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

by M. C. Frank

  “Every. Word.”

  “I’ll call you again in a few—”

  “I’ll still feel the same, I can promise you.”

  “As in, you’ll still feel that you won’t let me do my job?”

  “Do your job, Andy, do it. Get me photo ops, interviews, anything you like. I’m just putting my foot down about one thing: it will have to be me. Me as myself. Take it or leave it.”

  “What you? You don’t exist without our team. We made you who you are, Weston. It takes years and hard work and real smarts to create an image people will fall for, I thought you knew that. I’m not putting you or your talent down, of course I’m not. But do you realize that what we’ve built over the years, what you’ve built, the image of Wes Spencer, the star, the actor. . . It could all come crashing down with one wrong choice? One ill-prepared plan is all it takes. One flop and you’re done.”

  “Maybe I don’t want the image of Wes Spencer, the star. Maybe I want to be Wes Spencer, the person. Or, as someone put it. . . ‘an amazing guy’. What do you think about that?”

  “Are you on something?”

  “What?”

  “Drugs. Are you high? You can tell me, you know that. No big deal, I’ll call later.”

  “No, Andy, I’ve never been saner in my whole life. Let me know if what we spoke about today is going to be a problem, and if I need to find another manager. I have to go now. Cheers.”

  TWELVE

  On Tuesday morning I have to do the Rubble sequence again, because they’ve rewritten some parts of the script. I think, are you kidding me? But I say, of course, fine, no problem.

  It’s one of my last sequences. Maybe next to last. The crew is leaving on Friday, and only the stunt team and a few cameras will remain in Corfu for about two weeks.

  And then, basically, it’s done.

  A team of stunt actors has already arrived, and they will be joining Wes and me for a couple of surfing scenes, but that’s not why they’re here. They’re here so that they can train with Matt. They’ll stay on with the second unit for the remaining shots, after the actors are done. Wes told me that Tim had planned to have them as a backup if I turned out not to be equal to the task of performing almost every stunt in the film—a rather daunting task, to be honest.

  “Of course, you kicked that task’s butt,” Wes said matter-of-factly. “So he didn’t have to call them until the end. What was necessary, though, was for me and Matt to yell at Tim for giving you a hard time in the beginning. What?”

  I was looking at him in shock. “You yelled at—? Why?”

  He shrugged. “Because you’re bloody brilliant. Even I could see that from day one, and I’m a pig-headed cock, you’ll agree. ”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he didn’t give me a chance to.

  “’Sides, it’s all good, he said, “I always yell at Tim at least twice a week.”

  Then he kissed me silly.

  ◊◊◊

  So, here we are. Tuesday, the Rubble. It’s really simple, this scene I’m shooting today.

  “I want a kiddy dive,” Tim tells me.

  “You want a what?”

  “Dive from the Rubble again,” Matt quickly explains, as he sees the look of dismay on my face, “feet first. Not professional diving, just have fun with it. Grab your knees, cross your ankles, let your hair fly.”

  I get it now, so I nod.

  “Right,” Tim says. “Then swim sloppily to the shore.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I’m not sure what a ‘sloppy swim’ exactly is, but okay.

  The headache starts as soon as I get into the water. It’s not serious, except for the fact that it brings me down to reality with a crash. I try to ignore the dull, throbbing pain as I swim towards the rocks, but it grows to an unbearable level by the time I’ve finished my first dive.

  “That was too good to be realistic,” Matt tells me when I surface, his face close to mine, as he leans down from the orange raft. “Loosen up a little, take a jump, and then let go.”

  I nail it by the third time.

  “Yes!” Tim yells over the megaphone from his own boat, “that’s it, that’s the way I want it. Do it again.”

  By the ninth take my head is splitting. That’s nothing new, of course, and somewhere in the past weeks I’ve learned to work with it. I’ve learned to grit my teeth and focus and make myself stronger than the pain and the fear.

  So I ‘swim sloppily’ towards the shore.

  I swim back and forth for a dozen yards until they have all the mid shots and close ups they need, and then Tim wants the panning shots before the light changes.

