“Hey, man, I was just trying to get him to leave the bar,” Zed says to Cooper.
“It’s okay, why don’t you let me talk to him?”
“Yeah, why don’t you let Coop clean up his own goddam mess, Zed?”
A beat later, Cooper sits in the stool that Zed had occupied just moments ago. He orders in French. When the fuck did this arsehole learn French? The douche canoe bartender gives Cooper a hesitant look but begins making the order. He slides one in front of Ryan and sets the other before me. I gulp it down in one long swallow. It spills all over my tux, but I don’t care.
“Congratulations,” I say, slamming my empty glass down on the bar.
“I know this is hard for you—”
“Hard? You don’t know the meaning of hard, Ryan. You’ve had every goddam thing you wanted handed to you from the day you were born.”
“I know you like to think that, because it makes it easier for you to hate me, but I had to work at a lot of things in my life. Maybe I had a better start than you, but I lost her once too. I know what that feels like.”
“Only, now your ring is on her finger, and I’ll never have her again.”
“No, you won’t. Ali is mine. You kiss her again, I’ll kick your arse. The only reason I’m not doing it right now is because I feel sorry for you. I can’t imagine how much it hurts to have had her and know you’ll never get to touch her again, so I’m giving you that, but if you ruin this night for us, if you embarrass her in front of our friends and family, I’ll see to it that you’re out of our lives for good. I don’t want that. The guys don’t want that, and she doesn’t want that.”
“Doesn’t matter. Everyone knows that whatever Cooper Ryan wants he gets anyway, so you say the word, buddy, and I’m out.”
“Hard as this is to say after your shitty behaviour lately, I don’t want you gone. There’s a reason we’re a multi-platinum award winning band and it isn’t my vocals, or Zed’s drumming, Ash’s bass, or your axe, it’s all of us.”
“Right, just one big happy fucking family.” I stand and kick my stool from under me.
“Quinn,” Coop says, and I turn and face him, grabbing a drink from the bar that belongs to the woman beside me. I gulp it down.
“Congratu-fucking-lations, the best man won.”
“Jesus, she’s not a competition, Levi. She’s my wife. I’m not sorry it didn’t end the way you wanted it to. And I am sorry that you’re hurting. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on my worst enemy.”
“Well, it’s a fucking good thing we’re best buddies, isn’t it? Cheers,” I say and turn so that I can see Ali, who is approaching the two of us warily. “To the bride and groom, may they live happily ever after. If anyone needs me, I’ll be stroking my gigantic cock while I imagine sinking it inside her again. You remember that don’t you, Coop? The way she begged me for more?”
From out of nowhere I’m smacked in the side of the head so hard I land on my arse, and a livid Cooper shakes out his fist as I drag myself to my feet. Before I can hit him back, Ali throws herself between us and shoves my chest.
“Stop it! You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Come on, Red, let’s not pretend you don’t love this shit. You always did love seeing me bending over backwards just to please you. You loved to keep the two of us on a tight little leash, especially me, and just when I thought you’d let me get all up in that fucking glorious pussy of yours, you’d pull the rug out from under me.”
Coop lunges for me again, and I stagger back, But I’m not quick enough. I’m clumsy, and drunk, and I stumble several paces and topple to the ground, right on top of Angry French Girl’s cello. A collective gasp goes up from the guests. Splintered wood digs into my back and I stare at Brielle whose face is red with what looks like unshed tears.
“Shit! I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“Espèce de trou du cul! Abrûti d'ivrogne!” The sorrow in her face turns to fury. Her arm lashes out and she beats me with her bow. The delicate hairs snap against my skin like a whip, and then I’m forced to hold my hands protectively in front of my face as she beats me until the stick breaks. “Tu n'est qu'un misérable déchet humain! Je te souhaite de mourir en enculant un mouton!”
“Même pour une raclure dans ton genre cela semble être une bien trop belle mort.” Angry French Girl throws her hands up in the air. I scramble to my feet, and she points a long, slender finger at me. Poking me in the chest, stabbing with each new word. “Je te souhaite de contracter une maladie nécrosante qui te rongera lentement la queue!”
