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

by M. C. Frank

  “Hey, hey, look at me.”

  I look up into Pan’s eyes, steady and sure, and immediately I calm down. He nods in approval, then turns around, and takes a hard left, cutting into traffic. Horns scream all around us.

  “Okay,” he says. “Can you do CPR?”

  I don’t answer, I’ve started it already. I lay Wes flat on his back and kneel in the space between the front and the back seat, pumping his chest with all my strength. Pan’s voice continues in the background, keeping me sane. “Good. You’re doing great. It’s going to be fine.”

  He taps on his phone quickly—turning on the GPS. If I thought he was driving recklessly before, that was nothing to how he streams past moving cars now, runs red lights and goes through ‘no entry’ roads. All the time he doesn’t once lose his calm nor does he stop talking to me.

  I give Wes my breath, placing my lips on his, tasting the bitterness of alcohol on his mouth, but he doesn’t take one breath of his own. We’re jostled against the leather upholstery, but I don’t have time to think about anything except to concentrate on keeping a steady rhythm pumping his heart, not letting him die. By the time we reach the ER—it might be one hour or one minute—I haven’t once removed my hands from his chest. My muscles are cramping up, but there’s no way I’m missing a beat. I’m crying so hard, Wes’ face is bathed in my tears.

  “Be right back, Ari, don’t stop,” Pan says, leaning a hand briefly on my shoulder as he gets out of the car. Only then does he start yelling for help.

  “Come on, Wes, please,” I whisper against his chest. My arms are burning, but I press harder, counting in my mind. “I’ll breathe for you until you wake up, do you hear me? I’m not giving up!”

  A silent scream tears out of my throat as I breathe into his lips.

  I pump again and then I’m being pushed away: the paramedics are there. I stumble in the sudden cold and almost fall to my knees, but strong hands support me.

  “Don’t fall apart on me now,” Pan’s voice murmurs in my ear. “Just hold on a bit longer, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

  I turn to look at him, tears blurring my vision. He lifts a finger and wipes my cheek. “It’s going to be fine,” he repeats firmly.

  “Is it?” I want to ask, but no sound comes out of my lips.

  ◊◊◊

  The rest of the night—or rather, the morning— passes quietly, tensely. The doctors buzz around Wes’ head, and then clear off a section of the seventh floor and settle him in a VIP room. They stay with him—and me—the whole night, as his manager arrives and makes arrangements for his bodyguards to stand in front of the entrance.

  Seated outside Wes’ room, I think that she’s a bit too much. But in a few hours, just as the sun is peeking in the horizon, I look down from the window and see the pavement flooded with people. Reporters, fans, or just curious people passing by. My breath catches in my throat.

  What the actual hell.

  It takes forever, but the doctors say it will take him a while to wake up and that his ‘vitals are good’, whatever that means. I can’t stand the wait, the worry. I wonder if Wes felt like this, like his skin was too tight for his chest, while he was waiting outside my operation room, back in New York. When he wrote me that note.

  Maybe he felt even worse.

  The irony is not lost on me.

  At about eight, after the doctors have reassured us that Wes will probably be okay, I call Ollie and tell him most of what’s happened.

  “Thanks for calling me,” he says and then his voice gets all gruff and choked up and he says he’ll catch the next flight to London, but it might take him a while to get here. Pan leaves for an hour or two, but Theo comes almost immediately, so I’m never alone.

  As the morning progresses and Wes is still asleep, a deep feeling of unease sinks in my stomach. I decide to call dad, too.

  “Anything you need, I’m here,” he says as soon as I tell him. “Do you want to talk to pass the time?”

  “I don’t know what I need,” I reply. “I’m scared for him.”

  “But not of him?”

  “What?” I bristle.

  “Okay, here’s the thing.” His voice gets all ‘dad’ and serious on me. “I know we don’t choose who we fall in love with. . . ”

  “Daaaad.”

  “No, listen, I’ve wanted to tell you this for some time now, only the time never seemed right.”

  And now it does?

