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

by M. C. Frank

  “Ari, Ari. Come on. . . ”

  Jamie looking at me with a sad look in his eyes. I’m sick now. I’m not an athlete any longer; I’m an invalid. I’m convalescing. Can’t eat, can’t walk, can’t run. No. No no no.

  “Open your eyes!” a sharp voice snaps me back to reality.

  I open my eyes to find Wes’ green stare fixed on my face. His hair is white with remnants of the fog, his face pale next to his black shirt. His fingers are clutching my knee, shaking me.

  “Look at me,” he practically yells. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Ari. Nothing, do you understand?”

  I’m looking at him, frozen.

  “I need you to nod.”

  I bend my head, barely.

  “It’s the size of a nut.”

  “You need to have the operation.” “When?” “Yesterday.”

  “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  I try to take a breath, but my lungs are filled with smoke and sadness to capacity; there’s no room for air.

  Suddenly I’m wrapped in his arms so fiercely it hurts, my nose pressed against his chest, his stubble tickling my neck. He folds me into him until I can’t breathe, although it’s not like I was doing much of that either way.

  “Don’t be scared.” His lips move next to my ear, almost touching my skin. “This is nothing like the last time, okay? You’re perfectly fine now, only everyone has to be checked, it’s obligatory. Just routine, nothing more. You know it was just an accident, you feel fine, you’re perfect. It’s not like what happened before, don’t even think about it. It’s not worth it, it’s over. Over. That dark part of your life is gone for good.”

  He keeps talking to me like that until it’s time to go.

  Then he gets up slowly, taking me with him, lacing my arm with his so that I don’t fall behind, and starts walking towards the exit. I freeze.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  He raises an eyebrow and all I can think about is how I’ve missed this, I’ve missed being in his arms and I’ve missed his scent and his green gaze and I’ve missed his voice in my ear so bad it hurts me physically.

  “I can’t. . . I can’t get in that thing,” I say instead.

  He hesitates a bit, then just nods.

  He doesn’t say another word as he leads the way to the parking lot below the building, where his car is parked. Absently, I remember how much he loved driving himself everywhere in Corfu, insisting on having his own car around, when all the rest of the actors had drivers. This one is an edgy, red Aston Martin, but I don’t even have the energy to be excited about that.

  He watches me silently as I get in the passenger seat, then gets in himself and drives us to the hospital.

  We meet up with the rest of the guys there, but Wes doesn’t leave. He’s right there when they take all four of us for X-rays and then to a doctor’s office to listen to our lungs. He waits patiently in one of the white chairs, then gets up to bring us steaming tea in plastic cups, his clothes trailing white pieces of solidified fog behind him as he walks.

  He makes a few phone calls, and then he wraps me in his coat, telling everyone that we’ll continue where we left off tomorrow and to go home and rest.

  He drives me back in silence.

  He doesn’t ask me for directions; he seems to know where I live. I’m too exhausted and freaked out to protest or ask him, so I lean back in the leather seat—at least I won’t soak this one, I think wryly—and try to pretend that as soon as I hop into a scorching-hot shower I’ll be fine.

  As we turn the corner into my street, it starts raining. Tiny drops of water hit the windshield in a steady rhythm, and quickly turn into rivulets, sliding down the glass. The rain falls heavier by the minute.

  Wes turns on the windshield wipers and their rhythmic swish reminds me of home. Suddenly I have to concentrate all my energy on fighting back tears. In a minute, we’ll be there. I have to thank him, at least.

  “Thank you.” I clear my voice, hoping that saying it out loud will break the waves of sadness that are pulling me under. “You didn’t have to do that. . . ”

  He interrupts me, waving a hand in the air. “Don’t mention it.”

  I look out of the window. It’s raining heavily now, big, fat raindrops bouncing off the grainy surface of the street.

  ‘My job is to keep you alive, and that’s not what you are right now, not by any consideration.’

  Dammit, Jamie, get out of my head.

