Ever After (Dirtshine Book 3)

by Roxie Noir

  “But then she ran off, and the cubs weren’t as large a target as you’d imagine,” Alistair says.

  He was drunk when he caught me leaving and he’s still drinking, his blue eyes slightly unfocused as he sits across the booth from me, my spine ramrod straight while he tells me wild stories about bear hunting.

  Bear cub hunting, in case I needed another reason that I don’t want to be here right now.

  “I’ve never imagined bear cubs are target practice, actually,” I say, taking a small sip of my beer. I had wine with dinner but that was hours ago and now I’m stone cold sober, incredibly and uncomfortably aware of what’s happening

  “Well, they’re quite small,” Alistair says, tilting his half-empty pint glass up.

  “I think that’s why people don’t shoot them,” I say. “Oh, and I imagine it’s illegal to shoot a mother with children. I know it is for deer.”

  Alistair just laughs.

  “Nothing’s illegal if you don’t get caught, Françoise,” he says. “Thought you of all people would know that.”

  I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I can’t be bothered with asking.

  He wants a fight. He’s wanted a fight ever since he came from cribbage with the girls to catch me leaving, making barbed comment after barbed comment without ever actually saying anything.

  Have I mentioned that he’s drunk? He’s drunk as hell, I’m not, and I finally realized something.

  He won’t start this fight so that he’s not the bad guy. He wants to goad me into starting it so it can be my fault, so he can magnanimously forgive my emotional outbursts later. That’s what he does. It’s what he’s been doing, and I feel like a total idiot for not realizing it a year ago.

  I thought it was charm, I think, studying the lines on his face. I fell for it.

  “Guess not,” I say neutrally.

  Alistair rolls his eyes at me, drinking again. He finishes his beer and then holds his glass up and wiggles it in the air, not even looking over at Liam behind the bar. I think he’s expecting another drink to result, but I’d bet a thousand bucks he’s not gonna get one that way.

  “Is this what you do when you come here?” he says, glass back on the table. “Sit here and drink? Or do you talk to people?”

  I should have refused to come tonight. What was I thinking?

  “I have a beer in the peace and quiet,” I say, my own pint still virtually full. “It’s a good escape.”

  “So you never talk to anyone.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Who do you talk to, Frankie? The locals? The regulars?”

  He says my name like it’s a curse word.

  “D’you talk to the bartender, is that why you keep coming?”

  I swallow hard, so embarrassed and angry that I have to force myself not to cry. I can’t believe Alistair’s behaving this way, here, in public. I thought he went to fucking finishing school, for Christ’s sake.

  “I had a feeling,” he says, and holds his glass up again, looking over his shoulder.

  Liam definitely sees it.

  And he definitely ignores it.

  “There’s no table service here,” I point out.

  “Fucking cheeky,” Alistair mutters under his breath. “Oi! Bartender!”

  He snaps his fingers twice, the sharp sound cracking through the air. A few heads swivel, but I’m just watching him in mortification. Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed that I’d date the kind of guy who snaps his fingers at service staff.

  Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have predicted any of this, but maybe I should have.

  “Jesus, I’ll go get you another drink,” I hiss, sliding toward the end of the booth.

  He just snorts.

  “I just bet you fucking will,” he says, his voice low and nasty. “We’re wanting service over here!” he calls.

  This time, more heads than just Liam’s turn. I put one hand over my face, just fucking embarrassed to be here. If I thought I could crawl underneath the table without being either noticed by the others or kicked by Alistair, I would.

  “I’ve been waiting ages,” Alistair goes on, loud enough that the whole pub can hear.

  Liam leans back against the bar behind him, towel over one shoulder, and crosses his arms casually. He’s got a white bandage on one, stark against the tattoos.

  “You’re welcome to wait as long as you like, but if it’s another drink you’re wanting you’ll have to come up and pay for it, mate,” Liam calls. “I didn’t realize you’d never been in a pub before or I’d have taught you how it works.”

  Alistair rolls his eyes.

  “Of course I’ve been to a pub before, you simpering idiot,” Alistair calls. “But I—”

  “Well, now you’re fucking done,” Liam says.

  His voice and stance stay exactly the same, but I can tell his jaw tightens, and he clenches his fists, just a little.

  Alistair laughs. I wish I could dissolve into the seat of this booth and disappear, but I know that this is my fault to begin with. I should have never come here, I shouldn’t have lied about who Liam was, I shouldn’t have sneaked off at the gala...

  “No, I’m not,” he says. “You’re still going to come up here and give me a fresh beer, because I’m—”

  “The bloody hell I will.”

  I slide out of the booth and stand, because I started this and I have to do something. Every single person in this entire pub is looking at us, some even peeking in from the doorway of the next room.

  “Alistair, come on,” I say through clenched teeth, praying I can get him to leave.

  “I think not,” he says, sounding indignant. “I can’t simply be refused service like this. It’s as if these morons don’t even know who I am.”

  I can’t believe he just said that out loud.

  “Yes, you can, because you’re being a goddamn asshole,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I wouldn’t give you another beer either. Now come on before we both get forcibly removed, will you?”

