Broken: Enemies to Lovers Romance (City Slickers Book 1) Page 3

  I thought she might change her mind as the night went on, but that plan sadly shattered when the guys turned up…with chicks.

  Mac brought his girlfriend Nadia, while filthy rotten Croyden brought two chicks whose names both started with S. I’ve had both of them before, several times over. Sasha and Sarah I think their names are. Or Sandra and Sally. Not cool. I didn’t want them here.

  “Are you going to introduce us?” Croy asked, eyeing up Brydie in the kitchen.

  “No,” I said, feeling protective of my hot babysitter.

  “Is she Ice’s little sister?” Mac asked, finding that hard to believe.

  I nodded. “I think she takes after her Californian mother.”

  The baking smells coming out of the kitchen were enough to make everyone stay longer, which wasn’t what I wanted at all. Before long, Croy swaggered over to Brydie to chat her up, while one of the S chicks snuggled up to me. I barely noticed her. My eyes were fixed onto that golden ponytail swinging in the kitchen.

  Moments after Croy stepped into her lair, Brydes had him slicing and weighing butter. Mac and I sneered at the dude, poking fun. Five minutes after that he was wearing an apron, full swing into the baking scene. I’d never seen anything like it. How did she manage to get a smutty cad like Croy obediently helping her?

  After watching the kitchen theatre for a few moments, Mac turned back to me and smirked when he caught sight of the S chick’s hand. I was so focused on watching Brydes, ready to attack if Croy made a move on her, that I hadn’t noticed the S chick rubbing my cock. I was as hard as a rock, but it wasn’t entirely due to her hand. I was hard before they arrived. I was hard in the organic store walking behind Chucky’s ass.

  I couldn’t take much more of this. I hated that chick doing that in front of Brydie. I pushed her away and decided it was time to leave.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come out with us?” I asked Brydes one more time.

  She shook her head.

  “Go on!” Croy begged her. “I’ll hold your hand and buy your drinks.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Brydes,” I said, playfully shoving Croy out the way, “can I get your number?”

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Can I get your number as well?” Croy asked.

  “Because you’re my abstention officer,” I said, faking a serious tone.

  She hesitated before saying, “Fine,” and I entered her number into my phone.

  It was a light night, a night of twos. I drank two beers, two Jim Beams, and kissed and danced with two different chicks. All the while, that blonde beauty in my apartment was plaguing my mind.

  Me: Fancy warming my bed tonight?

  Brydes: Wrong person.

  Me: Right person

  Me: It’s customary for roomies to christen the bedrooms.

  Me: And the living room

  Me: And the kitchen

  Brydes: Again, wrong person

  Me: Right person.

  Brydes: Does the baby need a bottle?

  Me: No. The baby needs a titty. Preferably yours.

  Brydes: Are you drunk?

  Me: How else does one celebrate surviving rehab?

  Brydes:

  Me: I’m joking, Chucky.

  Brydes:

  I left for home an hour after that text conversation. The apartment was dark but the sweet smells of baking lingered. There was a large bowl of muesli soaking in some sort of citrus-smelling liquid and next to that a cookie tin with a sticker on it that read, Rejects-Jake. Inside were broken cookies and cut-offs of various slices she had made. I wasn’t in the mood for sleeping, so I landed on the couch with my tin of rejects and watched TV until my eyes couldn’t stay open. I ate the entire contents of the tin. There were chocolate chip cookies, chocolate caramel slice, ginger crunch, chocolate coconut slice and others all mixed in together. She was a fantastic baker. I hoped she raised a ton of money.

  Yet another piece to the puzzle of Brydie Malone.

  Chapter Six

  Brydie

  7.08 on Sunday morning and my phone rang.

  By the time I found where I’d put it, it’d stopped ringing. So I went back to bed. I didn’t bother checking to see who rang, but when I heard a text notification, I thought it might be important.

  It was from Isaac. Ring me ASAP!

