CLOSER (Taint Book 2)

by Carmen Jenner

CHAPTER SIX

  OFF WITH HER HEAD

  BRIELLE

  I put the spoon back in the bowl and wipe the drool from my father’s chin. The doctor’s said his motor function should improve, but it’s been months since his stroke. The doctors can kiss my arse, because clearly they know nothing. The corner of his once proud mouth tips up in what the world might see as a grimace, but what I know is a smile. I smile back, and hope that none of the sadness in my heart is reflected in my eyes. Touma Kagawa was once a revered business man. Nothing held him back or got in the way of what he wanted, not boarders or foreign languages, or the word no. Now his mind and body both hold him back. And all because of a tiny blood clot in his brain.

  My father purses his lips, as if he wants to tell me something but doesn’t know how to form the words. “What is it, Père?”

  He pats the side of my face, and his eyes light up. Then he points to my mother who stands on tiptoes scrubbing the kitchen as she hums one of my original pieces. His mouth twists with his unusual smile when he looks at her.

  “Maman?”

  He nods resolutely, and I glance between my parents in confusion as he points to her and then to my face again. “I look like Maman?”

  He smiles and rests his head back on the pillow, exhausted from his efforts to communicate.

  “Merci, Père. Maman is very beautiful. If I shared only half her grace, I would consider myself a very lucky woman.”

  He nods again, and I take the cloth and wipe away the drool on his chin, something that needs to be done constantly, or else his bedclothes will be soaked through.

  “Get some rest now.” I lean forward and kiss his temple. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see you.”

  Another resolute nod and he closes his eyes, but as I get up to leave, his hand brushes mine and I turn to look at him. He gives me a weak squeeze of my fingers and I squeeze his gently back, trying to hide how my heart plummets when I feel his frail, hollow-boned hand in mine.

  I grab the half-eaten bowl of soup and join my mother in the kitchen.

  “Sit down and eat, mon petit chou.”

  “Non. I am not hungry, Maman.”

  “At least take some home with you. I know you have no food in that tiny apartment.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Brielle.”

  “Fine. I will eat.” I don’t want to sit and eat my mother and father’s food, not because it isn’t good—Maman makes the best Tourin in all of France—but money is tighter here than it is for me. I give them as much as I can after my rent is taken out, but since Bastien had me fired from the orchestra, I no longer have a steady pay cheque. I have my students whom I teach, but those lessons are hardly enough to live on. Nowhere in this city will hire me, not without a lot of grovelling. And I refuse to get on my knees for a man who broke my heart.

  I take the spoon Maman offers and dip it into the soup. The strong flavour of garlic rolls over my tongue and I smile because it’s just as I remembered from my grand-mère. “It’s good.”

  “Of course it’s good. It’s mine.” She shrugs and chuckles at herself. I laugh too. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I set my spoon down and glance at it.

  “Brielle, what is our rule at the table?”

  “I know, Maman. It’ll just be a moment. I’m waiting to hear from Piaf.”

  My mother grimaces and nods as if giving her approval.

  “Please tell me you have good news,” I say in French, because even though my father insisted we speak English in his home, I still consider French my first language.

  “I have the best news, but first, I want to know when you’re next buying me dinner?”

  “That depends on when you’re getting me my next big break?”

  “How about next month?”

  “For dinner, or a job?”

  “A job. Not just any job, the job.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, because I often find myself confused when talking to Piaf. She may be my closest friend and my booking agent, but most of our exchanges leave me with a headache. “Did Bastien get fired? Oh my God, am I back in the orchestra?”

  “Okay, not the job, but a job.”

  My heart sinks, but I play along because I know my friend, and she would not be this excited if it weren’t at least paying well. “I cannot stand the suspense anymore. Where am I playing, and what time?”

  “Hotel Le Cap Estel.”

  “I don’t know this hotel.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, because it’s in Èze-Bord-de-Mer, and only the rich and famous go there to get married.”

  I pull the phone from my ear and glare at it as if she could see me. “What are you saying?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes,” I hiss impatiently. “Now tell me.”

  “No you’re not. Go sit down.”

  “Mon Dieu! Piaf, I am going to reach through this phone and strangle you. Just tell me already.”

  “The lead singer of Taint saw your cover of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ on YouTube. He wants you to play his wedding, but Brielle, you have to sign a non-disclosure agreement that you will not tell anyone about the wedding, or the date, or where it will be.”

  “Okay,” I say with a sigh. “Well, it was fun playing this little game, but April Fools’ isn’t for another three months.”

  “Do not hang up on me. This is not a joke. I’m emailing the details of your flight now.” I frown, because I know Piaf likes to joke about these sorts of things—apparently my verging on poverty status is hysterical—but even she does not usually take it this far.

  “You’re really serious?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t afford a flight right now, and I have students on weekends.”

  “I already rescheduled your students. Everything is taken care of—the extra seat for your cello, your room, everything. His assistant booked you in first class, and you’ll be staying at the hotel the previous night, and the night of the wedding because get this ... you are the only musical entertainment they will have.” Piaf squeals so loud my ears start ringing. My stomach does cartwheels, and I take a deep breath so I won’t faint. “They even included five hundred euros for additional travel expenses and food.”

