Beautiful Beast

by Aubrey Irons

  That and the red hair, the blue eyes, the smoky voice and the way she plays that guitar is, well…it’s not Ana, but it’s the closest I’ve found.

  It’s like the faintest version of a drug high I’ve been chasing for years, which is why I keep fucking coming back here.

  I smile at her as I finish the last of my drink and nod.

  Why not, might as well be tonight.

  I start to stand when she suddenly pulls a wicked-looking bat of some sort, with spikes on it for Christ’s sake, out from behind the bar.

  “Five weeks, I was telling myself you were just a fan, or a drunk, or….” She shakes her head, pulling her phone out with her free hand.

  “I’m calling the police. I suggest you leave before they get here.”

  I grin, chuckling.

  Yeah, I figured she had the wrong impression.

  “I just want to talk,” I say quietly, sitting again.

  She starts to dial.

  “You have an amazing voice, and—”

  She brings the phone to her ear.

  “I’ll give you ten-thousand Euros, in cash, right now, if you hang up that phone.”

  Her eyes snap to mine, and she says something quietly in French into the phone before she brings it down and sets it on the bar.

  “Who are you?”

  “A fan.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “No, I mean a real true fan. Also, you remind me of someone.”

  She flexes her fingers around the bat.

  “I’ll give you another ten-thousand if you play for me some more.”

  Léa looks at me coolly, appraising me, like she’s trying to peel back the surface and see what I’m up to.

  Shit, she really does remind me of her.

  “Look, nothing fucked up, nothing weird, all right? You’re very talented, and you sound a lot like someone I used to know who I used to love hearing play. And I’m leaving to go home tomorrow, so this is my last show.”

  I slip my hand into my pocket and pull a thick wad of cash out, peeling off a bunch of bills and dropping them on the small cafe table.

  The bat lowers in her hand, but her brows knit as she stares at the money.

  “Who carries around that kind of money,” she says quietly. “And who pays twenty thousand Euros to hear someone play guitar and sing a little bit.”

  “A fan.”

  She arches a brow.

  “A rich fan,” I shrug, and then nod at her guitar, sitting on a stand on the small stage.

  “Please. You can even play the same set list.”

  Léa sets the bat down.

  “I’m not a whore, you know.”

  I laugh quietly. “Yeah, no, I got that.”

  “I mean I’m not going to fuck you if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Just a rich pretty-boy throwing his money around to get what he wants?” She rolls her eyes. “Such a very American cliché.”

  “Says the chick wearing all black playing Joni Mitchell covers in a fucking cafe in Paris?” I rake my fingers over my chin. “You really want to talk cultural clichés?”

  She smiles.

  “Who are you? Really.”

  “Sebastian.”

  “Léa.”

  “I know.”

  She looks at me coolly and picks her phone up.

  “The police number is punched in. All I have to do is hit call.”

  “And all I want to do is listen to you play.”

  We meet each other’s eyes, and she nods.

  “Fine. Same set list as tonight. It needed work anyway.”

  “Agree to disagree.”

  She steps back onto the little stage and starts tuning her guitar.

  “Does twenty grand buy me another drink?”

  She looks up and nods at the bar. “Help yourself.”

  I sit back at the table with the whiskey and light a cigarette as she starts to play. The smoke curls, the liquor burns, and just for one brief, fleeting second, the music takes me somewhere else, to a different time. Léa plays and sings, and makes me think of fucking nothing else but her, and by the end, I’m in a trance - a half empty bottle and mostly full ashtray in front of me.

  I clap when she’s done, my jaw clenched tight and my heart shattering a little as she bows, her long red hair tangling across her face and making her look so fucking much like her that it sends a bullet through me.

  She steps off the stage and moves to my little table, sitting and pouring herself a splash of the whiskey.

  Apparently, she’s decided over the last hour of her playing alone for me that I really am just a sad, rich bastard, and not a serial killer.

  “What’s her name?” She pulls one of my cigarettes out of the pack and lights it with my lighter, leaning back to look at me curiously.

  “Who I remind you of.”

  “A girl.”

  “Very illustrative, thank you.”

  I smile thinly, feeling drunk off the whiskey and half-high off the music, like a little hit of something not quite the real thing but enough to get you lifted.

  “Someone I used to know. Someone I hurt.”

  I shake my head.

  “No, someone I keep hurting.”

  “Lucky her.”

  I push the money across the table to her and raise a glass in toast. Léa ignores the money and does the same.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it fascinates me. A man with your kind of money, and good looks, and arrogance,” she shrugs, smoking the cigarette delicately between her lips.

  “You just seem like someone used to getting what he wants. The girl that breaks you like this intrigues me.”

  “What makes you think I’m broken?”

  She looks up at me, unblinking.

  “Everything.”

  Léa leans across the table on her elbows, studying me coolly.

  “So tell me about her.”

  And for whatever reason, I do. I tell her everything. Maybe it’s the weirdness of this little bubble we’re in. Maybe it’s because after tonight, there’s a very real chance I’ll never see her again.

  Maybe it’s because telling all this to her feels like a draft version of telling it to the girl who deserves to hear it all.

