Broken

by Lauren Layne

  “Your leg will be better off from this and you know it,” she snaps.

  “I do,” I concede quietly. “Just like you’ll be better off from telling someone about it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug and swing my legs around so I can stand. Up until now, we’ve been at eye level, since I’ve been sitting and she’s been standing. I push into a standing position, being careful to keep my weight on my good leg. Even with the infinitesimal lean to my right, I still tower over her.

  “I’ll make it easier,” I say. “No need for the whole sob story. Just tell me this: were you the dumper or the dumpee?”

  It’s a rude question, but then, I’ve been a rude guy for a couple of years now.

  Her eyes flit away briefly, but when her gaze comes back it’s calm and unwavering. Good girl.

  “It was his decision to end it,” she says quietly.

  The way she says it tells me that’s just the tip of the iceberg. That there’s so much more to the story than her childhood sweetheart simply moving on. But more information would require another bargain on my part, and I’m not about to do jumping jacks or pose for glamour shots featuring my scars, so I don’t dig any deeper. Yet.

  “Okay,” I say simply. Then I jerk my head in the direction of the treadmills. “Let’s see how good a listener you are.”

  “What?” she asks, clearly confused by the change in topic.

  “Those breathing tips I gave you the other day,” I reply. “Let’s see them in action.”

  She tilts her head a little as though wondering at her easy escape from a shitty conversation, but then she shrugs and heads toward the treadmill.

  “So, I changed my mind. I want to talk about the elephant in the room,” she says, putting her hands on her hips.

  Good God. What is it about this girl in workout clothes that sets me on fire?

  “What elephant?” I ask, trying not to remember that her collarbone tastes as good as it looks.

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that last night you had your tongue down my throat? Your fingers in my panties?”

  Heat rushes over my body, and I focus all of my mental energy on the dull ache in my leg to keep from doing exactly that again.

  “We’re not talking about that,” I mutter.

  “You’re really quite bad at it, you know,” she says, punching the treadmill into a fast one. “It’s no wonder you’re single. I mean—”

  I open my mouth to tell her that she obviously enjoyed everything I did to her, and if she’s forgotten, I’m happy to give an encore. But then I see the smile that she tries to hide. She’s baiting me.

  I narrow my eyes before swatting her hand out of the way and adjusting the speed on her treadmill myself.

  Within seconds, I have her sprinting at a pace that makes it impossible for her to talk. Focusing on her running also keeps me from doing what I really want to do, which is yanking her off the treadmill and having my way with her until she can’t even think about complaining.

  But even as the thought crosses my mind, a more dangerous one replaces it. Next time my lips are on Olivia Middleton, I want her to be the initiator.

  I want her. But more than that, I want her to want me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Olivia

  “Did you know that Andrew Jackson was over six feet tall, but only like a hundred and forty pounds?” I ask, pulling my feet beneath me and turning more fully toward the fireplace.

  “Yes.”

  I give Paul a look. “How would you know that?”

  “Because I’ve read the book,” he says, never looking up from his own book, which, as far as I’ve been able to tell, is some huge tome on philosophy.

  “You have?”

  “No. I made that up.”

  “You did?”

  That gets him to look up, gray eyes bursting with exasperation. “Are you trying to drive me insane?”

  I give him a shit-eating grin that says, Sure am. “But seriously, you’ve read this book?”

  “Yeah, last year. It’s good. Something you’ll figure out once you commit to actually reading it instead of talking at me every two minutes.”

  He makes a good point, and in theory I do want to make it through this book. These hours in front of the fireplace in the late afternoon while both of us read are my favorite part of the day.

  The only trouble is, it’s not my favorite part of the day because of the reading. It’s because it’s only in these quiet, uninterrupted hours with Paul that he temporarily abandons the haunted look as he loses himself in his book. And that is so much better than anything I’m reading.

  Granted, me interrupting his reading to chat sort of counteracts that effect. I try to give him his peace, I really do. It’s just that I sort of underestimated the effect that all this solitude would have on me. I was in such a hurry to escape the world that I didn’t stop to think that escape often goes hand in hand with loneliness.

  I’m not totally alone. I have coffee with Lindy almost every morning, and I’ve run into Mick a handful of times. I’ve even tried to make friends with the local girls who come in to clean every Wednesday, and they’re chatty enough.

  But my only real companion is Paul. I’ve been here for two weeks now, and although he spends plenty of time avoiding me, I see him at least every morning for our run and gym time, as well as every afternoon for reading.

  It’s what I should be doing. I get paid to be a companion, after all. The scary part is that I think I’d be seeking him out even if nobody was paying me to. I think I might like him. As a person.

  I’m not so sure it’s the same for him, but every day it gets a little easier to coax him into conversation, so I like to think I’m making some progress, at least on the friend front.

  On the other front? Well, he hasn’t tried to touch me. Not once. Not since that night.

  I tell myself I’m glad.

  “Can I ask you something?” I ask him.

  He grunts.

  “Why does your father think you need a caretaker? I mean, you make it clear that you neither need nor want anyone.”