  “You with me?” Wes’ voice startles me.

  He steals a glance at me sideways, and I feel so stupid sitting here beside him. Am I trying to hurt myself further? Why do I keep doing this to myself? Work be hanged, I’m out of here as soon as I take a shower.

  Wes rests his hand on the e-brake and I see that his sleeve is filthy with smog.

  “That looks nice.” The words pop out of my mouth before I have time to filter.

  He lets out a low laugh. “Ta.”

  We’re here. He brings the car to a gentle stop alongside the curb, but doesn’t turn to look at me, so I open the door and swing my leg out.

  “I was scared too,” he says quietly. “Still am.”

  Leg is back in. I don’t know where to look. “Did. . . did you get hit by the smoke too?” I muster up the courage to glance at him.

  His eyes meet mine full on. For the first time, I notice the stubble on his chin; it makes him look sort of rugged and absolutely mouth-watering. His lips are trembling slightly.

  “Scared about you,” he says. “Scared out of my mind.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “But, Ari.” He turns his body sideways so that he’s fully facing me. Water is beating down on the glass, its sound deafening in the sudden stillness. “We can’t let fear, no matter how justified or real, rule our lives. You can’t let it steal your courage, your passion for life.”

  I hang my head. “You of all people know what a coward I am,” I murmur.

  “I of all people know how brave you’ve been,” he answers immediately.

  “I. . . I should go.” I start taking off his coat, but he puts a hand on my arm to stop me. I shudder, a jolt of electricity passing though me at his touch, even through all the layers of clothing.

  “It’s pouring,” he says. “You can bring it back tomorrow, yeah?”

  I run like a scared kid out of the door and into the street. I put my key blindly in, and shut the door behind me, shaking as though I’m being chased.

  ◊◊◊

  I take a shower and change into dry clothes, and then I decide to eat something. On my way to the kitchen, I pass the front door and notice Wes’ coat laid out on a chair to dry. And that’s when I make the decision. The decision to be a coward no longer.

  I pick up my phone and punch in his number before I can think about it too much.

  He answers on the second ring.

  “It’s me,” I say, running a hand through my short, wet hair. “I’m sorry for the way I ran away and I’m sorry for the way I’ve behaved to you. . . ” I need to take a breath, but if I stop now, I’ll never get the words out. “I never got to say I’m sorry, that’s how much of a coward I am.”

  He doesn’t interrupt me, just waits until I stop panting, in case I have anything more to say. Then he sighs loudly.

  “You don’t need to apologize to anyone. You survived, you’re alive and you’re here and I’m. . . I’m so bloody proud of you for it.”

  I’m lost for words. “I’d like to talk,” I say, before I can lose my nerve. “Just once. There’s some things I need to tell you before I can close this chapter. . . ”

  I can’t believe I just admitted to him I’m not over him. He probably knows already, though, given the way I become all tongue-tied whenever he’s around.

  “I’m not sure there’s anything to talk about,” he replies and I’m angry at myself for feeling disappointed. This is practically the same thing he told me two months ago. What was I expecting? “But, as I told you, if you want to talk,
I’m always here. Right now, if that’s what you need.”

  Oh, I see. Is this the ‘we can still be friends’ thing people talk about? Cause if so, it sucks scissors.

  “Right now?” I laugh nervously.

  “Yeah. I’m. . . I’m close.”

  Wait, he’s close? What does that mean? I run over and look out the window. The Aston Martin is still there, on the curb. I hurry to put on my shoes, then dash down the stairs and open the front door. The rain slashes at me, soaking my jeans and sweater within seconds. I run across the street and reach for the passenger door, but he beats me to it.

  He gets out of the car as soon as he sees me, his door snapping closed behind him, and walks around to the front. He doesn’t cross the sidewalk, though, and neither do I. We just stand there in the rain, neither of us saying a word, water seeping into our clothes, just a few paces of wet road between us.

  “Your hair,” he says.

