Beautifully Broken

I KNEW HE WOULD RUIN ME FROM THE MOMENT WE MET. Everything about the man screamed confidence. Sensuality. Intelligence. Worldliness. But it was how he saved me that ruined me most.

Through him, I learned to end my path of self-destruction. I no longer needed to numb the pain with mindless one-night-stands and drunken blackouts. He made me feel worthy. Treasured. Optimistic about my future.

Here I stand four years later, in a coffee shop a world away, still broken…but beautifully so. My scars no longer hold me back. Instead, they give me strength and enrich my appreciation for the good things in life. I have hopes and dreams…faith that anything is possible. I am no longer the lost little girl fighting for survival. I have direction. I have courage. I am not without possibility.

I’ll always have Gavin to thank for that—Mr. Cooper, I remind myself. That’s who he is to me now: just a former teacher. I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry. I was eighteen when we first met. Legally, we did nothing wrong. Morally? Well, I guess that depends on how flexible your morals are.

My name is Kat and this is my story.

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 m

y 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?”