A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1)

by Amy Daws

  Without Frank’s watchful eyes, Leslie begins pumping her hips behind a random frat-looking guy dancing near us. She looks hilarious in her little black dress dancing like she isn’t dressed to the nines. She might as well be wearing sweatpants right now with the way she’s acting. Just when the frat guy turns around to see what the heck is going on, she dashes away like she wasn’t just doing obnoxious sexual gestures to his back. I love the fact that Leslie is never too cool to be a moron.

  I join in on the fun and jump directly in front of a huge black guy who hasn’t even been dancing. I grab my right ankle with my right hand, put my other hand behind my head, and begin pumping my leg back and forth. No easy feat in a long skirt, but I’ve watched my fair share of 80’s music videos, so I know I look goooood. The man pulls his sunglasses down his nose and eyes me carefully. Thinking my move isn’t impressive enough, I jump up and drop down into a classic robot. Yeeeeah, I own this dance. This will surely impress him. He crosses his arms and lets out a big puff of air with a nasty sneer on his face. Yeah, it’s time to get the hell outta here. I rush away from him and grab Leslie’s hand to haul her to the other side of the dance floor. That dude looks ticked!

  We pass a shot-girl and I quickly buy four long test-tube shots from her and hand two to Leslie. We pop the foil tops off them and down them one after another. They are sickly sweet and a bit nasty but I don’t care. I am in London. I am starting a new life. It is time to celebrate!

  Leslie is suddenly grabbed by a cute little guy with dark-framed glasses and buzzed blonde hair. She looks up at him like she’s going to pull away, but changes her mind and starts dancing provocatively with him. She seems to be enjoying herself so I decide to let loose on my own and really dance.

  I love to dance. Like, seriously. I. Love. To. Dance. I’m pretty decent at it, too, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t care; the feel of a loud thumping bass, coupled with the syncopated movement of my body and an increased heart rate is, like, an all-time high for me. Brody always said that back in college, he noticed my dance moves before he noticed my face. I remember he told me once after we officially met that he’d never seen a girl dance like it was an athletic sport rather than some tease to get guys to notice her.

  And that’s exactly the way I dance. I don’t care if I get sweaty and hot. The music moves me. It makes me forget about my racing heart rate and the burning feeling in my lungs I only get the few times a year I think I can be a runner—and then remember I fucking hate running. Dancing is my cardio.

  Those shots are really hitting me now. That’s good, it’s what I want. Tonight is my farewell to the old Finley. Tonight I’m going to dance and drink myself into a state of oblivion. I want to permanently erase all the crap I ran away from. I don’t want to feel anything anymore. I am in London, England. I’m starting a new life. There’s no turning back now.

  I refuse to think of Brody and our last time together. I refuse to remember the way he makes me feel when he looks at me with those gorgeous navy-blue eyes. I refuse to remember the way his curly hair feels coarse, like a brillo pad, when I thread my fingers through it. Or the way he whispers I love us, against my ear to make me giggle because he knows I’m ticklish.

  The lights I’m gazing up at in the ceiling begin to blur as my eyes fill with tears. Shocked, I look down and feel the tears run quickly down my face. What the hell? Where did these come from? This is supposed to be a night of forgetting, not remembering. I look over to Leslie and see her facing her dancing partner; they look pretty intense. I don’t want to ruin her fun with my sudden burst of emotions, so I sneak over and whisper-yell in her ear that I’m going to the bathroom and I’ll meet her back at our table later. She turns to look at me but I dash away before she is able to see the tears on my face.

  The bathrooms are located down a flight of stairs in a lower-level bar area that’s much quieter and more laid back. I can still hear the booming music above, but I can also hear the voices of the people talking around me.

  I find a big, comfy armchair in a quiet corner of the bar and sink down into it before anyone else grabs it. I glance around to see if there’s anybody within listening distance and decide I’m secluded enough. I tuck my legs underneath my butt and grab my phone out of my clutch, flipping to the last text I received from Brody.