  I half hope that he’ll deny it, but he doesn’t.

  “I told you that first day why my father sends all of you up here,” he says irritably.

  “The suicide watch thing?” I say incredulously. “Look, I don’t mean to make light of a serious topic, but pissy as you are, you hardly look like you’ve given up on life. A social, normal life, perhaps. But not life itself.”

  His eyes lock on the flames of the fire and I study the tense line of his jaw. He always sits in the chair so that I see only his “good” side, and it really is an almost painfully handsome profile.

  Paul’s silent for so long that I think he’s going to ignore my question, as he does often when I push the envelope and get too personal. But then he answers, his voice low and gruff.

  “He doesn’t want me to be alone.”

  I keep my expression blank, but I’m surprised by the admission. He hardly ever mentions Harry Langdon, and when his father’s name does come up, it’s generally accompanied by a sneer. This is the first time he’s even hinted that his father might be acting in Paul’s interest.

  “I think that’s probably a pretty typical paternal instinct,” I say softly.

  “Which would be awesome if I were twelve,” he mutters.

  “Don’t get your boxers all in a snarl about this, but do you really have the right to be petulant when you’re living on his dime?”

  His already tense jawline goes even tighter for a second, but then he shrugs. “What’s your suggestion? My leg prevents me from doing anything involving physical work, and the repulsive face is a little too distracting for the corporate world, don’t you think?”

  “That’s crap. Sure, professional soccer is probably out, and you can take modeling off the list, but you could make a living if you wanted to.”

  “Sure. I could be a caretaker. That’s a great car
eer path.”

  “Knock it off,” I snap. “At least I’m doing something.”

  “All out of the goodness of your heart, right? You just care so much about other people, is that it?” He leans forward slightly, his eyes mean, and I hate that he seems to see right through me.

  “I care.”

  “About me?” He gives a sick semblance of a smile, and I’m wondering how the hell this friendly, casual conversation veered so far off track so quickly.

  “About people,” I grind out.

  “Of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, deceptively relaxed. “Olivia Middleton, the reformed do-gooder.”

  How does he know I’m reformed? “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Maybe I want to,” he says.

  “Well, when I become so unhinged and mentally unstable and reclusive that my father pays you to spend time with me, then we can talk about me!”

  His head snaps back a little, and I clamp my mouth shut. My words can’t hurt him. I’m sure of it. The guy doesn’t give a shit about me, and he’s only tolerating me for reasons I have yet to figure out.

  So what is it that I saw flash across his face just now? Because it looked an awful lot like pain.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I don’t lose my temper often, and the hot feeling in my cheeks is as unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable.

  “Don’t be,” he says, opening his book again. “You make a good point. My father pays you to spend time with me, and as long as I want to live under Daddy’s roof, I have to tolerate that. Doesn’t mean I have to entertain you, though, so if you don’t mind…”

  It’s my turn to lean forward, and I kick him none too gently, although I’m careful to kick his good leg. “I’ll leave you to your sulky reading, but don’t think for one second that I don’t know that I’m the first caretaker to stick around. For some reason, you’re letting me stay. You’re even being mostly pleasant, although something tells me that’s fake as hell. So anytime you want to come clean, I’d love even just a tiny clue as to what the hell’s going on here. What’s with the fake-friendly routine? Why me, and none of the others?”

  Paul couldn’t appear more bored if he let out a huge yawn, but to my surprise, he does look up from his book when I finish my rampage.

  “You want to know why you’re here when all of the others ran off?”

  “More specifically, I want to know why you’ve decided to be civil to me. Something tells me that ill-tempered monster I met the first day is the real you.”

  “That much is true,” he says, his voice all easy agreeability. “As for why I’m up for keeping you around?” His eyes move over my body, and not in a flattering way…in an insulting, degrading way.

  My body responds anyway.

  “The only reason you’re still hanging around is because you’re hot,” he says. “Because as far as being a caretaker goes, you’re worthless. You don’t know shit about physical therapy, you’re more annoying than you are comforting, and when Mick and Lindy take off for their weekend outing in a couple of days, I have a pretty good idea that I’ll also find out you’re a miserable cook. But don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll always find work from the male clients. The old ones will call you eye candy and the young ones will call you a hot piece of ass.”

  On some level I know I’m supposed to be offended, but it’s almost painfully apparent that offense is exactly his intention. Which makes it really easy to disregard his meanness as pathetic self-defense.

  I settle back in my chair and open my own book. “Nah, that’s not why you keep me around,” I muse, as though talking to myself. “But for the record, I am a really good cook. You’ll see.”

  Paul’s face goes incredulous over my refusal to get upset, but almost immediately he recovers his usual indifferent expression. “You’re one messed-up piece of work.”

  “Yeah, but you’re starting to worry that you might like me,” I say confidently. “Considering I also give you a boner, shit’s gonna get reaaaaal complicated here in the next few months.”

  Paul’s soft laugh is the best sound I’ve heard in weeks.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paul

  Today’s one of those days. The bad kind.

