Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (8 page)

“I’m just being upfront aboot what I
want.” He refocused on me with a serious expression. “So, are ye up for an
extramarital affair?”

Beverly smacked him again. “Paul!”

He picked up his fresh ale and indicated
to Beverly. “Ignore her; she’s just sour ’cause she gets none.”

Beverly pushed at his back, almost making
him spill his ale. “Go away if you can’t be nice.”

“Och, am never nice, yet ye still love
me.” He turned and kissed her cheek.

“Just go away,” she said gruffly, trying
to sound cross, the smile pulling at her lips ruining the effect.

“
Okay
, whatever ye say, love. Just
don’t leave withoot me. Remember, ye’re my ride home.” He gave me a wink.
“While
you
can ride me home, lassie.”

Beverly shoved him again, this time making
his ale slosh over the side, wetting his hand. “Get lost, you creep.”

“Fine, I’ll go find some nicer lassies;
maybe one o’ them will give me a gobble.”

She scowled at him. “You’re repulsive.”

Laughing, he licked the ale off his hand and
headed for a dyed-blonde woman who taught maths.

“What’s
gobble
mean?” I asked.

Her scowl grew. “It’s British slang for a
blowjob,” she said, watching him stop by the maths teacher. Sneering at the
woman, he leaned down and whispered something into her ear. She slapped his
face, barking at him to ‘Fuck off’.

Beverly shook her head. “That man has no
sense. He should know by now to keep away from that bitch.”

I watched as Paul snapped at the woman,
calling her a trumped-up
‘hoor’
. She got up and moved to another table
with her friend, flicking Paul a well-manicured finger. Paul made an obscene gesture
at her and returned to the table of men. He sat down in front of the TV, his
attention drawn to the cricket match again. The woman he’d harassed pulled out
a pack of cigarettes and indicated to the door, then headed out, leaving her
friend for a smoke.

I refocused on Beverly. “I don’t know why
you like him.”

She breathed out. “Half the time he’s a
sweetheart, the other half he’s a creep. I cling onto the good half, not to
mention I find him incredibly attractive.”

“I suppose he’s not ugly.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “Oh,
come
on
. I know his personality can be off-putting, but you have to admit he’s
good-looking.”

I shrugged. “He’s not my type.”

“Then, who is your type?”

An image of Dante flashed into my head
uninvited, of him up on the stage, following the photographer’s instructions,
looking gorgeous as usual. I fought back a grimace, upset that I’d thought of
him before my husband.

Needing a distraction, I opened my purse
and removed an image of Markus for Beverly. “My husband’s my type,” I said,
holding the photo out for her to see.

Her eyes widened. “Good God! He’s
gorgeous.” She looked up at me. “What does he do for work?
Model?
”

I smiled. “No, he’s a P.E. teacher.”

“Now I can see why you don’t think much of
Paul.” She wriggled her eyebrows at me. “How about we do a swap? You can have
Paul, while I can have that blond god after he arrives.”

I laughed. “Definitely not.”

“You sure? Neanderthals are all the rage,
you know. You’ll also save on buying shoes, since you won’t need them in the
kitchen.”

I snorted out another laugh and shook my
head.

She grinned. “At least show Paul the
picture of your husband. I want to see what he says.”

“I’d rather stay away from him,” I said,
glancing at the man again. He was shaking his fist at the TV, insulting one of
the cricket players on the screen.

Beverly leaned her elbows back against the
bar, her top pulling tight across her pudgy stomach. “Then, I’ll tell you what
he’ll say.” She deepened her voice, putting on a Scottish accent again. “Why
would ye marry that git? He looks like a pretty boy poser, not a real man like
me.” She lifted an arm and flexed it. “Get a load o’ this, lassie. Bet yer wee husband
cannae compete with that.”

I sniggered, “Markus is more muscular than
he is.”

She leaned closer to me, her grin turning lewd.
“What about the most important muscle a man has?” She wriggled her eyebrows again,
obviously referring to Markus’s dick. “Would you give it an excellence, a
merit, or an achievement?” she asked, stating all the school grades.

“An excellence,” I giggled.