  When I’m done, we’re out of cigarettes and down to the last drops of whiskey, and Léa is quiet.

  “Wow,” she whispers. “You are…” she shakes her head, “I could write a whole songbook off of you.”

  “Be my guest.”

  She smiles sadly at me.

  “What’s her name? You never said.”

  “Anastasia.”

  Léa raises her glass. “To Anastasia. May she one day break free of the spell she has on you and find true happiness.”

  And that, I can drink to.

  Present:

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  There’s a quiet on the other end of the line before he speaks.

  “Listen, man, I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing this any—”

  “You sure?” I snap coldly. “You seem pretty comfortable in that new Corvette you’re cruising around in, Dan.”

  I can hear him swallow.

  “Nice color, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” he says quickly.

  Dan’s a nurse I met at the hospital after the crash - a big, beefy guy who looks about as comfortable in a bright yellow Corvette as I’d be in an AA meeting. Dan also - like most people - enjoys money.

  And that’s my in.

  “Look, buddy, I just- it feels like I’m breaking some kind of—”

  “No one’s breaking the law here, Dan. It’s just a phone call.”

  That he probably can’t hear or understand anyway.

  I grit my teeth at the thought.

  Here’s the deal: Dylan’s still in a coma at the hospital, and I’m still under house arrest. Also, Dylan’s family has me pretty much at th
e bottom of their list right now, which is fair. But it also means in the six fucking months since I almost killed my best friend, I still can’t stand by his side and tell him I’m sorry.

  …Even if he can’t hear me. Probably can’t, at least.

  I’d ask Ash or Tyler to do this, but I’m aware enough of the situation with the Forbes family to not want to put them in the middle of it. So, that leaves me Dan.

  Dan who likes money. Dan with the keycard access to the long-term trauma ward.

  Dan with the iPhone with FaceTime.

  “Usual amount?” he finally mumbles.

  I growl. “Yes, the usual amount. Now get up there.”

  “You’ll have five minutes. I’ll call you back in ten.”

  Those five minutes, by the way, are going to cost me a grand a minute.

  I couldn’t care less.

  I sit in silence, lighting a cigarette and toying with the lighter.

  I can still taste her lips. I can still feel her body melting to mine. I’m still fucking buzzing like I’m high from the contact. It’s honestly one of the reasons I’m calling Dylan tonight.

  I don’t know what to believe about comas. I’m pretty sure I don’t believe in white lights or whatever either, so who the fuck knows if Dylan can hear me when I talk to him.

  It doesn’t stop me from confiding in him, and tonight’s a big one.

  The phone jingles in my hand. I swipe it open.

  “Hey man.”

  Dylan, of course, doesn’t respond, but that doesn’t stop me from grinning - even if I’m also ignoring the feeling of weirdness that hits me every time at talking to my comatose best friend.

  “Dude, you need to fucking shave.”

  Dan’s phone is propped up on this little food tray table thing that straddles Dylan’s chest, giving me face-to-face talk time. Dan’s out of the room, but I know the time’s ticking before he comes back in and cuts me off.

  “So, listen, I’ve been thinking. I know you’re still thinking about it, but I really think you should consider our offer. Ash, Ty, and I are ready to throw down some serious cash to get you some regular action after hours over there. I read online that your dick still works totally normal in a coma, and dude, I think you need this. Time to break that dry spell, buddy. We’ll even have her dress like a nurse or something.”

  Beeps, dings, and the humming of the machines keeping Dylan alive are the only answer I get.

  I study my friend’s face, trying to bite back the rage.

  At myself.

  In a weird way, I want him to look worse. I want him to look bruised, and battered, and all fucked up. I want him to look as broken as he is on the inside because seeing him looking totally normal but completely not is fucking me up even more.

  I take a deep breath.

  “So, some shit went down tonight, man.” I nod slowly, looking for the words. Dylan is fully abreast of the Ana situation. Actually, in the last few months, he’s gotten the full damn story - every gory detail.

  He’s a great listener like that.

  “I kissed her.” I shake my head. “It was fucking stupid, but…” I shrug. “Well, you know. We were just signing some stuff - you know, that shit Ash and I came up with to make the whole thing more legit, and I was fucking stupid. I played the Joni Mitchell song- yeah, that fucking song, and it was all set from there.”

  I sigh, reaching for my drink but then stopping myself. Somehow, drinking in front of the guy who you drove off a cliff while drunk seems a little past the pale.

  “Look, I know you’d tell me to stop being a fucking moron. I know the whole trust fund thing is bullshit, and I know I could grab any random chick and pay her ten grand to just do this thing and be done with it. But, when have you ever known me to do what I’m supposed to do, right?”

  I smile.

  Dylan’s quiet.

  I look down, wincing as the pain of the memory of the night cuts into me a little.

  “All right, man, I should let you get back to raging it up over there. Hey, see if they’ll get you some medical weed or something, all right?”

  I look away, like Dylan’s going to care that I’ve got tears in my eyes like a complete pussy.

  “Thanks for listening, man,” I say quietly. “Later.”

  I hang up before Dan comes back in and does it for me.

  “Now what did I say about rummaging through my kitchen like a field mouse?”

