Lose Me: (New Adult Billionaire Romance) (Broken Idols)

by M. C. Frank

  Q: It will mark the beginning of your adulthood in the industry.

  A: I don’t know if it will mark anything, except a month or two of filming on an island somewhere.

  Q: Oh, where? Can you tell us?

  A: Tim is currently deciding, so even I’m not sure.

  Q: All right, we’ll have to wait and find out. Now, I want to ask you a question concerning your TWW costar, Elle Burke.

  A: Are you sure you want to go there?

  Q: Well, your romance with her was a big part of both of your careers, and I think of your lives too, considering that you first got together when you were what? Fifteen?

  A: Ah, listen, I don’t like to talk about personal matters with anyone other than my close friends. . . but yeah, Elle was a big part of that franchise.

  Q: Our readers will want to know something about your relationship, anything you could tell us.

  A: Let’s just say that TWW being over was a great thing both for her and for me.

  Q: You’ll be costarring again in the new film, right?

  A: That’s what I hear, too.

  Q: And speaking of best friends, Oliver Sikks will also star in the upcoming film, is that confirmed?

  A: At this point everything is up in the air still, but I can tell you almost certainly that if Ollie isn’t in the final cast I probably won’t be either.

  Q: Wow, that’s some seriously cool bromance I’m sensing you two got there.

  A: Well, some have called it co-dependence and some other stuff, but, yeah, basically he’s my best mate. He’s the one who keeps me grounded, he’s the one to lean on during emergencies. And adventures.

  Q: Adventures. . . That sounds saucy.

  A: If you mean saucy like, actual sauce, then yeah. I mean, this one time we went on a cruise with my boat, the L&H, to get away from the photographers and we had absolutely no food on board, I mean nothing. So we decide to cook spaghetti bolognaise. Yeah, that wasn’t pretty. Good thing we didn’t burn the whole boat down. Just the kitchen. Had to learn how to cook properly after that.

  Q: Ladies do you hear that? (laughs) The L&H, your yacht, right? It’s become almost as famous as you. Is it named after Laurel and Hardy, the famous turn-of-the-century comic duo, correct? I’m not sure many of our readers are familiar with their black and white films. . .

  A: Well, they should be. They’re just a double act, pretty simple stuff, from a technical standpoint—their most active years were between the twenties and the forties, after all—but the execution is flawless. Their films are hilarious, I grew up with them. My boat is named after them, they’re my idols. Basically, it’s named after me and Ollie, in a way. And she’s my other best friend. If I have my those two I don’t need anything else.

  Q: Not a girl or two on board?

  A: (smiles) Now what kind of a question is that?

  Q: Time for the big Q. As you know, this interview is going to end up on the big Q column, so as it’s nearing its end, I have to ask you a pretty big question that most of our readers want answered. Ready?

  A: As I’ll ever be.

  Q: Only real answers accepted, mind you.

  A: I’ll do my best, ma’am.

  Q: So, here goes. Have you ever been in love?

  A: Ouch. Are you sure they wouldn’t like to know the answer to something more scandalous like I don’t know, booze, or snogging or. . . .

  Q: That’s the question the ninety-five per cent of them wanted answered.

  A: Tough crowd. Then, no.

  Q: You haven’t?

  A: Not even remotely. I’m not sure I even can, you know?

  Q: Oh, when the time comes, you surely will be able to. . . to. . .

  A: I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?

  Q: Oh, no, I mean, well. . .

  A: Listen, before you rush off to put it in the title, like “Hollywood actor claims to have a tin heart” or something, let me clarify what I mean. I don’t mean physical attraction or a fun weekend aboard the L&H. I don’t even mean holding hands or gazing at the stars. I’ve sort of done all that, but it never was with the right person. There was always something missing. To me, being in love is to not belong to yourself anymore. And in a good way. To belong to her. To care about her, to forget about yourself, to be able to forgive. . . Yeah. That’s what being ‘in love’ to me means. And, to find a person I’ll feel deserves that kind of devotion. . . to be honest, from what I’ve seen of the world, I’m not sure it even exists for me.

