Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

Is that a piece of gum on his ceiling?

My eyes flutter a bit as his hand glides over my thigh and up between my legs. My skirt has ridden up, so I’m pretty much just lying here in my panties, holding on to his overly warm back as his jeans press against the inside of my legs.

He brings his popcorn tongue up to my mouth and kisses me deeply. I force my eyes shut and try to concentrate on kissing him back as the scruff on his jaw scratches against my face like a bristle brush. I just know my face is going to be all red after this. Maybe I’ll buy him a new razor. But not an electric one. Those aren’t always reliable.

Who invented electric razors? What guy was shaving his face one day and thought, You know what this flat knife against my throat needs? A battery. Perhaps I should invent a razor with a cord—

Matt yanks back from me and sits up on his knees with a frustrated exhale.

“What?” I sit up and cover my boobs. “What’s wrong?”

I notice his hair looks perfectly styled, not a single blond strand out of place. Aren’t people supposed to have messed-up hair after sex—or almost sex? That’s probably my fault. Shoot. I need to remember to mess up his hair.

He runs a hand over his mouth. “Maybe I should ask you.”

“Uh…” I glance at his spotless desk again.

“You’re not into this, Sarah.”

“Yes, I am,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Sex. Let’s do this.” I roll my hips in an embarrassingly unflattering way and clap my hands together like I’m breaking up a football huddle.

Go team, go!

He shakes his head. “This happens every time. It’s like the moment we start getting hot, your head goes somewhere else. If you don’t want to have sex, that’s fine. Really. But I can’t keep doing this almost-but-not-really thing when you’re not into it. It makes me feel like an ass. Like I’m pushing you or something.”

“No, no, no. You’re not pushing and you’re not an ass at all. It’s me. I swear I can do better. I will do better.”

I stare at his bare chest, shadows of orange lining his hard muscles, and try to feel something naughty.

Nothing.

Maybe I am a lesbian.

He sighs. “I don’t want you to do better, Sarah. I want you to want it.”

“I do want it.”

Right?

Right?

He looks at the bed for a moment before slowly climbing off and pulling his shirt back on. “Why don’t you get dressed and we can talk about this later, okay?” He attempts a smile, but all I can do is nod back.

I hide my face in my hands and let out a long, heavy breath. Why don’t I want to have sex with my superhot and totally sweet boyfriend?

What is wrong with me?

What is wrong with me?

I pull into the inn, sexually frustrated and generally pissed at the universe as I park in the back of the lot. Everything was going fine with Savannah—that was her name, right? Savannah? Susanna?—until she mentioned she was an art major, and any hotness I’d hoped to indulge in with her instantly evaporated.

I turn off the engine and run a hand through my hair.

Art? ART? What the hell, universe?

The girl had a streak of green paint on the inside of her elbow, for God’s sake. And she was blonde. And smelled like flowers. She was two stained sneakers and a green-eyed scowl away from being Pixie, so I smoothly excused myself from her company and went in search of a different distraction. But by that time every girl in the mansion was either trashed or taken, and really, who was I kidding? No distraction in the world would numb the hot ache in my chest.

Damn Pixie. Moving in next door and fucking up my sex life.

As I exit my truck, a black car pulls up to the front of the inn. I look at the time. 3:35 a.m. This is either a senior citizen arriving very early for check-in, which has happened, or it’s some kind of trouble.

I stand in the shadows of the tall willow trees beside the lot and watch as the passenger door opens and a figure climbs out.

Despite the darkness and the distance between us, I instantly know it’s Pixie. Her straightened hair hangs down her back, shining in the moonlight against her sweater as she steps forward in the same man-eating skirt she had on earlier.

Trouble it is.

A guy I’ve never seen before climbs out of the driver’s seat, and I straighten my shoulders.

Maybe he’s a cabdriver in the nicest cab ever. Maybe he was the designated driver tonight and Pixie got a little tipsy. Maybe he’s a gay friend who gives her pointers on what to wear, like that damn skirt.

The designated gay cabdriver leans down and starts kissing Pixie.

Or maybe he’s the icing on this cake of despair I’ve been eating all night.

Watching them kiss makes the ache burn hotter, and I absently push a hand against my sternum.

They part ways and Icing Boy drives away as Pixie lets herself inside the inn. I wait a moment before leaving the shadows and following after her. The front door creaks a little when I step inside. The lights are dimmed and there’s not a soul around as I quietly walk through the lobby toward the east wing staircase.

Pixie’s at the foot of the stairs, silently cursing as she rummages around in the large purse slung over her shoulder. The floorboards beneath my feet groan as I move forward, and she whips her head up, relaxing a twinge when she sees me.

“Oh,” she says. “Hey.”

I slow my pace. “Hey.”

Her purse buzzes and she drops down on the bottom stair, effectively blocking my path upstairs as she starts clawing through its contents.

I shove my hands in my pockets and wait. “Lose something?”

