Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  It takes him less than three minutes.

  “The Flats,” he tells us. No idea where or what that is so maybe I’m off the hook…

  “I know the place,” he mumbles. Of course he does. “Think her friend with the curly hair will be there?”

  “Mutt, it’s homecoming,” Shae explains. “She’ll have a date.”

  His mouth curves into a cocky smirk. “Even better.”

  “She’s a nice girl, Mutt.”

  “You’re trying to discourage me but doing the opposite.”

  “The dude’s from their school aren’t gonna be cool with you poaching. Especially at homecoming.”

  “But that’s what I do best. Did you guys notice her tits honest to fucken goodness bounce when she walks?”

  Both Shae and I nod, and then we all take three seconds of appreciative silence.

  “Houston we’ve got a problem.” Mutt brings us back, hands on hips, looking me up and down and squishing his lips. “We’re gonna need to fairy godmother our boy here, see if we can’t pretty him up.”

  ‘’Hmmmm,” Shae rubs at his face, seeming more tired than considering. “He’s a wee bit raggedy ass.”

  Firing up another hit from the bowl, Mutt clutches the smoke down deep and then starts patting his pockets and turning in a circle. I’ve seen this same show a million times. He’s searching for his keys. He’d lose his balls if they weren’t attached.

  “You aren’t getting behind a wheel,” Shae bitches, jabbing a drumstick at him.

  “So drive us, Dad,” Mutt drawls. “C’mon Fifty-Shae-of-Gray. You’ve been letting Cheryl tug your pud all night. I’m embarrassed by proximity. Come with, and we’ll get you hooked up.”

  “I’ve got a kid to pick up.”

  “My mom’ll hold onto the Trickster for the night. She loves him.”

  “I’m not asking your mom to …”

  “Already texted her,” says Mutt, smiling back at a scowl that sends most people for fresh underwear. “She’s good with it. Jesus, I’m sweating like a baboon. Wait. Do baboons sweat?”

  “Damnit, Mutt.” Shae’s on his feet and bristling.

  I do my best to ignore them. I pull Pauline back into my lap, just to have something to do with my fingers, but they’re out of control and the notes turn sour.

  What is the opposite of water? That’s what Tia is to me. No matter how much I drink, I just get more and more thirsty. And now, after four days, I’m so parched, so desperate, I’m actually letting myself consider the party. For her, I want to go. Mistake, mistake, mistake. I am not homecoming material. I don’t do well in crowds. Might as well douse myself in gasoline and play with matches.

  My phone pings and my stupid, pathetic heart flips and flops and has me swiping at the screen in a big rush. I find a pic of big, hairy balls. The useless fuck standing right in front of me busts up and says, “Thought you could use a pair.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Tia:

  I slap at my shoulder, curl my fingers and scratch at my skin. The greedy sucker nailed me right through the fabric of my dress. I step closer to the fire, taking smoke inhalation over providing an all-you-can-eat mosquito buffet. Why oh why did I let Frannie con me into the after party at the Flats?

  The Flats is exactly what it sounds like, a big flat spot surrounded by nothing more than woods and farmland. There’s nobody around to complain over the noise of underage drinking, making this the go-to party spot whenever weather permits. It’s borderline too chilly, but there’s a group of guys holding red solo cups near the keg, music blasting from a bluetooth speaker and girls in dangerously short party dresses dancing in a patch of trampled grass.

  A year ago, I couldn’t wait to get here. Now I can’t remember why it sounded so exciting, and it makes me sad that I outgrew this before I ever got the chance to enjoy it.

  The girl I hold to blame for my heels sinking into the dirt now bounces up to me, rosy cheeked, breathless and cute as a button in an emerald green dress with a twirly skirt. “Come dance with us!” She shows off her moves, a little Saturday Night Fever with too much Napoleon Dynamite, and she’s so lame I have no choice but to love her.

  “I think I’m going to go home,” I admit. The only thing that’s kept me here this long is the teeny little problem of having no ride. I arrived here as a member of the royal court in a limo but will be leaving as a peasant in my brother’s Twat, if I can even get a hold of him.

