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

by M. C. Frank

  Wes: Will do. If I ever actually write anything. Stay safe until then, ok?

  Wes: Teddy? Promise me.

  Wes: Still here.

  Theo: I hope you enjoy waiting.

  TEN

  Christina Taylor arrives in Athens that very afternoon, a swarm of paparazzi in her wake.

  I’m back home, cooking dinner, when her face appears on the television, in the evening news. The next second I hear dad’s shoes slapping the stairs and he runs up from the basement he has converted to a gym, flushed and sweaty.

  His eyes are hooded, as they are most of these days, but he doesn’t look as shaken up as I thought he would.

  I grab a Young People Magazine from the bathroom and show him the article in a gossip column, the one that was calling her a ‘mother or a monster’.

  “Yep,” he says, “that must be it. That must be the reason.”

  A second later, my phone rings.

  “Are you home?” Ollie asks me tightly.

  “Yeah,” I tell him.

  “Don’t move. I’m coming over.”

  I make coffee—the strong, Greek kind—and wait. He runs up the stairs after I buzz him in, and we sit together in the kitchen, all three of us, sipping from tiny cups.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Ollie says to my father, his blue eyes sad and honest. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you and Ari sooner. . . I was really freaked out.”

  “Well, Christina seems to have that effect on people,” dad replies dryly, glancing at me.

  I shrug. Ollie grabs my hand in his and squeezes it. I think that’s the moment when I begin to trust him. He gets it, without me even having to explain it.

  “Listen, Oliver,” my dad says in his most stern P.E. teacher voice.

  “It’s Ollie,” Ollie says.

  Dad smiles and his voice softens a bit. “Listen, Ollie.” He leans forward in his chair until his nose is mere inches from Ollie’s face. “I don’t want that woman coming near Ari. Not even a hundred feet.”

  “That makes two of us, sir,” Ollie tells him, not breaking eye contact.

  “I’m ‘sir’ at school, you know,” my dad lifts an eyebrow. “Plus, I could very well be your dad.”

  “That would be fun,” Ollie says, sitting back, and I get up to start serving the pastitsio I made.

  “What would be?” I ask him from the kitchen.

  “To have a dad for a change,” he tells me as soon as I walk back with a plate in each hand. My dad’s eyes cloud over.

  “You already have one, kid, for as long as you want,” he tells him and stretches an arm to hug his neck—that thing men do instead of a hug.

  Then they both get up to help set the table and we eat until we feel sleepy. Ollie can’t stop saying how he loves the food I’ve cooked and at first I think he’s trying to compliment me, but after refilling his plate for the third time I laugh and promise to give him the recipe.

  After that we watch TV, half-asleep on the sofa, but it’s still early, so I tell them we have to do something productive until it’s time for sleep.

  No one feels like going out, so we end up playing charades of black-and-white Greek films from the sixties and seventies. Ollie knows nothing about these films of course, but still he makes a genuine effort to guess what we mean. His every guess is so far off the mark that dad and I end up on the floor, crying with laughter.

  We order pizza around midnight, because all the laughing has made my dad and Ollie hungry, and then Ollie heads for the guest room. I put clean sheets on the bed and he smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “You’re so lucky,” he whispers.

  “I know,” I whisper back. And I do know. Tumor and all, I am one of the luckiest people alive.

  None of us talk about why Ollie is staying the night. I feel so warm and protected that it makes my heart ache. I know that if they could fight my sickness for me, they would do that too.

  Wes calls me just as I get into bed.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  “Ollie is here,” I tell him.

  “I know,” he says. “That’s why I haven’t called you every five minutes. I thought you two needed some alone time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” he replies easily. “Listen, about Christina. She’s already been taken care of, okay? She won’t bother you. I don’t think she even knows where we are exactly, the location has been kept secret so far, and there haven’t been any photographers, that I know of.”

  “Do you know what she came for?”