  Brody: Not that I give a fuck, but I hope you’re alive and shit. I have no clue where you are or who you are staying with. Hope you’re having a ball. I’m in hell.

  Guilt courses through my veins as my conversation with Cadence replays in my head. He looks so sad, Finley. So incredibly sad.

  I pull up his contact info on my phone so I can see his face. He smiles happily back at me; my heart aches for the simpler times we had together, before all the baby stuff.

  Before I can process what I’m doing, I hit Call on my phone. I just need to hear his voice again.

  “Hello?” Brody answers on the second ring.

  “Heeeey,” I drawl out, realizing I sound a bit drunk.

  “Hey?” he grunts, “Huh.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re actually calling me right now, like for real,” he sounds pissed.

  “Yeah, I am. I just wanted to see if you were okay. After…well….after yesterday,” I reply, tentatively.

  “Okay? Am I okay?” he seems to be ramping up for something big, “Well, considering I got wasted last night and showed up on your sister’s doorstep, basically crying and belligerent, I would venture to guess, no. No, Fin, I’m not o-fucking-kay.”

  “I’m sorry,” I offer.

  “You’re sorry? Ha! That’s fucking great, Finley,” he spits. “I show up at your sister’s house that holds three tiny girls. Beautiful little girls…girls I’ve grown to love and cherish like they are my own. I mean…I’d walk through fire for those little girls, Finley! That’s how in love with them I am. To think they could have come downstairs and seen me the way I was behaving, makes me physically ill. I was the second person to hold Maya when she was born, for Christ’s sake!”

  He coughs hard into the phone, trying to clear his throat, “I’m so fucked up over all this shit that George, who happens to be a good friend of mine, nearly pummeled me in the jaw for being violent and malicious toward his seven-month pregnant wife!”

  I firmly squeeze my eyes together, willing away the tears that are rising inside them as the horrible scene plays out in my mind. “I’m sorry!” I croak out, not knowing what else to say to him.

  “I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore, Finley!” he roars and I cringe at the volume booming through the phone. “One second, I’m madly in love with this incredible, vivacious girl who has completely rocked my world and changed me for the better…like forever. Then the next minute, she’s gone and I don’t have a fucking clue why or where to!”

  “I know. It’s just better this way,” I cry back into the phone.

  “What’s better? We were trying to have a baby together, Finley! A baby! That isn’t shit I go into lightly. You were my world and you just fucking left!” His voice cracks on the last half of that statement and I hear him breathing heavily, trying to get ahold of his emotions.

  I never should have called him. This is making things so much worse. “I can’t be the girl you need me to be, Brody. I just can’t. I…can’t.”

  “What girl do I need you to be?” he shouts, into the phone. “You’re my girl, Fin! Just you. It’s always just been you! Jesus, it’s like I don’t even know you anymore!”

  “That’s the thing, Brody. You don’t know me,” I reply, angry that he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand the pressure this whole situation puts on me. “You care more about us than you do about me! I don’t get that anymore, Brody. I don’t want to get it. I want different things than you do. There’s no reason to pretend that us even matters anymore.”

  “You make no fucking sense. None. The Finley I knew, the Finley I fell head over heels for in college, was with me through and through. We wan
ted the same things together. She isn’t this person. This person I’m talking to right now is a mean, spiteful…bitch.”

  His words hang there over the line with ominous reverberation for what feels like eternity.

  “Speak, Finley…because I am truly giving up on you,” he sighs, then sniffles into the phone.

  I shake my head back and forth, willing my heart to come up with an answer to whatever this fucked up situation needs. Anything. I’m desperate to say anything to fix this—to fix this pain in Brody’s voice. But I know I have to stop myself or it will make it harder in the end. I so badly wish it didn’t have to end so terribly…so treacherously. Maybe there is no good way for this to end. I need to suck it up and truly say goodbye to Brody this time. There is no coming back from the agony in this conversation. He is broken and ruined—and it is my fault. My beautiful, warm, heartfelt, incredible man is gone and it is entirely my fault. My body’s fault. My body broke us. This perfect us we made together and loved together. Two dumb college kids thinking they found something nobody else ever had—but we didn’t. He won’t want me when he knows the truth; it’s better to save him from the truth, not to mention the guilt of staying with someone who can’t give him the basic thing in life that makes a family.