  Q: Wow. That’s. . . wow. Thank you so much, Weston, for being here today.

  A: Pleasure.

  five

  “You didn’t even ask about life expectancy.”

  We’re driving back in complete silence, and this is my pathetic attempt to lighten the mood. But pappous doesn’t even flinch.

  “No need,” he answers simply. Tears are streaming down my cheeks again. He wipes them off with a gnarled finger. “Don’t cry, my beautiful Ariadne. It’s all going to be fine.”

  Is it?

  You see, I did check life expectancy on the web, along with my symptoms. And that’s why I’m crying.

  I can remember word for word what Spiros said to pappou and me. A chill runs down my spine.

  “After listening to her symptoms and examining her, I was almost sure in my diagnosis of a brain tumor, but we needed the CAT scan to confirm it. I told Ari that she should come in when she was ready, and that’s what she did today”, Spiros’ calm voice still rings in my ears.

  Just hold it together until you get home.

  “Don’t let Spiros or anyone rush you with the operation,” pappous tells me as I drop him off outside the Matchbox. “You have a career to launch off.”

  He winks at me and he’s gone.

  We don’t say anything else. We never needed to, the two of us. It’s all been said today, and not one word was necessary.

  I continue on to Pelekas.

  I know what pappous was trying to tell me. It’s not that he doesn’t care.

  Far from it.

  But what he wanted to tell me—and Spiros—above all, is how strongly he believes I’m going to be fine. That I’ll have a life, a career to get back to.

  ◊◊◊

  What’s left of the week passes before I can even begin to think about what to do with the brain thingy issue. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any major incident like before, although the headaches persist. I’m beginning to get used to them, I think.

  That’s a temporary solution to say the least, but it’s enough of an excuse to put the entire thing out of my mind.

  As for the kisses, well, they’re not so easy to put out of my mind.

  But I do my best.

  I wake up every day at dawn and hit the gym, then cool down in the pool. I dive into the deep end, and do forty, fifty lengths without stopping, relishing the calmness and quiet of the early hours of the morning, my body slicing the smooth water evenly, while the sunrise paints the sky pink. Then Coach and Matt join me and training starts. It’s pretty merciless, but I enjoy doing this while I wait for my scenes far more than watching thirty takes of Elle try to get her lines right.

  Once or twice Wes comes in to talk with Coach and Matt about the stunts he’ll be performing, and we train together. Or not really together, just at the same place. He doesn’t look my way, and I don’t look his—at least I try. He’s wearing headphones, and so I don’t even know whether he realizes he’s not alone. He certainly doesn’t act like he does. I catch a glimpse of sculpted pecks and decide that’s it, I’m going to pretend he isn’t here. So we just work in silence, focusing on the rhythm of our muscles straining, filling up the space with our quick breaths. Thankfully his schedule is pretty packed, so apart from the pool, he rarely shows up to train.

  On Wednesday, Katia calls to proudly announce that she’s bought a phone—with her own hard-earned money, moonlighting as a waitress at MacDonald’s, but we don’t talk about how her parents are idiots—and now we can skype any time, a
ny place we want. Which we do.

  If things were even slightly better between Wes and me, maybe I’d have sneaked Katia in on my phone at one of the interior shootings and shown him to her, I’m sure she’d have a stroke.

  But as it is, I can barely look at him and my heart constricts.

  You wouldn’t know it from looking at me that I had gotten such devastating news only a few days ago. I act as though there’s nothing going on. I go through the motions of normalcy: wake up, shower, train, work, then come back to cook for my dad and watch a movie with him or hang with Katia. Most nights I just fall asleep on the couch—which is something I never did before—but other than that everything is the same.

  If my dad notices any difference he doesn’t say anything.

  My appetite is almost completely gone, but I don’t notice having dropped any more weight, so it’s all good.