  Rivulets of water are running down his chin and he has to squint to see past the droplets that are landing on his sandy eyebrows.

  “Beautiful,” it sounds as though he says—not possible, I know. And then his eyes meet mine. There’s so much pain in there that my heart breaks all over again. “Phelps,” he shouts over the sound of the rain. “What did you want to tell me?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “About what you did for me. . . I wanted to thank you. Stan.”

  It takes a second for my words to register, and then his lips stretch in the hugest smile. He lowers his eyes, as though he’s embarrassed.

  “Hey, you watched them!” It’s hard to hear him over the racket of the rain. “Did you like. . . ?”

  “I laughed for hours,” I reply as loudly as I can. “The nurse had to come in and check up on me.”

  “Mission accomplished,” he just says.

  The smile is gone as quickly as it appeared. He looks down for a second. The rain keeps pelting on him, accentuating every muscle on his torso beneath his soaked shirt. He’s clenching his right arm, making a fist.

  “At least you watched them,” he shouts back at me, his voice harsh and bitterness.

  Stop being a wuss, I say to myself. I’ve said it a hundred times this past week alone.

  “I didn’t think you’d still. . . I hoped you would forget before long,” I say and immediately regret it.

  He turns away, his face going pale as he kicks the front wheel with his shoe. I flinch. “You really didn’t hear a word I ever said,” he yells, spitting raindrops. “You were afraid it wouldn’t work between us, right?” Physical pain assaults me at his words, but I know I provoked him. He’s livid, shouting into the cold night, all his frustration pouring out. I let him. “Well, you’re nothing to me now. And I’m nothing to you. Is that what you wanted? You decided for me without even talking to me. How is that fair? How is that. . . ?” He turns his back to me and I lift a hand to wipe the rainwater from my eyes. It’s shaking. “You were scared to tell me what was wrong with you,” Wes’s head yells to me, “then you were still scared after everything was okay. I don’t get it, Ari. Maybe I was the problem, and not your sickness.”

  He lifts a hand to grab the nape of his neck, and I watch his back muscles clench beneath his wet, clinging shirt. Well, at least we’re talking about it, one part of me thinks, while the rest of me is screaming: not like this, no, God, not like this.

  “You’re so wrong,” I shout at him. “You’re the reason I’m alive.”

  He gives a half-laugh at this, but his lips aren’t smiling. “I am in a way,” he says quietly and I struggle to hear him. “Now I’m the one who’s drowning.”

  The breath is knocked out of me. Did he say what I think he did? I’m shaking all over. Water drips from his nose, his chin. His hair has turned dark with it. I swallow a few raindrops that have landed on my lips.

  “I. . . I need you to forgive me.”

  “You need to forgive yourself,” he replies. Okay, what the hell does that mean?

  “Do you hate me?”

  “Haven’t decided.”

  This I didn’t expect. I take a step back as though he’s slapped me. He turns to face me once more. His face is white in the gathering darkness, his mouth a hard line.

  “Get inside, Ari,” he says, hanging his head as though he’s exhausted. His eyes are obscured by darkness, I can’t read his expression.

  He opens the door to the driver’s seat. It’s on the wrong side, I think absently. Of course, England. “You’ll need another shower.”

  In a moment, his rear wheels spin on the gravel as he peels away from the curb and I’m left alone, staring after his disappearing taillights.

  The skies open up overhead, bathing the world into a non-descript dark color of gray and loss.

  Art FM

  Transcript excerpt of interview with Weston Spencer, aired live on 11/10/. . . )

  [. . .]“Weston, talk to me a little bit about these YouTube videos. They were, they are I should say, a good month later, an internet sensation. Let me read you a few of the statistics here, okay? For everyone who has just tuned in right now, you are listening to Art FM. This is your host, Mark Adam, and I’m here today with none other than Academy Award nominee and Hollywood heartthrob, Wes Spencer.”

  “Come on, cut it out. Don’t. . . don’t say that.”

  “Don’t say what? We’re live, we have to give these people something.”