  “Yeah, I know what she came for. The fish in the sea know what she came for, not that she’s shy about telling. She came to have the paparazzi snap a picture of her having brunch with you, that’s it.”

  “Oh. Wow,” I say.

  It’s not her fault that she doesn’t know about what’s going on with me, but I’m guessing at this point that even if she did, she might not care.

  “I can’t deal with this, baby,” Wes whispers in a choked voice in my ear. “I can’t stand it when you hurt.”

  “It hurts much less when I talk with you.”

  “Listen, I need you to do me a favor,” he says after a minute’s silence.

  “What?”

  “I can’t sleep. Thinking of you in that tiny bedroom, all alone, and that. . . ” he hesitates. “And that some kind of sadness may wake you up in the middle of the night, hurting.”

  I know he’s referring to the night we spent in the yacht. “I’m fine,” I tell him, remembering it with embarrassment.

  “Please promise me that if that happens you’ll wake Ollie up,” he goes on. “He. . . he’s the kind of guy that probably won’t sleep anyway, thinking about you, about things. You can tell him anything. He’s the best mate you could ever have.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise me.”

  “All right, I promise,” I say, smiling and then my smile abruptly fades as he speaks again.

  “That’s my girl. Maybe. . . who knows, maybe you can tell him all the things you can’t tell me. Maybe you can trust him.”

  Ouch.

  Then again, I deserved that. I can’t ignore the hurt in his voice and it tears me apart.

  “I trust you, Wes,” I whisper into the phone and I hear a sharp intake of breath on the other side.

  “It’s fine,” he replies in a minute, “I said I wouldn’t press you and I won’t. It’s enough for me that you’re here, talking to me, that’s all that matters. I won’t risk losing you again.” Then his voice turns gruff. “Only, I’m thinking, some day maybe things will catch up with you and you’ll need either to trust me or to run.”

  I swallow.

  “That day, when and if it comes, I hope you’ll be able to trust me.”

  “Wes, I—”

  I can’t say it. I can’t. No matter how hard I try, the words just won’t come out. What’s the point?

  “Tell me,” he prompts, his voice warm, familiar. “Tell me.”

  “Shooting is almost done,” I say. Great, use the film as an excuse. Gosh, I’m such a chicken. “Soon you’ll have to go back.”

  There’s silence for a bit, as though he didn’t understand me. Then, he erupts.

  “Are you seri—? What are you talking about? Is that what this is about? Is that what you’ve been thinking all this time? That I’ll take off and just forget all about you?”

  “I thought,” I whisper, feeling the tears threaten again. “I thought. . .”

  He speaks again, putting me out of my misery, his voice full of understanding. But there’s pain in it, too.

  “Ari, you should have talked to me about it, before assuming I’d leave you the minute I. . . ” he falters. “Have you not listened to one thing I ever said to you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Dammit, stop apologizing to me.” His voice gets softer. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

  “Still?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay,
Snape.” I say lamely.

  He laughs. “You’re it for me, Ari,” he breathes into my ear.

  ◊◊◊

  Christina calls Ollie as we’re having breakfast the next morning. Well, breakfast in most Greek households is black coffee in a tiny cup, which you sip as you run around the house putting on socks and yelling at your brother to grab the car keys. Which is what I’m doing, when her face appears on his phone and, as I’m standing next to him, she sees me as well.

  “Oh, look at you,” she croons to me, casually, as though this isn’t the first time she’s seen me in like, ever. “You’re pretty as a picture. So skinny, wow look at those arms! Good job, Ari. Oh, you have my eyes, lashes that go on for days! You know, you can make that dark gray eye-color really pop if you try to learn the basics of makeup.”

  I just stare, cup of steaming coffee in hand, trying to wrap my mind around what’s happening right now.

  She goes on and on about how gorgeously skinny I am. As the moments pass and she keeps talking about it, I feel even more scared and ashamed of how I look. I clear my throat.

  Ollie just stands there, looking numb.

  Someone should try to say something sensible here.