She sighs heavily as she digs. “I can’t find my phone because I packed liked a hoarder but I know it’s here because it keeps ringing and I’m pretty sure it’s Jenna because she’s the only person I know who would blow up my phone in the middle of the night and I don’t know why she’s calling but now I’m thinking there’s some kind of emergency which would be just perfect because my night can’t get any better and why do I have so many pens in my purse?” She holds up a fistful of pens. “WHY.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at the flustered expression on her face.

A happy lilt sings from the depths of her bag, and she immediately drops the pens—which fall onto the step beside her before rolling off in every direction—and starts yanking things out of her purse, tossing them aside.

A shirt.

A granola bar.

A sketchpad.

A scarf.

More pens.

With the path to my room blocked and nothing better to do with my hands, I start gathering the runaway pens.

By the fourth ring, Pixie finds her phone and answers with a rushed “What happened? Did someone die?”

“Finally,” I hear a relieved voice say from the other line. “Where are you? I came back to Matt’s apartment to drop off Tweedledee and Tweedledum—”

“Jenna.”

“But you’re not here. I thought you guys were going back to his place.”

Pixie glances at me, then drops her eyes. “We did. But then I had Matt drive me back to the inn.”

Matt.

I keep my gaze on the floor as I finish collecting pens.

“The inn?” Jenna says. “Matt’s staying with you at the inn?”

“No. He dropped me off—can we talk about this later?”

“He dropped you off?”

“Jenna. Please.”

“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning—ah! Gross. Ethan, I swear to God if you vomit on—ugh!” Muffled commotion comes from the other line. “God! Sarah, do me a favor and tell that boyfriend of yours that the next time we all go out, he’s in charge of his drunk roommates.”

Boyfriend.

Pixie and I lock gazes.

Matt the Boyfriend.

Pixie’s not mine, and she never has been, so I have no right to care about Matt the Boyfriend. But still my stomach twists in an ugly way.

“I am not drunk!” yells a male voice in the background.

“You’re hammered, Jack!” Jenna yells back.

The male voice laughs. “Hammered Jack. Jack hammer. I’m a jackhammer.”

“You’re a jackass,” she shouts.

“So we’ll talk in the morning?” Pixie says to distant Jenna.

“What? Oh, yeah. In the morning. Later. Ethan, don’t you dare—”

Pixie hangs up and drops her phone back into her purse. “Sorry about that. My friends are, uh… interesting.”

I nod. “They sound fun.”

“Yeah.”

She clears her throat and quickly starts shoving the rest of her discarded things back into the purse. I hand her the collected pens and she takes them without making eye contact, tossing them back into her bag before resuming her frenzied cleaning. I help gather the remaining items.

We reach for her scarf at the same time and our fingers accidentally brush. We both jerk our hands back as if touching each other is poisonous, and suddenly I’m keenly aware of all things Pixie. The curve of her neck, the scent of her shampoo, the shape of her lips, the single undone button at the top of her sweater…

She looks up at me with big green eyes, and the awkward tension between us instantly transforms into a charged current, pulsing up and down the staircase. She parts her lips and it’s like her inhales are magnetic, drawing me closer to her, pulling me into the circle of her body heat—

A lock of her straightened blonde hair falls into her eyes and reminds me that things are different now.

I blink, breaking the charge, and step away from the scarf.

Shifting her eyes away, she snatches up the scarf and something small goes flying from the folds of the material and skids across the floor.

A condom.

For a moment, we just stare at it.

I have no right to care. I have no right to care.

With pink cheeks, Pixie casually picks up the condom square and drops it back in her bag.

I clear my throat and point upstairs. “So I’m just gonna…”

She looks up and sees how she’s blocking my passage. “Oh, right. Sorry.” She scoots over to clear a path, her eyes avoiding me completely.

I carefully step past her and head upstairs, feeling my pulse heat and hammer in my head.

Cake? Check.

Icing? Check.

Trojan cherry on top? Check.

Must the morning birds chirp so loud?

Are they mocking me? I bet they’re mocking me.

I can’t really blame them. After my horrendous run-in with Levi last night, I would mock me too. The condom? I mean, seriously.

And what the hell is up with my phone suddenly being a loudspeaker? Levi could totally hear everything Jenna was saying to me last night, and the look on his face when she said “boyfriend” was just… ugh. He obviously had no idea I was dating someone, and the revelation seemed to unsettle him.

I pull a pillow over my face and let out a muffled groan as more birds join in on the uber-cheery chirp fest.

It shouldn’t matter. Levi dates people. I date people. This is how it’s always been. But for some reason I feel icky inside, like I should write a letter of explanation and maybe print out a boyfriend permission slip for Levi to sign.

I, Levi Andrews, give my explicit permission for one Pixie Marshall to date whomever she wishes without any feelings that might resemble guilt or betrayal or awkward confusion. Signed, Levi Andrews, platonic third party in all Pixie Marshall–related endeavors and keeper of the east wing hot water.

My phone rings and I ignore it. It keeps ringing.