Beautiful Beast

by Aubrey Irons

  He grins. “Jesus, such an asshole.”

  “And yet you’ve hung out with me for, what, twenty-four years? The fuck does that make you?”

  “An idiot. Or toilet paper.”

  Ash chuckles.

  Dylan shakes his head.

  Tyler grins. “Are we cool?”

  “Are you going to reimburse me for getting that desk refinished?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Christ, Crown.”

  “That a yes?”

  “Bill me, douchebag.”

  Yeah, we’re cool.

  “I solemnly swear to never chase after your mom, all right? All due respect, of course.”

  He glares at me. “Good.”

  “Now, your sister—”

  “I will disfigure your face and piss on your corpse.”

  I grin.

  “But, guess I don’t have to worry about you sniffing around Kensington, seeing as you’re all hung up on Anastasia.” He shakes his head. “Jesus, I mean who saw that coming?”

  “Me?” Dylan says flatly.

  Ash shrugs. “I did too.”

  Tyler shakes his head. “Ahh fuck it, so did I, to be honest.”

  “You know you’re a bastard for dropping that on her.”

  Ty nods. “I know.”

  “I’ve still got a mind to fuck that face up.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Aanaand we’re back,” Dylan mutters, shooting us both a look.

  “Can we put our dicks away and talk logistics with Carmichael? Ash, where we at with that?”

  Ash grins that dark, wicked smile of his that has a way of making girls do all sorts of things they swore they’d never do with him.

  “Our guys checked in two hours ago. They’re airborne.” His smile deepens. “Apparently, Brent’s a cryer.”

  Right, there’s that. Yes, Brent’s an insidious, smart motherfucker who managed to con me, René, and about half the families in South Neck into letting him manage our finances. He also just did some insidiously twisted shit like make me think Dylan was suing me, and vice versa. But Brent fucked up.

  Hard.

  You see, Brent went after the wrong rich people. And I’m not even just talking about me. He went after Ty’s mom, and even though I very much haven’t been sleeping with her, that means something to me. And Dylan. And Ash. And definitely Tyler.

  Here’s the thing: you can poo-poo rich people and their money, and their connections, and their privilege all you want. But money, and connections, and privilege buy influence.

  Influence, or hard motherfuckers with shady military contractor backgrounds who don’t mind taking a fat check to do what the U.S. Justice Department won’t: extradite an American from Thailand.

  I glance at my watch and smile.

  Brent’s actually on a cargo plane as we speak, touching down in about five hours. And then, the meanest, smartest, most vicious attorney in New York is going to tear him a new asshole.

  Ash, obviously.

  I’ve thought about it, and even if it did end up almost killing me, I don’t feel bad about the Maisy thing. Well, I did, for a second. But then I looked her up on Facebook. Maisy Karl is the head of marketing for some dot com company out in San Francisco, with two kids, a dog, a Mercedes, and a husband who bears a striking resemblance to David fucking Beckham.

  I think it’s safe to say she’s doing just fine.

  Also, fuck Brent. That asshole never had a shot with her anyway.

  So, that’s where we’re at. Tyler doesn’t want to murder me with his bare hands, Brent’s on his way back to face his crimes, and at this point, a fair chunk of the money he walked away with is actually already back where it should be.

  But I can barely think about any of that. Even the money. Fuck, especially the money. Acknowledging how much of a rich asshole thing it is to say, money really is just money, at the end of the day.

  But Ana?

  Well, that’s something you don’t make, or earn, or inherit. And that’s definitely something you don’t get back without fighting to death for it.

  Half an hour later, Ash and Tyler have taken off, leaving me and Dylan to talk business.

  “Here. I never thought I’d say this but please smoke one of these. I don’t think I can talk shop with you while you’re PMSing like you’ve been all day.”

  He tosses me a pack of cigarettes from the desk drawer, and I grin, but I shake my head.

  “I’m thinking about quitting actually.”

  “Nothing like a little brush with death to make you give up some vices.”

  “Yeah? What are you giving up?”

  Dylan grins. And so do I, for second at least, before the vague memory of that night comes cutting in.

  “I’ve apologized for driving us off a cliff, right?”

  “Once or twice, yeah,” he shakes his head. “We’re good, man.”

  “Fuck Brent,” I mutter.

  “Seriously, fuck that guy. I swear to God, I’m bringing popcorn when I go to watch Ash burn him at the stake.”

  We both laugh.

  It feels good to laugh.

  It feels good to be alive.

  I toy with the pack of cigarettes in my lap for a second before I chuck them away and stand. I need something to calm my nerves.

  “Joint?”

  Dylan shrugs. “Sure.”

  I move behind my fucked-up desk, open the top drawer, and pull out the weed and rolling papers.

  “So what do you think of the idea?”

  Dylan makes a face, ruffling his hair as he watches me work.

  “As your friend or as a fairly successful investment analyst.”

  I lick the edge of the paper and finish the roll.

  “Either.”

  “As a friend,” he shrugs, “cool idea, man.”

  “As the professional?”

  “Fucking awful idea.”

  I frown. “Noted.”

