Broken (21 page)

Arena sighed, put down his beer, and got up. “Jesus. I’ve never had to work this hard to get into a woman’s pants! What is it? You really frigid like your nickname suggests? Do you only like women? Or is it O’Loughlin?” he asked, moving closer. “Because if it’s him, you can forget it. I hear he’s dating ASA Maroney.”

Even though Berg had ended things once and for all nearly two months prior, and she knew for a fact Jay had been dating Maroney, the words still stung. She struggled to retain her composure as the darkness yawned in front of her.

You were never good enough for him,
her mother taunted.

“Just get out,” she said.

“Well, I’m up for making him jealous, just so you know. Keep it in mind.”

“You just don’t give up, do you?” Berg said, exasperated.

“Nope,” Arena grabbed the door from Berg and closed it firmly.

“Arena—”

Arena pushed her against the door and roughly kissed her.

She quickly pushed him away.

Undeterred, he kissed her again, harder.

This time, Berg’s anger got the better of her, and when she pushed him away, she followed it with a neat right hook.

Blood slowly trickled out of his mouth, but Arena acted as though he barely felt the blow. “That all you got?” he muttered, before slapping her across the face.

It wasn’t a hard blow, but the combination of sex and violence sent Berg over the edge. What was intended to be an attack became a full-blown kiss when she launched herself at him, slamming them both into the wall. Her anger, hurt, and want swirled together, and before logic could intervene, she was pulling off his jacket and shirt.

God help me. . .

Breathing loudly, Arena wrestled her to the floor. An instant later, her skirt was around her waist, her underwear pulled crudely to the side. Arena shoved her legs apart before burying his face and tongue between her legs.

His expertise became obvious to Berg, and despite herself, she moaned in pleasure and weaved her fingers through his short, dark hair.

Just a little longer and the numbness will be back. Just a little longer . . .

“Wait! Stop,” she said through panting breaths. “No!” She kicked away from him and pulled her skirt back down. “This is not going to happen, Arena. Get out!”

“I see how it is,” Arena said viciously, wiping his mouth. “Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumors, you whore.”

Enough.

She clenched a fist and hit him again with her better, stronger, left-handed jab.

He stumbled back, clutching his eye.

“Unless you want to end up with balls like Feeny’s, you’ve got one second to get out of this house!”

Still covering his eye, Arena picked up his shirt and jacket one-handed and opened the door. “Relax. I’m going.”

Berg slammed the door behind him and sunk down onto the floor in a ball.

You whore. Whore, whore, whorewhorewhore . . .

She covered her ears in desperation, but the action was pointless; the voices echoed in her head relentlessly.

You are a whore. What else are you good for?
her mother ridiculed.

Kill him
, Leigh whispered.
You know you want to. It’s what you were born for.

There’s nothing here worth fighting for
, Jay said.

You’re broken and you know it,
Leigh insisted.

Unable to handle the voices, Berg picked herself up off the floor, rushed to the kitchen, and grabbed the first sharp implement she could find—a bread knife from her knife block.

Tearing off her long-sleeved shirt, she dragged the knife up her arm, deep enough that a few drops of blood rolled down her arm lazily before falling to the floor in barely audible pats.

Concentrating on the physical pain, Berg obtained the few blissful moments of silence she’d been searching for.

Still nursing his eye out in the hallway, Arena flipped open his phone and dialed. “I’m in,” he said as soon as he heard the click on the other end. “I know what I said, but I’ve changed my mind. What’s our next move?”

Chapter Seventeen

I tried to be someone else.

But nothing seemed to change.

I know now, this is who I really am inside.

–30 Seconds to Mars, “The Kill”

B
erg jerked awake and looked around in confusion.

God! My head . . . feels like a hammer beati—what the hell?

She couldn’t quite clear the sleepy fog enough to pinpoint the pounding. A moment of quiet and she realized she was lying on her kitchen floor with blood smeared on her arms and legs and a small pool of it had dried on the floor.

The pounding started again, and this time it was clear it was someone at the front door.

“Just a second!” she called as she picked herself up. Her head spun crazily and she grasped the edge of the counter until the dizziness passed.

C’mon! Get it together.

She rushed into her room and grabbed her robe, sure that it would cover most of the dried blood on her body.

As she swung open the door, she realized too late that she should’ve checked the peephole first. “Fuck off. I have nothing to say to you.”

