CLOSER (Taint Book 2)

by Carmen Jenner

  Dog bounces up onto the bed beside me. I scratch his ears and look into those crazy eyes. “Where the hell did you come from, huh?”

  He tilts his head to the side as if trying to understand what the fuck I’m saying, and I slide down on the bed and stare at the woman above me. Cooper Ryan might have the real thing, but hey, at least my version is naked all of the time.

  Yeah, I’m sure he’s real fucking jealous. Right now, they’re probably drunk on French wine, rolling around in the bed together. Him buried balls deep inside her. And she’d be giving him that look, that thoroughly fucked and helplessly happy look that never belonged to me, even though I convinced myself it did.

  “Word to the fucking wise, Dog. Don’t ever fall in love with your best friend’s girl. In fact, don’t fall in love, period. Because it hurts like a mother fucking bitch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HERE, PUSSY, PUSSY

  LEVI

  Two days later, the paperwork for the house has been signed sealed and delivered, and I’m the proud owner of a shitty run-down chateau just outside the tiny village of La Colle-sur-Loup—which Rousseau informed me is in the French Riviera.

  I’m also now the owner of a mangy mutt who answers to the original and incredibly well-thought-out name of Dog. I walk the halls of my new house half drunk and all heartbroken. I venture into every room, to listen to its secrets, but they have none. They’re as empty as I am inside. The only furniture remains in the room I slept in the first night, the master in the crumbling west wing, the ballroom upstairs, and the living and dining areas.

  I walk into the room I first occupied. The pale blue silk reminds me of fairy tales. Despite the dust, it’s fit for a motherfucking princess. I flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s not as ornate as mine, which makes me wonder why I left my room at all. Oh yeah, I ran out of booze. I climb to my feet and prepare to stagger downstairs in search of more wine, but the moonlight from the window bounces off a small white card on the nightstand and I reach for it.

  I squint in the half-light, trying to read the golden text written there. Brielle Kagawa. What the fuck kind of name is that? Fucking Angry French Girl. I trace my fingers over the welts on my forearm left by her bow. Goddam could she play. Cellists had never been my thing. They’d just always seemed pompous and arrogant, as if they were looking down their noses at the rest of us. They played opera houses, and music halls, and afterward sipped their French champagne as they talked about Debussy and Straus.

  But this woman, this woman had struck every nerve in my body with a single slide of her bow across the strings. It was her notes, and the pure poetry of her music that flayed open my heart at the wedding, and I needed more.

  I love music. I live and breathe it, but I’m only connected to it on a molecular level when I’m the one playing the instrument. When I’m simply a spectator, I don’t feel it. Not like I do when I play, not like when she played. And I broke it. Such beautiful music, and I fucked it all up. I need to fix it. I need to send her another instrument.

  “I need another drink,” I declare to the empty room, and tuck the card into my hand because I’m not wearing any clothing. I walk down the spiralling staircase in the dark, but I’m not worried about tripping over anything. There isn’t any furniture to trip over. The house is as empty as my fucking soul.

  Heading to the kitchen, I stumble around until I locate the refrigerator. I’m looking for booze, but I find some of that French cheese that Margaux’s been feeding me since I arrived, instead. It’s creamy and melts in your mouth, so different from the brie we get back home in Australia. I pull out a wheel and take a huge bite. Its bitter rind rolls around my tongue, the creamy centre glues up my mouth, and pastes itself to my teeth and gums like wet cement. It takes a fuckload of time to chew, and even longer to swallow.

  Afterward, I’m left with a waxy coating, so I grab the open bottle of wine off the bench and pull out the cork, guzzling it down. It’s fucking delicious. Thank you, France. I swish it all around my mouth and swallow hard. Then I take several bigger gulps and set the bottle down on the counter. I stare at the card that I somehow haven’t lost in the hall between here and the upstairs bedroom. The fine gold typeface glints in the moonlight. I turn it over in my hands and take another bite out of the brie. Huh. I’m eating brie while holding Brie’s card. Maybe if I call her up, I can really be eating Brie. That’s exactly what I need. Some mindless, dirty fucking. Something to erase the sting of these bullshit feelings I have for my bandmate’s new wife.