  “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, or even if you are thinking of being with him,” dad swallows, and I picture him biting his lip, trying to find the right words. I’ve seen him do it so many times when he talks to kids’ parents, but I never thought I’d be at the receiving end of it. I guess I’m an adult now, though, and that’s how adults talk to each other. Carefully. Intentionally. “Wes doesn’t lead an easy life. And it’s not just the drinking. It’s where it comes from. The circumstances in his life that make it possible, and maybe sometimes necessary. Well, not exactly necessary, but they push him to it. You know what I mean?”

  “I do, dad,” I say quietly. He hesitates. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” I need it.

  He laughs. “I’m thinking that you’re a grown woman and you don’t need your old man’s advice anymore. I’m so proud of who you’ve become, you know. You grew up with no mother, and all I could do was love you and teach you how to kick a ball. Beats me how you turned out to be this awesome person.”

  “Dad, come on.” My eyes are starting to sting. “You know I’m struggling.”

  “Everyone is struggling, Ari. I have to fight against the instinct to keep you locked up in your room like Cinderella—”

  “Rapunzel.”

  “Whatever, to keep you locked up so that nothing can even hurt you again. No stunt, no sickness, no mistake by your parents, no British boy. . . But I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that. And, you know what? I don’t think I’d need to, anyway. You’re strong enough to save yourself as well as others. You don’t have to save anyone, but if you choose to, you can. I know you know that.”

  “I don’t,” I murmur. “I could barely keep myself alive.”

  He makes a sound that’s half laughter and half crying and I realize he’s been crying all this time.

  “You’ll be fine, sweetheart,” dad tells me. I can hear the concern in his voice, but it doesn’t make me feel guilty. Not this time. It makes me feel less alone; less scared. “I can hop on the next plane if you need me, but I know you can cope. It’s scary right now, but you’ll both be fine, I promise.”

  “I needed to hear you say that,” I say quietly into the phone. What I mean is, I needed to hear those words. I needed you to tell me I’m strong enough when I had the headaches and through all the talks with Spiros and when I was nearly drowning. I needed my daddy to tell me it would be okay.

  “I needed to say it, too,” he replies. “You know I may be a poor old guy whose behind you can kick any day at soccer, but I still need to feel like I’m your dad from time to time.”

  “I still need to be your little girl,” I whisper. “And I could wipe the floor with you when I was six. It’s not news that I’m better than you.”

  We laugh and then his voice goes all teary and weird and he calls me ‘his baby girl’ and I hang up on him.

  Two hours later, Pan is back again. He sits down and shuts his eyes, napping; Theo goes downstairs to get us coffee. They keep bringing it to us, but he said he wanted to get some air. Pan gave me a look and I didn’t say anything. Something passed between them, a kind of wordless communication I didn’t get.

  As soon as he’s gone, and Pan leans his head back and closes his eyes, earbuds in, it occurs to me that it’s just us three and a bunch of managers and bodyguards at the hospital, waiting for Wes to wake up. No family, nothing. My eyes sting with tears. Thankfully, before I have time to think much more, Wes opens his eyes.

  It’s around twelve.

  He wakes up crying.

 
“Wes?” I whisper, walking up to his bed.

  His profile is silhouetted sharply against the harsh hospital lights, and his Adam’s apple is working, as a tear slides down his cheek. A golden stubble is visible on his chin. He’s staring at the ceiling, not moving, except for his eyes, which are blinking rapidly, trying to stop the tears. My heart constricts.

  Wes blinks some more and turns towards the sound of my steps. His eyes find me.

  “Not this again,” he says. He turns his head away from me and swallows with difficulty.

  “What’ wro—?” I start asking, but the doctors are on him and they shoo me from the room.

  After they’re done he sleeps for about an hour more. I think he thought he was dreaming.

  Pan sends Theo to get us more coffee, and just sits back, head against the wall, scowling heavily.

  “Hey, Ari.” I’m surprised by Theo’s voice next to my ear in a moment; I might have dozed off.

  “Hey,” I reply, sitting up. The aroma of strong coffee wakes me up completely. “Thanks. And you are. . . ?”

  I do know who he is, of course, but where I come from it’s not considered good manners to assume someone’s name, even if it’s in the papers. You’re supposed to pretend you don’t know and ask.

