Ever After (Dirtshine Book 3)

by Roxie Noir

  “I can’t,” I say, simply. “I can’t tell them that I fucked up again, that I drove while absolutely blitzed and punched some bloke because he used to be your boyfriend. It’s over if I do that.”

  She sighs.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she says.

  “Because you’re an expert on those three,” I say.

  “They sure don’t think you’re perfect.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “It’ll go better if you own up to your mistakes,” she says, propping herself up on one elbow. “I promise, people would rather you be pro-active than try to apologize later. Like the other day, I was putting together some aprons for this one scene and I knew it wasn’t going to be finished in time—”

  “You’re comparing a hundred thousand quid to aprons?” I ask. “It’s a whole separate category of problem, Frankie, and when you’re me people don’t forgive you quite so easily.”

  Her face turns to stone, and instantly, I feel bad. I didn’t mean for it to sound that harsh, but for the past week we’ve both been walking on glass, it feels like, not sleeping much and trying to pick our way through the maze of the British legal system, something neither of us understands.

  I’ve got an attorney, but the level of legal help I can afford isn’t exactly the best. He answers my calls when he feels like it and I’m reasonably certain that he’s not even read any of my case yet, judging by the answers he gives me.

  But I haven’t got the money to afford better, so Dirk Bigsley is who I’ve got.

  Frankie rolls away, gets out of bed, heads into the bathroom, and I wonder if she’s right. She could be, but deep down, I don’t think she is.

  I think that I either get this exactly right or I’ve blown it completely, so here I am, full steam ahead.

  The next morning, Frankie drops me off at the airport. It’s early and traffic is awful, but finally, her car crawls to the international terminal. There’s almost nothing that I want less than a ten-hour plane flight right now, but I’ve done this to myself and I know it.

  But suddenly, as I get my luggage out of her trunk and set it on the asphalt, I’m struck by that same fear that I won’t see her again. The wind lifts and tosses her curls, and she shuts her trunk hard, the only way it’ll stick shut.

  I grab her, pull her body in close to mine. Cars are honking as they drive by the terminal and people are shouting at each other about luggage, but I don’t care.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” I tell her. “You’re right that I fucked up.”

  She laughs, her body shaking against my chest.

  “I know,” she says. “And you’re a stubborn bastard who won’t listen to advice.”

  “That does sound familiar,” I murmur. “You’ll still be here when I get back, won’t you?”

  I pull back a bit, my hand on her face. She looks up at me, hazel eyes suddenly serious.

  “Of course,” she whispers. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” I say, and lean down to kiss her.

  It’s gentle at first, soft, a proper goodbye-at-the-airport kiss but then she moves her mouth, wraps her arm around my waist and something inside me shifts.

  I push my hands through her hair, tangling myself in her, open my mouth against hers as she pulls my head down. It’s raw and powerful, a thrill zapping through me even though it’s only a kiss at an airport.

  I don’t stop. I kiss Frankie harder, more ferociously, and she responds in kind. We kiss like it’s the last time we’ll ever see each other and it’s a long time before I pull back, come up for air.

  Frankie’s panting for breath. I’m panting for breath. Her hand is on my face, her eyes on mine, begging me, pleading with me for something that she can’t say out loud.

  I take her hand, kiss the palm. I grab my luggage, because if I don’t leave now I never will.

  “I’ll see you in a week,” I say. “Promise.”

  That gets a smile out of her, her face softening.

  “Call me?” she says.

  “Naturally,” I tell her.

  I kiss her knuckles, take my bag, and walk toward the terminal before I have a chance not to do it.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Frankie

  I get back into my car, oddly shaken, and I watch Liam walk away through the big sliding glass doors.

  Just before he does, he turns and waves. I wave back.

  Instantly, the guilt of what I’m about to do hits me like a ton of bricks. I wonder for the thousandth time if he’s not right, if I should just go along with what he thinks should happen because after all it’s his life, his band.

  But I can’t just let him go this alone. He’s done that too much, convinced himself that he doesn’t deserve sympathy or help from anyone.

  And maybe he doesn’t deserve it. I don’t know. I’m not fit to judge that, but I know life doesn’t work strictly by who deserves what.

  When I can’t see Liam any more, I start my engine. I drive out of LAX, but instead of going back to my place, I head to Darcy’s.

  “All right, what did he do?” Gavin asks the second he steps through the door.

  My stomach clenches, but Darcy rolls her eyes.

  “Hi, welcome, good morning,” she says. “Coffee? Donut?”

  Gavin grabs a donut, leaning his elbows on Darcy’s countertop, and bites into it. I brought them as a gesture of goodwill, because I’m exploding with nerves and not even sure I’m doing the right thing.

  “Come on,” he says around a mouthful. “She’s here without Liam, and we all know Liam, so he’s clearly done something.”

  “Still not a reason not to say hello first,” Darcy says.

  “Maybe she’s here to plan his surprise party,” Trent rumbles.

  “His birthday isn’t for months,” Gavin points out.

  “Who says it’s for his birthday?”

  “He’s right,” I finally say, the words bursting out of my mouth.

  The three of them just sigh, and I blink in surprise. It wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting.