  “How soon are you going to be done?” Wes strides over to me as soon as I get to the beach. “You look a bit pale.”

  “I do not!” I reply, pretending to be offended, but then I take a look at his face and stop joking.

  He looks scared.

  “I don’t think they’ll want many takes,” I tell him calmly. “I’ll be fine.”

  He nods and lets me go, but not before pressing a kiss to my temple.

  Then, as I get in the water again I notice him climbing into the raft that has the two cameras in it. I suppose he wants to watch the action better than he could from the shore, but something in the fierce way his eyes are fixed on me tells me that’s not the reason.

  The rest of the cast that came out here today are relaxing on the beach, having soft drinks and sandwiches, chatting and waiting for the sun to peek from behind the clouds so they can tan, since this is one of the hottest days we’ve had yet.

  And Wes is with the crew, his back straight, his muscles poised, following me to the Rubble as though he’s afraid something bad is going to happen.

  As though he’s scared to let me out of his sight.

  I did that to him.

  They row me to the Ruble, because I won’t have to be filmed swimming there, only back. Then the boat takes off, stopping somewhere in the distance, leaving me alone in the green-blue water. I take a deep breath. A sudden tingly sensation goes up and down my spine, but after a minute or two it’s gone and I try not to think about it.

  “Let’s go!” Tim yells.

  I climb slowly up the rock, like a random tourist would, not an athlete, and then I dive. As my body splashes into the water, I feel the cold in my ribcage first. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve lost weight, or because the weather is cooling, but I start shaking badly. The familiar tingly sensation overwhelms me suddenly, and everything goes black for a second. I immediately feel better, though, and I swim to the surface, gasping for air. I take one or two calming breaths.

  “One more,” Tim says and I start climbing again, feeling a weird shortness of breath. I’ve got this, I tell myself. Only one more and then I’m done. Only one.

  I dive again, and this time I know it, it was perfect.

  Tim doesn’t say anything to me, so I start my sloppy swim, as we had discussed. I kick and lift my arm for the first stroke, and suddenly the building tingles become a crippling force that knocks the air right out of my lungs. My body doubles in pain, my muscles locked in a spasm.

  I start to sink. I try to kick my legs, but they won’t obey me.

  Crap. Not again.

  Of course, this time there’s an entire beach of people watching me, but still I’d rather finish this shot like a pro and not like a cripple being carried out in an ambulance.

  I open my mouth to breathe and water comes in, choking me.

  Cripple it is.

  The spasm lets out a little and I kick wildly to the surface. I feel my body heavy though, lethargic, and my vision is turning black at the ages. I open my lips to yell for help, but I go under for a second time. I push my body to the surface with a huge effort that leaves me heaving for oxygen as I resurface once more.

  I hear Wes roaring my name in the distance and the furious splashing of his strokes towards me. I struggle to keep my chin above water, tipping my head back, but it is a losing battle, and I h
ear Wes curse heavily, almost five meters away, as I choke on a mouthful of salty water.

  “Hurry,” I whisper, trying to spit the water out. I gurgle instead, and more comes in.

  I can’t feel my limbs.

  I try to push myself upwards again, with tremendous effort, but all I manage is to lift my eyes over the surface for an agonizing second. I’m exhausted. Is it time to give up? I can’t lift myself further up and I submerge again, all sound drowning out around me. I kick my legs weakly but it’s no use. I’m suffocating, my lungs filling with sea.

  Just then the pain fades to a bearable extent and I spring to the surface with one last kick, taking in a deep gulp of air. I flip so that I’m on my back, and float on the surface, trying to fill my lungs with oxygen, coughing out the water I’d swallowed.

  I try to swim slowly, testing my strength. Was this it? Is it over? Did I panic for no reason? The questions run through my head frantically, my heart beating like crazy, but I try to even out my breathing and pretend all is normal.

