Beautifully Broken Preview
The secret to getting away with a fake ID is going to a dive bar. Stay away from grocery stores and classy places—they usually have scanners that can spot a fake a mile away. The last thing I need on my eighteenth birthday is a night in county jail. Or worse, I wouldn’t get the drinks that I so desperately desired. Lucky for me, dive bars are practically my only choice here on the Central Oregon Coast. I’m legally an adult now and that’s cause for celebration.
Normally, I’d call up my friend, Dylan and he’d supply the alcohol…and the orgasms. The perfect combination to make me temporarily forget about all the shit I have to deal with. But that’s not what tonight is about. Tonight, I am officially free from the system. I no longer have to go to a group home, or be fostered by someone who’s more interested in a paycheck than parenting when my mom gets arrested for solicitation or possession of a controlled substance. She’s tried getting sober over the years, hence my entire childhood being one fucked up game of ping pong, but her addiction always wins. Heroin trumps daughter.
Every damn time.
I never knew my father. Neither did my mother, I suspect. Besides the night he impregnated her anyway. The only thing I know for certain is that he’s Latino. I definitely didn’t get my dark features from Mom. Cybil and I couldn’t be more opposite physically. While she’s tall, fair, and willowy—I’m short, dark, and curvy. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. My curves are in all the right places and they help me appear older than I am. In case you didn’t catch it, yes, I call my mother by her first name. She doesn’t want any of her regular clients to know that she’s old enough to have a teenage daughter. She’s only thirty-four, which isn’t old if you ask me, but she tells people she’s twenty-four. It makes her more marketable. If anyone asks, we’re roomies. They’re usually too inebriated and/or horny to question it.
“What’ll you have, pretty lady?”
I raise my head and see the bartender approaching. His bushy eyebrows lift expectantly.
“Tequila rimmed with salt,” I reply as I lean over slightly, giving him a better view of my cleavage. In my experience, the portions are pretty generous when the bartender sees something he likes.
He stares at the boobage on display and gives me a smarmy smile. He grabs a bottle of Don Julio and begins filling the oversized shot glass to the rim. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
He continues to leer as he sets my drink on the bar. Well, look at that; I didn’t even need my ID.
“Thanks,” I say. “You got any lime?”
He opens the garnish tray and plucks out a few wedges, placing them in a bowl. With his gaze still on my chest he asks, “Anything else I can do for ya?”
He’s really asking what I can do for him…and for what price. There’s a surprising amount of illicit sex in small towns, you know. I guess that’s what I get for choosing a place next to a seedy motel that rents by the hour. Too bad for him, I don’t have a habit to support. Not that I haven’t had the chance—there’s no way you live the life I’ve lived without being exposed to everything under the sun—but I’ve seen firsthand how powerful drugs can be and I have no desire to become another sad statistic. The irony of my current scene is not lost on me but I don’t have a drinking problem, if that’s what you’re thinking. If you must know, sex is my chosen vice. The main difference between me and my mother is that I don’t use it as a form of payment or to get paid. Getting off simply helps me turn down the volume for a while. Silence truly is a beautiful thing in my crazy, chaotic world.
I down the drink in one long gulp, chase it with the lime, and bat my eyelashes. “How about another?” There’s no way I’m interested in this jerk but flirting will keep the drinks flowing. Flirting like a pro is the one useful thing my mother has taught me.
He pours another and waits for me to bring the glass to my lips again. Before I can comply, a big guy on the corner shouts, “Yo, Stan! I’m empty!” Big Guy emphasizes his statement by clanking his mug loudly on the grimy surface.
Slimy Stan, as I’ve now named him, winks at me. “I’ll be back, sweet thing. Don’t go anywhere.”
I roll my eyes as he walks away to bleed the tap. I lift my glass and say, “Happy fucking birthday to me.”
The tequila burns my throat as a deep voice rumbles behind me, “Why is such a beautiful woman drinking all alone on her birthday?”
My shoulders stiffen as I set my glass down. I turn around to fend off this douche but I’m frozen once I see how gorgeous he is. Screw the alcohol. This is what I need tonight. My eyes travel across his flawless face, highlighted by turquoise eyes, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, and full lips. He licks said lips and I shiver when I think about what that tongue could do to me. My eyes continue their descent over a pair of broad shoulders that taper to a trim waist and long legs. He’s wearing a faded Led Zeppelin tee and a pair of dark jeans. Both show off his toned physique brilliantly. He’s built, but not bulky. Ruggedly handsome too—like an old-fashioned movie star. Simply put, he’s breathtaking. Also, unquestionably out of place in this shitty establishment.