  “What? No!” Frannie grabs my hand and tugs. “You’ve just forgotten how to have fun. But it’s like riding a bike. You just need to get back in the saddle and grab the wheel.”

  “Might want to slow down on the wine coolers.” I squeeze her cold fingers and spot a large putty-colored van lurching to a stop in the clearing. I shouldn’t let excitement get the best of me, because there is no way. No way. No way. But my breathing speeds up and I’m pinning my hopes on the slim chance hidden inside that ugly vehicle.

  Decades pass before the doors of the van finally open, the interior light switching on and off so quickly I can’t separate the dark shapes piling out and congregating near the front bumper. Then a lighter sparks and reveals an unmistakably pretty face. Mutt. My eyes flick past him, skim over a hulking form that can only belong to Shae and find the boy who’s folded up tighter than a secret note I’m dying to read.

  Clasping her hands against her chest, Frannie glances heavenward and murmurs, “Thank you for answering my prayers.”

  I agree. Feet cemented to the ground, heart more agitated than a trapped butterfly, I watch as Mutt saunters into the center of the dance circle, as Shae wanders toward the keg and Taz looks around until he finds me. When he hones in, I swear I feel a physical tug and actually catch myself leaning toward him.

  My best gal makes a little humming sound of determination and adjusts her boobs. They are her not-so-secret weapon and although she’s vowed to use them only for good, there are extenuating circumstances, such as the appearance of Choosy Beggars’s sizzling hot bassist. “Do you think Marty will mind if I go throw myself at another guy?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Poor Marty.” She abandons me, and I wish her luck. Mutt is currently getting more asses thrown at him than the last seat in a game of musical chairs.

  I blink once, extra slow, take a deep breath and open my eyes to Taz standing right in front of me, a little too close. Tipping my head back, all I see is him, and this is a very different boy from the one I’m used to. I remind myself of the last time we were together, when he promised to be mine, and everything I’ve been wishing for is right at my fingertips.

  “I didn’t text,” he admits what I’m already well aware of, then stares at the ground, tension obvious in the squeeze of his shoulders and clench of his fists at his sides. “I should have but …” His fingers flutter briefly. “My dad might be getting released, might be coming for me, and I’ve got all this shit with the school counsellor and …” It’s his turn to take a deep breath. “I keep thinking you’re going to change your mind about me.”

  “I haven’t,” I tell him. “And I won’t.”

  He nods but I don’t think he’s convinced. Shifting around a little, he hooks two fingers in his collar and pulls at it. “Mutt made me dress up to come here.”

  He is spiffy in a white button down with a black tie, dark jeans, his hair loose and combed back from the gentle curves of his face. He cleans up so nicely, I’m reduced to dirty thoughts.

  Clearing his throat, he adds, “Shae said I should tell you how pretty you look.”

  I blush, bite back a smile and sell out neglected girlfriends everywhere for the bargain basement price of a roundabout compliment. Finally, someone besides the bugs has noticed that I spent an hour curling my hair and adding little sparkle pins to it.

  “But …” he says.

  But?

  Conversations with Taz are an exercise in patience, a fill in the blank ordeal, but, but, but I should have bought a new dress. I knew it was a mistake to
pull last year’s little black number out of the closet fifteen minutes before the limo showed up. Who knew I’d grown an inch taller and inflated my boobs? I’ve spent all night tugging my neckline up, hemline down and cursing the size of my butt.

  “Looking at you ...” His eyes catalogue my every detail, his lips ever so slightly curving, and there is no mistaking the appreciation. He practically cooks me with those blue flames. No need for a knife. I’m so tender, I’m already falling apart when he adds the finishing touch. “Pretty isn’t even close.”

  Oh, that was good.

  His long fingers anchor me by the hips and those ten little spots of contact send tingles rushing through my veins. “Mutt also told me to dance with you.”