  Piaf was right. I really should have sat down.

  I lean against the wall and let it take my weight as I slide to the floor with my hand across my face. “How much are they paying me to play?”

  “Five. Thousand. Euro.”

  “What? Why?” Was he crazy? I frown. Surely there must be something wrong with these rockers. Perhaps they lost all of their brain cells while headbanging to their heavy metal music. “They could get any cellist in Europe for five hundred.”

  “They could, but they want the best.”

  “Well, I am that, but are you sure it was five thousand? Perhaps it was a misprint.” I can’t fathom why a complete stranger who has never heard me play live—and a rock star with no doubt hundreds of connections—would pay me five thousand euro to play at his wedding.

  “They already paid in full. I’ve just transferred the money to your account.”

  All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

  “Told you so,” she sing-songs. “Now, it’s black tie, obviously. So I’ll meet you at Printemps in thirty minutes and we can find you a dress, non?”

  “I have a dress.”

  “Yes, you have many dresses. That have all been worn, but Brie, you are playing a rock star’s wedding, George Clooney will likely be there.”

  “George Clooney is married, and I hardly think he will notice what the cellist is wearing.”

  “My point is, you are not married, and there will be many single and very rich men at this event.”

  “My parents need this money more than I need a new dress.” I shake my head and get to my feet, pacing my parents’ living room, “Or a rich single man.”

  “Oh, ma petite cacahuète, every woman needs a very rich man. S
ingle or not.”

  If I wasn’t still in shock about the five thousand euro, I might have agreed with her. I could use a rich man, preferably one who would die soon of old age and leave me all of his millions. And ugly. That point is imperative, because I am a sucker. Especially when it comes to the beautiful ones. I do not want to fall in love again, not ever. Love makes fools of us all. Love turns smart men into idiots, and strong women into doormats. I will be neither. I hope I never fall in love, for I cannot afford to lose my head. I like it exactly where it is, and no man will make me think otherwise.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KING OF THE FLEAS

  ONE MONTH LATER

  BRIELLE

  I flop down on my bed like a starfish. Fitting, since my room at l'hotel Cap Estel overlooks the Côte d'Azur. Though it was only a short flight from Paris to Nice, I’m exhausted, and I contemplate taking a nap, but I’m as excited as a puppy when her master comes home, so I do not believe that sleep will come.

  Restless and full of nervous energy, I get to my feet and open my bag. It’s early enough in the day that I won’t need to be at the rehearsal for several more hours, so a swim and a relaxing wine by the pool are in order.

  I pull out the swimsuit Piaf made me buy. It’s far too revealing with hundreds of little straps in the back and is cut so low that it almost shows the top of my arse. I’m not even sure I know how to get into it without instructions, but on my third attempt, I have the suit on, or as close to a suit as these skimpy little scraps of fabric are going to get. I throw on a flowing emerald green dress, and complete the look with dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat to protect my face. I swipe my phone, and my key card, and leave, certain there will be hotel towels by the pool.

  There’s a secluded beach and a deck with sunbeds below my room, but I head to the pool of the main building instead and select a lounge not too far from the outdoor bar. Though it’s a chilly fourteen degrees, the sun is warm so I remove my dress, and lie out in it. Cap Estel is small and private but is no less teeming with men and women so rich diamonds practically fly out their mouths when they laugh. I try not to be intimated. I grew up wealthy. My parents were very well situated in Paris, but when my father had his stroke, his partner screwed him out of his half of the business, and we lost everything. Now maman and mon père barely have enough to keep them stocked in all of the medication he needs.

  A server comes to take my drink order, and I ask for wine and charge it to my room. Before long, a group of men that look as if they definitely don’t belong here slide up to the bar. Two are blond, very well built, and the other is dark. All are heavily tattooed. I recognise the dark-headed man as Cooper Ryan, my employer for the weekend, and I want to go and thank him for allowing me this opportunity, but I’m near naked in my suit and think that perhaps this is not the best place to approach him. Instead, I watch the three men closely.

  There is a language between musicians that regular people do not share, a camaraderie that runs as hot and thick as blood through our veins. When you play music with another, it can never be just a job, just a thing you agree to do because you’re good at it. Non. It comes from your soul, and in the process of sharing that with others, those souls become intertwined, bonded, familiar. These men share that connection. I see it in the way they laugh, in their shared grins, and then a fourth man joins them, and the dynamic is thrown completely off balance. This man also has dark hair and tattoos. A lot of tattoos. He’s handsome in a reckless, devil-may-care kind of way that has my insides tightening, and it seems I’m not the only one feeling suddenly uncomfortable. His presence puts his bandmates on edge too, though I’m sure for very different reasons than my own.

  I sip my wine and watch with rapt attention as the three others exchange a look and the newcomer rudely orders the server to bring him a bottle of whisky. After a minor disagreement, in which the waitress refuses to serve him, and the man stuffs a wad of crumpled up bills in her breast pocket, she scurries off to fulfil his drink order.

