Broken At Love (Whitman University)

BROKEN AT LOVE

A Novel by Lyla Payne

Copyright 2013 by Lyla Payne

Cover art and design by Sarah Hansen

Editing: Jim Thomsen

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Praise for
Broken at Love:

“If you like Abbi Glines, you'll love Lyla Payne…
Broken at Love
is a sexy new adult novel that will leave you breathless for more!” – Denise Grover Swank, bestselling author of
The Chosen
series.

“Broken at Love is sexy, engaging and unputdownable! Emilie and Quinn sizzle on the page.” – Jennifer Iacopelli, author of
Game. Set. Match
(forthcoming from Coliloquy, May 2013).

The U.S. Open

Chapter One

Quinn

“And Alexandria Ikanova, the eighteen-year-old from Russia, takes her fourth-round match in straight sets, knocking off the reigning U.S. Open champ.”

A headache started at the base of my skull at the beginning of the short match, and by the end had settled behind my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can we turn that off, for Christ’s sake?”

My half-brother Sebastian shot an amused look my direction. “We’re throwing a U.S. Open party. We can’t turn off the U.S. Open.”

I didn’t bother answering, turning my back on the television. The last thing I wanted to see was the hottest Russian girl to ever play tennis—and that was saying something—coyly answering interview questions, bathed in a post-match glow.

I’d seen that glow up close and personal, with substantially less clothing to hide it.

“Hey. Stop glowering at the bar, Q. You’re irritating the vodka. So, Alexandria dumped your ass like a hot potato after you had to leave the tour. There are going to be so many hot girls in this house tonight you’ll forget her name, I promise.” Sebastian got up from the polished barstool, knocking back another shot of vodka. “I’m going to make sure the bouncers are set up.”

My eyes wandered back to the television for the briefest of moments, and the sight of her flushed cheeks and wide grin turned my stomach sour. Alexandria had no right to break it off. Anger churned, still as strong as the night she’d flippantly informed me we were done.

“
Come on, Quinn, what did you think would happen
?
You’d travel with me, following like a gimpy puppy on a leash
?
I’m eighteen, and you’re broken. I don’t have time for a dog
.”

The simple memory of her words drew a growl from my throat, and I swallowed three shots, one after the other, of the leftover whiskey.

Chatter and laughter met my ears, signaling the arrival of our guests. Throwing these parties around the four tennis majors was my idea—a little extra
fuck you
to Alexandria—but making them exclusive, invitation-only events had been Sebastian’s doing. Every kid at Whitman University salivated for their golden ticket, and Sebastian loved nothing more than playing Willy Wonka, lording our family’s money and influence over our classmates.

Over everyone, actually.

He had a knack for accumulating power. He’d even snagged me in his net.

Instead of following him outside or playing the good host, I wandered out back and down to the beach. The loose footing settled an ache in the goddamn knee that cost me my career.

Waves crashed on the shore, sucking the sand from underneath my callused toes. The sound of the water unwound the tight muscles in my shoulders. At least an hour passed while I stared out to sea; by the time I turned around, people spilled out of the house, down the deck, and into the sandy yard. Dusk fell, and the lights flicking on inside the house made my guests visible through the giant picture windows.

I didn’t want to go inside. Those kids might be my classmates now, but they were not my people. My friends were gathered in Flushing Meadows, New York, playing night matches or winding down from the day session. A glance at my watch said another two hours remained before my own game began, but the peace of the sunset fell away with the sounds of the party. I needed a drink.

Alcohol helped the hours pass quicker than anticipated. The more whiskey that burned my gut, the easier it became to smile and laugh, to chat about classes and frat parties and girls without wanting to ignore every single person asking for my attention.

Then Annette Davis walked in the front door, right on time. Chin-length blond hair, pale blue eyes. Smoking body, with legs that disappeared into a barely-there black dress at the top and into strappy heels at the bottom. I could see why Sebastian chose her; she was easily one of the most attractive girls I’d seen since I’d begun my forced matriculation.

She was rumored to be a bit of an uptight tease, too, flaunting the goods but refusing to play when it came to the business end of the night. She’d shut down at least half a dozen of my frat brothers since the beginning of freshman year.

Sebastian bumped into her a few paces inside the door, his darker gold hair barely topping her height in those killer shoes. While two of my frat brothers waylaid her friends, ushering them toward the keg on the back lawn with practiced charm, Sebastian steered Annette—tonight’s top seed, if we’re using tennis terminology—toward the deck bar.

The next part was easy. Brush past her on her way outside, make eye contact. Give her a smile, let my eyes linger on her mouth until her cheeks bloomed pink, then keep walking.