  Then suddenly Wes is there, in the water, next to me. His hands grab my waist and he pulls me up against to him. I can barely stay afloat and I’m trembling like a fish, but I keep edging my body away from his, so that he won’t see how badly I’m shaking.

  “We have to stop meeting like this, Tristan,” I joke.

  He doesn’t even smile.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks me, grabbing my hand. “It looked like you were in trouble. Are you okay?”

  “Hey, I’m fine,” I answer him, turning to swim towards the rock again. “A little embarrassed, but fine. Go back and tell them I’ll do it again.”

  He doesn’t move.

  He’s in his clothes, a blue polo shirt that looks black now that it’s soaked with water, and dark jeans. He’s kicking his legs, just floating, not making a move to swim back, watching me. The water around us is perfectly still and my stomach tightens at what almost happened.

  “Really, Wes. It’s all good,” I insist. “Please go back before the whole crew gets over here, I’ve got it now. Something. . . something went wrong before as I landed.” I propel myself backwards, putting more distance between us, but still he doesn’t leave.

  “You’re lying.” He looks me in the eye. Swallows hard. “You. . . you’ve gone all white.” He lunges for me, but not in time.

  This time it gets ugly.

  My vision goes black abruptly and I feel water in my mouth, choking me.

  Next thing I know, Wes is yelling in my ear to wake up. He sounds weird, as though his voice is coming out of his throat with difficulty, hoarse. He has one arm in front of me, keeping my head above water, and with the other he cups my neck, trying to support me so I can breathe.

  I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. Everything keeps fading, reappearing, going dark again.

  “Ari?” his familiar voice says in my ear, but it sounds wobbly and uncertain. Dizzily, I wonder why. “Look at me, open your eyes!” He props my head on the hard muscle of his shoulder.

  Why did he have to do that? I try to lift my head on my own, and nothing happens.

  He shakes me and water runs violently out of my mouth and nose. I gag and choke and gasp, trying desperately to breathe.

  “Easy,” he says, holding me firmly, as he starts treading water again. He grabs the back of my knees to lift me out of the water, curling his legs around mine to help me stay afloat. “What’s wrong, baby, is it another cramp? Save your energy, I’ll drag you, yeah? Just breathe—hey, hey, you’re sinking. . . Ari? Ari!”

  He catches me before I go under again and I feel my body go limp against him. Although I’m conscious still—barely—I can’t do a thing to pull myself up.

  “Ari? Talk to me, dammit!” He’s yelling now, practically screaming. Still, his voice is fading. He lifts my head and I feel it flop back. Everything goes black, and his frantic voice is the only thing left. “Fight, Ari, baby, come on! No no no. Oh God no. No no no no.”

  I’m losing him. His voice comes from far off and everything goes fuzzy. He’s crying now, sobbing as he holds me, shaking worse than me. He supports my back from underneath so that I float as he cups my chin and begins breathing into my mouth. I feel the air entering me but my lungs can’t move.

  Someone grabs my legs and Wes lifts his head from mine to yell at Matt to keep me steady, and then his lips meet mine again, filling my mouth with his warm breath, but my lungs are still burning.

  “Come on!” he screams. “Someone help me,” he yells over my head, the cry mingling with the tears in his voice. “Step on it, faster! She’s not breathing, she’s dying on me!” He gives me his breath again and again, until he’s gasping next to me. I don’t know how much time passes as I’m lying there in the cold water, forgetting how to breathe, fading away.

  Other hands grab me abruptly and I’m hoisted out of the water—it’s the medics, probably. This is so stupid, I’m dying here and my brain still keeps processing every little detail around me. Wes’ panicked eyes fill my blurry vision. “Stay with me, baby,” he whispers brokenly. “Please. Please.”

  I try to move my hand to hold his, but I’m trapped inside this spasm, barely able to breathe. I’m so cold everywhere.

  My chest constricts painfully. I feel more compressions and more water comes out of my mouth, but no air. Then Wes’ warm hands on my neck. “I can’t find her pulse.”

