I should have stayed in bed. Pulled the pillow over my head and stayed the hell in bed.
Everything started off well enough - a workout, a call from his cousin, a teleconference with his Japanese business partners - and rolled straight downhill from there. Like an avalanche on Mont Blanc.
“Please turn off your computer, Monsieur Meszaros. We land in twenty minutes.” The stewardess leaned her body over him to clear away his untouched drink. “May I do anything more for you before our descent?”
“No, Lisette. I’m fine. Thank you.”
Jacques chose to ignore her fairly obvious invitation. Private jet notwithstanding, a stint in the Mile High Club was not on the agenda for the evening. He was too damn upset about what happened with Jerard. Talk about the wake-up call from hell.
How could things have gotten so bad, so fast?
Jerard epitomized "the tortured artist." No shock there really, given the guy’s background and the load of shit he suppressed, but drugs? The rising star of the Parisian art scene and newest trainee of the Order has his first taste of fraternity and financial success only to have a psychological breakdown of narcotic proportions. Jacques still couldn't wrap his mind around it, but the only way to deny it now would be to turn a blind eye and he was anything but blind to the people he loved.
Jerard was going off the rails and for the first time, Jacques wasn’t sure he could stop the train wreck alone. But this skeleton had to stay locked in the closet for more reasons than he cared to count. Nicolai would tell Julianne and he wasn’t about to burden his cousin’s nearest and dearest with bad news about her best friend. And Darion? The new leader of the Order would have Jerard’s ass. Can’t have a drug addicted protégé and Master of the Order rolled into one. Darion had a soft spot for all of his artists, especially Jerard, and would want - no, make that demand - to help, but Jacques knew firsthand how extreme Darion’s help could be. He trained under him, was initiated into their elite group by him. Jerard wasn’t ready for that.
He thought again about confiding in Darion. Probably should. Revise that. Definitely should. He finished typing an email to a doctor in New York who could counsel him discreetly on drug addiction instead. He had to get Jerard help before things got any worse. If they did, Darion and the Order would give Jerard their own version of an intervention and Jacques shuddered at what that would involve.
Just as Lisette was making her way back to remind him that they were landing, he snapped his computer shut. She stopped, but didn't turn away. She's a persistent one, isn't she? He let his eyes roam the length of her. Blonde, skinny and vanilla. Not my flavor. He couldn't miss her sigh as he turned his head and pressed his forehead to the cold glass.
The lights of Paris twinkled below. He could see the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance; almost hear the accordion music playing in his head. Ahh, la Ville Lumière. She may have her critics, but he loved the City of Lights. Had since he moved the headquarters of Meszaros Enterprises there when he was twenty-five. He divided his time between France and New York City, although the American city made him feel claustrophobic. Maybe he should take his partner up on his offer to move the U.S. branch to Dallas. He wasn’t much of a cowboy, but at least you could breathe the air. Still, no other city could match the romance of Paris.
The movable feast. A city that sizzles. An artist's home. So many descriptions, all failing to capture her mystique, but his favorite by far belonged to Henry Miller. "When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise."
Perhaps someday, I will.
Jacques closed his eyes. It was silly really. Just an old story. The babblings of gypsy. But he was Greek and the Greeks are a superstitious lot. His father took him to see the dancers at a gypsy camp when he was fifteen and the words of an old woman he met there never left him.
Don’t be afraid of love, young man. Your life will not always be dark. Your destiny awaits you in a city of light. You will know her by her red hair and the fire in her soul. But be mindful. God reclaims His angels too soon. Those who squander time lose paradise.
The teenager laughed off the prophecy, but the man believed. He lived in Paris and for some strange reason, he could never resist a woman with red hair. How the whole Dom thing fit in, he didn’t know, but he liked the romantic notion of finding his destiny in the words of a fortuneteller.
He looked down and imagined his angel standing on one of those old boulevards looking up.
And he wasn’t leaving until he found her.
*****
“Relax, mon ami. I’m telling you, you’re going to love it. No more baby stuff. This high is almighty.”
Everything moved slow, dreamlike. Lazy eyes toured the lavish room. Velvet, antiques, fine art, crystal. Without knowing better, you might think this was heaven. It wasn’t. When you walk the road to hell, there are no signs. You stroll along until you find yourself in a place you never expected to be. A place you cannot escape.
No sign necessary. Jerard knew he had arrived.
He lay heavy across the sofa, so tired, so passive, and watched François cook up his deadly cocktail on a sterling spoon. Justine pulled the leather strap around his bicep. Tap, tap, tap. The needle pricked his skin and a rush of shame washed over him.
Relax. Just a few more seconds.
In the eternity of a few more seconds, Jerard thought of Julianne, Jacques, Darion, and how he’d let them all down. Julianne found her happiness with another man. His best friend since he was a kid was finally happy because she didn’t choose him. Why would she? He wasn’t worthy of her friendship, let alone her love. And Jacques, the man had given so much. Taught him how to be himself, loved him, accepted him, gave him a home. And what did he give back?
Nothing.
Even Darion, an icon of the art world and the highest Master of the Order, had taken him under his wing. Offered entrée to money and fame by introducing him to the world like he was the next Picasso. Instead of gratitude, he was pushing them all away.