After that, I drank with some of the guys. Flirted harmlessly with the mediocre, dull, predictable girls shoving themselves in my face, tripping over their feet and spilling cheap beer all over their overpriced designer dresses.

Tried not to kill myself.

Definitely didn’t watch the night matches spinning across the television screens in every room. Ignored the fact that not one of these girls, not even the sexy target of the night, compared to Alexandria’s exotic beauty, her flaunted confidence. Or her body, toned by hours and hours of chasing little green balls across tennis courts.

I shook the remnants of my old life away and checked my watch again. Right on time, a guy named Toby crashed into Annette from behind, spilling a carefully planted Irish Car Bomb down the front of her dress. The Irish crème meant she couldn’t stay in those clothes, not unless she wanted to reek like spoiled milk inside an hour, and she wasn’t one of the invited overnight guests. Which meant she didn’t have a change of clothes.

Gracious host Quinn Rowland to the rescue.

“Oh, what a mess,” she sighed heavily, mopping fruitlessly at the gobs of curdled crème and whiskey with flimsy bar napkins.

I liked that she smiled while she tried to clean herself up; a lot of girls would have lost their minds and screamed at Toby. If he hadn’t immediately disappeared.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Sebastian lamented. “Parties. What are you gonna do?”

The apology sounded false to my ears, like everything that emerged from Sebastian’s mouth. Probably because I knew better than anyone that every time he spoke, he was either lying or scheming.

“I guess I’ll go home.” She gave up with the napkins, slapping the used, shredded ones on the bar top and scanning the room. “Where
are
my friends? It’s not like them to disappear.”

I stood close enough to smell her perfume—something floral that smelled deliciously musky against her skin—and raised my eyebrows at Sebastian.

“Oh, Q! How fortuitous. One of your guests has been soiled by a nefarious frat brother.” He grinned at me, well aware of how much I hated his devolving into formal language at this point in the game. “Do you know Annette?”

She turned, her pale eyes widening when she recognized me. I stepped closer, invading her space enough to make her decide she liked it.

“Not officially,” I reply, letting her know I remember seeing her earlier. Our fabricated “connection.”

“Nice to meet you.” Annette bit her lower lip, flushing prettily.

My eyes slid from her mouth down her neck, over her very nice chest, and finally settled on the growing off-white stain covering the front of her dress. “That’s a shame. But please don’t leave. My father keeps the closets filled, so there are plenty of clothes upstairs.”

Indecision warred with desire in her gaze. “Well, I…”

I reached out and took her hand, suppressed a shudder at the contact, and offered her a small smile. “Please. I’d really like you to stay. The night has barely gotten started.”

She nodded, not noticing that Sebastian had disappeared a couple of minutes before, and let me pull her by the hand up the staircase in the foyer. Blessed quiet surrounded us upstairs, the pounding music downstairs reduced to a throb. One of the spare bedrooms housed a walk-in closet full of women’s clothes and Annette gasped slightly when I threw it open, revealing anything she could want, from cocktail dresses to jeans to some rather skimpy nightclothes.

“I’ll wait in the bedroom,” I said quietly. “Take whatever you like.”

The bed barely sank under my weight, the mattress top of the line like everything else in this house. Quiet noises emanated from inside the closet and I let myself wonder what she looked like naked, tried to get excited for what was coming. Her choice of clothing would tell me a lot—I could almost estimate how long it would take me to get her out of it based on what she selected.

The French doors pulled open and Annette stood framed by the golden light, angelic and certainly desirable. She watched as I took in the simple cotton sundress, a bright red with skinny straps that couldn’t hide the fact she hadn’t worn a bra.

Game
.

Desire crowded out my anger—the temporary release from its hateful clutches was the real reason I willingly played Sebastian’s game. “You look better than before, and that’s quite the achievement.”

A smile lit her pretty face. “Thanks. It’s a great dress.”

When she came and sat next to me on the bed instead of making for the door, I knew I didn’t have to worry about losing this round. Annette would be mine as long as I wanted her. “It’s nice up here, don’t you think? Quiet.”

Her eyebrows went up in surprise, a skeptical tilt making me smile. “You don’t like parties? That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Oh? And what have you heard?”

“That you like parties,” she responded, a little wary now.

Wariness could add hours to my victory, and I didn’t feel like waiting. “Well, it’s possible people don’t know me as well as they think they do.”

I met her eyes, giving her my best wounded-puppy look. She reached out and took my hand from my lap, threading her thin fingers between mine. A necessary step, the affection, but not my favorite part. The idea of someone tethered to me made me nauseous.