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

by M. C. Frank

  “Don’t touch the clutch and let off the gas,” I gasp and Wes obeys immediately, only it’s too late. We’re headed for the cliff and he’s turning the wheel wrong. We’re already skidding out.

  I put my hand over his and turn the wheel with force the other way. Wes quickly removes his hand underneath mine, giving me full control.

  Without hesitating for a second, I take off my seat belt and jump to the driver’s seat, landing sideways on top of him. I grab the steering wheel with both hands and steer it in the direct opposite direction, while my feet find the brakes. My legs are long enough to reach the pedals over his, as I’m seated at the edge of his seat, in front of him. In his panic, he still has the presence of mind to part his knees to give me some room, but it’s not easy to move like that, seated on top of him.

  I don’t have time to think of that, though, as it all happens with so much speed that I barely have time to doubt if I’ll make it. I’m doing the best I can, slamming on the breaks and shifting into third, then immediately second. The car corrects itself, but it’s sliding left, towards the precipice. I’ve practiced driving for stunts in even weirder positions than this, with half my body hanging out of the window, but this isn’t a stunt. It’s real. We’re about to either crash into the trees or dive off the cliff; we’re dying.

  Dust clouds around us as I hear the sickening screech of the tires seeking purchase on the hot asphalt—the GT ‘Stang is a dependable car as only a Ford can be—and press my feet down on the pedals with all my strength, putting the car into neutral and lifting the e-brake. I feel the ABS kick in, and not a moment too soon, because the front left wheel is slipping downwards, off the road and into empty space. The cockpit lurches over thin air.

  Wes realizes what I’m doing, and he places his hand over mine, his fingers curling over the e-brake. He pulls with all his strength. My head bangs with force against the steering wheel as all movement stops abruptly. Wes’ chest rises and falls beneath me; other than that, he’s completely immobile. Seated on his lap, I wonder how we should move in order to get out as fast as possible, but without making the car move any more—we could still find ourselves tumbling over the abyss, head over tail.

  Do I smell gas? My head is spinning and black spots are dancing in front of my eyes, as though I’m about to pass out. I grit my teeth. Not now. I try to swallow, but my lips are dry.

  “You all right?” Wes gasps, still in shock.

  “Out,” I croak. “We have to get out.”

  “’Kay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

  The gaping hole of the precipice yawns right beneath me. Dazed, I feel Wes slowly and carefully move to get me and himself out, keeping an arm around me, just as the car begins to moan and shift.

  “Are you with me?” he asks in my ear and I manage to nod. My head hurts, but not from inside, which is a relief. Something warm and liquid glides down my nose and my mouths fills with the metallic scent of blood. That’s not such a great relief. “Almost there.”

  “Quick,” I pant.

  He grasps my waist and drags me out the door. We roll on the ground and he places a hand behind my head as I tumble on the road, unable to crouch into a safe position. Okay, we’re out, we’re safe. That’s good. What’s not so good is that I’m so dizzy, I feel like throwing up. The front wheel of the Mustang is still spinning on thin air, somewhere above my head, and it blurs in and out of my vision as I struggle to remain conscious.

  “You need to open your eyes, Ari.” I hadn’t realized I’d closed them. I open them, although that isn’t much of an improvement. My vision is turning black. “No, no. No, this can’t be happening,” Wes’ voice sounds frantic. “I’ll just get the triangle, hold on. Can you move?” He fumbles in his pocket for his phone.

  I try to get up and a sudden wave of nausea overwhelms me. Everything goes blurry and I brace my hands on the hot cement, raising myself on my elbows as I get sick. Wes moves quickly next to me, and turns me on my side so that I don’t choke.

  “Oh,” he breathes. I feel his hands on my hair—they’re shaking. “Dammit.”

  He tries to wipe my mouth before I push his hand away, and brushes the blood-matted hair out of my face, but there’s nothing else he can do. Wisely, he doesn’t touch my forehead wound, which must be shallow since it’s already stopped bleeding.

  “What have I done? What have I done?” His voice, hoarse, repeats over my head.

  I press my palm to my forehead and moan. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not a scratch,” he reassures me. “Ari, I’m sorry, so bloody sorry. Are you in too much pain? What can I do?”

  “I just need to be still,” I murmur, but it’s too much effort to talk.

  “Okay.”

  Then he must find his phone, because the next thing I know he’s yelling.

  “Lee!” he shouts. “Come on, pick up! Hey, listen. No, we were in an accident. I’m fine but she. . . ” his voice catches, “she’s hurt badly, man. She leapt in front of me. . . she got hurt instead of me. She’s bleeding, she’s hurt her head. Not in a second, now! Do you hear me? Now!”

  ◊◊◊

  They take us both to the Health Center and it turns out I have a mild concussion and he has a dislocated finger, plus a few bruised ribs. That’s what he meant when I asked if he was hurt and he replied ‘not a scratch’. He should have thought of acting brave and tough before driving off the cones like an irresponsible brat, I think, too exhausted to call him out on it. Plus, he looks pretty freaked out without me pointing out anything. I’m sure he gets it now.

