Perfectly Broken
Perfectly
Broken
Copyright © 2014 by Prescott Lane
ISBN: 978-0-9893399-3-3
Cover design by Laura Hidalgo: bookfabulousdesigns@gmail.com
Cover image © KhushiAnn purchased from (Shutterstock.com)
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Perfectly
Broken
by
Prescott Lane
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
“SOME ASSHOLE ASKED me if I wanted to fuck or not!” Dr. Lorraine cried with a hearty laugh, recalling the absurd horror of a long ago first date. “Do you know what I told him?”
“You’d fall in love, and I’d fall asleep?” Peyton Mayfield quipped.
“That’s a good one.” Dr. Lorraine let out another hearty laugh, her whole body convulsing this time, her black and grey curls bouncing along. “I’ll have to remember that one!” She looked her young patient up and down — a pretty, blue-eyed brunette, both strong and charming, and once terribly traumatized. “So how about you? How’s dating going?”
Peyton shrugged and looked towards a New Orleans fleur de lis hanging on the wall. “No dates.”
Dr. Lorraine offered a sympathetic smile and patted Peyton’s hand. “I’m an old African-American woman, so I know how hard it can be to find a good man. But you have to look.”
“I am,” Peyton lied.
“Really?” Dr. Lorraine leaned back and surveyed Peyton’s baggy clothes hiding her petite frame. “What part of those sweatpants and oversized t-shirt say I want to get laid?”
Peyton blushed and smiled then tried not to laugh. Dr. Lorraine was always good for a laugh. She treated her patients — literally — like they were sitting on her front porch drinking sweet tea. It was her unconventional methods, Dr. Lorraine believed, that helped her patients improve — or at least kept them entertained — and why she had a waiting list a mile long.
“I wonder if that part of myself died that night.”
Dr. Lorraine shook her head. “You survived — all of you.”
Peyton wished, in times like these, there was a window through which she could escape, her instinct, as always, to run. But other times, she was thankful there wasn’t one, keeping the room dim, making it easier to share her darkness within the confines of the shadows.
“It doesn’t feel that way,” Peyton said.
“Honey, the last piece of the puzzle for you is finding strength in your sexuality again. There is a man who’ll be worth the fear, the vulnerability. And he just might be right around the corner.”
* * *
Reed Langston sat on the edge of her bed, buttoning the last of his buttons. He looked over at the sexy blonde curled up in the white satin sheets, his steel blue eyes finding her satisfied, and his mind wandered to a construction project, his design not yet complete. He tucked his shirt into his pants then ran his fingers through his dark, messy hair. Please don’t ask.
But he knew full well she would. She always did just like the others. He’d grown tired of the same conversation over and over again — and the women, too. There just wasn’t anything special or memorable about them. They’d all become basically the same, the brunettes and the blondes, the tall and the short girls, all morphing together into one empty screw.
It wasn’t always that way with Heather, though. They were each other’s first kiss, first date, first sexual partner, and if arranged marriages existed 10 years ago, Reed probably would’ve been forced to marry her. But he resisted any formal commitment, both choosing instead to be each other’s number one fuck buddy. That was always fun for an hour or so — but not particularly special or memorable, either. Please don’t ask.
He snaked his belt through his pant loops then searched for his shoes and socks. He felt he’d been doing a lot of searching lately. He’d hoped his recent move back to New Orleans would settle him, returning to the city where he grew up as a boy, holding his mother’s hand during Mardi Gras, back to the city that inspired him to be an architect, enchanting him with all its crazy complexities: the cathedrals next to the strippers and tarot card readers, the gourmet restaurants among the popular local dives, the crowds and neighborhoods changing with each block.
But returning home hadn’t done the trick. Reed wasn’t quite sure what was bothering him. Perhaps it was his tangled family history, or that he’d soon be turning 30, or that he once again was at odds with his father, or that his best friend, Bret, was now in a committed relationship. It could be any of those things. Or maybe it was something else. He gripped the back of his neck then found his shoes under the bed and his socks stashed within the sheets. Please don’t....
“Are you sure you can’t stay?” Heather asked, batting her brown eyes.
Reed couldn’t help but smile — the same six words every time, which meant it was time for his part, the same part as last time and every other time. “Sorry, you know I don’t do sleepovers.” He planted a quick kiss on her lips. On cue, she recited a few more lines, with Reed assuring her he’d be in touch.
He slipped on his shoes and quickly left her apartment, releasing a deep breath when the door closed behind him. It was all very routine and growing harder and harder to play his role, or to find any lasting pleasure with one of the usuals. He put his hand on a post holding a gas lantern and turned the corner, setting out onto the cracked streets of the French Quarter, heading in no particular direction. Exit stage left.