  “All right. I can see it, fifteen years from now. . . This thing is going to follow me forever, isn’t it?”

  *Laughs* “Yep. Pretty much. I can’t think why it shouldn’t, since you’re one of the most successful and youngest at, let’s see, twenty two, right? Yeah, one of the youngest nominees ever. . . okay, okay, I’m stopping now. So. Let me read a bit of what the press is saying about your short films that started coming out at the beginning of last month, and were posted one each day for four days straight?”

  “Five.”

  “Oh, wow, five. So this is a first time phenomenon. Someone like you, a Hollywood actor, a celebrity, posting entertainment content for free on a social media website.”

  “Except for music.”

  “That’s right. So what we have here is, let me see: hitting one million views in less than half an hour. That’s. . . that’s viral, all right. As of today, a total of ten million subscribers to the YouTube channel.”

  “GreyRibbon.”

  “GreyRibbon, which if I’m not mistaken is a reference to lung ca. . . ?”

  “Brain tumor.”

  “Right. So, may I ask, what inspired this? Was it—was it someone close to you or. . . ? ”

  “If we’re talking artistic inspiration, then I’ll tell you that I grew up watching classic, golden-era comedy. I was watching Monty Python and Chaplin when I was twelve, and I discovered Laurel and Hardy when I was seventeen. I’ve watched every single movie the made, studied them to the teeniest detail. It’s the golden era of film for a reason. So, yeah, I’ve been into hardcore comedy for years, I just didn’t expect it to come to me so soon and so. . . naturally, I guess. But, on the other hand, if we’re talking inspiration as in, what made me want to do this, it was a friend. We did it for a friend.”

  “Okay. Let me say, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for a friend.”

  “No no, nothing like that. . . This person who was at one time really close to me, was going through something pretty serious. And they were very important person to me. Actually, it was because of this person that I’ve started to write and direct. It was always my dream, but this friend made me realize that I didn’t have to spend the rest of my life making other people rich, to put it bluntly. I could start something on my own. You don’t forget the person who did that for you, do you? The first person to believe in you. Anyway, they were away at the time and I wanted to do something for them, that’s all. I ended up doing it for myself as well.”

  “I’m guessing we won’t even know the gender of this ‘friend’. Does he or sh
e even know about this? I mean, it would be hard not to see the videos as they were the most shared YouTube videos for a period of. . . let me see. . . a fortnight. That’s amazing.”

  “Hey, don’t look at me like that, I only posted the stupid things, me and my friend Ollie actually, he was a big part of everything; writing the script and starring and producing. He and Anna Dell, who starred in ‘How to Pick Up a Girl’. Yeah, that’s all I did. I didn’t even announce it anywhere. Beats me how everyone found them two seconds after they were up. It was never meant to be such a big deal.”

  “Never meant—Have you seen what you’ve done to the rest of the media? You broke the internet. But still, the million dollar (literally) question is this: Why free? Why YouTube? Why social media? People are saying there aren’t even ads on there. Is that for real?”

  “These videos, they saved my sanity. During a really tough period in my life, I needed something to do, to somehow help, to stop feeling so useless. You know how it is, right? I would have gone crazy or catatonic or started smashing things if it hadn’t been for creating these videos. You don’t. . . You don’t sell something you created out of pure desperation.”

  “That intense, huh?”

  “The ten days I spent in rehab after that were nothing compared to how therapeutic this whole process was.”

  *Loud laughter* “Yeah, like anyone can whip up a few short films in a couple of days with the acting talent of a Wes Spencer. I mean, you had James Pan do your music theme, correct?”

  “Correct. Look, I don’t know about the talent, but one thing I will tell you. Even if things had gone in a different way, personally I mean. . . I still wouldn’t regret a second of those nights we spent, Ollie and me, working like possessed over the scripts and props and lighting. It was the most fun I’ve had in my entire life. We barely slept or ate for two weeks. I know I had a fever when we were done, but it was totally worth it.”