  I took some deep therapeutic breaths before I called him back.

  “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” he answered, sounding pissed off.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I have footage showing the Austin kid drinking last night.”

  “And so?”

  “You’re supposed to keep him dry.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Sorry? Sorry? Is that all you have to say?”

  “Like I said, I can’t watch him twenty four seven. He is a grown man.”

  “Have you got shit for brains?” he snapped. “Mr. Austin’s not happy.”

  “How the hell did you find out so quickly?” I asked, mystified. It was early on Sunday morning. Jake only went out last night. He didn’t even stay out that long, because I heard him come home. What was the big deal?

  “Another month has been tacked on,” he said. “Every time he drinks we’ll add another month.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have debts. And to stop you from escaping your responsibilities, I’m freezing your bank accounts.”

  “What? You can’t do that!” I screamed down the phone.

  “What are you going to do about it?” he hissed. “Call the police? We own the fucking police.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Leon is on his way over to seize your passport-”

  “How am I going to live if you’ve fro-”

  “Don’t fucking interrupt me! Leon is on his way over to seize your passport and give you a two-week allowance in cash of your own money.”

  “How kind of you,” I spat.

  “Thank you,’ he said. “Don’t mess Leon about by pretending you can’t find your passport, either.”

  “Whatever.”

  “This was your doing, Stray Cat. You dug this hole on your own.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Have a nice day,” he said, half laughing.

  Click.

  I was so enraged I couldn’t think straight. I paced back and forth outside the kid’s bedroom with the urge to open his door and let loose with my fists. To punch his pretty face would feel good right now. Stupid kid. Who the hell goes drinking to celebrate surviving rehab? Spoilt, fucking brat.

  I heard a knock at the front door and peered through the peephole. It was loyal-to-a-fault Leon coming to nail the lid on my coffin.

  “Asshole,” I said when I opened the door.

  “Likewise,” he said.

  I found my passport where I always kept important documents, in a small purse in my backpack. I still hadn’t unpacked yet. I handed him my passport and in return he gave me an envelope with cash inside and the keycard to get into Isaac’s office. I snatched it from his hand and showed him the door.

  “See you on Monday,” he said, showing a tiny hint of amusement.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  He shot me a warning look. “7.30pm sharp.”

  “Fine.” I slammed the door after him, hoping I’d wake up the kid so I could scream at him. I had nowhere to release my rage, and kept pacing back and forth until I remembered that there was a pool in the building. I quickly found my swimwear, a clean towel and beach robe and left the apartment.

  When I returned an hour later after swimming several lengths of the half-Olympic size pool, the kid was still in his room. I felt calmer, but I still wanted to yell at him. I had a hot shower, slipped on some clean clothes and went out into the kitchen to have breakfast. I’d bought nuts, seeds, rolled oats and dried fruit at the organic store and mixed it all together to make a muesli. Then soaked it overnight in water with a squeeze of
lemon juice. I was going to cook it up that morning for both myself and Jake, but Jake can get stuffed.

  After enjoying the muesli and freshly made plunger coffee, I began to bag and price the cookies and slices that I let cool overnight. It was at that moment that Jake emerged, naked from the waist up and rubbing his sleepy eyes.

  “Don’t talk to me,” I snapped, before he had a chance to speak. “I’m so angry with you right now.”

  “Was it the texts I sent?” His voice was croaky, like he’d spent the night inhaling tobacco smoke. He smirked, running his hand through his dark messy hair.

  “You drank!” I hissed.

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Isaac rang me 7 fucking am.”

  “Why are you so upset about it? It’s my life.” Then he screwed up his face. “How did he know?”

  “He’s got moles everywhere.”

  Jake shrugged, rubbing his flat stomach with his hand as if it wasn’t a big deal.

  “The new rule is when you drink, I get punished,” I said, holding back the tears. “When did you come out of rehab?”

  “Friday.”

  “Who goes drinking the day after they get out of rehab?” I was forcing my voice to remain steady, but I was failing at it.

