Free Beautiful Broken by Nazarea Andrews Page A

See you at the car?"
    I nod, passing her my keys and wallet. She gets a mischievous gleam in her eye, and I add, "Do not move my car, Grimes."
    Then I turn back to Mel. She's regained her composure and motions at her mother. "Dane, my mother. Mama, this is my boyfriend, Dane Guillot."
    Beth Philips is a pretty woman—what I imagine Mel will look like in another thirty years. Her hair is soft and has a hint of gray. She is somehow elegant and refined, despite wearing jeans and a button-down top.
    "It's nice to meet you, finally," she says, a hint of censure in her tone.
    I bare my teeth in a parody of a smile. "Likewise."
    "You should join us for dinner," Mel says, almost desperately.
    What the hell am I doing with her? It's not like I'm ever going to give her what she wants. I'm not cut out for picket fences and two point five kids.
    I should cut her loose—for her own good as much as mine. It's a relationship that was dead before it started, and, I don't even want her. I want the girl with my keys and the taste of oranges.
    "Dane?" Mel prompts, and I shake my head, sharply.
    "Sorry, I can't tonight. But maybe we can do lunch tomorrow, Mel. Just us?"
    Something flickers in her eyes, and she nods. "Of course. I'll have Lane set it up with Glenda."
    I nod and turn away, desperate suddenly for space. I can't deal with Mel and her silent demands right now. Can't deal with her mother's judgment. The itchy feeling is coming back. I want to punch something.
    Scout is waiting, bags safely stowed in the tiny backseat. She gives me a questioning look, and I shake my head a little. I don't want to talk about it—I just want to get dinner and go home and pretend this evening never happened.

 

Chapter 8
Scout
    I wake up in my bed, the darkness broken by light from the hall. My sheets are sticking to me, tangled and sweaty, and my throat feels raw.
    Like I've been screaming.
    The bedroom door bangs open, and I shriek. Then his arms slide around me—comforting, bracing, protective. I whimper and close my eyes.
    He is there, leering at me from the darkness, his breath hot and reeking of tequila. I gag and bolt from Dane's lap. I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm violently and messily sick.
    Dane's hand on my back tells me he's here. "Shh, easy, Scout. Just breathe." I can't—I keep heaving even after my stomach is empty and my muscles cramp. Finally, he pulls me away from the toilet. He settles me into his lap, one hand wrapped around the back of my neck, the other a band around my hips, gently kneading the skin there.
    "Talk to me, Scout. Tell me what's going on in that beautiful head of yours," he murmurs.
    "He was there. Holding me down—like it all happened again. I screamed and no one came, Dane. No one fucking came." I shudder and tears leak out, despite my best efforts.
    He's still, tense under me. "How often do you dream, Scout?"
    "Every night."
    His grip tightens, and I make a low quiet noise. His grip tightens more. "How long?"
    "Since the attack. It's why I started using. When I was high enough, or crashing, I didn't dream."
    He shifts me off his lap, slapping my butt until I stand. He rises gracefully and turns to the shower. The water heats, steam billowing around us. Dane looks back at me. "You didn't have nightmares last night."
    It's a statement, but I nod anyway. "You’re safe—you always have been. You keep the nightmares away."
    He visibly flinches at that, and I almost apologize. Instead, I wait, watching him. He fiddles with the faucet then nods. "Get in. I'll get you some clothes."
    Without waiting for me to respond, he stalks out of the bathroom.
    I strip slowly and step into the water. It's almost too, hot but I like it, the needles stinging against my skin. I scrub twice, and then a third time because I can't shake that dirty feeling. I can still feel his hands on my skin, his weight holding me down. Tears trickle down my cheek. I try to pretend it’s only water, but I'm on my knees, sobbing, and I