  The lighter sparks in my hand, the end of the joint glowing as I puff.

  “You really want to go through with this?”

  “Yep.”

  Dylan shakes his head as he takes the joint from my hand. “Bastian, businesses like this,” he makes a face, “they’re not sure things.”

  “I think we of all people can agree that life isn’t a sure thing.”

  He takes a drag.

  “Let’s put it this way, driving with you after a night at Brent Carmichael’s house is better odds than this.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You’ve already made up your mind haven’t you.”

  I smile. “I’ve already filed the LLC paperwork.”

  Dylan laughs, choking mid-toke. “Well, fuck, man. Go ahead and ignore that doom and gloom shit then.”

  I grin.

  “You talk to her yet?”

  I don’t say anything. He just nods, passing the joint back my way. I pull on it slowly, finally mellowing out after a week of cold-turkey-ing cigarettes, before I finally glance up at him.

  “So how was she, when you went out there.”

  “Thought you didn’t want to know.”

  “Well, now I do.”

  He raises a brow at me.

  “Speak, asshole.”

  Dylan shrugs. “Good. She looked good, man. Angry, ticked off, not exactly happy to see me, but good.”

  We sit in silence for a minute, just quietly smoking until it’s cashed.

  “That other thing we talked about.” Dylan glances at me. “Does she—”

  “No.”

  But she will.

  Because for all my shit, for all the grand gestures and big words, I’ve still got one more string to pull.

  One more card to play.

  One more shot at getting it right this time.

  Dylan stands, clapping me on the shoulder.

  “It’s good to be alive, man. Remember that.”

  “Please don’t start in with the ‘glowing light at the end of a tunnel’ shit with me now, oka
y?”

  “And fuck up that scowly angry thing you’ve worked so hard on for all these years? Nah, wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Dick.”

  “Look, from the perspective of a guy who spent a few months a little checked out from the world?”

  “That what we’re calling comas now?”

  He flips me off.

  “Just remember that life’s all about picking a path and just seeing where it takes you. That’s about the only control we have.”

  “And a kumbaya to you too, buddy.”

  Dylan grins. “Whatever. I need to get back to New York and hash out this merger bullshit with our team before we tackle this Brent thing.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Hey, get ready for that rat race dude. You’re about to jump head first into a world of shit.” He nods his chin at me. “Give me a call before you leave, yeah?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, hey, I meant to ask you something.” He turns at the door to the office, his face puzzled.

  “What exactly happened to you at your graduation party?”

  I frown. “What?”

  “Your graduation party, after high school. What happened to you that night? And don’t tell me you blacked out on your boat because something tells me that’s bullshit.”

  I’m about to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business when I stop and chew on it for a second.

  “I picked a path.”

  He raises a brow at me.

  “And how’d that turn out?”

  “I think we’re about to find out.”

  Break and shake and kill me sweetly,

  Kiss me like you’ll never leave me.

  Life’s a kick in the teeth,

  And loves’s a beautiful beast.

  “Hey, Ana?”

  I half turn my head towards the door, my eyes not leaving what’s in front of me.

  “Yeah?”

  Loren, Andi’s bass player-slash-my-temporary-manager, clears her throat.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah,” I say it absently, trying to process what I’m looking at.

  “Well, you’re up in five minutes.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Awesome crowd out there tonight.”

  I nod.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  This time, I turn, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just getting into my head space.”

  “Right on.” She nods her chin past me.

  “New guitar?”

  Kind of.

  I nod, and she whistles slowly. “Pretty sexy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Very Bruce Springsteen.”

  I smile thinly.

  “All right, well I’ll come get you in four minutes then, cool?”

  “Sure.”

  She closes the door, and I turn back to the electric guitar sitting in the hard case in front of me - the one that’s “very Bruce Springsteen.”

  …Probably because he recorded “Born to Run” with it in 1975.

  I want to be furious. I want to scream at Bastian’s blatant disregard for our ongoing cold-war. I guess we’ve never laid down the rules, but I would think they’re pretty freaking obvious.

  Stay out of and stay away from my life.

  Sending me this guitar, to the venue, on the night of my first solo show in forever isn’t just a “nice gesture,” and I know it. He knows it too, which is exactly why it’s sitting in front of me.

  I run my fingers over the aged wood and the pristine metal.

  That said, it is a gorgeous instrument. Not to mention worth God-knows-how-much.

  There’s a note that arrived along with the case when the delivery guy dropped it off. Nothing fancy, just a simple white piece of cardstock with a note written in clean black Sharpie.

  The only strings that come with this are attached to the fucking guitar. No agenda. This just deserves to be played.

  -B

  No agenda, huh?

  Bullshit.

  The guitar makes me think of that day in his music room, and all the forbidden heat and ignoring the warnings that came with it. And I know Bastian Crown well enough to know he fucking knows that. I know him well enough now to know there are always strings when it comes to him.

  Even when I can’t see them. Hell, especially when I can’t see them.

  Except this time, he’s overplayed his hand. I’ve seen behind that curtain, so this time, I see this “little gift” for exactly what it is.