  My face is radiating heat. I can’t look around, because I know for a fact that everyone I’ve come to know a little better here over the past two weeks is watching us like we’re a carnival sideshow.

  “I’d like to see anyone forcibly remove me,” Alistair says, shoving his floppy blond locks from his face. “They can try if they’d like.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

  “Let’s please just go home,” I start. “It’s late, you’re—”

  He leans back in the booth and sweeps the glass from the table, shattering it on the floor. It’s fucking deliberate and it’s fucking childish, and for a moment I don’t even know how to react.

  “Oops,” Alistair says.

  “Yup, that’ll do,” Liam calls, whipping the towel from his shoulder, tossing it on the bar, and coming around. “You’re out.”

  “Since you’re coming over here at last, I’d like another pint,” Alistair calls.

  “Can we go? Please? Can we please just go?” I plead, hoping that the threat of getting bodily dragged from the booth and ejected into the street will have an effect on him, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

  He ignores me, but whatever feelings I’ve got for Alistair — and there are precious few positive ones right now — I don’t want to let him get dragged from a pub like this, so I step forward and grab his arm.

  He shoves me away, striking out at me clumsily with his left hand. It barely connects, and it sure doesn't hurt, but there’s a thump as his hand hits the back of the booth and the entire pub goes dead fucking silent.

  “Frankie, you all right?” Liam growls behind me, and I just nod.

  He takes my shoulder in his rough hand, trails his fingers down my arm. I freeze, perfectly still, a silvery cascade of shivers working their way down my spine.

  “Did he get you?” he asks quietly, his face serious, his green eyes deadly.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper.

  Liam nods once
, his eyes sliding from my face to my arm. I think I’m holding my breath, and even though I’m aware that everyone here is watching us — that my asshole fiancé is right there — I can’t tear myself away.

  “Excuse me, then,” he says, lets me go, and steps around me.

  In one quick motion he leans into the booth and grabs Alistair around the arm. Alistair yelps, and even though Alistair tries harder to get out of his grip, it doesn’t work, and Liam slides him bodily out of the booth.

  “What the fuck?” Alistair yells when he finally stumbles out, nearly falling into the broken glass on the floor. He weaves unevenly for a moment, rights himself.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouts at Liam. “I’ll have your bollocks in a vise. You’re going to fucking regret this.”

  “You going to leave on your own or will I be needing to drag you to the door as well?” Liam asks, his voice the epitome of controlled rage.

  “Alistair, can we please just go?” I say, finally finding my voice again.

  Alistair fixes me with a look. It’s a look he’d give to dog shit he found on the bottom of his shoe.

  I look away, because I can’t even stand to make eye contact with him.

  “This is your fault, you know,” he says.

  I know.

  “Only one of us has been refused service and dragged out,” I say acidly, my arms crossed in front of me, like they’re any defense.

  “Out,” Liam orders, still standing partly between us.

  Alistair looks around, flushed and slightly disheveled, and for the first time I think he realizes where he is.

  Half the regulars have stood as well, all watching the drama unfold. Alistair’s not short, but Liam’s got a couple inches on him, plus it’s obvious who’d win in a fight, and it’s not Alistair.

  “You’ll regret this,” Alistair says, shakes himself free, and walks for the door. He looks like a chastised little kid or an angry teenager, even though he’s trying to look forbidding.

  “Doubt that,” Liam says, following a few feet behind him. The people watching step aside, letting them through, and most of them go back to what they were doing.

  Alistair reaches the door, yanks it open, and looks at me over his shoulder before he walks out.

  “Come on, Frankie,” he says, spitting my name out.

  I go to catch it and leave as well, but instead Liam grabs it and pushes it closed behind Alistair, leaving him outside and me in.

  “Hey,” I say, but Liam’s hand is firmly on the door, and he slides the lock across with his other hand.

  “Frankie, don’t,” he says.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Liam

  “At least let me take you back,” I say.

  Stuck outside, the Little Lord shouts something. I can’t quite make it out, and I don’t care to.

  “He’s not driving,” she says, her eyes lowered, her voice a whisper. “He brought the driver tonight.”

  “It’s not the driving, it’s him,” I say, stepping a few inches closer to her despite knowing I shouldn’t.

  There’s people sitting all around, drinking in leather chairs and wooden barstools, and I know they’re a fucking nosy lot, trying to hang onto every word we say to each other. Drama like this isn’t precisely common in Shelton.

  “Don’t leave with Alistair,” I say, and I’m begging her. I don’t mean to beg but I am. “He’s not the right— I don’t think he’s—”

  I turn away from her, run one hand over my face, still fucking unable to say what I want to her.

  “Please don’t,” I finish lamely.

  Frankie presses her lips together, her hands in her pockets, and looks away. Her jaw clenches and a single tear falls down her cheek, dripping a path over her freckles.

  I wipe it away with a knuckle on my good hand without thinking about it.

  “Sorry,” she whispers. “I’m pretty fucking angry right now.”

  “Françoise!” Alistair shouts from outside.

  “I should go,” she whispers again. “I promise he’s not dangerous, he’s just being really unpleasant right now.”