  Must be nice for millionaire rock stars to be able to throw some cash around and get whatever they want. This is exactly why I avoid dating musicians. They’re spoilt, and I haven’t met one yet who deserves such entitlement.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” the more muscular of the two blonds says, clapping Tall, Dark and Dangerous on the shoulder.

  “That’s what he said,” he replies and straightens in his chair. Why is he so drunk? And more than that, why is he being such an arse? Weddings are supposed to be a happy occasion, but none of these men appear joyful at all. Tall, Dark and Dangerous looks as though he’d rather be dead than attend this wedding.

  “You’re going to be sober enough for the ceremony, right?” Cooper remarks, sipping his beer.

  The man just looks at him, all daggers, and barely caged aggression. “Not if I can help it.”

  And avoiding Tall, Dark and Dangerous at all costs just became my new plan for Cooper Ryan’s wedding.

  I shouldn’t be watching this exchange. I should be in my room practising, but I hear Piaf’s voice in my head when she’d shoved me out of her car at the departures terminal, “Go! Enjoy the sun, drink, find a hot rich sugar daddy and have sex with him on the beach.” I definitely wouldn’t be doing the last thing on her list, but I could handle a little more of the first two.

  I get to my feet and toss my sunglasses and hat onto the daybed. Then I walk to the side of the infinity pool and dive in. The water is warm, and I swim the length of it and back. I head to the edge and glance at the Cote d'Azur below. It’s hard to believe I’m in paradise right now. I duck my head under again and climb out, regretting the swim because the chill in the wind is freezing. I glance up and discover that Tall, Dark and Dangerous is lying on my daybed. Surely I am mistaken. I look around for my belongings and find them secured in two heavily tattooed hands. There is something intimate in the way he fingers the fabric of my dress. And then I notice the sleek black screen of my phone, and panic. Logically, I know he cannot access any of the information within, because it’s password protected, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about him holding it hostage.

  I march over. “What exactly do you think you are doing?”

  “Just enjoying the South of France.” His eyes trail to my pussy and linger there. I suddenly feel very naked, and curse Piaf for making me buy this stupid suit.

  “You are in my seat.”

  “Am I?” He grins. My nipples that were technically already poking out from the cold harden even more and my insides tighten because he might be an arrogant, drunk son of a bitch, but that smile could unlock even the most secure chastity belt. Without a key. “How would you like me to be in something else?”

  I give a sardonic smile. “That depends, are we referring to jail, because I believe you’d fit in there just fine.”

  “Why are the girls in France always so angry?”

  “I imagine it’s because they want you to go away.”

  “Nope. That’s not it.” He shakes his head, and his brow crinkles in the centre, as if he’s deep in thought. “Maybe it’s because for all their talk, French men just don’t make very good lovers.”

  “Why don’t you sleep with one then and find out? It’s the only way you’ll know for certain.”

  He laughs and rises from the daybed. I am taller than the average woman, but he has many more inches on me. “I like you, Angry French girl, but I don’t do dick. I have been called the king des puces a time or two.”

  I raise my brow. “King of the fleas?”

  “Pussy.” He looks annoyed now, and I can hear just the hint of a slur in his voice that he’d previously hidden so well. “I’m the king of pussy.”

  “Aww, how nice for you.” I set my jaw and hold out my hand. “Give me back my phone before I call security.”

  “Give me your room number and you’ll get your phone. I’ll even bring it right to your door.”

  “Very well.” I lean in and beckon him closer. The s
tench of alcohol is intoxicating in its own right, never mind how green his eyes are. I snatch my phone from his grip while he’s distracted. “Je m'en contrefous que tu sois le roi de la chatte ou le roi des puces! Jamais je ne laisserais un enfoiré de ton genre me toucher.”

  “I don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t just give me your room number.”

  The boy catches on quick.

  “Meow.” I purr and walk away, feeling his eyes on my arse the entire time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A RAGING BONER

  ALI

  “You know, now that you’re officially going to be my sister, I think it’s time I told you to do something about that hair,” Deb says, without looking up from her issue of Vogue Paris.

  “What?” I reach up and fiddle with the loose strands, making sure the pins aren’t popping out all over the place. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “What’s right with it?” she says automatically, and then rolls her eyes when she notices my glare. “I mean it looks fine today, but I’m sorry, someone with your bone structure just shouldn’t do bangs.”

  I sigh and turn back to the mirror, smoothing down my dress. My insides are jelly. God, is this a terrible idea? Why the fuck didn’t we just go back to Vegas and get married there?

  Oh, right, because Vegas was where Coop broke my heart for the first time and I slept with Levi. And Cooper. God damn it. Fuck you, Vegas! We are never going back there. There’s a knock on the door to our suite, and I jump.

  Deb cocks a brow at me. “Jesus, Ali, jumpy much?”

  “I hate being the centre of attention. Why did I let you talk me into this?” I snatch up the champagne flute and down the rest in one big gulp.

  “Oh please, everyone knows you’re going to be passed out drunk within twenty minutes of the reception starting anyway,” Deb says, and then throws her magazine down on the table when she realises Tim is still adjusting his hair in the bathroom and I’m not going to answer the door. I can’t. My feet are glued to the spot.

  Deb rolls her eyes and opens the door. “Really, Quinn?”