She stalks away, and then out of nowhere, Ali slaps me. The sound cuts through the murmurs from the scandalized guests. My cheek smarts where her small hand connected with my face, my eye throbs like a bitch from her husband’s fist, and my arms are covered in red, stinging welts from Angry French Girl’s bow. “You need to leave.”
I laugh. “I thought you’d never fucking ask.”
“You know earlier when you came to my room, I actually felt sorry for you.” Her voice trembles as she whisper-hisses the words. “It hurt seeing you in so much pain, but I won’t forgive you for ruining this day for us.”
I feel like shit, not because she hit me, or her husband hit me, or because their damn cellist went nuts and beat the shit out of me with her bow, but because I can see, really see how much I hurt the woman I love, on the one day that should have been magical. I ruined it for her, I ruined any chance of her being happy because I wanted her to feel as miserable as I do.
“Ali—”
“Just go, Levi. Go and sleep it off because if you don’t leave now, Cooper will hit you again, and I won’t stop him.”
I wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth and turn away, pushing through the throng of wedding guests. I don’t walk to my room like she suggested, but instead, I make a beeline for the front gate of this fucking mansion. I want out of here, out of France, and as far away from the happy couple as possible.
“GIVE ME MY FUCKING keys,” I shout at the valet, grabbing his lapel and shaking him, hard.
“S'il vous plait, Monsieur, je vous en prie. I cannot.”
“Levi!”
Christ. I let go of the tiny French man—though looking at him now I can see he’s just a boy, probably no older than seventeen. He stumbles back a few paces. “What do you want, Ali? Don’t you have a husband to annoy now?”
“God, you just can’t stop fucking everything up, can you?” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “I told you to go to bed, not accost the valet and go off half-cocked.”
“You should know by now that I don’t do what I’m told, and nothing involving my cock is ever done by halves.” I snatch the keys from the stunned kid and jump in the car. Best thing about convertibles? You don’t need to use a door.
“You’re not leaving in that.” Ali points to my shiny red Ferrari 458 Spider.
“Did you miss the part where you married someone else? You don’t get to tell me what to do.” I rev the engine. Her eyes narrow into slits.
“God, for one second could you stop being such a spoiled child. This is my wedding, Levi. I don’t expect you to like it, but I do expect you to put up and shut up because if the situation were reversed, I’d have given you this. I wouldn’t enjoy it.” She gives a derisive laugh. “Hell, I’d probably be drunk off my arse too, but I’d give you this day. I’m just sad that you couldn’t see past your hatred for Coop to do the same for me.”
I shake my head. She’s right. I know she’s right, but I can’t let it go the way she could. I’m not as good as she is. “More fool me, right? For loving you so much I actually give a shit that you’re marrying someone else.”
“Married,” she says quietly, blinking back tears.
“What?”
“I married someone else. It isn’t going to go away. I can’t undo it. I don’t want to undo it.” She reaches out and strokes my cheek. I pull away. “I love him. I chose him.”
“Kinda got that, Red, what with you standin
g there in a wedding dress with his ring on your finger.”
“Then please, just try and be happy for me, because you’re breaking my heart right now.”
I take a deep breath, swallow back the lump in my throat and nod. “I’m only this much of an arsehole because I love you.”
“I know. I don’t know how to fix it, or how to fix you and Coop. I tried to walk away from you both, but I need you in my life, Levi.” Tears spill freely down her cheeks. “I know that doesn’t make sense, and if I could live without you both I would, but ...”
“You don’t have to live without both of us, just me.”
“Levi—”
“I can’t do it. I can’t stay here. Not tonight. Not knowing that he gets to put his hands on you, to have you, and keep you.” I slam the gearstick into drive.
“Don’t do this, please, you’re drunk,” Ali begs. “Give me the keys.”
“I love you, Red.” I rev the engine and take off.