Her grin widened. “Did you know that the
day he arrives in Auckland is ‘Be Nice to a Spinster Day’? Tradition dictates
that you must loan your husband to a spinster for twenty-four hours. By the
way, I’m a spinster and would be happy to help your husband out of his clothes.”

I burst into a fit of snorting laughter,
almost spilling my drink on her. I put it down and wiped my eyes.

“Does that mean it’s a yes to loaning me
blondie?”

“I’ll have a talk to Markus,” I said,
playing along with her joke.

“I’m sure he’ll say yes. After all, I have
a lot to offer.” She pulled a face. “Unfortunately, it’s all in my stomach.”
She glanced down at her chair. “And my arse.” She looked back up. “Hope he
likes women who wear granny knickers, because Paul wasn’t lying about them.”

I laughed again, which received a loud, “Good
God! You sound like a pregnant pig about to give birth to Godzilla.”

I turned around to see who’d insulted me,
finding a woman in her early thirties staring at me as though I had a monstrous
pimple on my forehead. She had snow-white hair and was standing in front of
another woman who looked a little like me, just a decade older. I wondered why
they were even here since their attire was far too expensive to be from this
side of town. They gave off the air of socialites, their jewellery a statement
of wealth rather than taste.

“While you look like a trumped-up bitch,”
Beverly snapped at the mouthy woman. “So take your nouveau rich-trash arse back
to the City, or wherever your sugar daddy is, before I pop your fake tits.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Watch what you
say, you fat bitch,” she growled, stepping into Beverly’s personal space.

Beverly pushed off her stool, coming nose
to nose with her. “I may be a
fat
bitch, but I punch like a MMA fighter,
so get your face out of mine pronto, skank.”

The other woman grabbed her friend’s arm,
her expression worried. “Let’s go, Sierra,” she said, her voice sounding too girly
for a woman in her thirties.

Sierra continued to eyeball Beverly, who
was looking like she really wanted to punch her.

“Sierra, we didn’t come here for this.
Let’s go see if that gorgeous guy’s arrived.”

A lewd smile pulled at Sierra’s mouth.
“Yeah, time to ditch the fat bitch for some fat dick.” She spun around on her
stilettos and headed for the door, wriggling her fingers. “
Ciao
, ugly.”

I sat back down on my stool, urging
Beverly to do the same, though she was shaking, looking like she wanted to go
after the woman. “Don’t listen to her,” I said, placing a hand over Beverly’s.
“You’re not fat
or
ugly. You have the most gorgeous head of hair and a
lovely face.”

She exhaled a shaky sigh. “You don’t need
to lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not.”

Her face scrunched up. “Then why doesn’t
Paul want me? Why doesn’t
any
man want me?”

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong
places.” I indicated to our surroundings. “Like here.”

“Or maybe I need a real drink.” She
indicated for the bartender to come over, ordering a martini.

I watched her down it in two gulps, aware
I was now the designated driver.

7

DANTE

I jogged to the pub, ecstatic that one of
my customers wanted to buy the rest of my coke supply. For the first time since
I’d started selling drugs, I was having a major problem shifting dust. Lately,
everyone was only after small quantities, which meant a lot more running
around. I’d barely managed to get rid of half of the supply, which was really
unusual, not to mention stressful, since I only had a few days left to pay the
power bill before the electricity was cut off. But it didn’t matter now,
because things were finally going my way. The client would pay me; I’d pass on
two portions to my cousin, then use whatever was left over for the power bill
and groceries. Everyone would be happy, but most of all
I’d
be happy.

I drew closer to the pub, its car park chocker.
Vehicles lined the side roads as well as the mall’s parking area, the place
pumping with activity. I gripped onto my backpack, keeping an eye out for my
customer. I came to a stop in the car park, spotting her white Beemer. It stuck
out from the blue-collared cars, an angel amongst demons. It was just asking to
be keyed. I’d told her not to bring the Beemer. It attracted too much
attention, which in turn attracted attention to me, making my job harder.

“Cutie pie!”

I cringed at Sierra’s voice.
What the
fuck?
You called a drug dealer
cutie pie
?