Tears seeped from his closed eyes and spilled into his dark hair as he waited for that fleeting peace. The warmth came. His grip on the glass in his hand loosened and dimly, he heard the soft thud of the thing hitting the floor and splattering expensive wine across the Persian rug. His last thought as he slipped away was that he was like the wine spilling and disappearing into the weave, unable to be held any longer.
*****
“Nice,” the guy behind the glass said over the intercom.
“Great song, man. The riff is amazing.” Nathaniel, his drummer, tapped his sticks against the rim of his drum to the beat.
Teo forced a smile. He didn’t like compliments. He didn’t deserve them. Pride was not something he had. Not for a long time now. But the song was good and he knew it. People who experience the shit he had carried a lot of pain and even though pain sucked, it made a great songwriting partner.
Shea put a hand on his back. “Everything okay, man?”
“Yeah,” Teo answered as he tucked his guitar into its case.
But everything was not okay. Something was off. He’d had a bad feeling in his gut for a few weeks and today it was screaming in his head like a banshee. He’d called his brothers. Everyone was fine. Even though he knew Isla would be at work and away from the phone, he’d called her twice. If anything happened to his baby sister, he didn’t know what he would do. Probably kill someone and then himself.
He wandered into the corner of the recording studio, pulled the phone from the pocket of his leathers and dialed her again. Come on. Pick up.
“Hello, this is Isla. I can’t take your call…”
Teo hit “end” as their manager rushed into the room.
“Hats off, guys. The new material is awesome. What a sound.” Maurice hooked his thumbs into the belt holding up his middle-aged gut. “I’m not one to make promises, but get ready. This is big. The demo alone has us close to record contract and this will blow their minds. I was humble before, but n
o more. You’re gonna be rich, boys.” He was practically singing.
And counting the cash.
Teo didn’t trust Maurice, or like him for that matter, but Shea was right. The guy was irreplaceable. Self-serving and money-grubbing, but irreplaceable. Having him as a manager had already opened so many doors. Maurice held the key for auditions, gigs and studio time. If he said the record company would like their stuff, they would, and Teo knew Maurice would get the deal done. For a hefty price.
“Let’s grab a drink to celebrate,” Nathanial said.
“Sounds good. I could use a little r&r.”
“I’ll bet. I saw that chick you were with last night, man. She was all over you.”
“She was drunk.” Teo shrugged off the suggestion.
“Right, now you’re Saint Teodor. Hear her confession and tuck her in like a good little virgin,” Shea chimed in.
He was no saint and that girl was no virgin, but that’s exactly what he’d done. Drove her home, gave her two Tylenol and a glass of water, tucked her in and left. If he hadn’t, she would have ended up in the back of the van with the roadies and those guys were pigs.
“Drinks are on me, boys,” Maurice offered, “but don’t go too crazy. We have an interview with NME at eight-thirty. Afternoon time slots are for rock stars. Bright and early is for the wannabes.” Bulbous eyes darted over the group. “I’ve got a lot invested in you. Don’t be late.”
That was the best thing about Maurice. He kept it real. If any one of them went to rehab or jail, he lost the meal ticket. He tamed the wild just enough to get things done.
“No worries, Maurice,” Shea crooned innocently. “We promise to be good boys.”
That's a lie.
Their lead singer was a good boy the way a great white shark was a good pet. The thought made Teo laugh. Maybe he should lighten up. Go out with his friends, find a pretty girl and tuck himself in. Yeah, that's definitely what I need.
He knew better than most that days like this were few and far between.
My family is fine. Isla is fine. Really, she's fine.
“Anybody up for the Dungeon?” Teo said with a grin. “I hear it’s the place.”
The place if you were into house music, beautiful women and BDSM.
“Oh, yes, Master. Please, please,” Nathanial teased, as if the guy would let anybody top him.
Teo was intense, but Nati, shit. Nati was something altogether out there.
“The Dungeon it is,” Shea said and held the door open.
End of sample.
About with Jillian Verne
Hello, darlings. I would much rather hear about you and your opinion of the Masters of the Order series, but here goes. Although my stories are fictitious, there is one truth in each of them that comes straight from my heart: Becoming the glorious person we are meant to be (and we are all meant to be glorious) requires the courage to celebrate what makes us unique, the imagination to create the person we aspire to become and the freedom to re-create that person over and over and over again. Oh, and those horrid little buggers that say "don't" or "can't" or "shouldn't," let them talk to the hand! I live in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania with my husband, two daughters and one royal cat. I'm passionate about my family, romance, the beach and hockey. My writing partner is music, the louder the better. Remember, darlings, my stories are fantasies. Keep it safe, sane and consensual in real life.
Contact me:
Through email at [email protected]
Visit my website at http://www.jillianverne.com
Follow me on Twitter @jillianverne
Read my other titles:
Paradise (The Masters of The Order Novel Two)
Godsend (The Masters of The Order Novel Three) (coming 2015)
Copyright
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ISBN 9781310894053
Masterpiece (The Masters of The Order Book 1) Page 39
