Lose Me: (New Adult Billionaire Romance) (Broken Idols)

by M. C. Frank

  And that’s it. I’m pushed over my limit. Where does this guy come off demeaning me every chance he gets? He knows virtually nothing about me.

  “Listen here, pal,” I say, trying not to cringe at the thought that the word ‘pal’ just came out of my mouth. All the frustration of the past few days has been looking for an outlet for so long that it comes out with a force that, frankly, is scaring me a little bit. But I can’t stop. “No one, least of all you, is allowed to talk to me like that. Just because I come from a different background than you, you’ve no right to tell me that I’m stupid, or that I’m not as good as—”

  That’s when my little outburst is stopped abruptly.

  His lips come down hard on mine, and for a moment I’m stunned. His tongue begins to explore my mouth hungrily, but his lips are soft and gentle. He tastes of alcohol and aftershave and summer.

  Slowly, he places his hands on either side of my face to turn it sideways. I feel his body heat envelope me as he draws me closer to him, his hip leaning into mine, his chest pressed against me.

  He cups my head with his long fingers and bends his body to the level of my face—wow, he must be tall, if he’s that much taller than me—and then I can’t think anymore because I’m kissing him back.

  We sort of sink into the kiss, forgetting to breathe. His tongue is doing things in my mouth that make my knees go weak and forget to support me. He lifts me onto him and pulls me closer with his other hand sliding around my waist.

  Everything goes on around us, bodies moving, rubbing against each other, glasses clinking, voices laughing, but we are oblivious to it all. I had no idea that there was this person inside of me, who would kiss a guy back like that, swept up in the moment, forgetting myself, unable to stop. I don’t know who she is or what unleashed her, and I know that in a moment or so, maybe I’ll regret everything she did—everything I did. I mean, joking about it with Katia is one thing, but this. . . This isn’t safe. It’s the opposite of safe.

  Oh, but it’s so much fun. I’m surrounded by actors, being kissed by one, and right now, what’s pretend and what’s real all blur together. I’m one of them tonight. I don’t know how much time passes as we Wes and I are locked in our own little universe, but finally, sighing, we part.

  I gasp for breath and stumble, taking a step back.

  He pushes me away almost forcibly, but his eyes are still watching me as his chest rises and falls rapidly. There’s a look of surprise and amazement on his face. And then I look more carefully at him, and I discover something else in his expression: fear. Just plain fear.

  Fear at what he discovered, at what we both unearthed during this kiss. I raise a hand to my swollen lips and find out that my cheeks are wet.

  His eyebrows meet as he, too, notices, and his lips tighten. “No,” he whispers in a low rasp. Mesmerized, as though he isn’t aware he’s even doing it, he lifts a finger to wipe my tears away. At the last minute, he stops himself and drops his hand.

  “What you said before,” he says, his voice coming out hoarse. “I never said you weren’t as good as me. What I think is that you’re. . . Ah.”

  Just like that, he stops talking and turns on his heel and leaves. He lifts his head, his hair caressing the back of his neck, and drains his glass in one swift movement.

  I go back to the girls and an awkward silence greets me. Ollie rushes off to Wes, and Elle and Anna keep talking, ignoring me. I lift my drink to my lips, trying to cool my flaming cheeks and get a grip.

  I’ve never felt so relaxed after drinking just a glass of margarita. Wow, this stuff must be good. As soon as I finish my glass, Anna gets up to go to the bathroom and asks me to with her.

  “Do you want one more?” Elle asks me, “I’ll have the waitress refill it.”

  Okay, so the period of silence is over.

  On the way back we run into Tim, who wants to introduce me to a bunch of people whose names I forget immediately after hearing them, because everything is fuzzy.

  There’s a huge man with a beard down to his chest and a thin, short lady with a weird haircut, who looks neurotic and clings onto my hand, babbling incessantly about my wardrobe. Then a guy about my age tells me his name is ‘Tik’ or something crazy like that, and I extend my hand to shake his and almost miss it, because the room takes an abrupt dive to the left.

  Everyone laughs it off, and Anna whisks me back to Elle.