She tottered towards me in six-inch
stilettos that matched her whiter than white hair. She had a banging body,
which was swathed in an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weenie white dress, her huge tits
doing their best to escape the confines of the material. For a moment, I forgot
about what she’d called me, my eyes locked onto her twin peaks.

Sierra pulled me into a hug, squishing her
tits against my chest, giving me a partial boner. “I missed you, baby boy,” she
said. “Long time no see.”

“Good to see you too,” I said, taking full
advantage of her hug, my hands moving to her arse.

She laughed and pulled away, wagging a
finger at me. “You’re a naughty boy.”

I grinned.

She laughed again, then looked over her
shoulder, indicating for the blonde behind her to come closer. The woman moved
to Sierra’s side, her expression shy.

“This is Camie,” Sierra said. “She’s my BFF.”

I held out my hand for her to shake. “Nice
to meet ya,” I said, thinking she looked a bit like my new English teacher,
just older and a darker shade of blonde.

Camie shook my hand nervously. “You’re
younger than I expected,” she said, letting go of my hand. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” I lied.

Relief crossed her face, a smile following
a second later. She turned to Sierra. “I’m in,” she said, looking both nervous
and excited at the same time.

Sierra clapped her hands. “I knew you’d
like him.” She reached out and pinched my cheek. “How can anyone not like this gorgeous
face?”

“Usually guys,” I replied. “For some strange
reason they have a problem with me stealing their girlfriends. I really don’t
know why.”

Both women laughed.

Sierra held out her keys to her friend.
“You’re driving.”

After passing them over, she grabbed my
hand and yanked me to the car. Pulling open the door, she practically shoved me
into the back seat. I climbed in the rest of the way, pulling my backpack off
as I settled against the plush red leather. She closed the door and handed over
a paper bag full of money. I counted it, then stashed it into my backpack and
pulled out the coke as the other woman reversed out of the car park. Sierra
always took me back to my house after a deal, or more accurately, a street away
so my father didn’t see her car. If he’d caught me getting out of her Beemer, he’d
instantly know I was selling drugs. If anything, I should have met her somewhere
further away from Wera. Though, it was probably fine, since my father and his
mates didn’t go to this pub. Their lives largely revolved around our gang’s headquarters,
which had its own bar, a much better one than this blue-coloured haven. Plus,
civilian pubs didn’t sell drugs or sex, which was why a lot of the gang weren’t
interested in coming out here.

Sierra opened the bag of coke as her
friend drove towards my house. She removed a sliver with her fingernail and
snorted it. She zipped the bag up and tilted her head back, doing a little
shake, looking as if she liked the batch.

“You always come through for me,” she
crooned, turning her head towards me. Smiling sexily, she ran her fingers
through my hair. “You’re such a pretty, pretty boy.”

Unlike with Jasper’s auntie, I didn’t
smack her hand away, Sierra’s touch welcome. Though, I really wished she would
stop calling me a pretty boy, but the customer is always right, so I didn’t
correct her.

She moistened her lips, making my cock harden
further. “It’s Camie’s birthday today, which is why I called you,” she said, trailing
a fingernail down my cheek. “She’s having a party at her house.”

I didn’t reply, the amount of coke she’d
ordered now making sense.

Her finger moved to my mouth, brushing
over my lips. “And we want you to come.”

“Will there be booze?”

She removed her finger. “Of course. So, will
you come? I’ll make it well worth your time.”

I nodded, more than happy to get free
shit. “Though, just lemme drop off my bag and get changed,” I said, not
interested in going in my ripped jeans and smelly T-shirt.

She smiled wickedly. “Clothes aren’t
permitted.”

My eyebrows shot up. “What?”

She moistened her lips again, giving me a
distinctly sexual look. “The party is for two and you’re Camie’s birthday
present. Though, I think we’ll extend that to a
ménage à
trois
.”

The penny dropped. My eyes shot to Camie,
who was glancing at me via the rearview mirror, looking like she couldn’t wait
to ‘unwrap’ me.

I returned my focus to Sierra, not
believing my luck. “You want a threesome?”

She nodded, her eyes already fucking me.
“You up for it?”

“Hell, yeah!” I said, thinking the day
couldn’t get any better.