  “I do.”

  I growled in frustration. I wanted to throw something at him.

  “What was your punishment?” he asked.

  “They’ve tacked another month on,” I said, placing bags of cookies into a box. I had to keep busy to stop the tears from falling.

  “Is that so bad?” he asked. “It’s a nice apartment with a view of the lake, if you lean over the balcony far enough. I know you’d rather be in Bali, but Chicago’s not so bad.”

  “And he…” I turned away from him when a stray tear ran down my cheek.

  “And he what?”

  I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “He’s frozen my bank accounts,” my voice was breaking, “and taken my passport.”

  “Are you serious?! He can’t just freeze bank accounts,” he exclaimed hotly. “How is that even possible?” He stepped into the kitchen closer to me. I kept my back to him. I could tell he wanted to comfort me, but I wasn’t crying because I was sad, I was crying because I was seething. “If you’re worried about money, I can pay. Whatever you need, I can pay for it.”

  “I’m getting an allowance of my own money in cash. I don’t need your money.”

  He stood there in silence while I kept busy. I could feel his eyes on me in sympathy, or perhaps guilt. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “I don’t need your help. You’ve done enough.”

  “Seriously Brydes, I didn’t know this was going to happen. I didn’t know you’d get…” He faltered. “I don’t understand why my actions are being taken out on you. What did you do?”

  I shook my head. There were several moments of prickly silence, until he said, “How are you going to get those boxes down to the animal shelter?”

  “Taxi,” I answered swiftly. The fare would eat into my pissy damn allowance but still, I’ll just go without lunch for a few days.

  “Let me take you?” he asked, almost pleading.

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “Please, Brydes,” he pleaded, now his voice was breaking up.

  I wondered how often he said please. I wondered if he’s ever been so desperate for something, he had to swallow his pride and plead for it.

  “Please,’ he said again.

  Still with my back turned, I nodded.

  Chapter Seven

  Jake

  I honestly didn’t know how this whole after-rehab rehab period with my babysitter/parole officer would roll. I didn’t know my roommate was going to be penalized when I stuffed up. It’s hardly my fault and I’m not going to apologize. Why the hell should I apologize? As usual, I was left in the dark by my own family. Those heartless schmucks should be the ones to drop to their knees and apologize to Brydie.

  The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like Brydie and I were two players in a game we were oblivious to. Someone’s idea of a joke - two puppets on a string, forced to dance just with the flick of a hand.

  It was a chilly drive to the animal shelter. And I’m not talking about the weather. We sat in silence. She stared out the window with her arms crossed, while I strained my brain wondering what to do or say to make it better. The only solution I came up with was to ask my father to take it easy on her.

  She sighed and ruffled her hair with her hand, releasing a tantalizing scent of orange vanilla. Her hair was wavy and golden, like a velvety soft waterfall running down her back. Chucky. Chucky. Chucky. I wondered what it felt like to touch, to bury my face in it and breathe in her scent. Fuck, this Chucky thing does not work. Maybe I should try Pennywise. Brydie is a clown. A creepy clown that preys on children.

  I had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud at the thought of the woman next to me as a freaky clown with a big red nose and large squeaky shoes.

  I turned the radio on to kill the silence. An old Soundgarden track was playing. Black Hole Sun.

  “Sad,” she said, still staring out the window. Finally, she speaks.

  I followed her stare to see what was so sad, seeing only shops and cars. “What’s sad?”

  “Chris Cornell,” she said.

  Then it occurred to me that she was talking about Chris Cornell taking his life in 2017. “Yeah,” I agreed. “It was sad. His voice was…is incredible.”

  So she liked Soundgarden. A chick who liked Soundgarden was a chick I’d like to spend time with. Pennywise. Pennywise. Pennywise. Brydie has a clown body, and a freaky serial killing doll’s head.

  Yet she smelt so fucking good.