  Elle is standing next to Ollie, and keeps talking and touching his arm, but Anna gives me my refilled drink and we sit down on opposite sides of the small glass table and clink. I notice in the background Wes’ back twisting on top of a dark-haired girl. They are making out sloppily, drinks in both of their hands. Classy.

  “What do you say in Greece?” Anna asks curiously. “Chin-chin?”

  “No, we say stin igia sou!”

  I bring the glass to my lips but before I can drink, a hand reaches out of nowhere and flips it all over the front of my dress. I try to jump out of the way, but there’s nowhere to go. Laughter fills my ears from everywhere around me, and I look up to see Wes’ tall form towering above me.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he spits out.

  How did he get out of that girl’s face so soon?

  My glass is shattered at his feet and his hand is still dripping from when he tripped it all over me. His scowl is the darkest I’ve seen yet, and his eyes glaze drunkenly.

  I don’t seem to have any fight left in me.

  I get up, my seat slippery with drink, and try to move away, but my path is blocked by laughing people and Wes. I try to clear the cotton-balls from my head, but I stumble again before I can right myself. The last second before I land on the floor, a strong hand grasps mine and keeps me from falling. I’m once again pressed against Wes’ chest, dripping dress and all, but before I can lift my eyes to his, I begin to fall.

  I land on something cool and firm, which is another pair of hands, around my waist, steering me away from the laughing mob of people.

  “Come on,” Ollie says tightly, and just like that he’s in control of the situation. “I’ve got her,” he says over his shoulder to someone, but I can’t see who it is, because I’m struggling to keep myself upright.

  He slips off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, covering my dripping—and, more importantly, clinging to my body—shirt. He turns and exchanges a glance with Wes and then, his hand still protectively on my shoulder, he leads me out into the fresh air.

  “How much did you drink?” he asks, supporting me as I struggle to climb up the twenty steps that will take us to street level.

  “Just a glass,” I mumble. Not that he would believe me. I wouldn’t believe me. “My car is right over. . .” I begin to point with an unsteady hand.

  He’s trying to hide it, but he’s definitely laughing under his breath. “You’re hammered,” he says. “Here, this way.”

  Long story short, he drives me home. And as if my humiliation wasn’t complete after that, he waits with me at the door until I can finally fit the key in the lock and watches as I stumble inside.

  “I’m really sorry,” is the last thing he says to me. His voice sounds serious, maybe a bit sad.

  I look back at him, confused. Sorry for what? He just shakes his head and leaves.

  ◊◊◊

  The next day is day one of shooting. My alarm promptly explodes at five thirty, splitting my head in two.

  I’m hungover. Perfect. As I slide out of bed holding my pounding head in my hands I wonder how one margarita rendered me to this light-fearing, noise-avoiding, nauseous mess. I take a long shower and head to the door only to remember with sudden panic that my car is parked all the way over at Drops.

  Oh no.

  No no no. It’s all wrong. This isn’t how my first job was supposed to begin. Confused. Embarrassed. Scared. Late.

  Late. Shoot.

  I rush over to pick up my wallet and run to the door, gathering my still damp hair in a ponytail. The day promises
to be hot today, all summer and no fall.

  My home is in one of kantounia, tucked away in the east quarter of the tourist market. Downstairs from our two-storey apartment is a tiny bookstore named affectionately “Matchbox” by my granddad. I adore that place.

  There’s no time to pop in and give him a quick kiss on the cheek this morning, though, as I run through the kantounia, my sandals echoing as they flap hurriedly on the smooth stones, only to stop short, my breath coming in quick puffs, as I stumble out into the street.

  Because right there, where I usually park it, is my car.

  I approach it tentatively, and grab the driver’s door handle. It’s unlocked. Of course. Whoever brought it back must have broken in.

  Ollie must have done it. I don’t know if I should be touched or furious. I go back home to fetch my keys.

  As I slide them into the ignition I notice something beside me, on the seat next to mine. It’s a book. An ugly book, I might add, with no design on the cover, just a worn-out gray color, like those vintage, 1930s collector’s items my grandpa has a small, precious selection of.

