If You Stay (Beautifully Broken) Read online

  But clearly, I was wrong. My fascination with him isn’t reciprocated.

  He’s getting a blowjob from the girl who left him on the beach.

  I can’t even think. My head is swirling in a blur of anger and hurt. I just grab my supplies, fold up my easel and bolt for my car. I think I might hear his voice behind me, calling my name, but I don’t turn around. I start to run, and when I reach my car, I dump my things into it and peel out.

  I chance a glance into the rearview mirror and he’s not there.

  I exhale.

  I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or not. A sick part of me kind of wishes that he’d cared enough to chase after me. But he didn’t. So he doesn’t care. I feel like crying. And that’s ridiculous. But then I cry anyway.

  I cry for the end of something that didn’t even have a chance to begin.

  And then I cry because I feel even stupider for having such stupid thoughts.

  I’m an idiot.

  I drive to my shop and sit there for a bit inside of my car. I pull myself together and finally walk inside. I flip the sign to Open and put my apron on. And then I do what I always do when I’m happy or sad or bored or well, anything.

  I paint.

  With swooping strokes, I paint the sun hanging over the edge of the lake by Pax’s house. I paint the gray choppy water and then I turn the sun black, allowing the paint to drip toward the water. It’s a dark scene and it perfectly fits how I feel. Stormy, black, angry. All are words that can be used to fit both the scene and my mood.

  The shop door jangles and I sigh. I usually don’t hope that customers don’t come, but today I’d sort of like to be alone. I turn, my paintbrush still in hand, ready to smile at the customer.

  But it’s Pax.

  The smile dies on my lips and I am frozen.

  He is freshly showered, I can tell. His hair is wet and I can smell the scent of soap as he approaches. His face is oh-so-serious and I clench my jaw. This guy just got a blowjob. He has no right to come and talk to me.

  Then why am I so happy that he came?

  It defies logic.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Pax says quietly, forgoing a greeting. “Please, Mila. I’m really sorry.”

  I grit my teeth and turn back to my painting, smearing the sun into the gray sky.

  “What you do is your business,” I tell him curtly. “It’s not mine.”

  Pax sighs and I can hear it from here, even though he stopped moving several steps away from me.

  “I could tell you that it wasn’t what it looked like, but that would be a lie. It was exactly what it looked like. I could explain it, but you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Then why are you here?” I whisper, confused. If he doesn’t want to explain, then what’s the point? I don’t look at him, instead I just stare at the movement of my paintbrush. I notice that my hand is shaking.

  And then I feel him behind me.

  His hand closes around mine, steadying it. His is warm and large. And I should pull away, but I don’t. His warmth is all around me and I want to be absorbed by it.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” he admits softly, and his voice is so close to my neck. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you, I guess. And because I’ll never get that horrified expression on your face out of my head. I’m sorry to have put it there. Just know that she doesn’t mean anything to me. She was persistent and I didn’t say no. It was a habit. I’m sorry.”

  My heart hammers hard in my chest. I don’t know what to say. I know that I should tell him to get far away from me, but my heart is a traitor and wants him here. My heart must have issues. But I can’t say that.

  “You don’t even know me,” I tell him instead, finally turning around to look at him, pulling my hand away as I do. I stare up into his hazel eyes and find an expression there that I haven’t yet seen. Trepidation. “Why would you apologize to someone that you barely even know? You don’t owe me anything.”

  He shrugs and his movement stirs his masculine scent. I inhale it and fight the urge to close my eyes so that I can better enjoy the smell.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that ever since I met you, I’ve wanted to know you. That’s why I’ve been coming into town this week to see you. Something about you makes me think that I can be better, maybe even get my shit straight. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time. And I feel like I do owe you something.”

  Hell. His words strike a chord in me and I swallow hard. His tone is hesitant, soft. And it melts my heart. I can’t help it. Sometimes, there is such a broken look in his eyes. And deep down, I just want to fix it.

  “Why?” I ask, my gaze firmly locked with his. He shakes his head.

  “I don’t know. You just seem so good, so wholesome. It draws me to you. I can’t explain it.”

  I laugh now, thoroughly amused.

  I gesture toward my painting. “Does that seem good and wholesome to you?”

  We both study the angry black and gray canvas. It looks like something that someone in a Psych ward might have painted. Pax finally smiles.

  “Well, then, Red, it looks like you’ve got a dark side. But the difference between you and me is that you channel yours in a healthy way. I don’t.”

  I stare at him, trying to decide what to say, how honest to be. But this moment seems like a good time for honesty, so I don’t hesitate.

  “I don’t know if it’s all that healthy that I’m attracted to you,” I admit finally. “I’ve never been attracted to a bad boy before.”

  He is so close to me that his proximity is a bit intoxicating. I feel almost dizzy from it as I stare up at him, waiting for his response. It also seems as though I can feel the danger emanating from him…it’s charged, electrical, fascinating.

  Pax thinks on it for a moment, his jaw covered in day-old stubble.

  “Well, I’ve never wanted to be good before, so I guess it’s a first for both of us.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes for what seems like forever.