  I gasp, startled at Mrs. Tottingham’s voice and whirling from the open refrigerator I’ve had my head buried in. I grin sheepishly around the sliver of day-old quiche in my mouth.

  It’s midnight, but the gurgling in my stomach mixed with my rattled nerves about this whole thing with Bastian’s inheritance has me creeping through the kitchen in my pajamas.

  Mrs. Tottingham - also in pajamas and a bathrobe - sighs, her hands planted on her hips as she shakes her head at me.

  “Out!” She shoos me away, making me giggle as she swats at me, shutting the huge door to the Subzero fridge and planting herself in front of it, like a guard.

  “If you’re hungry, you just give me a call, Ana.”

  I roll my eyes, swallowing the last bite of quiche.

  “Emily, I’m not ten anymore. I can feed myself.”

  “Well, I don’t know what they do out in California, but here, we don’t eat out of refrigerators like savages.”

  She winks at me.

  “Now, what are we having?”

  “Seriously, it’s late. I can just grab a bowl of cereal.”

  She makes a face. “Cereal’s for breakfast, dear.”

  “Yeah, but breakfast food is delicious.”

  Mrs. Tottingham grins mischievously before she turns, opens the fridge, and starts pulling out milk and eggs and butter. She turns back and waves a hand at the tall chairs on the far side of the huge kitchen island.

  “Sit, sit!”

  I’m about to ask what she’s up to when she opens a cupboard and pulls down the big, old, waffle iron.

  “Breakfast food it is. But we’re not having cereal.”

  I never ate them in this house, but memories of Mrs. Tottingham’s waffles are something I’ll never forget. My stomach rumbles loudly as she starts to mix up the batter, sprinkling in her own little secret ingredients as she beats the mix into submission.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  I suddenly frown, realizing how late it is.

  “Not at all, dear. I was on the phone with my niece, Charlotte. She works so much that mornings for her is the best time to ring her, and I don’t mind staying up late to chat and catch up, what with the time difference.”

  “Charlotte Charlotte? Who came to visit that time?”

  She nods, turning to spread butter over the warming waffle iron.

  “That’s the one.”

  Emily’s niece spent a week here way back when I was eleven, during which time we bonded pretty hard over “The Little Mermaid” and agreeing that the nasty boy who her mother worked for was a big jerk.

  “Still in London?”

  “Tuffnell Park, just outside.” The waffle iron sizzles as she pours on the first batch of batter.

  “How is she?”

  My memory of Charlotte is a sweet, charmingly English, tow-headed little eight-year-old. But who knows, she could be a gothy, angsty woman with facial piercings now since people do tend to change from who they were at ten.

  Or they stay exactly the same. Bastian is a prime reminder of that.

  “Oh, sweet as ever.” She frowns. “Too sweet, really. Her boyfriend just left her, actually. Left her, after she’s the one who found him with some other girl and forgave him.”

  The waffle iron snaps shut.

  “Can you even believe that?”

  I make a face. “Guys are assholes. Sorry to hear that.” I sigh. “Here I was thinking English men were all classy and charming.”

  Mrs. Tottingham barks out a laugh. “Oh, allow me to burst that bubble, dear.”
<
br />   “So much for my immigration plans.”

  She laughs. “Steering wheels on the other side, better tea, colder rain.” She cracks an egg on the side of the mixing bowl.

  “Same asshole men.”

  She uses a fork to pull out the tasty-looking, golden waffle and put it on a plate before she slathers it with a tab of butter and douses it with the perfect amount of rich-looking maple syrup.

  She pauses, glancing up at me with that mischievous look on her face.

  “Shall we make these Belgians?”

  “That’s just a nice way of saying we should put ice cream on top, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I laugh. “Screw it, why not. Only if you’re joining me.”

  “Oh you better believe I am,” she says with a prim square of her shoulders.

  The scoop of vanilla melts enticingly over the top of the waffle as she slides the plate my way. I groan in anticipation, slicing up a bite, and bringing it to my lips.

  “Oh God yes.”

  Mrs. Tottingham beams, pouring more batter onto the iron for herself before plucking up a spoon and scooping a small bite of vanilla out of the carton.

  “Men, honestly.”

  “Preach it, sister,” I mumble through an insanely delicious bite. “Sorry to hear about Charlotte.”

  She nods, taking another bite of ice cream. “Her and you, Ana.”

  I shrug. “Eh, I’m fine.”

  “A girl like you? Single?” she sighs. “I don’t know what this world is coming to. Those California boys are crazy for not scooping you up.”

  I roll my eyes. “Mostly just crazy. Full stop.”

  She grins.

  “Well, how about you? No gentlemen callers banging down the Crown Estate kitchen door?”

  Mrs. Tottingham’s cheeks go pink as she quickly turns to the waffle iron and opens it up.

  My jaw drops.

  “Mrs. Tottingham!”

  “Oh what!” She turns, her face glowing and a little grin on her lips as she pours syrup over her waffle and heaps it with ice cream.

  “Well, don’t hold out on me!”

  She sits across from me, primly laying out her silverware and putting a napkin on her lap.

  “His name is Earl, and we’re keeping things casual.”