CHAPTER TWO
MAGAZINE STREET — extending from the Garden District to Audubon Park, the playground for the fashion-forward and well-to-do — was the perfect spot for Peyton’s trendy pie shop. She had the shop — Adelaide’s — for a couple years, named after her grandmother who taught her how to bake and run a business.
Peyton wore her usual pink baseball cap and green apron and reached into an ice box display case for a huge slice of peach pie. She slid it in front of her best friend standing at the counter. It appeared much too big for Quinn’s tiny frame, decked out in a burgundy sweater dress, black tights, and knee-high stiletto boots.
“Bret is the one,” Quinn said emphatically, tossing her black Chanel bag and Burberry trench coat on the counter. Peyton chuckled at how certain Quinn was, her Southern accent heightening the drama. “I just know it.” Bret’s eyes, like hers, were green, and that was enough to prove they were a perfect match.
“Does Bret know he’s the one?” Peyton teased.
>
“Not yet, but he will,” Quinn said, twirling her golden hair. “We’ll be married by the end of the year.”
Peyton rolled her eyes but knew better than to doubt Quinn. Her best friend of 20 years — since they were six — usually got what she wanted. And it wasn’t simply because Quinn came from money. Everything just seemed to work out for her and the rest of the Dupuis family.
“By the way,” Quinn said, “I’ll be at home tonight.”
“You’re actually sleeping at home tonight?” Quinn hardly ever slept at Peyton’s house any more. She basically used the house as a cover, so her parents wouldn’t know she was living with Bret.
“Yeah, I’ve got my period. I’m giving Bret a break tonight. I think that’s very thoughtful of me, don’t you?”
* * *
“What’s going on with those developments downtown?” Reed asked, walking down Magazine Street.
“We have it under control,” Bret said, “but need your damn plans before we can go forward.” Bret was a real estate developer with his grandfather, and Reed was their architect of choice.
“Calm down, I’ll be submitting them.”
“When?”
“When they’re ready.”
“Maybe take a few days off from chasing ass and get them done.”
Reed extended his middle finger. “I can handle both at the same time.”
“I know you can,” Bret said, smirking. “The place is right up here.” He pointed towards the next block.
“I can’t believe you’re taking me to....” Reed stopped mid-sentence. A stunning blonde in a halter top and painted-on jeans was making her way into a hair salon across the street. She required — indeed deserved — his undivided attention. And Bret, a former player himself, understood the need to take in a little eye candy. The woman disappeared inside. “As I was saying,” Reed continued, “I can’t believe you are taking me to this place.”
“Quinn told me to meet her here.”
“It’s nice you do what you’re told.”
Bret extended his middle finger and came to a stop under a green-striped awning. Reed looked up at Adelaide’s Pie Shop, the name stenciled on the front picture window. He peered through the window at the beadboard, the white tin ceiling tiles, the weathered brick flooring, the shiny plates, everything coordinated in pinks and greens.
“So is Adelaide the owner?”
“No, Peyton is,” Bret said.
“Who’s Peyton?”
Bret opened the door — a happy, little bell jingling — and Reed followed him inside, hanging back towards the entrance. Quinn narrowed her eyes at Reed then gave Bret a glorious smile, embracing him as if she hadn’t seen him in days. Reed stifled an urge to throw up, unsure whether the bell or the embrace was more sickening.
Bret leaned over the counter and pecked Peyton on the cheek. “You have my favorite, right?”
Peyton nodded then turned to bend down to a low-level ice box. Reed, ever curious, approached the counter, sensing a hot body underneath the baggy clothes. He prided himself on having such abilities — on knowing a hot girl when he saw one — even from a distance, even if the girl was trying to fight it. After all, it was his job as an architect to recognize beauty where others might miss it.
She came up from below with a slice of coconut cream pie, garnished with toasted coconut flakes, and her heart skipped a beat, suddenly finding a dark-haired hottie standing before her.
Reed liked what he saw, too, confirming what he thought from a distance. His dick confirmed it, too, growing hard just at the sight of her. He wished he wasn’t here with Bret and Quinn. He wished he could get to know this girl better, which is to say he wondered if there was a nearby hotel where he could take her, or maybe a table in the back in the kitchen. She offered a sweet smile, and Reed smiled right back. Then she looked away to hand Bret his pie.
“I’m sorry,” Bret said. “Peyton Mayfield, this is Reed Langston.”
She tried not to blush. “What can I get for you, Reed?”
Reed took his eyes off of Peyton, moving them to a dizzying array of pies in multiple display cases. There were cream pies and baked pies and fruit pies and every other type of pie imaginable. The choices were endless. Just when he thought he found one, he saw another. Story of my life. He suddenly felt Quinn and Bret staring at him, waiting for him to make a decision, and sensed Peyton, twirling her locket, was growing impatient herself. “Apple, please,” he blurted out.
