“Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. “She loves you.”
“She loves us both.” I scrub my hands over my face, and stare up at the ceiling. “Or at least, she did.”
“Maybe, but she loves you more,” he says, and drops his red-rimmed gaze to his hand, picking at his callouses with his thumb. “That’s why I called her.”
“What do you mean you called her?”
“In France,” he says, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He sniffs. “I fucked someone else and I phoned her while doing it.”
“Jesus Christ, Levi.” I ball my hands into fists, taking several deep breaths so I won’t lash out again. Though I want to. I want to beat his fucking face in for doing that to her.
“It hurt.” He lets out a shuddering gasp of air, his voice thick with emotion. “Hurt so god damn bad. Still does. I’m fucking miserable, but that’s why I did it.”
“Yeah, well now we can all be miserable together.” I shake my head. “Or apart, as the case may be.”
“You don’t have to be miserable. Neither of you do.” He snatches the overturned bottle from the coffee table and takes another long swig of liquor. “I’m giving you both an out. You get the girl, guilt-free, and I get to go back to fucking my brains out with as many women as possible.” He pushes up from the couch and sways a little on the spot, shoving the bottle of booze at my chest. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bury my dick in some hot Italian pussy.”
I shake my head as he leaves, bursting with gratitude and cursing him all the same. Just because Levi has given us an out doesn’t mean shit.
I still betrayed her.
She still left, so his blessing means fuck all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MY VAGINA IS SAD
ALI
The three weeks after that phone call are absolute hell. When I’m not expected to do a shift at the store, I lie in bed all day. I’d like to say I move to the couch, but since I only have a studio apartment and I can see the flat screen from my bed anyway, I only leave it to get coffee or make food. I live right above a convenience store, so it’s not as if I have to go far for food. In fact, Mr Wong took pity on me and handed over a whole container of those Chinese pork dumplings when I went down earlier today. I doubt he knew it was my birthday—it more than likely had something to do with the fact that I was still in my PJs and fluffy slippers, and that it was after two in the afternoon. I can’t even blame my dishevelled appearance on being hungover. Wong’s doesn’t sell liquor, and I ran out two days ago. Until this afternoon, I’d been living off a box of Peppermint Patties and a packet of seaweed rice crackers.
My phone rings. I fish for it under the covers, but it’s lost to the sea of sheets, and I am adrift here in my little fluffy blanket fort. I’d hidden under the duvet this morning, looking at Cooper’s picture for far too long on that wretched phone. I’d Google searched him again, and I wasn’t proud. I also wasn’t happy that anytime you put Cooper Ryan or Levi Quinn into a search engine, the number one result that was returned every time was another copy of our video. No matter how many times it’d been taken down, it was straight back up on another X-rated site again. I’d even found a listing on eBay selling a bootleg version. The seller had twenty copies available; he’d sold more than two hundred already. I’d considered buying them all, but what was the point? Once something is out there on the Internet, it’s there forever. You can never take it back, just like I couldn’t take back my relationship with Coop and Levi.
I’d searched Levi too, of course, but those pictures hurt me worse than Coop’s, because of my guilt. All of the recent ones were of him drunk or high with his arm draped around a woman, or sometimes three women. I couldn’t blame him. I’d told him I didn’t love him, and I’d left. He had a right to fuck whomever he wanted, but he’d broken my heart when he’d called me that night at Tim’s.
Coop had only texted messages that made me want to simultaneously punch him in the face and hop a flight to Europe. He must have found out about Levi’s late-night call to me, because he’d sent a message a few weeks later that read, He’s hurting. My responding text had been three simple words: Aren’t we all?
I finally locate my phone, tangled up in the sheet, as if the good-feeling fairies had come to strangle my smartphone and save my birthday from being a complete washout. The phone has stopped ringing but it dings, alerting me to a voicemail message. Before I can check who it’s from, it rings again.
I glare at Tim’s face on the screen.
