Perfectly Broken

by Prescott Lane

  “Subsequently removed?” Quinn replied, looking at Bret with great confusion, wondering when he’d become the curator at the New Orleans Museum of Art. “This is all so very troubling. You are telling me things I don’t want to hear.” Quinn took the poster from him and rolled it back up, twisting the rubber band around it, trying to protect what now was left of her innocence. “Why do you even have this?” She put it back in the tube.

  Bret ignored her. “And that’s not all,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

  “What?” Quinn shook her head. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “You need to know,” Bret said, looking at Reed.

  “They have to know.” Reed said, poking Peyton in the side.

  “That movie,” Bret said, trying to find the right words, “that movie is like one big porno.”

  “What?” Quinn cried. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Peyton looked at him, confused. “It’s about a mermaid and her father and Ursula and....”

  “It’s a porno,” Bret said calmly.

  Peyton looked at Reed for support, but he had none to give. “It is,” he agreed. “Bret told me about it years ago.”

  Quinn glared at Bret. “You told him? Where do you find out these things?”

  Bret ignored her again. “How does that sea song go?”

  “Which one?” Quinn asked. “‘Under the Sea’?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Bret said. “Sing it, girls.”

  Quinn and Peyton looked at each other and began to hum the melody. Then they started to softly sing the chorus — before Peyton abruptly stopped. “No way!” Peyton cried.

  “What?” Quinn wondered, continuing to sing the next line. Darling it’s better / Down where it’s wetter / Take it from me.

  Bret flashed a mischievous smile. “I’d happen to agree.”

  “Me, too,” Reed said, pulling Peyton to him, burying his nose in her hair.

  “You two idiots have totally ruined my childhood now,” Quinn said, reaching for her red Solo cup and downing it. Then she turned to Bret. “As payback, I’m making you go to a dance instructor.”

  “What?” he cried.

  “The video game is not helping,” Quinn said. “You haven’t been practicing. You need to go to a professional.”

  “Please, no!” he begged.

  Reed and Peyton took a seat on the sofa, her legs on his lap, ready to take in the festivities.

  “Oh, yes!” Quinn said, pleased with herself. “I will not have you moving that way at our wedding. I simply will not.” Bret slumped in a chair. “And we are also going to decide on the invitation wording and ....”

  Bret held his head in his hands. “Please no more wedding talk. I can’t hear one more thing about flowers, colors, seating charts.”

  Peyton whispered something to Reed, knowing that wasn’t what Quinn wanted to hear.

  “What do you mean, Bret?” Quinn asked, stiffening her spine. “Don’t you want our wedding to be nice?”

  “Yeah,” Bret said nervously, “but we talked an hour this morning about plans, even watched that online video about how to fold the napkins.” He looked over at Reed. “Did you know there are like a dozen ways to fold a damn napkin?”

  Reed shook his head, not wanting any part of this discussion, but wishing he had some popcorn.

  Quinn turned to Peyton. “Napkins are important, right?”

  “They are, but if you choose a Trifold over an Opera Fan,” Peyton said cautiously, “it’s not going to make or break your wedding.”

  Quinn paused for a minute. “I suppose you’re right,” she said and sat down by Peyton.

  Reed and Bret exchanged a confused look, neither of them having a clue why Peyton could make such comments, but not Bret.

  “Which would you pick?” she asked Peyton.

  “I like the French Pleat,” Peyton said. “It’s timeless and classic.”

  A slow smile came over Quinn’s face, her nerves calming down, then she turned to Bret for his thoughts. Peyton flashed Bret a warning look — that he better not screw up her efforts to restore order to the universe.

  Bret understood and forced a smile to Quinn. “Could you show me the one Peyton picked?” Delighted, Quinn hopped up and skipped into the kitchen.

  Reed scratched his head, confused. “What the hell is going on here? The mood swings, and all this talk of napkins?” He popped open a beer and took a swig.

  “She’s monster-ating,” Bret whispered.