  “Just tell me my house is still standing,” Trent says.

  “You’d have got a call from the police if anything had happened there,” Gavin says. “Ask me how I know.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say. “He’s fine now, he’s been fine, but he’s on a plane to England because he punched my ex-fiancé and he might not make the show next Friday and he didn’t want me to tell you any of this, because he thinks you’ll hate him for screwing up again.”

  Dead silence. Trent folds his arms in front of him. Darcy takes a sip of coffee. Gavin drums his fingers on the table, all three of them looking at me.

  “He, um,” I say.

  I rehearsed all the way over here. On breaks at work I scribbled down talking points, because I really was nervous about coming here and telling these famous people all about this, but they seem to be taking it well. Really well.

  “Is that all?” Gavin finally asks.

  “You’re saying no one’s dead, right?” says Trent.

  “Or maimed?”

  “Or hurt?”

  “I mean, he did punch my ex, but I think Alistair is fine—”

  “Sometimes people need to be punched,” Gavin says.

  “Oh, my God,” Darcy mutters, closing her eyes.

  “They do,” Gavin insists. “I’m not saying violence is necessarily good, but every so often, you find someone who really does need—”

  “You’re not even what we’re talking about,” Darcy says.

  I stay quiet, because I’m not exactly sure what I’ve stumbled into, but I’m pretty sure it’s not about Liam.

  “Why don’t we go sit down and Frankie can tell us the whole story instead of us arguing about whether some people need to be punched?” Trent rumbles.

  “They do,” Gavin says, grabbing another donut.

  “Alistair did,” I mutter, and Gavin looks over at me, behind Darcy and
Trent, and grins.

  I sit on a couch, coffee in my hands, and take a deep breath. I try to recall those index cards I wrote notes to myself on, but they’ve all completely disappeared from my memory, and suddenly I don’t know where to begin.

  “I met Liam in England a couple of months ago when I was visiting with my ex-fiancé,” I start, and then trail off because that doesn’t seem quite right either. They’re all just watching, listening, and suddenly I realize that they probably know him better than me, that maybe I should start with the Liam they know, work forwards.

  I sigh.

  “That’s not true,” I say. “A year ago I stopped Liam from jumping in front of a train dead drunk at two o’clock in the morning and he called me an American slag before disappearing into some bushes.”

  They don’t look surprised at all.

  It feels like I talk forever, but it’s not actually that long, and they seem interested. I tell them about Shelton, the pub he worked in, the cottage where he lived. Hands over my eyes, I tell them that I went on a two-day bender with an ex-junkie and after I left, he kept getting shitfaced, drove through town, hit a wall, and tried to assault my ex.

  And I tell them that now my ex is suing him for a hundred thousand pounds and that he had to go back to England to face the charges and that there’s a good chance he might not make it back in time for the show.

  Finally, I go quiet. I’m not sure what else to say, and suddenly, I’m not sure what I’m even here for. To tell them they should have a backup plan, I guess?

  But that’s not it. That’s some, but it’s not all.

  I’m here because I’m afraid for him. I’m afraid that Liam’s alone, that I’m not enough for him. He’s spent years systematically alienating people from his life, and now he’s afraid to try again.

  “We can get another drummer if we need to,” Trent finally says. “I think Eddie’s in town.”

  “Fuck Eddie, he left us,” Darcy says.

  “He still knows our songs,” Trent says. He’s got Darcy’s cat in his lap, petting her distractedly as she practically loses her mind.

  “He left us for Stingraze,” she goes on, and looks at me. “Have you even heard of them? They’re a jam band, and they’re shitty, and they play festivals that are just weekend-long excuses to do drugs and they’re terrible.”

  “The point being, it’s not a problem to find another drummer,” Trent says.

  “There’s about a thousand drummers in Los Angeles we could ask,” Gavin says. “We just wanted it to be Liam.”

  There’s another long pause.

  “How sober is he, really?” Gavin asks.

  “Alistair sent him a bottle of vodka and he dumped it down the drain,” I offer.

  “He was drinking club soda at your wedding,” Darcy volunteers. “I sneaked a couple sips to see if there was vodka or something, and there never was.”

  “If he’s not drinking on the sly it’s the longest he’s been sober since we graduated high school,” Gavin says. “And with Liam there’s no such thing as drinking on the sly, believe me. Or doing anything on the sly, really.”

  “He did almost fly back to England without us knowing,” Trent points out.

  “Perhaps he’s learned about sobriety and sneaking,” Gavin says. “Look at him, all grown up.”

  Darcy just snorts. Her cat jumps off Trent’s lap, yawns, stretches, walks over to Gavin and looks up at him expectantly.

  “What?” he says. “I’m not picking you up, you’ve got to jump, you lazy beast.”

  “Trent spoils her,” Darcy says.

  “I do not.”

  “I caught you getting out of bed to give her treats because she did something cute,” Darcy says, laughing. “This cat has you tied around her pinkie... toe.”

  Trent just shrugs. The cat jumps onto Gavin’s lap, shoves her head into his hand, and suddenly they seem to remember that I’m still there, sitting on the edge of the couch, coffee cup in both hands.