“What?” I ask, picking up the last Mint Pattie in the box. Mr Wong knows how much I love them, and he ordered an entire box for me to buy. That was probably not the best move on my part, because now my arse is completely paying for it. I should join a gym. I frown, because the phone is still pressed to my ear and Tim is talking at me.
“What?” I say.
“I said buzz me up, I’m on your doorstep.”
I let out a huge sigh, and say, “Fine. Hold on.”
I get up from the bed, only my feet are tangled in the covers and I fall flat on my face. My phone goes sprawling across the floor, and I stare at it from the expanse of my disgusting carpet and wonder how I got to this point. For a moment, I just cry, because Peppermint Pattie is smeared on my cheek and smooshed into my carpet, and I’m lying face-down on my filthy floor on my birthday. Alone. I don’t even have that stupid cat to keep me company. God damn I hated that cat, but I’d take it all back—the tour, Coop, Levi and the job at Harbour Records for just one day with that cat. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t take Coop and Levi back for the cat, but I’d definitely give all of the other stuff for that feral feline.
Tim’s tinny voice echoes out from my speakers, and I glance at the phone. “Ali, open the door. Your neighbour let me in the building.”
I crawl across the floor and stand, unlocking the deadbolt and sliding the little chain free from its brass holder, then I sink to my knees and crawl across the floor again towards my Peppermint Pattie. I pick up the part that isn’t smooshed and I bite into it. Gooey peppermint oozes out the side, coating my cheek and fingers, but I don’t care.
“Jesus fucking Christ, what happened to you?” Tim says as he enters the room, and then peeks his head out through the open doorway, checking for my neighbours, or an escape hatch perhaps.
“Hey,” I mutter glumly.
“Oh, Jones, did he call again?”
“No. He’s dating a Victoria’s Secret model, whose name I can’t even pronounce, she’s that exotic. I’m sure they’ll have very beautiful babies together, and they can grow up and be these crazy talented rocker/model hybrids.”
He sighs. “You’ve been Googling again.”
“Yup.”
“So is there anything on Cooper?”
“Nope. Only a few new pictures with fans from their concert in Paris.”
“Well that’s good, right?” he asks, as if he’s trying to prompt a response from me other than Me Jane. Rock star gone. Jane sad.
“I don’t know. I want him to move on,” I say, licking the gooey peppermint from between my fingers. “I want them both to move on.”
“But you want them both?”
I shrug. Did I want them both? No. Not anymore. I sure as hell missed them, but it had always been abundantly clear that my heart belonged to Cooper. What could I do about it though? I loved him. I missed him so much that some nights I felt like I was suffocating, gasping on the inside for a breath I couldn’t take. But I wasn’t willing to come between him and Levi anymore. I’d done enough damage.
“I want them both to be happy,” I say.
“I hate to tell you this, Jones, but we don’t always get what we want,” Tim says, with a life-is-hard-suck-it-the-fuck-up look.
“Yeah, I know.” I smile up at him, but I feel the deluge coming.
“Ali, how long since you showered?”
“I don’t know? A day maybe?” He glares at me, one eyebrow raised. “Okay, so more like
three days. What? I haven’t had a shift in a while.”
“Maybe because your boss doesn’t want you to scare away all the customers,” he says, and attempts to pull me from the floor. I dig my heels in.
“I don’t wanna.”
“Get up. Get your stinky arse in that shower, wash your fucking hair—’cause I think there might be something living in it—and put some god damned makeup on. I’m gonna find you something skimpy to wear and then you and I are hitting the town. I’mma be your wingman. Your pussy is getting pounded tonight, whether you like it or not.”
“Okay, well now that’s just sounding a little rapey. What if I don’t want my pussy pounded? What if it’s already taken too many poundings and it misses the cock that used to do all the pounding, and now it’s just sad? What then?” I ask, feeling the words slip from my mouth as quickly as the tears fall from my eyes.