  I need pussy.

  Lots of fucking pussy.

  Meow.

  But first, I need more wine, and some crackers to go with this cheese. Some coke would be nice too, but I doubt I’ll be imbibing in little white lines any time soon while I’m stuck here in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere France.

  I search the bench for crackers, but Margaux’s too goddamn clean for that shit. They’ll likely be tucked away somewhere in a pantry bigger than my apartment back in Sydney. So I decide to forgo the crispbreads and instead just finish off this huge hunk of cheese. What I do find on my way to the dining table is the phone. I stare at it in its cradle, glance back at the card on the counter, swig the wine, bite off a little more cheese and then pick it up.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE CELLO MURDERER

  BRIELLE

  My phone rings as I walk through the streets of Le Marais. I snatch it out of my purse, squinting at the screen, worried it might be Maman.

  “I thought I told you never to call me before 10:00 a.m.,” I say into the mouthpiece.

  “Brielle, it is my job to call you with possible bookings, is it not?” Piaf sounds as tired as I feel.

  “Oui.” I sigh, and stop at my favourite café for coffee. The line is long because they are just that good. “That is why I pay your exorbitantly high fees.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment and do you the honour of not giving this client to someone else. You are earning quite the name for yourself, mon trésor. Some rich billionaire wants you to play at his chateau.”

  “What? No wait, I have to order.”

  “Ah, you are at the café with the gorgeous waiter, non?”

  Though I know he cannot hear her, I blush as I step up to the window. “Bonjour.”

  The cute waiter leans on the counter. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

  “Je vais prendre un café, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Bien sûr.” He takes the money I hand him and gives me back my change, his fingers lingering on my palm a little too long as his dark eyes meet mine.

  “Merci.” I sound like a school girl. Pathetic.

  “Mon Dieu! You are hopeless with men. Is that all you ever say to him?” Piaf chastises. “Try this, ‘Je vais prendre un café, et le sexe, s'il vous plaît’.”

  “I am not saying that.”

  “Ask him for sex, Brielle.”

  “Non!” I point to the phone in my hand and shrug because the cute waiter looks at me as if I am crazy. I think I must be to call Piaf my best friend. I give him a rueful smile and step aside to wait for my order. I am going to have to find a new favourite café.

  “You need to get laid, Brie.”

  “I do not need to get ...” I glance at the hot waiter—who is still watching me—and I lower my voice, “I do not need that. I need my old job back.”

  “Forget your old job, you hated that orchestra, but if you take this new job—”

  “Are you forgetting the fact that I no longer have a cello to play, thanks to that putain d'imbecile!” I glance up, and the hot waiter is still staring. People press in all around me as they navigate the busy street on their commute to work.

  “Yes, yes. I know all about your hatred for the hot rock star, who is just so idiotic, and tattooed, whilst also being infuriating, and hot.”

  “I did not say he was hot.”

  “You didn’t have to.” She chuckles. “Your frustration said it for you. But never fear, th
is man is sure to be dreary and old, and I assure you that you will in no way want to fuck him.”

  “You are forgetting the point. I no longer have a cello to play. Besides, I told you no more away jobs.”

  I step up to the window as the waiter beckons me over for my coffee. That same little frisson of electricity arcs between my hand and my lady parts as his fingertips brush mine.

  “Bonne journée,” the waiter says.

  “Merci.” I smile and turn away before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

  “You have to travel for all of your jobs. Unless you go back to Bastien with your tail between your legs and beg his forgiveness, there is not a venue in this city that will let you play.”

  “Never going to happen.”

  “Then away jobs are all you have,” she says resolutely. “Besides, this client is offering big money.”

  I join the crowd of many headed for the tube. “Why?”

  “It’s an overnight request.”

  She’s joking, right? “Overnight? Am I playing a swinger’s party?”