  His hand is shoved away and more expert fingers press my throat. Then a mask is covering my mouth and some of the tension in my lungs escapes. I try to lift a badly shaking hand to the mask, and Wes’ hand covers mine.

  “Come back,” he croaks out in a hoarse, silent voice.

  “Call my dad,” I try to say, but I can’t form the words. “I’m sorry,” I want to tell him, but that’s impossible too.

  The last thing I hear is Wes’ frenzied heartbeat next to my ear as he carries me, panting, to the shore. And all the same time he’s talking. Talking without stopping to take a breath in, talking in a continuous string of words, as though his very existence depends on it. But he’s not talking to me. He sounds so desperate, so broken, as though it actually hurts him to form the words. At first I think he’s swearing, but he’s not. He’s pleading. He’s praying.

  The words he’s saying remind me vaguely of something else he said to me a few days ago. ‘God sure answered my prayers,’ he had said. I didn’t get to ask him what that meant. Now I may never know.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God, help.” That’s all he says. Over and over again.

  And then I’m gone.

  ◊◊◊

  In the ambulance, I keep fading in and out of consciousness. The paramedics are hovering above me, and I know Wes is always there. I can feel him near, even though my eyes can’t stay open long enough to see him properly.

  Then I’m wheeled into the hospital on a stretcher, his hand never leaving mine, and I drift off into the darkness without knowing whether I’ll ever come back again.

  Sometime in the afternoon I wake up and I’m able to breathe. Well, I’ve got an oxygen mask on, but still.

  Dad is here. He’s watching my face and as I open my eyes, he gets up and walks over. I’m in a hospital bed, bare, white walls all around. Dad’s familiar face is smiling down at me, his eyes sad, frantic. He’s wearing his P.E. sweats—I guess they pulled him out of class to come to my deathbed.

  Well.

  Let’s not be overly dramatic.

  “Dad,” I croak. “Is this it?”

  His eyes are red, but he smiles at me.

  “You need to have the operation,” he tells me, straight to the point. His left hand is smoothing the hair away from my damp forehead, veins popping out, as though he’d been clenching his fist.

  “When?” I ask with a small intake of breath.

  “Yesterday. It’s. . . ” he chokes for a minute and he turns away from me, shielding his eyes with his hand. “It’s grown quite a lot.”

  “I guessed so,” I tell him.

&nb
sp; I’m surprisingly calm right now. Maybe because I’d rather have anything other than the pain and the drowning.

  “Your boy is out there, crying his eyes out,” he tells me after a while. “What should I do with him?” I turn questioning eyes to him. “Yeah, he knows,” he adds quietly.

  “Is he mad?” I ask and dad shrugs.

  “He’s soaking wet,” he answers. “They brought him dry clothes, but he’s turned zombie on us. Oh, and Ollie is out there too, he drove all the way from Roda in two seconds to get here.”

  “Can I talk to Wes first?”

  Dad gets up and in a second Wes walks in.

  He’s not dripping wet, but his clothes have that damped, soaked look as though they’ve started to dry on him. His shirt is clinging to his skin, contouring the outline of his ribbed stomach. His arms are hanging at his sides as his eyes look me up and down.

  He sniffles and a choked sound comes through his nose as though he’s been crying for hours. He looks scared, his shoulders drooping, his steps faltering.

  “You should get into dry clothes.” That’s the first thing I tell him. Somehow it suddenly seems so lame to start apologizing.

  He nods and peels off his wet shirt right there, in front of me. His back muscles ripple as he raises his arms over his head, tossing the wet tee aside, and bending his head to put on the dry one. His jeans are clinging to his legs like second skin, and they’re slung so low I can see the V at his hips. I start to cry and he scrambles half-naked next to me and wipes my tears.

  “No, baby,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

  “You’re so gorgeous.” I sniffle. There’s no way I’d act so pathetic if I wasn’t on so many meds. I think.

  But he doesn’t even smile. “I’m yours.”

  He gets up again to put on a dry shirt and a pair of jeans and then he sits down on my bed, grabbing both my hands in his and running his thumb over the tubes sticking out of my skin.