  Now that it’s almost too late.

  Of course the driver who caused the accident has disappeared. No trace. Did he or she even wait to see if we’d get out alive? Matt called the ambulance, the driver didn’t even do that.

  Wes waits for me at the door as I leave with Coach, who came to get me as soon as I called him, because the doctors said I can’t be alone in the next 48 hours in case something happens.

  “Ari?” Wes says my name as soon as I walk out the swinging doors. His eyes, haunted, are searching for mine. He sounds so worried, so unsure of himself that all the anger deflates from me. His shirt is torn at the elbow and bloodied, his hair all messy, his eyes tortured. It breaks my heart just to look at him.

  He looks worse than I feel, dark circles around his eyes, his hands hidden in his pockets.

  “You the one that hurt my little girl?” Coach asks. I wince as I try to suppress a smile. He knows, fully well, who Wes is.

  “Yes, sir,” Wes almost snaps to attention.

  “Not now,” I hiss in Coach’s ear, but he ignores me. Wes looks utterly defeated, his shoulders drooping. He looks freaked out. But he’s not just in shock. He looks legitimately scared. As tough he’s out of his depth.

  As though there’s something seriously wrong.

  “They find alcohol in your blood, actor boy?” Coach asks.

  I groan. Wes’ eyes lift to meet Coach’s squarely. His back straightens. “They did not check, sir,” he says quietly.

  Coach grunts, sounding almost exactly like grandpa. “Do you get the impression,” he tells him calmly, as he takes my elbow, steering me towards his jeep, “that if I wanted to hurt you, the fact that you’re a billionaire would stop me?”

  “I am so sorr—” Wes begins to say, but flinches as Coach takes a step closer to him.

  He brings his face close to Wes’, who flinches, but stands his ground. Coach’s eyes are flashing in contempt. “Obviously you’re not sorry enough, or you wouldn’t be talking,” Coach says in that low, menacing voice, getting in his face. “We can arrange that, jackass.”

  I can feel his hand on my elbow trembling. Gosh, I hope he doesn’t start yelling—

  “You almost killed her!” Nope. Too late. Coach’s neck is roped with veins, his fists clenching. Wes presses his lips together, turning white. “I don’t care what you do with your own life, but when you start being an irresponsible ass and put another person in danger, then
a simple ‘I’m sorry’ just doesn’t cut it.”

  “Coach,” I murmur, feeling that my endurance has reached its limit.

  I mean, I’ve had my share of dudes thinking that what I do is no big deal, they can compete or join me any time, without putting theirs and my own life in danger. Usually they’re morons I can just ignore and they’ll leave me alone. But this time. . . I don’t even think it’s worth talking about it. Wes Spencer isn’t just any guy. He’s someone who’s used to being the best at everything, having the best of everything. Even worse, he’s used to others thinking that he’s the best at everything. Without trying. Without actually deserving it, maybe, sometimes. So, to my thinking, there’s no use yelling at him. And right now he looks so pathetic that I don’t even want to waste the energy it would take to be mad at him.

  He’s one of those people who get a free pass through life. It’s what he does. He gets what he wants, and who cares about the consequences. I was just an idiot to think otherwise for even a second.

  Now let’s get the hell out of here, because every bone in my body is hurting. Coach looks at me and frowns, as though he’s just remembered I’m here too. He turns to Wes, grabbing his sleeve.

  “You better get your act together as long you’re working with Ari. Or you’ll be walking on crutches for the rest of your life. If you can walk at all.” He turns to me. “Come on, sweetheart.” He curses under his breath.

  Wes stays there, scowling after us.

  Coach and I hang at home and when dad comes back we’ve decided not to let him know all the details of my accident. I just tell him I got concussed—it’s not the first time it’s happened to me, anyway.

  “Not again,” he says. “Okay, just rest, and I’ll come check up on you. Feel okay?”

  I nod, then wince.

  His eyes grow worried and his gaze travels all over my body. “You’ve lost weight, Ars?” he asks suddenly and my heart is gripped with terror.

  “Um. . . it’s just this shirt, daddy,” I say as calmly as I can. “It’s a bit too big.”

  “Hmm,” he says, unconvinced, but he doesn’t ask again.

  ◊◊◊

  It’s about eleven thirty at night, and I’m almost asleep when I get a text alert. Drowsy with sleep, I grab my cell.

  You awake?

  It’s from an unknown number.

  Who r u? I type lazily.

  It’s Wes, wanted to check if you’re ok.

  I sit up. Keep it simple, Ari.

  Me: fine u?

  Wes: ‘Fine’ apart from the concussion, right?

  Me: I’m ok. used to getting hurt

  Wes: You’re used to getting hurt by me?

  Me: talking abt training and stunts here

  We: Oh

  Me: finger ok?

  Wes: Better than it deserves to be. Look, sorry I’m keeping you up, you were probably sleeping. I wanted to say again how sorry I am.

  Wes: Also. . .

  Me: also?

  Wes: To thank you for saving my life today.

  Me: it’s fine.

  Wes: Goodnight.

  Me: hey wait.