  “I love your friends,” I answer, my voice turned low and husky. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  His lips part, his whole face softening, and I feel beautiful and adored in the way he looks at me, from how he maneuvers me flush against him, my nose perfectly lined up with that hollow right between his collar bones. As we sway side to side, I smell unfamiliar fabric softener, notice his sleeves are rolled at the cuffs, his pant legs too long, and all these details tell me I’m worthwhile. Borrowing clothes and showing up at the one place he made it plain he could never be is proof of a win.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, snuggling closer, the tables turned so that I’m the one without enough words to do him justice.

  My hands slide up and squeeze the hard knots of his biceps, skim the squared edges of his shoulders and find each other at the nape of his neck. The shape of this particular boy is a lovely thing. He’s so dark and handsome, so tall and solid. There is no give to his body, no softness anywhere, and yet he’s fluid as silk.

  We turn in a slow circle, a lazy dance and I take these moments to absorb the feel of him after days apart, letting his heat soak into my fibers, saturate my senses and soothe the yearning that’s grown more severe by the minute.

  I missed him. I missed him more than is rational for how long I’ve had him. And now that he’s here, this stubborn and uncertain boyfriend of mine who is finally claiming what he wants and taking a chance, it feels so perfectly right.

  Dipping his knees, he presses his lips to my neck, just below my jaw and my head drops back like a flower too heavy for its stem. Taking advantage, he nips at my skin, a series of the lightest little stings that he then licks and soothes and sensory overload may kill me. I moan with pleasure and he continues a dedicated seeding of kisses along a path to reach my ear. With the tip of his tongue, he then traces the shell, before sucking the lobe into his mouth and finally tugging with his teeth. It’s probably a good thing he’s holding me up because my knees wobble.

  “I was desperate to see you,” he whispers with a tickle of his breath. “I’m all in. I’m trying. For you. And I know you want …” He doesn’t finish the thought. His hands slide into my hair, cradle the back of my head and he rests his forehead against mine.

  “I know you want ...” he tries again.

  “Everything,” I fill in for him. “Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

  For a moment, while he holds silent, I’m aware of a sudden tension vibrating in him like he’s an engine revving at the starting line, and I wonder where we’re headed. I let him take his time, sifting through his hair, and we are so close I can count his spiky black lashes.

  “I would do anything for you.” His serious voice digs deep and oh my god, this boy. This tough, fragile, sweet boy who owns my heart. “Everything I’ve done and lived through led me to you, and because of that, I wouldn’t change it. Do you understand?” Pulling back just a bit, his eyes grab onto mine. “No matter what I tell you, I wouldn’t change what came before. And I will do everything I can to stick around and be the person you need and deserve me to be. I promise you.”

  Deep breath, deep breath. I widen my eyes and suck a huge, wet gulp of air into my lungs. It’s not just what he said, but that he said it at all. My Taz, who rations words as if they’re gold coins just offered me a full treasure chest.

  I untangle my hands and rest them against his cheeks, brushing my thumbs over his scars, finding the ridge of the deepest that runs from the tip of his left eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth. For a handful of seconds, I simply stare into his eyes, into the depths of the palest, purest blue, where hope and defeat both live, and I’m confident that every secret he shares, however painful, strengthens the first and steals power from the second.

  We’ve come so far. We’re so very close. I swallow and brace myself, because his confessions are no easier for me than for him. “Tell me.”

  He stills for a second and then carefully turns me so my back is pressed to his front, his feet braced outside of mine. Taking hold of my wrists, he wraps our arms over my belly so I am cocooned by his warmth, supported by his strength. His chin rests on the top of my head and he rocks us slightly side to side as he works up to a story I’m scared to hear.

  “When my dad robbed that liquor store,” he begins. “All he wanted was a bottle of Macallan scotch. That’s what he was after, and my job was to hold the gun on the clerk, a gun with no bullets in it, while my dad searched the shelves. I tried, you know. I turned the gun on him, pulled the trigger and he laughed at me.”

  His chest swells against my back and his exhale stirs my hair before he speaks again. “I drove us out of there. I drove while he chugged his fucken bottle of scotch, and I don’t remember thinking about anything. I wasn’t scared. I just felt … done. So I unbuckled my seatbelt, maxed the gas and aimed us at a giant oak tree.”