  Last night the nightmares were unending, the sleep nonexistent, and the pain in my leg unbearable.

  I’m avoiding Olivia like the plague. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want her around. But really I think I’m avoiding her because she has this annoying habit of drawing me out of my bad mood. That scares the crap out of me.

  It’s a little before dawn, and normally we’d be meeting for our daily walk/run. Today, though, I’m letting her go alone. Today is one of those days when I don’t feel worthy to be alive, much less enjoying life with a beautiful girl. Not when my friends are dead. Not when Amanda Skinner spends half her nights sleeping upright in a chair in a hospital room while her daughter’s lying in the bed, hooked up to tubes.

  I watch from the office window as Olivia looks around for me. I wait for her to start off on her run, but she doesn’t. She’s just standing there, waiting for me, and damned if I don’t ache a little to go out there with her. I want to let her cajole me into walking or, as she’s been doing more recently, challenge me to take a couple of steps without the cane.

  Instead I turn away, flipping blindly through the pages of my book until I look up and see that she’s gone.

  I intentionally go to the gym before she gets back. Most days we go together. We’ve fallen into a pattern. I let her coax me into stupid leg exercises in exchange for another piece of information about herself. Generally I enjoy it, although I’m starting to get pretty sick of all her responses being of the PR variety. So far she’s told me absolutely nothing about the real Olivia Middleton.

  Today, however, I don’t want to be cajoled out of my bad mood. Lately there have been too many times when I forget who I am. I’ve been slipping into the old Paul, the one who could flirt and laugh with girls. I need a day to remind myself of the new Paul, the one who should have died with the rest of them in the fucking sandbox.

  After the gym, avoiding Olivia for the rest of the day is easy enough, but when four o’clock rolls around, I hesitate. Of all the habits we’ve established, the routine of reading by the fire is the one I enjoy the most. And it’s for that reason that I force myself to lock the door, even turning up the music so I won’t have to listen to her knock or the rattling of the doorknob.

  Eventually an hour passes, and then another, and I manage to lose myself in my book.

  But when my stomach rumbles, I realize my mistake: I’m hungry.

  I naively thought Olivia would leave a tray outside my bedroom door when I didn’t respond to her knock at lunch. I was wrong. And the absence of so much as a sandwich made Olivia’s message clear: if I want to sulk alone, I’ll do so without food.

  That was fine at breakfast. And lunch. But now? Now I’m starving, and the smell of something meaty and spicy coming from the kitchen is too much for my stomach to ignore.

  As expected, Olivia’s in the kitchen, only she’s not wearing a cute little apron or looking all frazzled from throwing together whatever’s bubbling on the stove. Instead, she’s wearing tight black pants, high-heeled boots, and a flowing, expensive-looking shirt that is clearly not meant for lounging around the house.

  This is not domestic Olivia. It’s going-out Olivia.

  “Going somewhere?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from her ass.

  She spins around, opening her mouth as though to ask where the hell I’ve been all day, but she catches herself and fixes a vacant smile on her face.

  “Hey. I hope you like chili,” she says. “It’s a little spicy, but enough cheddar cheese on top should tone it down.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say, noting that she’s spent more time on her makeup. She’s done that thing that girls do to make their eyes darker and more mysterious, and her mouth is pink and glossy.

  “Hot date?” I ask, st
ill fishing.

  “Yeah,” she says with a snort. “I’ve met so many great guys since I’ve been holed up here in your house. The really hospitable and friendly type.”

  I move toward her under the guise of inspecting the pot on the stove, but she sidles away before I can get close. Smart girl.

  She grabs her purse.

  “Where are you headed?” I hate myself for asking. For caring.

  Olivia lifts a shoulder and fiddles with the strap of her purse. “Lindy says there’s a bar not too far from here that I might like. Says you used to know the girl who’s bartender there.”

  “Kali Shepherd,” I say automatically. “What the hell are you going out for?”

  “I get two nights and one day a week off,” she snaps. “I’m finally putting them to use.”

  “Why haven’t you taken them before now?”

  “Because before now I’ve always had Lindy or Mick to talk to when you’re having one of your childish episodes.”

  “They’re not episodes. And I’m allowed to have a break from people.”

  “Well, then you’ll understand why I need to get out. I need a break. From you.” She gives a condescending smile and moves as though to pat my cheek. My fingers wrap around her wrist and I squeeze. Hard.

  “Don’t. Touch. Me,” I say, my teeth clenched. Don’t ever touch me.

  I release her hand with so much force that she almost topples backward, thrown off balance in her high heels.

  I swear roughly and reach out a hand to steady her, but she steps back to avoid my touch. I drop my hand. I can’t blame her for recoiling, but I hate it all the same. I’m a monster.

  “Olivia…”

  “Don’t apologize,” she says quietly. “I shouldn’t have tried. I’m sorry.”

  She reaches down to pick up the purse that she dropped, and scoops her keys off the counter. “Mick said I could borrow one of the cars. I won’t be late, but I have my cell if you need anything.” She heads toward the door.