Beautifully Broken 1: If You Stay

“No,” she cries out.

I see an explosion of red and I close the gap between us in three strides.

I yank the guy off of her and slam him onto the ground. Before I can think or breathe, I stomp on his hand as he grasps for my leg.  His bones crunch and he howls in pain, clutching his broken hand to his chest. 

Mila gasps, her eyes wide, as she huddles against the car.  As my attention is on her, the guy kicks at my leg, connecting with my knee.

Fuck.  But I don’t feel it with all the adrenaline pumping through me.

He kicks again, but this time, I see it coming and move.  He only connects with air.

“Fuck you, man,” he slurs.  “Fucking prick.  This isn’t your business. You broke my f**king hand, man.”

He is scrambling to get up now and I put my boot on his chest.

“Don’t,” I tell him, as he tries to grab at me. “You’re lucky that’s all I broke.  The next time a woman tells you no, stop whatever the f**k it is that you’re doing.  Now go home and sleep it off.  And don’t come near Mila again.  If you do, I will break your dick off and feed it to you.”

The drunk guy glares up at me.  “What the f**k is your problem?  You don’t know what she wants.”

I turn to Mila, my foot still firmly planted in the guy’s chest.

“Mila, do you want to see this guy again?”

She shakes her head.  “No.”

“There you have it,” I tell him calmly, removing my foot.  “Get the f**k out of here.”

“Fuck you, man,” he mutters as he struggles to his feet.  “I don’t need this.  Fuck that slut, too.”

That’s when I punch him.

Hard.  In the side of head.  He goes down like a bag of rocks.  Mila gasps and I shake my head, bending to make sure he’s still breathing.

He is, so I turn to Mila.

“Come on.  Let’s get you home.”

“Why did you do that?” she whispers, her eyes frozen on the unconscious ass**le on the pavement.  “Jared didn’t mean to hurt me.  He was just drunk. I’ve known him for a long time.”

I stare at her as I walk to her side.

“You have no idea what he meant to do.  Trust me.  It wasn’t good.”

I take her arm and lead her to my car, opening the door and tucking her into the passenger seat before I strap her in.

As I’m getting into the driver’s seat, Mila is rummaging through her purse.  She looks up at me.

“Uh-oh,” she says quietly.  “I can’t find my keys.  My apartment is locked. Can you take me to Maddy’s?”

Her words are seriously slurred by this point.  It sounded more like she said  I cent fine my keel.  Miz part is lock.  Cent you take me to Man’s? I shake my head.

“You’re seriously f**ked up,” I tell her.  “You’re probably going to get sick soon.  And I don’t think your sister is going home.  I’ll take you to my house.”

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head.  “Pax, no.  It’s not a good idea.  I don’t trust myself around you.”  Her words are completely garbled of course, but I can make them out.

I startle and stare at her.

“You can’t trust yourself around me?”

She shakes her head pathetically, then leans her head on the cool window glass.

“No.  I can’t let you break my heart.  I don’t have much of it left.”

My gut clenches yet again, something that it seems to do a lot of when I’m around her.  I ram the key in the ignition.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her.  “I won’t be breaking your heart tonight.  You can sleep it off in my bed.  I’ll take the couch.”

She nods, her face planted firmly against the window and I know that she’s not long for the conscious world.  And I’m right.  By the time we reach my house a scant five minutes later, she has passed out in the seat.

I stare at her for a minute, at her shiny dark hair, her tight jeans, her full br**sts, which I can just barely see through the opening of her jacket.  Her lips puff out with each little breath that she exhales in her passed out state.  She’s going to feel this tomorrow.  If she hadn’t been so stupid, I’d feel sorry for her.

I scoop her out of the car and carry her to the house, trying to ignore the soft way she melts into my body, and the way her head leans against my shoulder.  She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

I set her on my bed, pull off her boots and cover her up. I drag my bathroom trashcan next to her, just in case, and then sit in a chair and watch her for a bit.  I have no idea if she’s going to wake up and be sick or if she’s definitely passed out for the night.

She remains still and quiet, with a little snore erupting from her every once in a while.  I can’t help but smile just a bit over that.  I’m guessing she would be embarrassed to know that she’s snoring, even though it’s actually cute as hell.

I sigh.

I’m f**king tired and I could easily sleep right here in this chair, but I know that if she wakes up and finds me here, it might be startling, particularly in the dark.  So I head downstairs and find that once again, I’m just not ready to sleep.  I’m worked up now, from all of the shit at the bar and by the fact that Mila is in my bed at this very moment.  Alone.

And I’m downstairs.  Alone.

And my hand hurts.

Fucking A.

I grab a baggie of ice for my hand and a bottle of whiskey from my garage and make my way out to the beach behind my house.  I drop onto a chair and stare up at the stars as I listen to the rhythmic crash of the waves.  I take a gulp of the liquid fire.  I feel the warmth all the way into my belly and I take another swig.

I fall asleep humming a song that I don’t know the words to or even where it came from.  The last conscious thought I have is that the night is so very, very black.

Minutes, or days, or years pass before something wakes me.  Time has run together.

“Pax,” the soft voice murmurs, intruding upon my sleep.

And for a minute, just a scant minute, it seems like it might be my mother.  In the blur of sleep, the voice has the same soft timbre as hers.  But it can’t be.  Even in sleep, I know that.  It’s only the wishful thinking that comes from that grayish, half-awake place.  It isn’t my mother.  I know that before I even open my eyes.