  “I wanted to thank you for getting me this part.” My voice sounds weird. Formal. I am talking to a complete stranger, after all. She looks confused. “This stunt role? I would never have gotten a break like that if it wasn’t for you. So thank you for that.”

  She’s still looking at me as though she has no idea what I’m talking about. I send Ollie a desperate look. He wakes up suddenly and grabs the phone, taking her out of my line of vision. He asks her what she wants in a resigned voice.

  “I was thinking of catching a flight to the island,” she says, pronouncing the word ‘island’ dreamily, as though she’s talking about the Caribbean, “sometime this afternoon, perhaps, and then Ariadne and I could go shopping. How does that sound, Ari, honey?”

  Ollie turns to me with one eyebrow raised. We have to go to the villa right now, but I’ll have some free time in the evening. “What do you want to do?” he mouths.

  And that’s when I realize it: I feel nothing.

  I’ve heard her say my name twice now and still no emotion. She’s a stranger, after all. I don’t hate her, I realize; she’s simply irrelevant.

  I just want to spend these days with my family. These last days perhaps, these difficult days. Yes, that’s what I want. I shake my head. “Tell her maybe some other time,” I whisper to him, “and thank her again from me.”

  Before he can turn the speaker off, she’s talking again.

  “Oh, now I remember. You were talking about that little movie Oliver is in, right? I had nothing to do with it, Ari, honey. My publicist thought it might be a good chance to throw you two together, since the story was bound to come up in the tabloids sooner or later. . . ” She pauses for a second, just enough for me to realize that the ‘story’ is me. “I thought it was smart. Paints me in a good light, don’t you think?” she giggles.

  And that’s when Ollie loses it.

  emails

  To: Wes Spencer < therealwes@wesspencer.com >

  Fr: Pan

  Subject: Hamlet

  Hey Wes, man, how are you?

  Long time no see. I hear you’re in Crete or some such lame-o place. My condolences, dude, hope you’ll be done shooting soon.

  Everyone here is talking Oscars and wedding bells for you—I’m assuming only the first one is true. Please don’t tell me the second is as well, I won’t be able to sleep at night.

  As for that little project you were talking of, dude, I’m all in!

  Freaking Hamlet in a post-apocalyptic London?!

  Did you come up with the idea by yourself? It’s brilliant, Spence, and you know I don’t use that word for anyone but myself, ever.

  Tell me when you plan to start and I’m there, classes be damned. I’ll make a deal with the profs at school here, no problem, I have them wrapped around my little finger.

  So, let me know.

  Cheers, English boy. And keep those hands to yourself. No one would want to live in a world populated by Weston-Burke brats.

  −Pan.

  To: Pan

  Fr: Wes Spencer < therealwes@wesspencer.com >

  Re: Hamlet

  Pan, you conceited, brilliant bastard! How are you?

  First year in college, right? You a professor yet?

  Ok, first of all, stop calling me an English boy. It’s ‘sir’ to you. You might be a seventeen-year-old genius, but I’m Weston Spencer, not to mention a good four years older than you.

  Anyway, I’ll probably be nominated, yeah. But as for the rest of the rumors, dude, don’t even joke about that. Burke is insane. I mean, she’s made my life hell in the past, but now there’s this girl here, I’m falling hard for her, man. I can’t. . . I can’t control it. And don’t start laughing. I’m in deep trouble and El is at every corner, watching her, looking for a chance to put her down. Not that my girl will take any crap, she can kick her butt anytime. It’s just hard to watch someone you care about being treated that way, dammit.

  I’m telling you, the next time El fake-threatens to kill herself I’m letting her do it.

  Right. On my little Hamlet idea. Do you really think it’s good? And more importantly, do you think it’s doable? I mean, I’ll be on my own, you understand? I’ll be directing and starring too, if all goes well.