  At least that’s what I tell myself. Occasionally a friend from school will message me on Facebook or something, and we’ll talk for a while. They’re all moving on with their lives, some of them in Athens, others in Europe. And that’s when I realize that deep down inside I’ve begun a countdown. I’m already jealous of them; I’m already picturing my future as a void.

  I look at everything in my life with hungry eyes, judging if I’ll have time to enjoy it again.

  The clock is ticking. But as long as I don’t think about it, it’s silent.

  And that’s all that matters right now.

  Except on Saturday, at midnight, I get a call that changes everything. Again. The call is innocent enough. It’s from Matt, who asks me if I can do a car scene rehearsal early tomorrow. He asks politely, as though I have a choice.

  I scream an excited yes and dad runs over to see who is strangling me.

  Then Coach comes over and dad, Coach and me spend an hour or two eating pizzas and discussing techniques. Actually they discuss techniques well into the morning, after sending me to bed at twelve thirty like a baby.

  “You’ll need your sleep,” they both say, nodding knowingly and, after fighting the urge to bang their foreheads together, I obey, yawning.

  So Sunday morning, I wake up at four and head to the villa. Matt meets me at the gate and leads me to the car I’m going to use for the stunt. It won’t be filmed today, he explains, he just wants to go over my moves and show the cameraman what we’re going to do.

  I watched a few films with the actual, period Mr. Darcy in them a couple of days ago and I have to say, there’s a lot of fast horse riding in them. I guess we’ll be doing the equivalent of that.

  I step towards the car, and I stop in my tracks, speechless. She’s a sleek yellow Ford Mustang 5.0 V8 G. In other words, yum. I get in and my arms break out in goose bumps just from the excitement of being inside this car, after years spent admiring the Mustang’s muscle and engine from afar. She just looks so elegant and brawny at the same time, I can’t stop staring at her.

  Just imagine steering her, the feel of that impressive body control. Or how those brilliant brakes will grip the road, after I’ve poured that week-long bonnet into the Corfu sharp bends at speed. Matt, come on, come on, let’s go.

  The ignition turns and I feel a thrill as the vibration runs through my legs. Hearing the engine hum is music to my ears.

  Matt drives first, to demonstrate what I’ll have to do. The car’s performance is beyond imagination: easily zero to sixty mph in less than five seconds. I pay close attention to Matt’s technique, and then I take over with him in the passenger seat. We head up over the winding ribbon-like road, until we reach the tiny town on the top of the hill. The engine is smooth as silk, and my foot is itching to floor the gas.

  We do the same route a couple of times, and then Matt gets out, so I can do it on my own. As soon as I’m ready, volunteers close off the streets with orange cones and I start practicing taking the swift bends of the road. Matt’s phone rings at one point and he walks away, giving me the thumbs up as I execute a difficult spiral.

  I see him gesturing in frustration through the windshield. He looks at me, shaking his head. “Everything all right?” I ask as he climbs in.

  “No,” he answers in a clipped tone. “Crazy kid insists on doing his own stunts.”

  “Wes?”

  He nods. “He’s on his way; wants to drive the Mustang.”

  Oh, for crying out loud. Can’t he buy himself a million-dollar toy to amuse himself with?

  In two minutes Wes’ silver BMW skids to a halt beside the cones. He gets out, leaving the door open, and his long legs take him up the steep path towards us in a few strides.

  He raises his hand in a bored gesture. Matt sighs deeply.

  “Hand it over,” Wes says, lowering his sunglasses on his nose. Matt gets out of the car, I stay in the driver’s seat.

  “You’re not trained for this, Spencer,” Matt tells him wearily. “Something goes wrong, and you could get hurt.” He sounds tired, as though this isn’t the first time he’s had to deal with something like this.

  “Tell her to get out,” Wes goes on as though Matt hadn’t even spoken. “That’s my seat.”

  “She’s a stunt performer,” Matt insists patiently, “she will be safer than you. And she hasn’t been drinking.”