  Reed nearly spewed beer all over the floor. “That’s great,” Reed said, wiping his mouth and nudging Peyton to laugh, too. But she didn’t — her hurricane party now turning into middle school, if not daycare. “Don’t you get it? Monster-ating instead of menstruating.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Peyton said, getting up from his lap. Reed quickly came to order, though Bret continued to laugh. “Idiots.” She lightly slapped Reed on top of his head.

  Quinn returned to the den with a perfectly folded napkin. As she plopped down on Bret’s lap, proudly displaying it for him, Reed stifled a laugh, and Peyton smacked him on the head again.

  Bret looked up at Peyton, who offered an encouraging nod. “It’s perfect,” he said, smiling at Quinn.

  Quinn promptly exhaled, relieved to have that decision finally made, then took another drink. “Peyton, remember how we used to play wedding?”

  “When we were six,” Peyton replied, giggling.

  “Remember we would always pretend to marry brothers or best friends?”

  “How much have you had to drink, Quinn?”

  “Just a couple,” she slurred, tossing an arm around Peyton and looking at their guys. “And now it’s happening.” She reached again for her red Solo cup, and Peyton took it from her, handing it to Bret. “Isn’t it so great? Pretty soon, I’ll be married. You’ll be married.” Peyton tried hard not to look at Reed as Quinn lumbered on. “Our husbands will be best friends. And we’ll always be best friends.”

  “Of course,” Peyton said, patting her on the back and trying to get her out of the den. “We will all be best friends.”

  “And we’ll have babies at the same time,” Quinn said. Peyton’s eyes flew to Reed, all color drained from his face. “And our babies will be best friends. Won’t that be fun? We should get pregnant at the same time, too. That way we can share clothes and have showers together, and if you have a boy and I have a girl or the opposite way, they can grow up and get married, and then we will finally be related.”

  Peyton hugged her. “You’re already my sister.”

  “That’s so sweet.” Quinn picked up Bret’s beer and waved it around. “But I’m still hoping to be pregnant by the time we reach our first anniversary.” Quinn looked at Reed. “How’s that schedule work for you guys?”

  Reed gripped his neck, unsure how to answer with Peyton’s eyes on him. “That might be a little quick.”

  Quinn plopped down on the sofa beside Reed. “I used to hate you — a lot,” she said, patting the top of his head like he was a black lab. “But now I like you – at least a little bit.”

  Reed smiled uncomfortably, Quinn’s hand still patting his head, and looked at Bret and Peyton for help. “I kind of like you now, too,” he said and patted the top of her head. “At least a little bit.”

  “Great!” Quinn rose from the sofa and stumbled towards the kitchen in search of another drink. “So hurry up, propose, and knock up my friend!”

  * * *

  The lights flickered as the wind picked up, and rain started lashing the house. Before it got too nasty outside, Bret and Reed decided to make one last check around the house, to make sure everything was secure and all the shutters were properly fastened.

  The girls moved into the kitchen. Quinn hopped up and down, rambling on about wedding plans and fashion disasters. “You know what we should do?”

  “You should sit and drink some water,” Peyton said.

  “That’s no fun.” Quinn disappeared into the den.
>
  Peyton pulled out some food from the refrigerator, hoping her friend would eat something and sober up a little, afraid what else she might say. Bret and Reed came into the kitchen from outside, shaking their clothes to flick off some water.

  “It’s getting ugly outside,” Reed said.

  Bret swiped a plate from Peyton. “Where’s Quinn?”

  “Who knows?” Peyton shrugged. “She’s so silly when she drinks.”

  “And talkative, too,” Reed said, giving Peyton a little pinch on her booty.

  “She’s like one of those dolls that you pull the string on,” Bret said.

  Quinn ran back to the kitchen, holding an old photo album. “Look what I found!” Peyton quickly reached for it, wanting to throw it out into the storm, but Reed intercepted it. Quinn giggled then opened the album for Reed. “There’s Peyton on Spring Break our Freshman year.” Reed looked down at the photo, Peyton sunbathing in a bikini with the ties undone. “She totally hooked up with some cop that trip.”

  Peyton reached for the album, and Reed smacked her hand. “A cop?”

  “I had to,” Peyton said, giggling. “Quinn got in a fight with this girl at a bar, and ....”