“Levi,” she screams, running after me. I glance in the rear-view mirror. Tears blurring my vision as they stream down my face, I navigate the narrow drive to the gates of the estate and the steep hairpin turns of the road thereafter. I have no idea where I’m going, or how long I’ve been behind the wheel, but I’ll drive until I run out of road. I’ll drive until I can forget her, until this wedding and the things I said—the things I did—no longer haunt me.
Or I would have if I hadn’t lost control. If my screeching tires didn’t slide on the asphalt, and the front of my very expensive hire car didn’t fold like paper as it smacked headfirst into a brick building. Between the liquor and the adrenalin, the pain in my ribs, and the willingness to just let go, my thoughts aren’t coherent. There’s no fight or flight. There’s no desire to do anything at all but sleep, and as Ali’s tear-streaked face flashes before my eyes—as my life flashes before my eyes—I know I fucked up.
Big time.
Again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ME BIG ROCK STAR, YOU JANE
LEVI
I shove at the fingers prodding me. “Monsieur, monsieur.”
“Five more minutes,” I mumble.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Are you okay? Do you need a hospital?”
I sit upright, crack open my lids, just a fraction, and stare at the bloodied steering wheel before me. My car has been totalled, and I’m parked in a big fuck-off brick wall clearly belonging to the prodder. “Christ, no. No hospitals.”
“Monsieur, vous êtes blessé. Vous avez besoin d'un hôpital.”
“Where am I? You speak English?”
“Oui.” The woman nods. “Yes, but I must insist on calling an ambulance.”
“I’m fine,” I say, glancing at the seat beside me. Last I remembered, I was in the car, alone, but now the space is not only occupied by brick and plaster dust, there’s also a rather large dog staring back at me. His tongue lolls out, his fur ruffles with the late winter breeze. He looks like some kind of shepherd, his coat a mix of mottled caramel, white, grey, and black. His eyes are two different colours, one pale blue, one hazel. They make my head spin, like I don’t know where to focus, so I push open the door. Several bricks slide away from the rubble, and the metal protests as it scrapes against the debris. I stagger out of the car and crumple to the ground, retch onto the spindly tufts of grass. The woman steps back, clearly horrified. When I’m done purging my guts, I climb to my feet and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I glance at the brick wall and it crumbles on my car, smashing the windshield, the metal groans beneath the weight.
“Ah, shit.” I glance at the woman’s stunned expression, and then beyond her to the wooden placard sign attached to the gate. “What does that sign say?”
“Monsieur?”
“The sign? I can’t read French. What does it say.”
“Ah, it’s a for sale sign, monsieur.”
I frown. “Do you live here?”
“Oui, I’m a maid for Monsieur Durand. God rest his soul. He passed away recently.”
“Great. I’ll take it,” I slur.
She gives me a puzzled look. “Take what?”
“The house, I’ll take it.”
“Monsieur, it’s not—”
“You said it was for sale, right?”
“Oui. But—”
“Awesome.” I point to my chest. “Me big rock star, buy this house. You stay and work for me now, oui?”
“Monsieur—”
“Wake me when you need me to sign something.”
“But, monsieur, I do not own the estate. The bank ... they own it now.”
“Great, then call the bank.” I pull out my wallet and hand her a wad of cash, then I shove past and through the gate. The drive isn’t too long, but it’s long enough for me to wish I had a car, or a fucking golf buggy. I stagger up the steps and into the house. A sweeping marble staircase greets me. For a beat, I wonder if I can even afford this place, then I realise I’m a fucking millionaire rock star with a big cock who just signed a multi-million-dollar dildo deal so what the fuck do I care? The place is kind of a dump anyway. It’s virtually empty, and what furniture is here is worn. Expensive, but not well preserved. The walls are crumbling, there are cracks in the plaster and the murals that were likely hand painted masterpieces have been left to rot and ruin.
