Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

When Jenna and I first met last year, I wasn’t looking to become friends with anyone, let alone a crazy Creole girl with ink all over her body and a plethora of voodoo dolls in her suitcase. Yet somehow she managed to crowbar her way into my life—and the vault of my past—and pry out a few scraps of sensitive material, such as my history with Levi.

“He’s not a puzzle or a fictitious creature, and I’m not hiding him,” I say. “How’s Jack?”

Shrewd golden eyes narrow at me. “And she changes the subject. Curiouser and curiouser.”

I point the eyeliner at her. “Don’t talk like Alice in Wonderland. You know that creeps me out.”

She takes the eyeliner from my hand and starts to add another layer to her catlike eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Jack. I want to talk about Levi.”

“Not happening.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Come on—”

“Stop,” I say more emphatically than I mean to.

She stares at me for a second. “Fine.”

I turn around to examine my backside in the mirror. I spent all week in ratty jeans and stained T-shirts, so I’m trying to live it up tonight. And for me, living it up means wrapping my butt in a short piece of leather. I’m out of control.

“Is this skirt too short?” I tug the skirt down, but my booty is too bootylicious to be properly contained so the material bounces right back up.

“No. You look hot.” She lowers the liner. “But what’s with the granny sweater?”

She means the cardigan I threw on to hide my scar. I’m not ashamed of my scar—not at all—but I don’t want to run into Levi with my chest exposed and risk a repeat of the other day. A knot forms in my stomach and I swallow to keep it from rising into my throat.

I glance at Jenna and shrug. “I was cold.”

With a few more fruitless yanks of my skirt, I turn back around and start digging through my stuff for another deadly makeup utensil.

“So,” Jenna says casually as she goes back to lining her eyes. “How’s the sex thing going with Matt?”

Oh jeez.

“It’s not,” I say.

She scrunches her nose. “Was your first time really so bad?”

My sexual experience is limited to a one-time disaster with a guy named Benji Barker—that was his name, I kid you not—and it was drunk and sloppy and just… bleh.

I always thought losing my virginity would be a memorable event with fireworks and theme music and maybe a parade afterward. But no. It was more like, Hey, so thanks for the horribly awkward sex. Let’s never speak again.

“No,” I say, searching the depths of the black hole that is my makeup bag for my mascara. “I mean, it was uncomfortable as hell, but it wasn’t bad. I just haven’t been able to get into it with Matt yet. Or the guy before him. Or the guy before that guy.” I shrug again. “Maybe I’m a lesbian.”

My fingers finally wrap around a tube of mascara and I pull it out in triumph.

“You’re not a lesbian,” Jenna says.

“I could be.”

“No way.” She looks at me with the eyeliner in midair. “If you were a lesbian, you would totally check me out. You never check me out.”

“Well, maybe you’re not my type,” I say in between batting lashes and coats of black goo.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh please. I’m everyone’s type—”

“Pixie!” calls someone from the hallway.

Levi.

I haven’t heard his voice for three days, and all my senses immediately go on alert. My eyes snap to the mirror just as his reflection appears in the bathroom doorway, and my heart stammers at the sight.

He’s wearing dark jeans and an untucked shirt that fits his frame perfectly. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off the tan skin of his thick throat, and I suddenly sympathize with vampires everywhere. Who wouldn’t want to take a bite out of that?

WHAT?

Where did that thought come from?

“Hey, Pixie. Ellen wanted me to…” Levi’s words trail off as his gaze runs down my body and lingers on my butt. Desire flashes in his eyes, and my insides start to heat and tighten in response.

Our eyes lock in the mirror.

Am I blushing? Crap, I’m blushing.

He clears his throat and starts again. “Ellen wanted me to give these to you. She says you lost your own set? These are her backups.” He lays a set of inn keys on the counter by my hip, his hand so close to my belly I can feel his body heat seeping in through my leather skirt.

I nod. I swallow. I try not to pass out.

Or you know, bite him.

“Oh, right. Thanks,” I say, my voice all ragged like I just finished running a marathon or something. I’m so cool.

“I’m Jenna,” Jenna says loudly, holding out her hand.

Levi and I blink away from each other, and he raises his eyebrows like he hadn’t noticed Jenna until right that second.

“Oh, hey,” he says in his smooth-operator voice. He has many voices. “I’m Levi.”

“Levi,” she repeats with a Cheshire cat grin as they shake hands. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

I glare at her, but she refuses to acknowledge me.

“Right.” He glances at me. “Good to meet you too.” He pauses. “So yeah. Later.” Then he rigidly moves from the bathroom mirror.

I stare at the empty hallway that replaces him, suddenly feeling empty myself.

“Ohmygod.” A low chuckle falls from Jenna’s mouth and she drops her head back. “I totally get it. Everything makes so much sense now.” More laughter. “You’re so not a lesbian.”

I pull my eyes away from the hallway and toss the mascara back into my bag. “Whatever.” I look at my reflection with a grimace. My straightened hair looks all wrong.

“Whatever,” she mocks, going back to her eyes. “You conveniently forgot to tell me that our mysterious Levi is HOT.”

“Please shut up.” I pull my hair up. Still wrong.

“Mega hot. Why did he call you Pixie?”

I let my hair fall back down. “It’s a nickname he gave me when we were kids. Quit layering on eyeliner. You look like a walking cry for help.”

“No, I don’t,” she says, putting the liner away and examining her reflection. “I look like a misunderstood bad girl who paints poetic pictures about death.”

I blink at her. “Exactly.”

Picking up all my belongings, I leave the bathroom as Jenna steps back into her shoes and follows after me. In my room, she throws herself belly-first onto my bed and leans over the side, eyeing the three paintings I have drying under the window.

“Whoa.” She crawls off the bed and over to the nearest canvas, running a finger along the edge. “These are beautiful.” She touches another one. “Depressing as hell, but beautiful.”

“They’re not depressing.” I search through the mess of my room for my oversized purse until I find it wedged between an unopened box of stuff from my dorm and a stack of out of state college pamphlets.

“Everything you paint is depressing. It’s all black and white and gray.” She squints at a dark painting of a tree.

“Yeah, well. I like the contrast.” I start cramming clothes into my purse. I’m not sure what my overnight plans are yet, but I’m pretty confident no one will be willing to drive me all the way back to the inn later.