  A thought has occurred to me, and now that it’s planted itself in my head, I can’t shake it off. I have to ask.

  Wes: What?

  Me: why didn’t you defend yourself to Ben? U could have said that a car was headed straight for us, and u had nowhere to go. Why didn’t you?

  Wes: Because it wouldn’t have been the truth. I was as much at fault as that other bloke. More so.

  That word he wrote, ‘bloke’, is so British, it looks weird. He mostly talks in an American accent, in front of the cameras and everyone, except for when he’s with Ollie or on the phone with one of his friends. And now with me. Kind of. I feel as if a shift is happening, as though I’m forced to look at him as he is. Not Wes the actor. Wes the person.

  And to be frank, it’s scaring the hell out of me.

  Wes: You there?

  Me: yeah. thinking I forgot to give ur book back. I read it

  Wes: You did!!!!! That’s brilliant. What did you think??

  Me: ok, didn’t expect so much enthusiasm. . . yeah, loved it actually

  Me: got bored only once or 2ce

  Wes: WHAT

  Me: Just kidding. I’ll bring it tmrow

  Wes: It’s yours.

  Wes: It has a dedication and everything, didn’t you see?

  Me: I did, it also said to be careful and abt yr grandma n stuff

  Wes: Yeah, that’s true. So please take care of it.

  Me: isn’t it a family heirloom or sth?

  Wes: It is

  Me: so?

  Wes: Consider yourself lucky to have it.

  Me: k

  Wes: I’m sorry, Ari. I’m sorry.

  Me: wht 4?

  Wes: For so much. For almost killing you in the car today. And for what I said the other day.

  Me: don’t worry abt it

  Wes: I mean it. Am I forgiven?

  Me: sure

  Wes: You know what? I sodding hate this. I hate how you say that, as if it’s what you expected anyway, me acting like a complete knobhead. I hate that it’s official now, that’s who I am.

  Me: Well, did you think it was ok, what you did?

  Wes: Getting you killed? No, I didn’t bleeding think it was ok.

  Me: You didn’t actually get me killed. But I meant, before. Getting into that car, why did that seem like a good idea?

  Wes: I just needed a rush. . . To escape, you know? To stop feeling caged, to stop suffocating. I wasn’t drunk, but I’d drunk enough to be reckless. Enough to not think about what I was doing.

  Me: Maybe that’s the problem.

  Wes: Of course it is. I mean in the past I’ve been actually intoxicated and done things that I’m not proud of. The opposite of proud.

  Me: oh

  Wes: I don’t want to be that person anymore, the person who has to risk his neck or be pissed out of his mind in order to be able to endure his own life. The person people have to be rescued from. I want to be the one who helps, not the one who needs help all the time. I want to be the person I thought I could be the day you almost. . . the day I first met you.

  Wes: Why am I telling you all this?

  Me: . . .

  Wes: You’re killing me here, Phelps

  Me: What do u want me to say? I don’t know why ure telling me either. all this talking of killing is making me sleepy

  Wes: I’ll go. One more thing

  Me: what

  Wes: Will you help me?

  Me: with what?

  Wes: I want to quit.

  The breath catches in my throat. What do I write in reply to that? He wants to quit. So does that mean he does have a problem with drinking after all? And how do you ‘help’ someone quit?

  I mean, this was the last thing I expected him to say. What do you do when someone lays bare their darkest secret to you? What do you say?

  You never imagine a person who would do something like what he did today, someone who acts so arrogant and entitled. . . you don’t expect a person like that to just confess that they have a problem.

  But why on earth would he want me to help him? He doesn’t even know me, not really. Maybe he doesn’t have anyone else, although that’s hard to believe, with that posse of agents and assistants and fans following him everywhere.

  Maybe I’m the first person who has made zero excuses for him. Yeah, that actually sounds more than probable.

  It’s already been a full minute and I haven’t texted him back. But his last text. . . That’s not something I want to leave unanswered.

  Is he even sincere? He might just be reacting to the scare of the crash, although I can’t outright ask him that now, can I? What do I do?

  Me: What do u need me for?

  Wes: Don’t you know?

  Me: ?

  Wes: Ari, you’re the only genuinely good person I’ve met. I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me though.


  Oh crap.

  Me: of course I’ll help

  Wes: You will? You’re serious?

  Me: yeah

  Wes: Just saying, it’s not going to be pretty.

  Wes: Ok, sweet dreams. I’ll call you in an hour to check on you, doctor’s orders.

  Me: no need. Coach and dad are here

  Wes: You wound me.

  Me: haha night, Will Darcy

  Wes: No, you say: night, dude.

  Me: night, dude

  Wes: Night, Phelps.

  When he calls me exactly an hour later, we only speak for a moment and don’t say anything important. His voice, thick and sexy with sleep, melts like honey in the soft darkness of my room. I shiver down to my toes.

  He calls again and again, every hour on the dot, until day breaks.

  After we hang up for the last time, as the sun is painting my window pink, I wonder if he put his alarm at exactly one hour from his last call. Six times. Then again, maybe he stayed awake all night, thinking. Like me.