BROKEN (Herophine Fanfic)

9

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Josephine lets out a soft gasp as she steps into the backyard. She turns to me with wide eyes. "You... this... no one uses this pool?"

I nod. It's the bane of my dad's existence. Not that he's here enough to feel it. For all he knows, I swim a hundred laps a night.

Throw a dozen pool parties a month.

Fuck a different girl in the shallow end every weekend.

I did try that once.

Condom slipped right off.

I may not have the best judgment, but I know better than to fuck a near stranger bareback. Especially one who gets around as much as I do.

Fuck, there's something adorable about the wonder in Josephine's blue eyes.

They're gorgeous.

Clear and deep. Like a still lake.

Fuck, I'm thinking in metaphors.

No. That's a simile.

Mercy would know.

But then I'm not sharing this shit with my little sister.

I try to foster open communication. Especially after what happened with Titan.

But there are lines.

And this...

Fuck, I'm already thinking about this girl.

It's more than her gorgeous eyes and her perfect tits.

Or those long legs. Damn, those skinny jeans are tight.

And the lacy black bra peeking out from under her band t-shirt—

She's practically screaming I desperately need someone to drag out my sexual side.

Only she's not.

That's my demented brain talking.

My inability to connect with another human being on any level that isn't sexual.

Sex is something I understand.

It's easy. Straightforward.

I get a woman's clothes off.

     I make her beg.

                 Make her moan.

                           Make her come.

The end.

"God, what a shame." She kicks off her black Chucks. Hops to one foot to peel off her sock then does the same with the other. She yelps as her feet hit the hot pavement. Sighs as she dips a toe in the water. "It's beautiful."

"It is."

"You realize it?"

"Are you a psych major?"

"No." Her brow furrows. "I'm not that bad."

I nod. She is. But she's not trying to be cute. Or trying to impress me.

She's actually trying to figure me out.

I can't remember the last time somebody showed interest.

Don't get me wrong. Women approach me constantly. They flirt. They dig. They profess a deep desire to fix me.

But it's not me they're after.

It's their idea of some poor broken bad boy.

Mercy says it's the half-sleeve tattoo that does it.