Arena held out a bunch of roses. “I’m so sorry.”

Regardless of how contrite he managed to sound, the flowers only inflamed her anger, reminding her of her father’s gifts after each nightly visit.

Her bedroom had been stuffed with all the expensive toys a young girl could possibly wish for. Any visiting friends, had she ever had any, would’ve been jealous at the prizes her room contained—the stereo, the dolls, and a brand-new Schwinn complete with handlebar tassels and pink basket parked in front of the large house. But none of it had made what he did all right. None of it had made up for it. The gifts had only made it worse. They were shiny, dolled-up, expensive, colorfully painted reminders of the horrors her nights had contained. They had sat on her shelves and mocked her and her weakness.

One day, she had piled them all in the backyard, poured an entire can of lighter fluid on them, and set it all on fire. She had watched it burn and wished it was her father instead. She had imagined his screams . . .

Her mother had been horrified at the bonfire and had punished her severely for her ungratefulness, using it as yet another example of Berg’s innate evil.

“I don’t want your fucking flowers.”

Arena quickly withdrew them. “I know they don’t make up for anything. I just . . . I wanted . . . I needed to find a way to express how sorry I am.”

Berg scrutinized him, watching every move he made for a hint of insincerity. His face, while sporting a deep black eye and a bruise on his chin, held none of the contempt he’d shown toward her last night.

“You are not a whore. You are incredible, and for a moment last night, I hoped that you thought I was incredible, too. I was hurt. I’m so sorry.” He raised his head to look her in the eye. “I’ll never cross that line again unless you expressly ask me to. I really hope you do.”

She ignored the roses when he tried to thrust them at her again. “I don’t think we can be partners anymore,” she said stiffly. “I can’t trust you. I don’t even like you. And after last night . . .” She didn’t even have the words.

“You’re right. Last night was . . . horrible. I drank too much, and I am disgusted with myself. I didn’t sleep all night. Please, Berg. I am begging you. Please, stay my partner. Let’s start fresh. I am giving you my word that nothing like that will ever happen again. Please? Can I come in? Let’s talk about it. You can even hit me again.” He tried to help the feeble joke by adding a small smile.

He’ll see the blood!

Berg blocked the doorway. “No, you can’t come in. I need a shower.”

Arena glanced down at her body for the first time and did a double take. “Jesus, what the fuck?” He grabbed her arm and pulled the sleeve of the thin robe up. “Is that blood?” He fingered the fading, easily recognizable restraint marks around her wrists that were usually hidden by a long-sleeved shirt, before moving up to the recent cuts, one of which was still leaking blood down her arm traitorously. “Berg?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, pulling back her arm and rearranging the robe. “A cooking accident.”

“A cooking accident, my ass! What were you cooking—a lion? I know you think I’m a moron, but I’m not.”

“Just leave it, Arena.” She was glad he hadn’t succeeded in removing her clothes last night or he would have seen a back that still resembled mincemeat, courtesy of the judge.

He looked at her with nothing but concern in his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Cutting yourself? Isn’t that what teenage girls with eating disorders do? Why would you do this to yourself? Fuck!” He pulled her close, and catching Berg off guard, he closed his arms around her in a firm hug.

She tensed her body, ready to break away, but there was nothing sexual about it. He simply held her tight.

“Jesus, why?” he whispered in her ear.

Berg wasn’t sure who he was asking, and she really didn’t know how to answer, so she tried to brush him off. “It’s fine, it was an accident. Just go.”

Arena pulled back and set his jaw in that all too familiar tilt. He was in the argument for the long haul.

Berg sighed. “If you leave right now, I will give you one last chance. One. Fuck it up and that’s it, got it?”

He nodded and pulled her in for another quick, jolting hug.

“Ow!” Berg grabbed the back of her head.

“Sorry, my watchband snagged some of your hair,” he said, holding up a few long strands that had been unceremoniously yanked out by the band of his stainless steel timepiece. He awkwardly held out the flowers again.

“I don’t want them. I’ll see you in a week.” Berg closed the door behind him and headed for the shower.

Arena hesitated in the hallway, holding up Berg’s long strands of hair in front of his face.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I can’t do this . . .”

He started to drop them on the floor but shook his head and roughly sealed them in a yellow evidence packet he pulled out of his pocket. He turned to leave, stopped, walked back to the door, and carefully placed the flowers on Berg’s doormat.