  I want to reach out, take her cheek in my hand, make her look at me. Instead I ball it into a fist.

  “Just let me do this one thing,” I plead, voice still low though I’m certain the entire pub is listening. “I’ll shut the pub down right now, take you back. He smashed a glass and tried to hit you. Please.”

  Part of me knows I can’t save her from everything. That even if I take her back to the manor, she’ll be answerable there. That even if he doesn’t hit her — and deep down, I know he’s not likely to — he can make her life miserable in other ways.

  And I know that her showing up in an ancient Vauxhall Astra driven by the man her fiancé already hates won’t make life more pleasant for her.

  “Liam, I swear I’ll be fine,” she murmurs.

  Her eyes crawl over my face, a swirl of embers inside me. Alistair calls her name again, all the drinkers in the pub studiously ignoring this scene.

  “I don’t have to take you back there,” I say, hoping I don’t sound nearly as desperate as I feel. “I’ll take you to a hotel. The train station. An airport. Anywhere, Frankie.”

  “I’ll leave without you!” Alistair shouts through the door, like it’s a threat. I wish he would.

  Disgust crawls through my veins like smoke, along with the sickly fear that she’ll go back with him anyway.

  “He’s too chickenshit to actually try anything,” Frankie says quietly, her eyes still boring into mine. “He’ll say a few nasty things to me, then fall asleep snoring in the car. Besides, I’m pretty sure I can kick his ass.”

  I’m pretty sure of that too, but I fucking hate that she’s thought about it. I fucking hate everything about this, that she’s here and she’s his and there’s nothing I can do for any of it.

  “Please don’t,” I say.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You deserve better,” I say, the words tumbling from my mouth like a sudden avalanche.

  I’ve been thinking them for weeks now, but I didn’t mean to say them aloud, to her.

  Frankie’s face doesn’t move.

  “You do,” I say, unable to stop myself. “He’s a right fucking prick. He wants someone he can show off to his friends. Someone who’ll come when he snaps his fingers and who he doesn’t have to care or think about the rest of the time, and you deserve fucking better than that.”

  She turns her head away. Reaches out and pushes the latch back on the door.

  “Liam,” she says quietly, not looking at me. “I have to leave.”

  I could stop her. I could pick her up, throw her over my shoulder, toss her in my car and kidnap her to wherever I wanted, but then what? Then I’d be the same monster as the Little Lord who’s throwing a temper tantrum outside.

  “Promise you’ll be all right,” I say instead.

  “Promise,” she says, heaving the heavy wooden door open. I feel fucking sick, nauseous, like there’s a hand trying to pull my spine out through my stomach.

  “Nearly thought I’d have to leave you,” Alistair says to her as she steps through the door, and in that second, I’ve never hated anyone more.

  “Stop it,” she says, and then the door closes. I stand there, eyes closed against the truth and the heavy weight on my chest, until two car doors close and the car drives away.

  When I open them, there’s several pairs of eyes on me, questioning but silent.

  “The fuck are you tossers looking at?” I growl, and they all turn back to their drinks.

  I regret it fucking immediately, letting her go like that. I ought to have insisted, I ought to have barred her from leaving, taken her somewhere myself, but I keep returning to that ugly truth that I’d just be forcing her to exchange one cage for another. I should just fucking forget about Frankie, because there’s no version of this that ends well, that finishes with her running from a lordly fiancé who sleeps on a pile of money to a form
er junkie who she met when he nearly jumped in front of a train.

  That night I don’t bother with a glass. I drink from the bottle, one slug and then another. I’m days behind schedule on the Liam Apology Tour, since I can’t exactly call someone and tell them that I’ve turned over a new leaf while I’m legless and nearly blackout, can I?

  I just sit at my kitchen table, in the near-dark, staring out a black window, and fucking castigate myself: for letting her leave, for telling her she deserves better, for having fucked up so badly that I work at a pub in the middle of goddamn nowhere in the first place.

  You’re nothing to her, I tell myself. You’re an amusement, a side attraction, someone to make her feel better about herself when her fiancé’s a total fucking prick.

  Yeah, it doesn’t fucking help.

  I take another slug. The bottle’s a quarter gone already, the hazy nothingness sliding back like an old friend who I don’t call often enough. This is where I think about all the things I ought to have done, because they start with letting Frankie go but I can trace them all the way back to Yorkshire, age seventeen, when I shouldn’t have let Gavin take his first snort.

  No. I shouldn’t have fucking encouraged him to do it. I shouldn’t have fucking been right there behind him, still a child really but already eager for just about any chemical life could throw at me.

  And Jesus, is heroin a chemical.

  I close my eyes, run my hand over the whiskey bottle sitting on the table. I thank God above that I’ve no idea where in Shelton I could find anything stronger, because I know that right now if I could I would. I absolutely fucking would, but that’s the point of this shit town, isn’t it?

  All the programs in the world didn’t work, but exiling myself to the ends of the earth did.

  I shouldn’t have let her go. I should have stayed with her, taken her myself, anywhere she wanted. I should have at least gotten her phone number, called to make sure she’s all right.