Peyton looked at him curiously. “You don’t seem real confident in your choice.”
“Is there something you think I might like more?” Reed replied, the corner of his mouth turned up in a sexy half-smile.
Quinn sensed Reed making his usual play and wanted it to stop. “Peyton can pick for you.”
“Yeah, she’s got some weird sixth sense about pie,” Bret said. “She can tell what pie you like just by looking at you.”
“We call it the ‘Pie Personality Gift,’” Quinn said.
“I think I’ll just take the apple,” Reed said.
“That’s no fun,” Peyton teased. “How about I give you the apple and also what I think you’d like, and then we’ll see?”
“Sure,” Reed said with a shrug. “How can you tell?”
“Let me see your hand,” Peyton said, a twinkle in her eyes.
“Are you some kind of palm reader?” Reed held out his hand and gave a smirk to Bret — as if this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done.
“It’s nice you do what you’re told,” Bret quipped.
Peyton slipped her hand into Reed’s, and a sudden electrical charge shot between them. She flinched at the contact, her baby blue eyes flying wide open, but he gently closed his fingers around hers, never letting slip a chance to hold a pretty girl’s hand, even if he didn’t believe any of her pie witchcraft bullshit. Quinn cleared her throat to voice her disapproval. But Peyton and Reed both ignored her, leaving Quinn to frown and grab a nearby table with Bret.
Reed studied her as she worked, or whatever the hell she was doing. She was a natural beauty — her baby blue eyes, long brown hair, and fair skin, without a stitch of makeup — a far cry from the overtly sexy model he usually went for. He memorized her perfect pink lips, knowing what they could do for him, and the curve of her neck, a silver locket dangling from it. He saw something else, too — at least he thought he did. There appeared to be some complication about her, some sadness behind her pretty eyes, something she was trying to hide. I could make you happy.
Peyton examined the shape and lines of his hands but found it hard to focus, a part of her wanting to run and hide, another wanting to run her hands through his dark, messy hair, to feel the slight stubble on his face, imagining his hands running down her body, her breasts against his washboard abs. Then she caught herself and drew a deep breath, her stomach churning, a million butterflies floating around. She looked up from his hands, into his steel blue eyes, shocked by her attraction to a man she knew nothing about. “You are devil’s food chocolate praline.”
“We’ll see.”
Peyton dipped into her ice boxes. “So how do you and Bret know each other?”
“We’re old friends from high school. I just moved back to town, partly to design some projects he’s working on with his family. I’m an architect.”
* * *
“I don’t like the way Reed’s looking at Peyton,” Quinn said softly. “I don’t trust him.”
“The only stuff you know,” Bret whispered, “is gossip you’ve heard through the Junior League or wherever.”
“I’ve heard a lot.”
“Keep your voice down.” Bret turned to make sure Peyton and Reed weren’t listening.
“Well, I have several sources.” Quinn thought her journalism degree made her some fancy investigative reporter and a good judge of character, though her columns typically focused on the latest fashion trends.
“Look, he puts up with a lot of shit being Richard Langston’s son. P
eople always judge him.”
“It seems with good reason.”
“He’s a good guy. He’s even mentoring this black kid in the projects.”
“Is there some woman he’s trying to impress out there?” Quinn asked. “I’m not surprised he hangs out with kids; he has the maturity of a teenager. It’s time he grows up — both of you actually.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Now that he’s back in town, I just don’t want him rubbing off on you, OK?”
“He likes to have fun, and so do I. That’s not going to change.”
Quinn sat back in her chair, sensing a losing battle. “Why are you so loyal to him?”
“I never told you how Reed and I met?” She shook her head. “We played high school baseball together. We knew each other but weren’t real close. On a road trip — I don’t even remember where we were — I snuck a bottle of scotch into the hotel. Of course, the coaches found out about it — half the team was drunk. A few guys pointed the finger at me. Reed knew my parents were strict and would kill me. So he took the heat instead — said the bottle was his — even though he didn’t even drink that night. He never really drinks. Funny thing is that Reed is a terrible liar — always has been — but the coaches believed him because of who his father is. He ended up getting suspended from school for three days.” Bret paused for a moment. “And that isn’t the only time he’s taken the heat for me. He’s saved my ass more times than I can count. And I’ve never had to save his.”
“His family is a disaster.”
“But he’s not. So be nice.”
* * *
Peyton plated two slices of pie. “Here you go, let me know what you think.”
Reed thanked her and sat down with Bret and Quinn. He took one bite of the apple pie and glanced over his shoulder at Peyton cleaning up, a little smile across her pink lips. An elderly gentleman came in, and Peyton gave him her full attention. “Strawberry, right?”
Quinn slapped Reed’s forearm. “Hey, slick, don’t get any ideas about Peyton. She’s a nice girl, not one of your frequent hook-ups.”