  “I guess this is goodbye, then,” he states, coldly.

  “Brody,” I say, softly.

  “Bye.”

  I jump up out of the chair and run into the bathroom, locking myself into a stall, bawling like I have never bawled before. I don’t know if it’s the booze or the jet-lag but this breakup feels so much worse than the last breakup. Brody really is gone. He really did give up on me. And in my warped, screwed up brain, it feels like he’s the one leaving because I can’t have babies, instead of the other way around.

  After a good, long cry, I come out of the stall and reapply my makeup. Once I feel complete again, I make my way out the bathroom door.

  “Hiya,” a voice says, from behind me.

  “Hi,” I reply, continuing to walk away without looking at who’s coming up behind me.

  The voice jogs up past me and walks backward in front of me as I continue my pursuit down the hallway toward the steps back up to the club. “Hey, um, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That looked pretty bad there.”

  I sneer back at him, “Eavesdrop much? Jesus!” I push him aside and begin climbing the stairs up to the noisy club. His accent is freaking sexy as hell! But I can’t care about that now.

  He follows up next to me, obviously not taking the hint that I’m unimpressed, “Okay, okay, I deserve that. But crying girls are like moths to a flame for me, I’m afraid. You see, I’m a bit of a fixer. I see a situation or problem and I have to fix it. Have to. So please, tell me how I can fix this situation for you properly so I can sleep tonight. I won’t be able to sleep a wink without cheering you up a little,” he finishes his speech at the top of the steps that open up onto the dance floor.

  I take in his appearance and decide he doesn’t look like a complete creeper. He has on a stylishly faded button-down dress shirt with dark denim jeans. His hair is blonde and a bit longer on the top and swept off to one side in a hipster-style cut. He has kind brown eyes that look like he is genuinely trying to be a nice guy.

  As I gaze around the crowd, looking for my friends, my eyes land on my dancing partner from earlier, and a funny idea comes to mind.

  “A fixer, huh?” I air-quote at him sarcastically as he rolls his eyes and halfway smiles. “Well, if you really want to cheer me up, you’ll go and ask that lovely gentleman for a dance.” I challenge, and point over to the fun boat who’s still standing in the middle of the dance floor.

  “What? You mean, that giant Green-Mile looking bloke being the life of the party?” he inquires.

  “Yep,” I nod, pursing my lips together to contain my smile.

  “Yeah, alright! I don’t give a toss, he’s probably a big teddy bear underneath all that scary business.” And off he goes.

  Oh my God, he’s really going to do it! I watch him weave in and out of the crowded dance floor, making his way over to the incredibly large black man. I try searching his face for any amount of discomfort, but if he’s feeling it, he’s definitely not showing it.

  When he stands in front of the man, he’s a good foot shorter, which is saying something because he doesn’t seem like a shrimp to me. Suddenly, Mr. Fix-it starts hollering at the crowd and clears a small area on the dance floor. What the hell is he doing?

  He reaches his hand out to the man in a gentleman-like manner with a slight bow, receiving an unceremonious scowl in return. Seemingly un-phased, he shrugs his shoulders, turns his back to him, drops down and starts doing…the Worm? Oh my God! The Worm! I laugh hysterically as the crowd goes wild around him. I’m incredibly torn between watching the spectacle on the floor or the jolly black giant up above. Just when I think this tough guy might actually crack a smile, he grabs his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and puts them on, turning his back on the ridiculous scene in front of him.

  This new sexy Brit obviously has a warped sense of humor like mine. He stands up, looks at the man we’re all trying desperately hard to please, shakes his head, and begins sauntering his way back toward me with lots of pats on the back from the crowd.