  “Not exactly,” she says hesitantly. “And ... it may be more than just the one night.”

  “How much more?”

  “He wants you to stay for the whole week.”

  “Well, you can tell Monsieur Billionaire that I’m not that kind of girl.” I take a sip of my coffee. It’s hot. Too hot.

  “Not even for twenty-five thousand euro?”

  Coffee sprays from my mouth all over the man in front. He stops walking and turns to me with a very unimpressed face, and I grimace. “Excusez-moi. Je suis vraiment désolée.” I quickly scurry away, melting into the crowd, and giving Piaf my rapt attention. “What did you say?”

  “That’s the offer. Twenty-five large. Your travel expenses, food, and accommodation are taken care of. All you have to do is play.”

  “But I don’t have a cello.”

  “I know, but he does.”

  This is insane. Who just happens to have a cello lying around? Then again, he is a billionaire. Perhaps he himself plays but can no longer. Or maybe he simply wishes to learn. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. That’s it. You play when he wants you to. There is a female housekeeper on staff, so it’s not as if you’ll be in the chateau alone with him.”

  I toy with the cardboard holder on my coffee cup and sigh. “I need to think about this.”

  “Non, you do not need to think about it at all. You work too hard. If you take this one job, play for a week, you can take several months off to work on your own music. Besides, it will be like a holiday because you’ll be staying in a billionaire’s house. Did I mention it’s on the coast?”

  “Which coast?” I ask directly, because she knows as well as I do that I have no plans to go back to the French Riviera.

  “Did I say coast?” She laughs. I know that laugh, it’s a nervous laugh. “I meant country. It is a country chateau twenty minutes from Nice.”

  Oh hell, no.

  “Piaf,” I say slowly, drawing out her name. “Twenty minutes from Nice is still the French Riviera. I cannot just up and leave. There’s my father to consider.”

  “Yes, and that is what your mother is for.”

  “He’s. Not. Well.”

  “Nor will you be if you keep working yourself into the ground for a pittance,” she says. I am not working myself into the ground. “It’s twenty-five thousand euro, Brie, think about how that could change your life, or your father’s life.”

  I have no students this week, because I have no cello so I wouldn’t be losing money there. I wrack my brain for more excuses as to why I cannot take this job, and I come up empty. This is much, much more than I would get in several years playing the orchestra, and my lessons combined. I inhale through my nose and release a resigned sigh. “Fine, I’ll do it. When do I leave?”

  “I’ve already booked your plane ticket.”

  “You what?”

  “Don’t get mad, I knew you would do it anyway.”

  “Piaf,” I say, irritated that I’m apparently this predictable.

  “You have an hour to get packed and get to the airport. A driver will pick you up when your plane lands.”

  “An hour?” I screech, drawing the attention of several bystanders. “Remind me to strangle you the next time I see you.”

  “I’ll water your plants and feed your cat. No extra charge.”

  “You better be making only three per cent off this commission.”

  “Six, actually.”

  I growl, “Why the hell do I keep you around?”

  “Because without me to book you, you’d be living under a box. Besides, if I don’t keep you busy, who will?”

  “Perhaps a booking agent who doesn’t try to ruin my life just so she can get a kick out of it?”

  “Pfft, whatever. Another agent will still try to ruin your life. Without me, you would just be a sad spinster alone with your cat.”

  That is not true. I may work hard, but I still see my parents every day. I am not a sad spinster. I help Maman in any way that I can after mon père’s stroke. And there is so much to do, from shopping to running errands, and giving her some much-needed time away from the apartment every day. There is cleaning and cooking to be done, not to mention sponge baths and laundry, and all of the other ways you must care for a grown man who can no longer control his bodily functions and who has the strength and muscle capabilities of a newborn.