  You in? I’ll need a score and a couple of songs and an Official Soundtrack thingy. . . Can you mix, too? I don’t know crap about this music stuff, do you think you have it? I mean, no offence, but your ego is bigger than your career, at present at least. Well, as long as it isn’t bigger than your talent. I’m sure it’s not—nothing is.

  I’m in Corfu, a smaller island than Crete. It’s so beautiful here, you’d lose your head. I can’t wait to get my girl over to New York for you to meet her, you’ll be blown away, I swear. You’ve never met anyone like her.

  Ok, got to go, talk to you soon, Beethoven.

  W.

  To: Wes Spencer < therealwes@wesspencer.com >

  Fr: Pan

  Re:Re: Hamlet

  No offense taken.

  I mean, sure, there’s not much that’s bigger than my talent, but my ego for one is not.

  And yeah, we’ve got this. Relax. Enjoy your Greek island and make a fool of yourself with the anti-Burke you’ve got there. I’ll meet her all right, but don’t expect her to look so charming once you’re away from the moonlights and beaches and stars. Believe me, it’s happened to me enough.

  They’re not so cute anymore once they’ve gotten their claws into you. At least that’s my experience.

  I’ll be in rehearsals every day during the next two months, so you’ll have to come to me, ok?

  Oh, and one more thing. Don’t call me Beethoven. Pretty soon you’ll have to call Beethoven by my name.

  −Pan.

  To: Pan

  Fr: Wes Spencer < therealwes@wesspencer.com >

  Re:Re:Re: Hamlet

  Dude, I’m laughing so hard, tea legit came out of my nose.

  I have the unsettling feeling I’m going to regret working with you. Oh, what the hell, at least it will be worth it, having it on my resume that I’ve worked with the next Beethoven.

  As for my girl, well.

  You’ll see.

  That’s all I have to say on that. ;)

  W.

  To: Wes Spencer < therealwes@wesspencer.com >

  Fr: Pan

  Re:Re:Re:Re: Hamlet

  Emojis? Seriously? What has ‘your girl’ done to you, dude? I mean, you never were chill to begin with, everyone knows that, but come on. You’ll be an Academy Award winner soon, don’t set the bar so low.

  To: Pan

  Fr: Wes Spencer < therealwes@wesspencer.com >

  Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Hamlet

&nb
sp; Hahahaha. I have more chill than you, anyway. Go study something, kid.

  eleven

  Ollie gets up so quickly his chair falls back with a thud.

  “Stop talking,” he yells at Christina. “Just stop. Now.” He walks from the room and takes the phone with him, talking over her voice. I hear my bedroom door shut with a bang. He comes back five minutes later.

  “She says bye,” he says cheerfully.

  I turn to the window and take a last sip from my coffee. Suddenly going out of the house doesn’t seem such a good idea. “And now, how about what she really said?” I ask him.

  He sighs. “It wasn’t pretty.” He carefully sits down next to me. “Let’s see. She started popping pills and yelled for her assistant to alert the paparazzi to take pictures of her leaving the Athens airport at least. Then she. . . ”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he shakes his head with a sad smile. “Just. . . You’re perfect okay? She’s a bitch.”

  “She said something about my nose, didn’t she?” It should have been funny. It isn’t.

  He looks down at me, frowning. “She said. . . well, she said something, doesn’t matter what, and I got so mad I hung up on her. Wes warned me about this,” he mutters. “He said to keep her claws off his girl, or he’d kill me.”

  “He what?”

  “Oh yeah, he said,” he imitates Wes’ British accent; he’s got even the tone of his voice spot on. “He said, Ols, I swear I’ll kill that bitch if she goes near Ari. You promise you’ll take care of her, innit?”

  “Okay, now I know you’re lying. He does not say ‘innit’, I’ve never heard him say it!”

  “He so does,” Ollie insists. “He’s just careful not to let his inner Brit show when he’s with you, because you said something to him about Austen being an English nobody or something—”

  “I did not!” I say, laughing. “Well, hold on, I may have, but that was before I read her book, it. . . it actually didn’t suck at all.”