  While Brydes was organizing her boxes of delicious sweet treats at the stalls, I went into the kennels to gaze through the Perspex at the dogs. My older siblings had a dog when they were growing up, called Milo. It died before I was born and wasn’t replaced with another dog. My parents got tired of being parents by the time I came along, which was 5 years after Sophia. I was mostly raised by au pairs, because my mother was too busy organizing interior designers and builders for the many houses and apartments my family own. Buy, do up, sell on or rent out. The do-up side was my mother’s avenue.

  I walked down the aisle lined with barking, tail-wagging dogs. Some of them looked like someone had taken the parts of two different breeds and glued them together to create an odd-looking mongrel.

  I paused at a kennel where a golden Labrador cross was jumping up and down with a big goofy grin on his face. High energy. I felt sluggish just watching him jump about the place. The kennel next to him was empty, hopefully that dog had found a good home. I was about to move on when I saw movement in the corner of the space. At first glance I thought it was a towel, until I saw a large brown eye cautiously open. I crouched down and beckoned him over. The tag on the Perspex said his name was Newman. A cocker spaniel.

  When I showed interest in him, he lifted his head to peer back at me. His floppy ears were two different lengths and his face and nose were a map of scars. He got up on his front two feet and began to make his way over to me. Instead of walking on all fours, he dragged his back legs limply behind him.

  “I see you’ve met our little Newman,’ a staffer said. I hadn’t noticed her walk up to me.

  ‘What’s the matter with his legs?” I asked.

  “He’s got a tumor on his spine that is pressing against his nerves.”

  “So he’s not paralyzed?” I asked.

  “No, it can be removed with surgery,” she said. “But it’s tricky and expensive.”

  On closer inspection, I noticed Newman’s ears were crudely cut to two different lengths. He wasn’t born that way.

  “Kids,” she said, reading my mind. “His previous home.”

  “So the tumor is like the cherry on the cake,” I said sarcastically. I’m not really an animal person. I’d never deliberately hurt an animal, but I’m i
n no hurry to fill my home and garden with them either. But there was something about this little guy that got to me.

  “Why Newman?” I asked. “Named after Paul Newman?”

  She shrugged. “He came in on an N month and we thought he deserved a different name to the one his previous owners gave him.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. I wasn’t going to forget that dog in a hurry.

  Later on that day, Brydes went out and I sat alone in the apartment. I had the television on, but I wasn’t really paying attention to what was playing. I was getting restless and bored and started thinking about my bestie, Old Rip Van Winkle. I knew for a fact there was a liquor store down the road that sold Old Rip, Kentucky’s’ finest bourbon. I figured if I drank alone, no one would know. Even if Brydes smelt the stuff on my breath, she wouldn’t dare tell a soul.

  I found myself at the liquor store in question and pointed to the bottle in a glass cabinet behind the counter where the good stuff was. Good ol’ 25-year-old bourbon at the delightful sum of $1,800USD per 750ml bottle. The guy behind the counter, who wore his handlebar moustache like a trophy, raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Got some ID?” he said.

  I showed him my driver’s license, hoping he’d notice my surname. The Austin name meant I was good for it. I could buy that bottle and several more, and pay cash if he wanted.

  He glanced at my name, then tapped away at his computer keyboard. “You’re on the wall,” he said, pointing at the computer screen.

  “The what?”

  “The wall. It doesn’t matter how much I want to sell you that fine bottle of bourbon, I just can’t.”

  “Who said?”

  He shrugged.

  “Okay, just give me a Jim Bean,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’re on the wall. That means I can’t sell you anything.”

  “Can you give it to me for free then?”

  Leaving empty-handed I went to the next liquor store and the same thing happened. After the fourth attempt, I thought about grabbing someone off the street and asking them to buy me a bottle with my card. I’d let them get whatever they wanted for themselves for the effort. Even better, I’d ask Croyden to get his shady friend to make me a fake ID. Then I’d return in disguise.