  “You got in a fight?” Bret asked, stunned.

  “Not really,” Quinn said innocently.

  Peyton nudged her. “That’s why you were in handcuffs.”

  “Peyton totally prostituted herself to save me,” Quinn said, throwing her arms around Peyton. “I love my little whore so much.”

  “Prostitute? Whore?” Peyton laughed. “I just flirted with the cop, so he’d let Quinn go.”

  “It totally worked, too,” Quinn said. “Have you seen her cleavage? Men go to war over boobs like that.”

  “You are one to talk, Quinn.” Peyton flipped through the album, landing on just the right picture. “I present to you Miss Wet T-Shirt Daytona Beach.”

  “Jesus!” Bret covered the photo with his hand, trying to protect whatever virtue Quinn still had left.

  “You should’ve seen her up there,” Peyton said. “She can really work a hose.”

  Reed looked at Bret. “And I thought we were bad.”

  “This is nothing,” Quinn said. “When Peyton and I went to Europe that summer ....”

  Peyton put her hand over Quinn’s mouth and finished the sentence for her. “We studied every night and were good little Catholic schoolgirls.”

  “Yes, we were,” Quinn said, nodding. “I even went to confession after.”

  Reed raised an eyebrow to Peyton. “Anything you need to confess?”

  “She was actually pretty good that trip,” Quinn said, “except for the nude beach and that Italian guy who totally wanted to marry her.” Peyton rolled her eyes. “No wait! That’s wrong. He was married.”

  Peyton lowered her head onto Reed’s shoulder. “And he was your fling, Quinn, not mine.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot! He was mine!” Quinn said, laughing, grabbing hold of the kitchen counter to keep her balance. “They say Italians are supposed to be good lovers, but he just sucked.”

  “You had sex with a married man?” Bret cried.

  “Of course not — just fingers,” Quinn said, believing that was reassuring. “You know, two in the baby hole, and one in the maybe hole.” Bret lowered his head, mortified. “And I didn’t know he was married. Maybe he told me, but I don’t speak Italian. It’s not my fault.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Besides, Peyton had the hots for one of our teachers over there. She dry humped him on his desk. She got an ‘A’ in the class.”

  “Quinn?” Peyton cried. “I did not!”

  Bret looked at Reed. “They are the female equivalent of us.”

  Reed captured Peyton in his arms. “You have some serious explaining to do,” he teased then flipped her over his shoulder, carrying her upstairs.

  “Go make yourselves a hurricane baby!” Quinn hollered.

  * * *

  Reed gently moved a strand of hair off her cheek, and her baby blue eyes fluttered open, waking up to a series of butterfly kisses on her neck followed by sleepy morning sex — the slow, sweet kind — both of them taking their time, in no hurry at all. There was no screaming, no bed creaking, and no way Bret and Quinn heard them, but somehow it was even more intense than when Peyton was screaming at the top of her lungs.

  “Good morning,” Peyton whispered.

  “We already said ‘good morning.’”

  “We can say it more than once.”

  Reed chuckled. “I love you.”

  Peyton ran her fingers through his messy hair and stroked the stubble on his face. “What do you love about me?” His eyes lit up, squeezing her ass in one hand and her breast in his other. “Is that all?” she giggled.

  “A few other things, too.” He pounced on top of her. “I don’t know what I love more — making love to you slow and sweet or hard and fast. I’ve been trying to decide.”

  Peyton tilted her head and bit her bottom lip. “That is a hard one,” she said then reached for him, sliding him back inside.

  Reed groaned, slowly moving himself in and out. “Slow, definitely slow,” he said. Peyton rolled on top of him and thrust hard, tossing her head back. “No, hard is my favorite.” Peyton leaned down on top of him, moving her hips slowly and kissing his neck. “Mmm, sweet.” Peyton kissed his lips and caressed his tongue with hers, letting him taste her. “Yes, sweet. I’ve decided.” She sat up, straddling him, and began to thrust her hips hard and fast, her breasts bouncing. He gripped her hips to encourage her. “Fuck. Without a doubt, fast. Faster.” But Peyton slowed down, pushing him deep inside until she clenched all of him. Barely moving, she tightened all around, feeling him grow harder inside her.