  …Him trying to get his claws into me again. Bastian Crown, still pulling the strings to make little Anastasia Bell dance for him.

  I stare at the guitar for another few seconds, feeling almost seduced by it before I quickly and angrily shut the case with a snap.

  Not this time.

  This time, I’m cutting the strings before he can tug on them.

  I reach for an old favorite of mine instead, and I’m slinging it over my shoulder when the dressing room door opens and Loren bustles in with Andi in tow.

  Loren frowns.

  “You’re not playing the new one?”

  “Nope.”

  Andi raises a brow. “What new one?”

  “She’s got this gorgeous vintage Fender that she had delivered here earlier.”

  “Well, faaaancy,” Andi says, fanning herself dramatically. “It’s all that Hamptons’ money,” she says in a thickly affected accent.

  “Oh, calm down,” I mutter. “I did not have it delivered here. It’s not even mine.”

  Andi looks like she’s about to needle me with something else, but her face suddenly hardens at the look in my eyes.

  “Oh no fucking way.”

  “Yes, fucking way.”

  “The asshole?”

  “The one and only.”

  Loren clears her throat. “Fill me in here?”

  “It’s from Ana’s psycho asshole ex-boyfriend—”

  “Uh, not my ex-boyfriend,” I say sullenly. I shrug. “Also not asshole, just…” I sigh and shake my head. “Okay, maybe an asshole. But it doesn’t matter, I’m not playing that thing.”

  “Totally. No way,” Andi says fiercely.

  She frowns. “Can I see it?”

  “Sure.”

  I flick the clips on the case and open it back up.

  “Damn,” she whistles. “Super Bruce Springsteen looking.”

  “It’s from Born to Run.”

  She nods. “Yeah, no, it looks exactly like—”

  “No I mean it’s literally from the record.”

  Two jaws drop in front of me, and two sets of eyes snap to mine.

  “Holy fuck,” Andi says, almost reverently as she stares at the guitar with a new zeal. “What is that even worth?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Loren shakes her head “And he just gave it to you?”

  “Apparently.”

  Andi sighs. “Okay, I take it back. You’re definitely playing that tonight.”

  “Oh c’mon! What happened to solidarity?”

  “What?” She shrugs, making a face. “Dude, if you don’t play this guitar tonight, I’m kicking you out of my house for being an idiot.”

  “Nice principles,” I mutter.

  “Um, this guitar definitely comes before principles.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Is the asshole here tonight?”

  My face sours. “God no.”

  “Well…”

  “Look, you don’t have to tell him you played it,” Loren says with a shrug of her shoulders. “But seriously, you can’t not use this tonight. It’d be like, sacrilege or something.”

  I furrow my brow, letting my eyes trace back over the guitar, sitting nestled in the red velvet of the case.

  “Also, you’re on in like one minute, so…”

  “Screw it,” I mutter as I grab the guitar and pull it free.

  Andi whoops. “That’s my girl. Now go rock some socks off.”

  I can feel the jitters tingling thro
ugh me as I step through the shadows of the backstage area. The Fender hangs heavy from my shoulder, and I can feel my heart hammering against the strap. The lights dim out on stage, and I can hear the hoots and muffled claps of the audience.

  I should be nervous. Or excited. But instead, I’m outside the present. Instead, and probably because of this stupid guitar, all I’m thinking about his him.

  I want to hate Bastian Crown. I really, truly want to hate him, so badly. But I can’t, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I focus on how he hurt me, and how he wrecked me, I keep coming back to the other roles he’s filled, whether he’s realized it or not.

  The fuel that stoked my fire.

  The push that set me out into the world to find my dreams.

  The hate I never really meant, the love that might have been, the lust that consumed, and the pain that comes out in blurred lines across a page.

  No matter how much I try and focus on the bad, there’s always the other part of what makes him him.

  The part that I could never let go. The part that forged me into who I am. The part that forced me to face the world tall and unflinching.

  The part I loved, somehow, in my own quiet, private way.

  I take one last slow, deep breath as I listen to the cheering of the audience. And as I exhale, I make sure to exhale Bastian too.

  Because it’s time to close that chapter.

  Tonight’s not for Sebastian Crown. Tonight’s for me.

  Tonight’s also, incidentally, for Jack, who’s somewhere here in the crowd apparently. We’re going to meet tonight after the show, for whatever that means and for wherever that may lead. And I’m not sure what that means, or if I’m even remotely ready for that or looking for that, or even okay with that. But it is what it is.

  …A step away from Bastian, which is probably what I need right now.

  I hold the guitar tight as I step out of the shadows and into the light. The venue isn’t big by any means, but it’s a full crowd tonight. There are some cheers, a few camera flashes, the clink of glasses by the bar. I smile as I wave, and it’s then that I realize I’m scanning the faces for Jack which is comically ridiculous seeing I don’t actually know what I’m looking for since we’re not officially meeting until after the show.

  I strum a chord as I step up to the microphone.

  “Thanks for coming out, guys. I’m Anastasia Bell, and this is my sexy new guitar.”

  There’s some laughter, a few hoots.

  I smile, take a breath, and I start to play.