  Maman is a strong Parisian woman, born and bred. When all her friends suggested she should put her husband in a home for the infirm, my mother refused. We refused, and so we care for him as best we can. Sometimes I wish I’d been born a son, like mon père had always wanted. A son to carry on the Kagawa name of his proud Japanese heritage. A man to fill his shoes and take over the family business. Instead, he got me. A stubborn French girl, too much like my mother. A young woman who loved music and had no mind for business, a gifted musician. A would-be concert cellist who was on the fast track to the perfect career. If I hadn’t slept with Bastien and got myself fired from not just the Orchestre de Paris, but one who had been blacklisted from every venue in the city. Because I fell for the wrong man.

  Piaf is right this money would mean a great deal, not just for me, but for my parents too. I end the call with a “You owe me.” But we both know the opposite is true, and I scurry back to my apartment to pack. Fortunately for me, the essentials are still sitting in my suitcase from my last trip away. I stare at my cello case. I haven’t opened it since the wedding. I know it’s strange, but seeing it empty like this feels very much like my best friend died. I grab my P. Guillaume rosin and my favourite bow, and pack them in my suitcase.

  I scratch Monsieur Chat under the chin, and feed him, telling him goodbye before I leave. I’ll call Maman from the airport. I hate dropping everything to leave at the last minute, but this job could change our lives.

  It’s just a week.

  How hard can it really be?

  ***

  The car speeds off down the drive and I stare at the crumbling facade of the chateau. Billionaire, my arse. I’m going to kill Piaf. I climb the stairs with my case, and use the large metal knocker. I wait a beat. No one answers. There are no sounds from the other side. No sound at all but the wind through the trees. I knock again, growing more impatient by the second. I grunt and set my case down, and then I bang my fist so hard against the door I’m afraid I might have done permanent damage.

  This time, a man sings out in a strange accented English.

  “Margaux, get the door!” I wait, hoping that Margaux is using a walking frame because that’s the only reason someone might keep me waiting this long.

  “Margaux!” the same voice calls again.

  Then I hear heavy footsteps, and a man pulls back the door. Not just any man. Him. The Cello Murderer.

  “You!” I accuse. Before I can lunge at him and avenge my beloved’s death, I’m accosted by a mutt. It barrels into me and takes me down to th
e ground, humping my leg. I scream and the bastard standing in the doorway laughs.

  He actually fucking laughs.

  “Get off!” I yell at the dog and shove him away. He retreats to his master’s side. A master I notice who is not wearing pants. He’s not wearing anything at all save for an open silk robe. A tobacco pipe dangles from his lip. What is he? Hugh Hefner?

  “Tu as détruit mon bébé! Tu es pathétique, misérable cafard! Je te souhaite une mort lente et pitoyable, seul, à t'étrangler dans ton propre vomi, fils de pute! ”

  “I ... I don’t speak French,” he says, puffing on his stupid pipe and blowing the smoke in my face. “Listen, can we not make a big deal about the fact that I’m famous and just pretend I’m a regular person.”

  “Famous?” I repeat. Imbecile is more like it. And my assumption must be correct because, for a second, he looks confused.

  “Yeah, I’m the lead guitarist for Taint.”

  At the same time, I say, “You’re the bastard who broke my cello.”

  “Oh.” He grimaces. “Yeah, I did that.”

  “You rude, arrogant, son of a whore.” I narrow my eyes. If looks could kill, I’d have razed him where he stood. “No apology? No dédommagement?”

  “I have another cello, it’s yours. I talked to your agent. That was clever putting her number on your card to avoid stalkers. Seems I broke a really fucking expensive instrument, huh?”

  “My father gave me that ‘instrument’.” I use quotation marks to denote my distaste of the word. A cello like that is never just an instrument. It played like a dream. It had character, and charm, something he could never possess or understand. “I can never get it back.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

  I blink in surprise. Stunned that the word “sorry” is even in his vocabulary, and annoyed because I don’t forgive him, I don’t want to, but I’m the one feeling like an arsehole all the same. “So, all of this—the plane ticket, the promise of the money—all of it was just a ruse to get me here so you can give me a cello that could not possibly be worth anywhere near as much as the one you destroyed?”