  “I did my best!” he shouts over the music, as he gently grasps my arm, allowing a few people to squeeze their way behind him.

  His gentle touch ignites prickles down my arm. I look at him with my jaw dropped and say, “Worth it.”

  “Worth what?” he quips.

  “That scene,” I gesture toward the dance floor, “made coming to this city completely worth it.”

  “You’re American, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I’d love to hear more about what brought you here,” he says, still holding onto my arm.

  I quickly shake my head and begin scanning the crowd for Leslie or Frank. I do not like the direction this interrogation is going, so I need to run.

  “Okay, okay, bad idea. Don’t tell me why you’re here…don’t say a thing about it, I don’t give a toss. But at least let me buy you a drink. I did just do the bloody worm, after all!” he says, looking hopefully at me as I see Leslie and Frank sitting at our table.

  I turn to him and decide the only way to forget about Brody is to keep myself distracted. This guy seems like he could help with that.

  “See the two redheads at that table?”

  “The guy that looks like Carrot Top?” he asks, completely serious.

  My nostrils flare as I bite my lip to hold back the laughter that is screaming to be released. Oh my God, I can’t wait to dump that one on Frank later! “That’s the one. The one and only. Those are my friends. You can buy me a drink and meet me over there.”

  “Got it!” he shouts, already retreating toward the bar.

  “Do you even care what I want to drink?”

  “I’ve got it covered!” he replies, barely audible.

  Taking a deep breath, I hurry over to our table because I need a moment to talk to Frank and Leslie before this fixer guy hunkers down with us.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “What the fuck, Finley?” Leslie screeches out at me after I tell her what I did. “Why did you call him?”

  “I couldn’t help it!” I reply, feebly, shouting over the loud music.

  “You are a moron of epic proportions. Epic!” she states dramatically, flailing her hands above her head in case I can’t hear her clearly.

  I quickly glance around to see if Mr. Fixer is on his way over yet.

  “You were the one who ended it with Brody. You!” she points at me with dramatic hand gestures. “This is all in your crazy, fucked up head. If you want to end it with him, then end it and be done. Calling him and being nice and normal is plain torture.” She aggressively sucks the remainder of her V&T through the thin neon green straw.

  Frank gets up from his chair and stands between Leslie and me, “Alright kittens, retract the
claws. We’re here to have a good time, remember?” he coos, forcefully enough to be heard. “Now, Fin-Bin, who was that lovely piece of eye candy you were chatting with back there? He looks delish!”

  “Is that me you’re talking about—or the Green Mile bloke?” the fixer inquires loudly from behind.

  “Well, hellloooo,” Frank purrs at him, his eyes roving him up and down.

  “I’ll take that as me. I’m Liam,” he says, in his delicious British accent, holding his hand out to shake Leslie’s, then Frank’s.

  “Liam,” Frank mouths, to no one in particular with a dramatic flick of the tongue on the L.

  “This seat taken?” Liam asks, sidling up to the stool next to me.

  He sets four closed bottles of beer down on the table in front of us and shoots me a wink. “Hope you like beer, it’s the only thing I could buy with sealed lids. Speaking of which, I truly hope you don’t accept open drinks from random blokes you meet at a bar! You could be roofied, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Yeah! Roofied, for Christ’s sake!” Leslie repeats as she eagerly snatches her aluminum beer bottle and twists the cap off for a drink.

  I eye Liam speculatively as he opens one and hands it to me. He then hands one to Frank and grabs the last one for himself.

  “So, I’m Liam. And you guys are…”

  “Frank. Frank. Just, Frank,” Frank looks beside himself. He’s awkward and fidgety and trying unsuccessfully to twist the cap off the beer, while staring directly into Liam’s eyes.

  “Keep your panties on, Frank. This one looks like he’s into brunettes, I’m afraid,” Leslie says, elbowing Frank in the side. “I’m Leslie, the best friend.”

  “Hello Leslie, the best friend. And you are?” he asks, turning his chocolate eyes at me, glancing quickly at my mouth first, then back up to my aqua eyes.