  I don’t know if I should believe him, but he seems so sincere. I do know that I want to believe him, even if it’s a stupid feeling.

  I don’t know what to say and apparently, he doesn’t either.

  Without a word, he ducks his head and his lips meet mine.

  It is as unexpected as it is amazing.

  His lips are soft and he tastes like mint. Gone is the taste of ashtray and vomit. Gone is the limp man from the other night, the one who convulsed on the pavement. In his place is someone vibrant and alive, someone who smells delicious and is devastatingly sexy.

  Someone who is bad for me.

  His tongue delves softly into my mouth and I fight the urge to sigh into his. His hands grip my back and I don’t know when they got there, but I lean into his embrace, clutching his waist. I revel in the way his fingers knead at my skin, at the firm pressure he places against me, at the hard rigidity pressed against my hips. It’s dizzying.

  When I finally need to breathe, he pulls away.

  I am shaky from the kiss, from his absence from me. From the idea that I enjoyed that way too much.

  I look up at him.

  He looks down at me.

  He’s waiting for a reaction and I’m not sure what to do. The kiss was perfect. Pax is sexy as hell. But he’s so different from me. And he just got a blow job from someone else. The vision of that horrible girl on her knees in front of Pax springs into my head and I cringe. He could very definitely hurt me if I give him the chance. I’ve already had enough pain in life. I don’t need more.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I finally say reluctantly. And the words are so very hard to say.

  The warm light dims in Pax’s eyes as he stares at me and I see the disappointment in them, the rejection, before he hardens it into a cool expression that makes me want to weep.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says calmly. “Because I think it’s a very good idea. The best I’ve had in a long, long ti
me.”

  He turns around and walks away, out of my shop.

  Away from me.

  Without another word.

  I watch his wide shoulders as he walks away, out of my sight.

  Then I sink to my knees right in the middle of my shop. My hands are shaking and my head is spinning.

  What did I just do?

  Am I insane? I met someone who made me feel something for the first time in the two years since my parents died, and I’m too chicken-shit to pursue anything?

  I’m pathetic.

  I reach for my phone and call my sister. I speak before she even has a chance to.

  “I’m ready for that drink tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pax

  Fuck her.

  My head is spinning as I walk woodenly from her shop and to my car. I can’t believe that just happened, actually. I bared myself to someone for the first time in forever and she stomped on it. I don’t know who I’m madder at—her for rejecting me or me for putting myself out there for her to reject.

  But either way, fuck her.

  I jam my keys in the ignition and turn the volume up. Hard rock vibrates my chest as the bass rumbles and I tear out of the parking lot and toward the highway to Chicago. Since I’m in a bad mood anyway, I might as well get this over with.

  The highway stretches in front of me and the loud music calms me as I drive. I lose myself in it, actually. I allow it to numb me, to absorb the negative thoughts. I almost reach for my vial, which is safely ensconced in my jacket, but I don’t. I told myself that I wouldn’t, not for a while, and I won’t. I’m not weak. And I’m not a pussy.

  As the miles are absorbed by my rearview mirror, the sky swallows the road in the horizon bit by bit until I’m finally crossing the bridge into Chicago and onto the Skyway.

  By the time I arrive at my dad’s downtown office, I have managed to put my agitation away, to tuck the image of Mila’s face far away in my mind.

  Because fuck her.

  I have the urge to punch a wall, but I don’t. Instead, I make my way to the eighteenth floor and my father’s receptionist lets him know that I am here. I make myself comfortable in his sitting area, taking a mint out of a bowl and popping it into my mouth.

  My eyes are closed when my father finally appears twenty minutes later.

  “Pax, get your feet off of the furniture.”

  His voice is tired and I open my eyes. He looks older since I saw him last quarter. His dark hair is just beginning to gray at the temples, and he has lines around his eyes. And his mouth. His navy blue suit seems to hang a bit on him, like he lost weight and hasn’t taken the time to have his clothing altered. I stare at him, amazed at the idea that my father is growing old.

  And then I yank my feet off of the table in front of me.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. My father nods and leads me to his big office.

  I sit in a chair in front of him and wait until he slides a few papers across his desk toward me.

  I don’t even read them, I simply sign my name. I trust him.

  “You should always read anything that you sign your name on,” he admonishes me for what seems like the hundredth time regarding this subject. And for the hundredth time, I reply in the same way.

  “I do, when it’s a stranger. But you’re my father. I know you aren’t going to fuck me over.”

  Dad sighs again. “Can you at least try to watch your language? It’s the respectful thing to do.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter again.

  For Christ’s sake. He acts like I’m a child. But that’s part of our problem. Our relationship will always be frozen in his head- back to a time when I was a child and he was the adult. He doesn’t seem to understand that we’re both adults now.

  “Alexander Holdings had an exceedingly good quarter,” my dad remarks, taking back the papers and shuffling them. “So your income has increased this time. You really might want to consider investing. You’re twenty-four years old. It’s time to grow your portfolio. And maybe take an interest in your family’s company. Your grandfather has contacted me, wanting to know how to reach you. He’s an old man, Pax. He won’t be around much longer. He wants to know that his company is in good hands.”