  But this one is no collector’s item. It has been read over a hundred times through the years, by the look of it.

  I open it. Inside is the title:

  PRIDE and PREJUDICE

  JANE AUSTEN

  And below it, handwritten in a boyish but careful hand, in pencil, is an inscription:

  Do yourself a favor.

  page 133

  PS: this book was passed on to me by my maternal grandmother. Please try to be careful with it, if you possibly can. Cheers, Darcy.

  My jaw literally drops. So it wasn’t Ollie. It was Wes. Why on earth would he do something nice for me? After the way he treated me last night, too. Is the guy kidding me?

  I fling the book back on the seat and step on the gas, trying to vent my frustration. Twenty minutes later—instead of the thirty-five it should have taken me, had I driven like a normal person and not a crazed maniac—I’m at the sprawling yellow villa on top of the hill overlooking the beach. A guy with sunglasses and a very serious gray suit lets me in—security, of course—and I push a few stray curls out of my face, trying to appear composed.

  Before I can take stock of my surroundings, the thin, twitching lady I remember vaguely from last night takes my arm and begins leading me away.

  “Good, you’re here,” she says in a clipped tone. “Makeup, now! And you should be here at six tomorrow, got it?”

  I nod quickly.

  This isn’t how it was supposed to begin.

  Today is not the day I die.

  I glance at my watch. It’s barely five minutes past.

  Turns out that what Tim said to me the first day was kind of an understatement. Elle really doesn’t do water. Like, at all.

  So, they tell me I’m to be her.

  There’s this scene towards the end of the film, where Will and Lizzie are sitting on their surfboards in the calm sea, talking. That’s where we’ll start. They put a dark-haired wig on me, because Elle will be a brunette as Lizzie in the film. It’s close enough to my own hair color, but they want it to be exactly like hers, so whatever. Then they spray tons of makeup on my shoulders and back. I’m wearing a version of the impossibly white bikini Elle will be wearing in this scene.

  It will be only close-ups of her face while she delivers her lines. When Wes talks, it will be the back of my head on the screen. Matt comes over quietly, as the makeup team struggle to make my really tan and toned arms look bony like Elle’s, and looks me in the eye.

  “I know it’s too soon, but go with it,” he says. “I know you can do it.”

  “You do?” I ask, uncertainly. I’m still dazed.

  “Yeah,” he says, “Ben says you can, so you can.”

  Ben is Coach.

  “O. . . kay.”

  “Now, when they’re shooting the back of your head, you have to react slightly to what he’s telling you, right? Nod, or lean towards him. . . ” He must notice my face going white, because all the blood is leaving it right now. “Here, I’ll show you,” he adds.

  He must be the calmest, most patient person in the world.

  I’ve never seen anyone so zen. He shows me all he can and before I’ve had time to think of it, we’re down in the water.

  We take our places the way they want us, with our bodies facing each other, our legs dangling in the sea, and someone sprinkles water on our hair—my wig—,our backs and swimming suits.

  Wes looks like an ancient Greek god of the sea, the sun in his eyes, water dripping from his golden curls. He peels off his shirt to reveal sculpted, bronzed shoulders. Dammit, no one’s supposed to look that good. His swimming trunks are knee-length and dark blue with small white swirls that look like Hawaiian flowers, and as soon as he’s in the water they cling to his legs, accentuating the swell of wicked quadriceps underneath. A sudden realization hits me: he may not even remember kissing me last night. He was drinking, and he kissed that other girl right away. He certainly doesn’t act self-conscious around me, but then again I wouldn’t expect a guy like that to be self-conscious around anyone.

  Wes smiles at me and I know he’s trying to help me relax, but I’m totally freaking out. There are cameras, rafts, microphones in my face, next to me, all over the place. How exactly am I supposed to concentrate? This is going too fast.

  And then Wes begins to speak.

  “I do respect your family,” he says, looking directly into my eyes with a green, piercing gaze full of meaning. “I really do, and I’m sorry for the things I said about them. But. . . ” at this he leans forward, almost to the edge of his bobbing surfboard and takes my hand lightly in his. “But much as I care for them, everything I did, I did it for you,” he says and I melt into his eyes.