  Wes shrugs. “Who’s been drinking? Relax, would you? I’m not hammered. Not yet, anyway.” He winks at Matt, who frowns even more. I roll my eyes. “She can stay if she wants, I don’t care. As long as she’s in the other seat.”

  “I’m sorry, kid,” Matt says and it’s so funny that he calls him ‘kid’, because he can’t be over twenty-eight himself. Wes is twenty or twenty-one, I think,—although he’s acting like he’s four right now. “Tim’s orders.”

  “Hold on.” Wes puts his phone in his ear, and with his other hand he lifts the driver’s door and stands there, waiting for me to get out. I ignore him. Or at least I try.

  “Hey, Tim, mate,” he says into the phone and walks away from the car. After a few seconds he passes the phone to Matt, who lifts his arms up in surrender. Then he runs a hand through his long hair, messing his ponytail, exasperated.

  He shouts something into the phone and then he gives it back to Wes, who flashes him a sarcastic smile full of teeth. “One round,” Matt shouts, “just one! And I’ll be inside the whole time.”

  Wes ignores him.

  “Slide over,” he says to me.

  I look at him and he nods to me to do it, so I find myself in the next seat. Before Matt has so much as a chance to get near the car, Wes steps on the gas and we’re off.

  Next thing I know Matt’s kicking the dust in the rearview mirror, and we’re leaving the white and orange cones behind.

  I know Wes practically told me to never speak to him again, but the way he’s pushing the gas and taking the steep curves of the road is so wrong. The Mustang doesn’t generally feel brutally quick thanks to her kerbweight, but that doesn’t mean we’re not taking the turns at a rapid speed. The sea is sparkling on either side of the road, light blue under the hot sun, and below us the sharp precipice gapes over the edge of the cliff. The road is really narrow and uneven, and Wes clearly has had no training on a terrain like this. I see that he can easily handle the manual six-speeder gearbox, but the engine groans, breaking my heart, and I know he hasn’t had as much experience with this kind of machine—a little is not enough when we’re going at this speed. He grabs the e-brake, but it’s a fraction of a second too late, and the Mustang spins before it rights itself.

  A fraction of a second too late can be horribly too late. Damn it.

  “Don’t step on your break so much,” I try to warn him, but he won’t listen. “Give it more gas,” I say in a minute, and he does, because this time he could see it was getting out of control, but immediately he rights the wheel, the engine’s noise dulling to a smooth murmur, and smirks in my general direction.

  “Listen, I know you’re into driving the Stang, but this isn’t the sma—”

  “Yeah!” he screams, el
ated, as he manages a particularly dangerous twist of the road at the speed of practically, well—light. He’s not even heard me. “Sweet, huh?” I don’t think he’s expecting a reply.

  He’s better than I thought he would be, but I don’t know what he’ll do if the unexpected happens.

  I look sideways at him, wondering if he lied about being drunk.

  He doesn’t look it, but you can’t always tell. I seriously wonder if we’re going to die here, on a narrow country road in the mountains of Corfu, the olive trees spreading down the precipice, silvery green, their branches too brittle to catch us if we fall. Another sharp bend almost swallows us, but at the last minute Wes swerves and we’re temporarily safe.

  Just temporarily though, because in the next twist of the road there’s another car coming towards us from the opposite lane.

  “Wes!” I yell at the last minute, although Wes has already seen. But there’s precious little he can do at this speed.

  The freaking moron of a driver has swerved into our lane, going at a break-neck speed, as he or she took the last bend in a stupid, inexperienced way that threw the car out of the curve, and there’s no time for them to react.

  Wes curses and turns the wheel hard, trying to dodge the other car. In his panic, the other driver loses control and heads directly for us, running us off the road, and Wes frantically tries to steer the other way, but there’s nowhere to go. The turn is tight, tighter than most—if you accelerate or step on the brakes before you’ve rounded, you’ll spin out.