  I stare at him, fighting the urge to curl my lip.

  “I don’t want anything to do with the business,” I tell my father. “I don’t agree with anything they stand for. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll hire a CEO to run the place after he finally kicks it. And as far as my grandfather goes, it’s his fault that he’s all alone. He basically disowned me when we moved away. He’s got himself to blame.”

  My father’s eyes glaze over and he turns to stare out his window.

  “Pax, your grandfather wasn’t the same after your mother died. None of us were. You can’t hold that against him. When we moved, he felt like he was losing you too, and you were the last connection that he had with your mother. Since your grandma died so long ago, you and Susanna were all he had. When he lost her and then you, he felt like he lost everything.”

  “Yet he didn’t have to lose me,” I spit angrily. “His fucking temper is what caused him to lose me. He chose to be angry and cut off contact. I was just a kid. I didn’t even choose to move. You did. But he took it out on me. So, as far as I’m concerned, he can rot.”

  My father stares at me, his gaze thoughtful as he temples his fingers in front of him. Finally he sighs and nods.

  “I guess I can understand your feelings. Your grandfather is a formidable man. And stubborn. He used to make your mom want to pull her hair out sometimes.”

  And now his eyes really do glaze over as he thinks about my mom, lost in his memories. If there was ever anyone who didn’t get over her death, it was most certainly my father.

  “Dad, you look like you aren’t eating right,” I tell him, pulling him from his thoughts and back into the present with me. He doesn’t look happy about it, either. He prefers to live in a world made from memories.

  He shakes his head, shaking away my concern.

  “I’m fine, Pax. Just stressed about some big cases that I’m handling. How are you doing? Are you pulling things together?”

  “You mean, am I still using?” I stare at him harshly. I mean, fuck. If you have a question, just ask it. Don’t beat around the bush. Dad nods, tired again.

  “Fine. Yes. Are you still using?” He asks the question haltingly, as if the words taste bitter in his mouth. And he doesn’t really want to know the answer, I can tell. He thinks I’m a fucking addict who can’t quit.

  It’s fucking annoying.

  “No, I haven’t used,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “I said I wasn’t going to and I’m not. Not the hard shit, anyway. I’m not an addict, dad. Seriously. I use it because I like it. Not because I have to.”

  My father stares at me with his best hardened attorney gaze.

  “That might be so,” he tells me. “But eventually, when a person keeps using, they become addicted. You’re pushing it.”

  “Whatever, dad,” I sigh, pushing away from his desk and standing up. “It’s been good to see you. I’ll see you next quarter.”

  I stalk out, away from his disapproving stare and his doubts. What he doesn’t understand is that if you constantly expect the worst from someone, that’s probably what you’re going to get. He should have learned that by now. I’ve certainly shown him time and time again.

  I am headed back toward the Skyway when I decide to take a quick detour, into a seedy little bar that I know of. I’ve had to stop there numerous times after heated visits with the old man. The bartender knows me and calls out a greeting when I enter. I never can remember his name. Dave? Dan?

  I make my way across the dingy room, glancing around at the split vinyl seats and dark walls. This place hasn’t changed. It still has a hole in the paneling back by the pool table where somebody punched it and it still smells like piss and old grease. It’s not what you would call upscale, but it’s perfect for drinking awa
y a bad mood.

  I nod at the bartender.

  “I’ll have a Jack.”

  The bartender nods back and fills a tumbler with the dark golden liquid, sliding it towards me. It sloshes a bit onto the bar, but he’s not concerned. Cleanliness isn’t exactly his highest priority. You can tell that by his stained shirt and greasy hair. But that doesn’t bother me. The whiskey will taste the same regardless of the bartender’s personal hygiene habits.

  Before he can attempt to talk with me, he’s distracted by another customer, a dirty old man who is clearly far too drunk. I watch with interest as the bartender tries to cut him off, then just gives up and pours him another drink.

  “Hey, big fella. I’m Amber.”

  I stare down at the big-busted woman who has just slid up to me. She’s got bar whore written all over her, from her extremely tight jeans that exhibit camel toe to her garish overly done makeup. Her tits are practically busting out of her top because it’s three sizes too small.

  I cock an eyebrow and take a gulp of whiskey.

  “Big fella? The 1940’s called. They want their phrase back.”

  Amber throws her bleached blonde head back and laughs as though it is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

  “I’m from Iowa. I guess we still talk that way back home.”

  “Charming.” I knock back the rest of my drink and motion for another. I look at Amber. “Would you like one?”

  I figure it’s the polite thing to do, even though I’m not much in the mood for company. She nods.

  “I’d love one.” She looks up at the bartender. “Dan, can you make it two?”

  Dan the bartender. I’ve got to remember that.

  But I’m sure I won’t.

  Amber slides her hand up my thigh. “Thanks for the drink. But if you don’t want me to call you big fella, you’ve got to tell me your name.”

  I eye her, at the way her eyes are already dilated because she’s already had a few too many. “Do I?”