  “We can find another drummer, it’s really not a big problem,” Gavin says. “I do wish he hadn’t punched someone, but when you asked if we could meet at Darcy’s house I thought you were going to tell us that you’d caught him shooting up again or something.”

  “Really, it’s kind of good news that something bad happened and he’s actually dealing with it,” Darcy says.

  “I can’t believe you guys still like him,” I say, and then a second later realize I said it out loud.

  They’re already laughing, though, even Trent who tends to be kind of quiet.

  “Neither can we,” Darcy says.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Liam

  The good news is that everything’s as I left it, plus a layer of dust. The bad news is that I’m back here.

  I knew I’d need to come back eventually. Right now, I’m officially only visiting the U.S. for three months before my tourist visa runs out, and after that I’m either illegal or I’ve got to figure out how to get a longer-stay visa or a green card or whatever the fuck it is I’m supposed to do.

  The first time I was there, I had a team of people to handle it. I signed some documents and went to some meeting with immigration officials, but other than that I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Not so this time, when it all falls on me to figure out what I’ve got to do.

  In any case, I’ve still got the cottage. The rent is fairly cheap, and it seemed foolish to have nowhere to come if I got deported. It’s still got the kitchen table with the wine stain and the burned spot, the bed as unmade as I left it, my bicycle waiting in the entry hall.

  I do the math. It’s one in the morning in Los Angeles, so I just text Frankie: Made it. Everything is the same.

  The next day, I take the bicycle and ride it through unpleasantly cold weather to the offices of Dirk Bigsley, Solicitor. He’s the end office in a concrete mini-mall made even uglier by the slight rain we’re having, and his secretary barely notices when I walk in, just shrugs and points me toward the back.

  My stomach sinks. It’s not that I need white-glove, gold-star service, but I’m beginning to wonder whether Dirk’s degree is printed on the back of a coupon insert from the local paper. I’ve emailed and called as well, and I have to say that neither of those interactions have given me much confidence, either.

  But on the other hand, I’ve got what you’d call a rather limited budget and since Alistair’s retained the firm of Crowley, Smithton, and St. James, representing myself seemed like a spectacularly bad idea.

  I knock on Dirk’s door. No answer. I knock louder, and from within there’s a rustling of papers, a pause, and then finally he shouts, “It’s open!”

  I push the door in and I’m greeted by a middle-aged man behind piles and piles of papers on what must be a desk.

  “You must be Liam,” he says. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  We shake hands. He directs me to the only seat in the office that’s not his.

  I can’t help but notice that his computer screen is showing a game of solitaire, and that he doesn’t bother navigating away as he searches his desk for my file.

  “I was just... I know I had it... somewhere around... yes!” he exclaims, finally pulling a manila folder from a pile and smiling triumphantly, like he’s found the Holy Grail. He puts it on top of another pile, opens it, starts reading.

  “Now, if I’m not mistaken,” he says, scanning. “This is just a civil... bollocks, a hundred thousand quid?”

  “Is this the first time you’re looking at this?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” Dirk says, sitting up a little straighter. “I do handle quite a bit of business, can’t possibly keep it all in my head at once you know. Now this says you assaulted this other bloke and he’s seeking damages?”

  I exhale hard, because I’ve gone over this with him on the phone already, more than once, and now I’m just wasting time and money doing it again.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ve already got the DUI, my license is revoked, I’m paying
the fine on a monthly basis as I haven’t got five thousand quid let alone a hundred thousand—”

  My phone rings in my pocket, and Dirk looks down at the paperwork.

  “Take it,” he mumbles. “I’ll just reacquaint myself with this....”

  I’m nearly certain that he’s getting acquainted for the first time, but I don’t argue with him. He’s better than representing myself, at least.

  I don’t recognize the number, but I answer out of sheer perversity and a desire to irritate Dirk by talking loudly on the phone in his office.

  “Please hold for Mr. Portsland,” a pleasant female voice says.

  “What?” I ask, but there’s already hold music playing, and I frown. Who the fuck calls you to put you on hold, this isn’t—

  “Liam Fenwick?” a brash male voice with a posh accent says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “My name is Neville Portsland and I’ve been retained as your solicitor for your current matter of one hundred thousand pounds,” he says, sounding very much as if he’s used to people hanging onto his every word. “I understand that at the moment you’re being represented by Dirk Bigsley?”

  I lean back, looking at Dirk, whose lips move as he reads.

  “What do you mean you’ve been retained as my solicitor, I haven’t—”

  “I’m afraid this will be easiest if it’s done in person, rather than over the telephone,” he says. “But I will say I’ve a record of winning cases like this in the area, I’ve been arguing personal injury civil suits for many years, and I know for a fact that Bigsley once ate a ham sandwich that he found in a desk drawer.”

  I look at Bigsley. I’m pretty sure he’d eat a ham sandwich that he found, but I’ve got no idea what the fuck is going on right now.

  “Not to mention that this particular case is anything but cut and dry,” he goes on. “For God’s sake, you’ve got a black eye in your booking photo and they’re trying to claim that this was a one-sided assault. It’s simply ludicrous.”

  Across the room, Bigsley looks at me, frowns.