  He gives me a look that says he knows I’m just trying to be polite. “I thought you’d know who I am. I’m hurt,” he says. “I’m Theo.”

  “Hi, Theo.”

  “Hi.” He flashes me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes.

  He stoops down to hand me my coffee—the guy is so tall it’s ridiculous. His hands are tapered, but there’s an uncertainty in his movements that suggests at great vulnerability. As I take the steaming cup from him I notice that his fingers are shaking.

  Pan has popped out an ear bug and he’s watching us; no, not us. Him. He’s listening to every word we’re saying, and not even hiding it. His brow is wrinkled with worry, as if he’s scared of what I’ll say next.

  “I’ve heard all about you,” Theo tells me, “although not voluntarily. Some people can’t shut up about. . . Well, he needed to talk, let’s just say that.” He steals a glance towards Wes’ room, and then his eyes cut to the floor quickly. Almost as if he doesn’t want to look at it for too long.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  He shrugs. “Like that you’re the girl who lived.”

  My head snaps up. “What did you say?” I narrow my eyes. Did Wes share everything about me with these dudes? “Did you just reference Harry Potter?”

  His lips try to smile, but they can’t. They’re trembling. He’s looking at his shoes again. How old is he? Rosie said he’s in college, but that doesn’t mean he’s older than eighteen. Although I think he might be closer to nineteen, from what I’ve heard. He looks about ten right now.

  “I just. . . ” His eyes meet mine and I almost flinch at the naked pain and despair that flashes in their bottom. “Why would you want to do that?”

  I feel the blood leave my face.

  “Do what? Live? Why would I want to live?” I ask, horrified. “What are you sayi—why would you ask such a thing? Have you thoughts of—?” I’m so shocked I can’t even talk coherently.

  Next thing I know, Pan has jumped to his feet, his face ashen. He reaches us in two strides and grabs Theo’s arm.

  “Teddy, man, you’re scaring the ladies,” he says, trying to sound light-hearted, but completely failing. His eyes look wild and when he thinks no one is looking he bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

  Theo smiles at him. “Sorry,” he says to me, sipping his coffee calmly, as though he hadn’t just. . . said what he just said. “I’m weird.”

  “Crazy, you mean,” Pan murmurs, tugging him away from me.

  Theo snorts. “Got the papers to prove it,” he winks at me.

  What the—? I open my lips to say something, but Pan sends me a glance over his shoulder, silencing me. Theo slouches into another chair, and takes out a pad from his pocket and starts idly sketching a copy of the Van Gogh on the wall.

  In fifteen minutes, they tell us that Wes is properly awake.

  After thirty more minutes of the doctors probing him, they tell him he can go home in an hour or so.

  “D’ you need me to go get your clothes?” Pan asks him as soon as they let us in his room again. “The place is crawling. Not that they’ll let you out the front door, but just in case.”

  Wes looks pale and there are purple bruises under his eyes, but his gaze is alert and sober.

  “Is Theo here?” he asks, sitting up.

  Pan scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, he. . . he wanted to come.”

  “Well, take him home. Now.” His eyes meet Pan’s and a silent message passes between them. Wes looks tense, almost guilty. “He shouldn’t be here,” he adds in a lower voice. “Don’t let him come in.”

  “Relax, dude,” Pan says, “I’ll send your assistant to get your clothes and make sure little Teddy gets home okay.”

  He talks about Theo as though he’s younger than him—which he isn’t—and as though he’s someone who needs to be taken care of.

  Wes’ gaze snaps to mine.

  “Ari,” he says in a hoarse voice. “I want Ari to go.”

  For once, Pan doesn’t make any comment, snide or otherwise; he just lifts his hands in surrender and walks out, nodding for me to follow.

  “What?” I ask him, impatiently.

  I was kind of looking forward and dreading those precious moments alone with Wes before another nurse comes barging in.

  “Talk to one of the guys out there, before walking out the front entrance,” Pan tells me. “The crowd will eat you alive.” He looks me up and down. “Have enough money?”