He smirks when he notices my obvious perusal. “May I have a seat?”
I gulp, feeling strange little flutters in my stomach. I nod my head toward the adjacent stool. “Please do.”
“May I buy you another drink?” he asks. “Perhaps something a little more… diluted?”
I laugh. “I’d hate to break this to you buddy, but it doesn’t work like that.”
He crinkles his brows and runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair. “Care to elaborate?”
I smile. “If you’re looking to get in my pants, the less diluted the alcohol, the better.”
Sexy little crinkles form around his eyes as he returns my smile. “Is that so?”
I nod. “Absolutely.”
He signals Slimy Stan. “Bartender, can we get another round? I’ll have a bottle of Rogue IPA, and my friend here will have...”
I trace my fingers over the rim of my shot glass. “The same.”
Stan scowls when he notices my new friend. He quickly masks his displeasure and says, “Sure thing.”
Sexy Eyes flashes his perfect grin again. “So, Birthday Girl, do you have a name?”
“I do,” I say, “but I’m not giving it to you.”
He frowns. “And why’s that?”
I tip my freshly delivered bottle to my lips. “Because I have a strict no-name policy for one-night stands.” It’s true; I do. It’s less complicated that way.
His eyes widen in surprise but I don’t miss the underlying interest. “Well, then you have no worries. I’m not interested in sleeping with you. So what’s your name?”
I laugh to cover the sting of his rejection. “So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that if I wanted to drag you into a dark corner right now and fuck your brains out, you wouldn’t be interested?”
He nods his head slowly and places his hand over mine. “That’s exactly what I’m saying—I’m not interested in a mindless fuck. With you or anyone, for that matter.”
Jesus, my panties are soaked from just listening to his resonant voice, even if the words are toxic to my fragile self-esteem. I bite my lower lip and give him another good once-over. “Are you not attracted to women? Is that the problem?”
He rubs his chin thoughtfully and smiles. I can’t help but fixate on the subtle scratching sound the motion makes. “Oh, I’m definitely attracted to women. I never said I wasn’t interested in getting to know you. Asking your name seems like a great way to start.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued by this guy’s approach. “It doesn’t matter which name I give you—I could easily lie to placate you. But why bother? Let’s just call this what it is and move forward. Sound like a plan, Sparkles?”
He laughs. “Sparkles?”
“I give people nicknames,” I explain with a shrug. “Your eyes—they’re really blue…and sparkly. Hence, Sparkles. No real names. No complications.”
“You couldn’t come up with something a little more…manly?”
I wink. “Nah, I like Sparkles.”
He laughs. “As amusing as this game is, I’d like to at least know the reason behind your no-name policy.”
I slowly cross my legs as he watches with blatant interest. “I already told you; it’s less complicated that way.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Well, that’s a cop-out if I’ve ever heard one. Could you at least give me something a little more original? Or better yet, how about the truth?”
Nope, because if you knew how fucked up I am, you’d go running for the hills. This conversation is teetering dangerously close to the edge of an abyss that I can’t afford to fall into again. I put my fake bravado in place and give an exaggerated sigh.
“Look, Sparkles. Can we forget about any games and just get on with this?”
“And what exactly is this?”
I lean forward and slowly move my hands up his powerful thighs. “I want you.” Holy hell, I really do. I can’t remember ever wanting to lose myself in someone this badly. I go a little bit further to whisper in his ear. “And I know you want me, despite your earlier denial. Do you think I can’t see your jeans tightening? Hear your breath hitch?” I lick the shell of his earlobe. “See your pulse racing as your eyes trace my every move? Why don’t you take me somewhere so we can make that happen?”
He braces his hands on my arms and shifts me back onto my stool. He assesses me briefly before asking, “Is it really your birthday?”
I smile wide, easily predicting his next question. “It is.”
He raises a single brow. “Which one? How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” I answer without skipping a beat. “How old are you?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a pull from his bottle. “Twenty-six.” He pulls out his wallet and throws a couple bills onto the bar. He stands and reaches out to take my hand. “C’mon, Birthday Girl. Let’s get out of this shithole.”
I beam in victory. “Lead the way.”