I climb the stairs and walk the hall with faded portraits of people I’ll never meet. I push open the door closest to me. It’s a bathroom, nowhere there to sleep. The next door leads to a bedroom and I head for the bed and flop down onto it. A cloud of dust jumps up to greet me, but I don’t give a shit. I roll over, pull up the faded blue brocade blanket and drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAFUQ?
LEVI
When I wake, the room is too bright and a woman mills around fluffing cushions on a chaise lounge and straightening furniture as she dusts. I groan and pull the blanket over my head. It’s yanked back. “Rise and shine, monsieur.”
I open my eyes a crack and glare up at her. “Who the fuck are you?”
Her shoulders sag in defeat. “You hit your head pretty hard. Been asleep for too many days. The agent will be by with your paperwork soon, best to shower and shave. I’ve pressed and laid out your clothes.”
My brows knit together, and it hurts. I have the world’s worst hangover. “What?”
“You do not remember? You crashed your car, bought this house, asked me to work for you. I take care of your dog.”
“Dog? I don’t have a dog.” Just then a mangy mutt jumps up on the bed and licks my face. He smells like shit. I shove him away, and he sits back on his haunches at the base of the bed staring at the strange woman as if awaiting his next command. Oh fuck! The car. I sit bolt upright. “Where’s the car?”
“It has been towed.”
“What the fuck?” That’s a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car. “Where has it been towed to? Where am I? Who are you, and what the fuck is this about me buying a house?”
“Not just any house, monsieur. This house,” she says proudly.
I shake my head. “I don’t need a house in the middle of ...” I pause and glance at the furniture around me. “Where are we?”
“La Colle-sur-Loup.”
“And where is my car?”
“In the village, Monsieur.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “The village?”
Fuck me.
“Oui.”
“I need that car back.”
She nods. “Car will be fixed, monsieur. Good as new.”
“No, no, no. Not good as new. It’s a rental.”
“But they have already begun the work—”
“No! Get it back. No work. Tell them to stop work. No work.”
“Pas de travail?”
“Oui, pas de travail.” I exhale loudly. I am so fucking screwed.
“Mais monsieur, you said I work for you. Si je ne travaille pas pour vous, I don't know what I do if you leave. I will be homeless. La ba
nque y veillera.” She rings her hands and rushes towards the bed. “I'm hard worker. I get you anything you need. S'il vous plaît, monsieur? Je vous en prie!”
The dog backs up her pleas with a whine of his own.
“Look, lady. I’d love to be able to help you, but I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.”
She begins muttering in French again. The dog and I watch her pace. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. I have no idea what to say to this woman, so I ask the only thing that makes sense right now. “Is there coffee?”
“Oui.”
“Cigarettes?”
She frowns, and I’m pretty sure what follows is a lecture on smoking, but I don’t have a fucking clue what she’s saying. She leaves the room and I flop back on the bed. The dog stares at me. I stare back, wondering if I somehow got my hands on a bad trip and am still high as a fucking kite.
Before long she returns with a carafe of coffee, bread and jam, and an old pipe, along with a tin of tobacco. I study the apparatus, sniff it once and load the chamber before putting the lip in my mouth. I lift the pack of matches from the tray and light the tobacco. Thick puffs of smoke rise from the tobacco, and the woman sighs and snatches the pipe from my mouth, picking up more tobacco and packing it tightly into the holder. She hands it back to me, and I place it between my lips. She strikes another match and holds it to the tobacco suggesting that I should puff like a fish out of water.
Rich smoke fills my lungs and I cough and inhale, settling back against the headboard. She prepares my coffee, not bothering to ask if I take milk and sugar. I do, but she loads it up with milk and doesn’t bother with the sugar at all. I take a sip, because I need it before I’m able to sort out what the fuck I’m doing here, and how I get back home. Not to mention the three-hundred-thousand-dollar car I just totalled.
“I washed your clothing, but I found this in your pocket.” I take the tiny square of cardboard from her hand and glance at the fine gold script written on thick, embossed paper.
Tainted: The Complete Enemies-to-Lovers Rock Star Romance Box Set Page 35