“Your vagina is not sad, Jones. Your heart is. Now get the fuck up before I strip you down and throw you in that shower myself.”
I let him pull me up this time and I walk to the bathroom, not bothering to take any clothing with me, because I have a feeling Tim will veto them anyway in favour of “something skimpier”. I lock myself in and frown at my reflection when the mirror shows me an unhappy hobo.
“We really have to stop meeting like this, Ali,” I say to my hackneyed appearance. And then I peel off my layers of ripe-smelling clothing and run the water.
After an age beneath the spray, I emerge from the bathroom on a cloud of steam. I smell of spice and vanilla, and my hair is clean and leaves wet trails down my back.
“Is that a ... oh my god ... is that a real fucking girl?” Tim says, covering his mouth in mock surprise.
“Shut it, butt fuck,” I say. He’s cleaned up a little while he waited, and fat tears form in my eyes again.
“No, no more fucking crying. I don’t do crying. You know that,” he says, and he points to a dress he laid out on my bed. “Now get your arse over here and get this shit on.”
I suck back my tears and wander over to my freshly-made bed. “I’m beginning to see why Cloe left you.”
“Cloe left me because she was an arsehole. Just like Brad, and just like those two band jerks.”
“Well, technically I left them, except Brad, and they’re not really arseholes,” I say, and then grimace before adding, “Again, except Brad.”
“Okay, I don’t give a shit. Just get dressed and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Tim, this is a Halloween costume,” I say, picking up the wiggle dress I wore two years ago to the Halloween party Tim, Brad and I had held at our apartment. I’d gone as a zombie Marilyn Monroe, and if you looked close enough you could see some fake blood staining the fabric, though it was well covered by the giant red cherries adorning the dress.
“So?” He shrugs, looking up from his phone, his fingers working at the keypad while he glances at me.
“Who the hell are you texting?”
He looks up at me from over his smart phone. “Some of the guys.”
“Please tell me you’re not lining up a pity fuck?”
“I’m not lining up a pity fuck,” he says automatically, with no emotion in his voice whatsoever.
“Oh eww, you totally are.”
“Just go get your arse dressed, Jones.”
When I emerge from the bathroom again, I’m wearing the dress and a fresh coat of war paint, courtesy of MAC. I do a half-hearted little spin and Tim whistles. “You scrub up good, kid. If you’d looked like that a little more often when we’d lived together I might have tried stealing you away from Brad.”
“But not now?” I glare in confusion at my wardrobe, both wondering what he means by that and silently freaking out about my limited footwear selection. All I own are my new-ish lucky red Cons, combat boots, and one pain in the arse pair of red pumps that I’ve worn once, to the same party where I wore this dress. I settle on the heels, because I’ll look like an arsehole in Cons with this dress. But I’m not happy about it.
“Maybe if I’d found you again before the rock star stole your heart, but you’re too far gone, babe. Anyone can see that.”
“Which rock star?” I grab Tim’s arm for support as I stuff my feet into the shoes and wiggle around a bit. With the exception of being blessed with the ability to rock multiple orgasms, being a girl kinda sucks. “There were two, remember?”
“What do you mean, which one? Did the other guy ever really have a chance? It’s like you think I don’t know you at all, Jones.”
I open my mouth to say something, but mostly I just stand there, wondering if it was always so obvious to everyone else around me, wondering whether Levi ever really did stand a chance, and feeling a fresh wave of tears slam into me because in hindsight I can see now how this entire mess could have been avoided.
Tim’s eyes narrow and his lips tighten when he sees I’m about to lose it again.
“No.” he says firmly, as he grasps my hand and leads me through the front door. I barely have time to snatch up my keys and my ID before we’re out the apartment.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
TEAM ROCK STAR
ALI
Okay, so maybe my birthday didn’t suck after all. Tim took me to The Smoking Panda, which had the most amazing pot stickers, and the cocktails even had fairy floss. His friends had shown up sometime near nine, and by then I was well and truly shitfaced.
