ashley, my girlfriend back home, but my brain skids to a halt at Williams’s outburst. Garcia and Miller stop bastardizing whatever outdated Jay-Z song they were attempting to sing and stare at Williams with a mixture of dismay and disgust.

  Alex Skinner, my best friend since boot camp, just looks pissed. “Goddamn it, Williams.”

  Greg Williams merely shrugs. Of all of us, he’s the smallest, but he’s damned fast. And smart. At least I thought so until he broke the fucking code.

  “Don’t start that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You know the second we start acknowledging that we are in fact, living the shit life, that’s the second our luck runs out.”

  “I’m just saying. This fucking blows. The sand, the heat, the constant fear of being sent home in a box. You all know it.”

  Skinner leans forward to get in Williams’s face. “We all knew that getting into it. This isn’t some glorified World War I bullshit where we didn’t know what to expect.”

  Williams shoves at Skinner’s shoulder, and I place an arm between them before the two hotheads make a shitty situation shittier.

  “I’m allowed to say what I think,” Williams grumbles, shaking both of us off and staring down at his hands. “I’m allowed to say what we’re all thinking. There ain’t no fucking curse that’s going to come because I spoke the truth.”

  Less than ten minutes later, we find out he’s wrong.

  Williams gets sent home in a box.

  So do the rest of them.

  Suddenly time both speeds up and slows down, and a second later I’m on the ground holding on to Alex, and he’s trying to talk but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is blood.

  There’s too much blood. Mine. His. It’s all one bitter, metallic mess.

  I try to understand what Alex is telling me. I try to understand his dying wish, try to comprehend his last word, but there’s too much blood.

 
There’s always too much damned blood.

  It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in a pool of sweat.

  But it’s the first time since those early days in the hospital that someone’s been there when I wake up.

  I don’t remember the nurses well, but I’m pretty sure none of them looked like Olivia Middleton, kneeling on my bed, wearing only a tiny white T-shirt and pink boxer shorts. What is it with her and pink?

  And then I comprehend that she’s here. In my bedroom.

  I comprehend why she’s here.

  The dream. I was yelling, and she came to find out why.

  “Get the fuck out,” I say, pushing myself into a sitting position and rolling out of bed on the other side before she can touch me. “Get the fuck out!”

  “You were screaming,” she says calmly as she climbs off the bed and turns to face me, the king-size bed separating her from my sweaty, amped-up self.

  “Of course I’m yelling. It’s goddamned war.”

  It takes me a second to register my words, and I run my hands over my face, trying to wake up. Trying to see anything but Alex dying.

  “Get out,” I say again.

  “How often does this happen?”

  I ignore her and move toward the sideboard, where I pour myself a glass of whatever’s in the closest bottle.

  “Water would be better,” she says. “You’re soaked with sweat; the alcohol will just make it worse.”

  “Yeah? Water would be better? Water will fix it all?” I ask snidely. “You don’t know a fucking thing, Goldilocks.”

  “Nice,” she snaps. “Really original. And I don’t mind the occasional bit of profanity, but you’re starting to get repetitive.”

  I toss back the whiskey, relishing the burn. I pour another, wondering how many it will take this time. How many drinks to numb the pain.

  Cool, slim fingers wrap around my wrist. “Don’t.”