  She kept him buried deep and kissed his neck. “Did you decide? Slow or fast?”

  Reed flipped her over, unable to take it anymore. “Slow or fast?” he asked her.

  “You can have me any way you want.”

  * * *

  The hurricane came and went after a few days, bringing nothing but a few inches of rain, some fallen tree limbs, and a huge pounding headache for Quinn. Reed called his mother to check on her and to let her know that he and Peyton were fine. With the promise of a home-cooked meal, Marion guilted Reed into bringing Peyton over to her house for lunch, assuring him his father wouldn’t be home. Reed assured Peyton, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  REED CLUTCHED PEYTON’S hand as they walked up to his old house, with its red brick frame and towering white columns, two dormers peering out from the high roof. The Langston house fit well within the Garden District, which is to say it cost well over a million dollars, and carried the same New Orleans charm as neighboring homes, each with their own capacious, showy garden and welcoming front porch.

  “When’s the last time you were here?” Peyton asked.

  “I can’t remember. The holidays, I guess.” Reed opened the front door. “Mom?”

  “In the kitchen, baby!” He led Peyton through a sweeping foyer then cut through a formal dining room and butler’s pantry leading to the kitchen.

  Marion wiped her hands on her apron and greeted her son with a warm smile and tight hug. She stepped back to look at him, eyeing his messy hair, still not cut to an appropriate length. Then she turned her attention to Peyton and smiled even bigger. “I’m so happy to see you again, dear.” She squeezed Peyton so hard she almost knocked her over.

  “Let her breathe, Mom.”

  Marion waved her hand dismissively. “Peyton, I was thinking we needed to have another lunch or maybe a shopping afternoon or go to a spa.”

  “That sounds great,” Peyton said, catching her breath. “It smells so good in here.”

  “You are such a dear to say that. Reed, honey, why don’t you show Peyton around the house while I finish up?” Her son fidgeted slightly. “And don’t worry about your father. He’s out playing golf.”

  Reed took Peyton back through the dining room. “You don’t have to do any of those things wit
h her. She does actually have her own circle of friends.”

  “It’s fine,” Peyton said, finding a photograph of Reed receiving his First Communion. “I want to.”

  Reed pulled Peyton along. “Maybe it will keep her off my back. If I have to hear one more story about how her friends already have a dozen grandchildren or about how some distant cousin I’ve never met is planning an exotic wedding, I may kill myself.”

  “You mother means well. Those are nice things. And it’s nice to have a family.” She turned to some frames hanging on the walls, newspaper clippings of Reed’s achievements in school and in sports, and photos of a few buildings he’d designed, then drifted towards his tiny baby shoes, bronzed on the fireplace mantle. She stroked them lightly with her finger. “It’s so great she kept all this.”

  “I think she framed my umbilical cord, too.”

  Reed took Peyton’s hand towards a spiral staircase, hoping to scoot past a collection of childhood photos in the stairwell. But she wouldn’t let him. She dropped his hand and gazed at a photo of a toddler, no more than three years old, sucking on a popsicle in the bathtub, his entire face covered in purple dye, the bath water matching his cheeks.

  “I keep asking her to take these down,” he said, as Peyton pointed to another and raised her eyebrows. “That’s my naked butt.”

  “I don’t remember you having dimples there.”

  Reed dragged her away and up the stairs to his old bedroom. “You’re the first girl that’s ever been in here.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m serious. Mom was pretty strict. No girls upstairs.”

  “Good for her. I like your mom even more.”

  “Her biggest fear was I’d knock up some girl.”

  “I wonder why.”

  He plopped down on his bed, watching her roam around a typical teenage boy’s room, with Saints posters on the walls, an old pair of boxing gloves hanging from the ceiling, and a smattering of trophies on the dresser. The room was the same as when he left for college. His mother hadn’t touched a thing, except to remove a photo of a bikini-clad model leaning suggestively against a race car.

  Peyton opened the closet door and came out with his letterman jacket. “Maybe tonight I can put on my old cheerleader outfit and you can wear this?”