  “Cut!” a voice yells over the PA.

  The kind, endearingly eccentric man I met a couple of days ago is entirely gone. This guy is fierce. “That was brilliant, Spencer,” he calls. “Ari, honey, what are you doing? You’re rigid. Get a grip. Go again.”

  I’m shaking all over.

  For some inexplicable reason, Wes seems to have forgotten to let go of my hand. Now I feel a slight squeeze.

  “Wait!” he calls to the camera crew. He turns to me. “Are you all right?” he asks me quietly, bending his head so that nobody else will hear. “Look, it was too sudden for you, I told Tim, but he says. . . anyway, you’ve got this, yeah?”

  I nod uncertainly. He smiles. “Right. First, stop looking like a frightened chicken. It shows in your body language. Try to relax. Did you read anything from the book I left you?”

  “No,” I whisper, wanting the sea to swallow me up whole.

  “Well, I did tell you to do yourself a favor. . .” he frowns. “All right, look at me. Look only at me. Nothing else exists, no cameras, no lights, nothing.” I do. “Good,” he smiles again, and suddenly I couldn’t look at anything else even if I tried. “Now, you’re in love with me. We’ve had our ups and downs, but they only made us appreciate each other more. I’m the best guy in the world as far as you are concerned. You are a level-headed young lady, but right now you are star-struck by me.” He waits for a minute, and then, “yes! That’s it!” he whispers. “Ready,” he yells to the cameras. “Don’t lose me,” he says to me.

  I don’t.

  The clapper snaps in front of us, but we don’t break eye contact. We shoot the scene again, and Tim mumbles that it was okay. Then the cameras change positions and Wes delivers his lines flawlessly again. They tell him to bend as though to kiss me, then to hold my hand and so on.

  My skin has broken up in goose bumps, even though the sun is sweating hot, and I feel my legs going numb in the water. Wes has some more lines to deliver.

  “You’re gonna give us a few seconds,” he tells Tim.

  “No way, golden boy, I’m dying here,” he replies, and Wes seems to take that as a yes, because next thing I know he’s grabbing my hand and sliding with me into the emerald spark
ling waters.

  We come up for air almost simultaneously.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “Thanks,” I say, gulping in air.

  We shoot until two. I don’t know how he does it. I mean, sure, it must be more exciting to actually say lines instead of just sit there with your back to the camera, but still, the guy is tireless. Gone is the drunken stupor of the past two days, gone too the bored look and the drooping eyelids.

  His mood gets even more brilliant with every passing minute, as though this whole thing makes him come alive.

  Wow.

  Not to mention that he has me believing him every time he says he loves me. Tim, too, seems amazed by his performance. He high-fives him warmly after every take, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm.

  We stop for a meal, which I can’t eat because my stomach is in knots, and Elle drapes herself all over Wes to congratulate him on his performance. The bored, haunted look comes back into his eyes and she turns her attention to me.

  I’m idly twirling my plastic fork around a plate of chicken wings, fiddling with the fluffy pockets of the blue bathrobe they draped around me as soon as I came out of the water.

  “You know that’s an animal you’re eating, right?” she asks me, her eyebrows raised. “Animals are not food.”

  She snickers, catching Wes’ eye. He’s busy stuffing his mouth with a hamburger, containing another animal’s meat, as far as I can tell, and Elle sees me glancing at it.

  “That’s soy isn’t it, babe?” she asks him quickly and he just grunts, looking out into the sea.

  “Well, as long as you know water is not food either,” I tell her, as politely as I can, seeing that she has only a bottle of sparkling Evian in front of her.

  “Gosh, what even is this crap they’ve served us? They had finger food at the last set I worked.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “You Greek people eat snakes and disgusting stuff like that, right?” She’s rubbing her hand up and down Wes’ left arm slowly. “At least now you do. It’s been pretty much a third world situation for your country these past few years, I understand that, but still. . . I remember reading about Greece returning to the dark ages during this economical crisis thing and probably taking the whole world with you. I mean. . . talk about bad luck!”