  I snort. “Yeah, dad. I’m fine.” He laughs and turns to leave. “Hey, wait. What’s up with Theo? Is he okay? Why shouldn’t he be in—?”

  Pan lifts his eyebrows and his jaw tenses. I stop talking; he has that effect on people.

  “Long story,” he says, “and none of your business. He. . . his brother was in and out of hospitals a lot. He was brought home badly wounded.”

  My heart sinks. Oh no. “Brought home? Do you mean. . . ?”

  Pan nods. “Afghanistan,” he says, and his lips turn into a thin line. I remember Theo carrying Rosie out of the club, and I wonder whether he’s actually the one who needs rescuing. Pan’s expression changes abruptly; he places a hand on my shoulder and leans in. “Thanks for keeping Spence alive, Ari.” His voice drops and he gives me a rare, tight smile. “You looked like you were pounding through cement when you were doing compressions on him in the car. He doesn’t have many people around him who would fight for his life like that.”

  “He fought for mine,” I whisper, but I’m not sure he hears me, because he’s gone instantly.

  He shuts the door behind him, giving Wes and me some privacy.

  Which—privacy—we don’t know what to do with.

  We just sit there, he in his hospital gown, me in my pajama top and old jeans, and stare at the wall, the ceiling, everywhere but at each other. The monitor is beep-beeping in the silence.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Did I do this to you?” I ask, not looking at him.

  He doesn’t answer for a bit, but I hear the rustling of clothes as he turns around. I feel his gaze on me, but I still can’t face him. “You destroyed me,” he replies slowly. “Ari.” My name sounds like a caress on his lips, but his words cut me in half. “Your silence. It destroyed me.”

  “I know.” I inch away from him a bit more.

  He sits up. “Come here.”

  I take one step towards his bed, still staring at my shoes. I take another one. Why is this small distance so hard to cross?

  “Come here,” he repeats in a raspy voice.

  I do. He leans towards me, placing a hand on either side of my face. I suck in a breath. He brings me closer to him, gazing into my eyes. “But of course you didn’t do this to me. I was the on
e who did it. I was the one who was stupid and. . . ” He lets go of me and his eyes darken—they turn into a deep forest green, like precious stones. “I need you to believe me, Ari,” he closes his eyes. “I need you to.”

  “What?” I ask, mesmerized.

  “I was clean,” he says. “For weeks and weeks. I. . . stayed in rehab back in October, and since then I’ve been absolutely clean. Of anything. Do you believe me, do you bel—?”

  “Yes,” I say before he can even complete the question. His tortured eyes light up and my breath catches. “I saw it, Wes. I can see that you’re a different person, you’ve changed, you’ve grown so much. I could see at a glance that you’ve left that. . . particular problem behind you. Maybe that’s why this happened. Your body was unaccustomed to such heavy drinking after the purge.”

  He nods silently. “Now what?” I hate the desperation creeping into his voice again.

  “Now nothing, you’re still clean. You lost a battle, not the war.”

  He laughs bitterly. “Yeah, right.” He sighs and lays back down, looking exhausted. I just want run my fingers through his hair, but just the thought of touching him sends shiver down my spine. “Sorry for dragging you into this.”

  “No problem,” I reply. How much does he remember from last night? He’s back to staring at the wall again. “What do you need from home?” He just shrugs. “Anything other than clean clothes?”

  He turns his back on me, curling his long body in a ball, facing the window.

  “Forgiveness,” he whispers against the pillow, shattering my heart in a million pieces.

  ◊◊◊

  Wes’ assistant insists I take a ‘car’. Of course, she means a car with a driver. Whatever. I get in and we drive to Belsize Park—the driver, a sweet guy who keeps talking to me about his two kids, a girl and a boy, twins, promises to wait for me and tells me to take as long as I want.

  The house is buried in greenery, but as soon as the outer gate slides open, I see a three-storey brick Victorian building, very imposing, with a smaller one attached to it on the side. Wes’ housekeeper shows me in. Inside it looks pretty normal, smaller than I imagined; just an ordinary house, like a cute fairytale-like cottage I’d generally associate with the countryside. Tidy, clean. Nothing extravagant.