  The truth falls from his lips softly but hits like freezing rain, and I’m exposed, vulnerable and cringing away from the sting of each word. My scalp prickles. Goosebumps erupt down my arms, and I’m tempted to run, to seek shelter. But that’s wrong. He’s wrapped around me, but I’m not the victim of his storm. I am the safe haven he needs.

  Closing my eyes, I reach up and back to find and touch any part of him I can. I won’t let him slip away. I will hang on tight enough to soothe and heal, even if sometimes it feels like I’m trying to hold together a sand castle as the tide rushes in.

  “I went through the windshield,” he goes on. “I didn’t expect to wake up. But there I was, flat on the ground, broken bones, all messed up with my dad standing over me. I still don’t understand how he got away with barely a scratch. Maybe he’s just so fucken mean nothing dares touch him.”

  His one hand falls away from me to dig at his thigh, and I catch it with mine, pull his fingers to my lips and hold them there.

  “My dad …” He clears his throat and shifts his feet. “He bent down, grabbed me by the shirt and started hitting me. He kept hitting me in the face.”

  My lungs are completely empty, my every breath a useless function as his revelation tunnels into my brain, altering my mental landscape, tearing apart so many things I used to be so sure of.

  “See,” Taz goes on, his tone flatlining. “His bottle of scotch broke in the crash, but he was still hanging on to it. I don’t know if that was deliberate or not, but … my scars are thanks to a three hundred dollar bottle of Macallan eighteen.” He laughs a little, the sound caustic. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”

  The tears spill. Down my cheeks they pour in an endless stream. I held them back for as long as I could, but I am drenched in the hurt of this boy, drowning and burning at the same time. There’s a roaring sound in my head, echoing in my ears, making it impossible to think and I don’t know what to do.

  “Taz please,” I whimper and turn to face him, my cheek pressed against the wild pound of his heart. The heart of a fighter, of a survivor, and it’s too late to protect him but still I'm hoping to find a way as I gather him in. Tighter, tighter I squeeze his waist, maybe using his bones and muscles to hold myself together as I shake and cry.

  He tells me, “Shhh, it’s OK,” petting my hair, because there is no end to the weight he can carry. “It’s over now.”


  No it isn’t. He’s still hurting, and if his dad is getting out …

  “Remember what I told you,” Taz reminds me. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  And right then, with everything falling apart and yet coming together, with my heart both filling and breaking, I hear a sharp, loud, “Hey!”

  I know and ignore that voice. It has no place here.

  “Hey!” He doesn’t go away, and there’s a slur in his challenge, which has me very worried. “What the fuck are you doing to her?”

  To his credit, Taz curls around me and angles us away from Brandon.

  “Hey, asshole!” Our homecoming king gets louder and more aggressive. “Let her go.”

  “We don’t want any problems.” Taz is firm, definite, no room for argument yet I sense Brandon stepping closer.

  “Please go away,” I try in a small voice, right as Taz says, “Don’t,” and Brandon shouts “Get your hands off her!”

  A low growl starts beneath my ear, and as it spills from Taz’s lips, everything suddenly happens so fast it’s a blur. Fingers wrap around my upper arms, squeeze and lift me off my feet. I levitate for just a second, before getting thrown sideways and have barely landed in the grass when the grunts and dull thwacks of fists hitting flesh set off screams and running feet.

  CHAPTER 61

  TAZ:

  The police station is fucken cold. I’ve been parked in a metal folding chair, shivering so hard my teeth rattle for I don’t know how many hours. The cops took my phone. They cuffed my hands at the wrists and left me under lights bright enough to perform surgery. I’ve lost track of whether it’s the fluorescents or my brain buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. And so my fingers scratch, scratch, scratch at the metal table, collecting black gunk under my nails. It disgusts me, but I can’t stop.

  An empty chair faces my own and a darkened window in one wall watches over me. I doubt anyone’s behind it. Nobody gives a shit what I do, where I end up, and it’s already been decided. Ever since I stepped out of juvie, hell, since the day I was born, I’ve been headed nowhere in a hurry. Now I’m back on track and almost there.