My pity fuck, Braden, is cute, a pasty Irish lad with cropped blond hair and an accent so thick I had trouble understanding whether he was asking for a shag or ... no, I’m pretty sure he was just asking for a shag, now that I think on it. And for all of ten seconds I might have entertained the idea, before my heart squeezed painfully at the thought of another man moving inside me.
I don’t know whether Tim had told him about me, or whether he’d just opened Google a time or two and knew my story, because these days it was as if that were all it took to bring up those horrible pictures and that video. I could do without the pictures, but I still watched that video on the daily, because it let me know it’d been real—or at least, part of it had been real.
Regardless, Braden was a gentleman. Sure, he flirted, and as the night wore on he’d moved closer to me, so close I could feel the warmth of his thigh against mine through the fabric of our clothes. And when Tim and I had said we were leaving, Braden leaned in, his hand at my waist, lips at my ear, and asked if he could see me again.
I thought about that, what it would be like to date one man while my heart belonged to another, but in the end, I shook my head and told him the truth: that I was in love with someone else and I didn’t see those feelings disappearing anytime soon.
Tim and I left the bar, and grabbed a bottle of Bundy Rum and a six-pack of beer and headed back to my apartment, because it was closest, and my feet hurt, and he was my friend, who loved me despite what a pathetic slob I was.
“Here, hold this,” I say thrusting the bottle of rum that we’d been swigging from toward him while I slide my key in the lock. The door swings open, and I come face to face with a dream. A real-life walking, talking, sexy-as-all-fuck fantasy. My fantasy.
“Tim,” I whisper in an aside, “Have I finally gone completely fucking nuts, or is Cooper Ryan standing in my apartment?”
Tim stumbles in behind me, accidently pushing me forward. I totter on my stupid heels and slam into Cooper. “Oh shit, that’s not good.”
The door closes behind Tim with a loud thunk. It echoes the sound of my heart, heavy and thumping against my ribcage. Coop waits until I’ve found my feet again, before he lets me go. I step back, as if the touch of his skin burns mine.
“I didn’t realise you’d have company,” he says, his voice cold. And god, how I’ve missed that voice—well, not that voice exactly, but a much less pissed off version.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to give you your birthday present.” He glances behind me at Tim, his eyes glazing over with anger.
“Seems I’m not the only one wanting to give you something today. I’m sorry I showed up unannounced.”
I frown, wondering what he means by that, when I see a fluffy ginger head pop out from around the couch. “Is that my grandmother’s cat?” “Yeah. I had the woman at the shelter look after her until we got back. I know you hate cats, but I thought this one meant something special to you.”
“Hey, I’m Tim,” Tim says, stepping forward and thrusting his free hand out in front of Cooper.
“Coop.” He shakes, though he doesn’t look as if he wants to.
“I know who you are. I’m a big fan,” Tim says, and I frown, because he sounds like a fucking fangirl.
Since when? I mouth to Tim, and he has the decency to look embarrassed about it. He’s not Team Coop. He hates Team Coop. He hates Team Rock Star because they turned me into a pathetic, snivelling shell of a woman who doesn’t shower for days and who eats Peppermint Patties off the floor.
“So, Jones, I’m just ... gonna go,” Tim says.
“You don’t have to leave,” Coop says, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I have a plane to catch anyway.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, and my throat is tight, my voice thick with emotion.
“Got that European tour, remember?”
“Right,” I say, stunned, because Coop is standing in my apartment. On my birthday. He tracked down my grandmother’s cat and had someone take care of her, and he showed up here unannounced, and he smells so damn good ... and he’s leaving.
Tim kisses the top of my head, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jones. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, but I can’t take my eyes off of Coop for fear that he might vanish, as though he were never here. The door snicks softly closed behind Tim and I exhale loudly. I don’t know how to process this, and the buzz I had going before from those cocktails is almost gone.
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