Best Kind of Broken

24 Levi

I could do it. She wants me to do it. She wants me to do whatever I want.

And I want… so… much.

I look at her bare stomach and stare at the skin below her belly button.

I could kiss her there. I could keep my palm around her calf and bend it to her body and lie down between her legs and lick a trail along the very low waistline of her ridiculous shorts. I look up at her, see the desire in her eyes, and almost do it.

But then I see the end of her scar peeking out from the bottom of her shirt and it’s like a train hits me, crashing into me and shredding up my insides with hot metal and shards of split iron until I feel nothing but pain.

What the hell am I doing? This is Pixie.

Pixie.

I can’t ruin her life and then sleep with her. That would be fucked up on so many levels. I’m not an angel, but I know the difference between right and wrong, and sex with the girl I maimed and nearly killed would be wrong.

Probably smoking-ass hot.

But wrong, wrong, wrong.

I force my eyes to stay on the scar, the only thing powerful enough to put distance between us, and with a deep inhale, I close my eyes and lift away from Pixie’s bed. My body is in agony as I back away from her hot, open body.

She stays in the sinful position for a beat, then pulls herself up until she’s sitting cross-legged. She takes a deep breath, and the light from her window shines blue on her chest as it rises with air.

I clear my throat and overenunciate my words. “Can I please use your phone?”

She slowly stands up and straightens her shirt before looking up at me. “No.”

“Ugh.” I pull at my hair. “Why are you such a pain in the ass?”

She makes a face. “Why don’t you ever let me take a hot shower?”

I lean in. “If you want a hot shower, then shower at night.”

“I can’t shower at night. If I shower at night, then I’ll have to dry my hair at night, and if I dry my hair at night, then I’ll have to straighten my hair at night, and then I’ll have to sleep on my straightened hair, and when I sleep on my straightened hair, it gets all poofy.”

I blink at her.

“I don’t like it when my hair gets poofy!” She thrusts her hands out like I’m supposed to know poofy hair is a nighttime-shower-related problem. “Why don’t you shower at night?”

“Because I like pissing you off!” I raise my voice.

She raises her voice to match mine. “Why?”

“Because fighting doesn’t hurt!”

It’s the most honest thing either one of us has said to each other in nearly a year and it just hangs there, in the silence, like a gaping black hole.

Her lips part, and I see the fight drain from her expression.

No.

No, no.

Fight, dammit.

Lavender-scented body heat starts circling around me, tucking me into something lost and safe, making me feel wanted and worthy and all the other things I shouldn’t feel.

She’s all big eyes and fragile bones, with her pretty mouth tilted up as she scans my face and softly asks, “Does it hurt you to be around me?”

It hurts and it heals.

It aches and it comforts.

I swallow and quietly say, “Does it hurt you to be around me?”

Neither of us responds as we gaze at each other in the moonlight.

I step back from the sweet, warm haze Pixie just wrapped around me with her goddamn goodness and shake my head. Not saying anything, just shaking my head like an idiot, I leave her room.