International Guy: Milan, San Francisco, Montreal (International Guy Volumes Book 2)

by Audrey Carlan

  His gaze flies to mine and softens, his shoulders falling in what I imagine is relief. “Skyler . . .” His voice shakes, and he rushes to me and pulls me into a full-body hug. Memories of the time he held me when I was numb to the world after my parents’ deaths come rushing to the surface. His cold nose dips to my shoulder, and beyond my comprehension—for I’ve never, not ever, experienced this type of emotion from Johan—I feel his tears wet my skin.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I hurt you. Thank you. Thank you, Skyler.”

  As much as I loathe what he did to me when we were in a relationship and what he’s threatened to do to me now, I feel his agony. He’s lost and scared and going about it the wrong way. It’s up to me to show him real kindness. The same he showed me. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll help you. Let’s start with you telling me who you owe and how much.”

  By the time we called for room service last night, we’d already gone through the extraordinarily long list of individuals he owed and who he referred to as very bad guys. It was well after one in the morning, and I was exhausted when we were done. With the press hounding the entrance of the hotel, Johan encouraged me to spend the night in his room, saying he’d take the couch. After compiling the list and working with my broker to pay off each debt—to the tune of $20 million, not $50 million—he handed me the flash drive of pictures, which I pocketed, planning to use a hammer on it when I got home.

  He still didn’t tell me what the extra $30 million he’d originally demanded was supposed to be for, but I had a feeling it was to put him in a cushy position because he’d lost his status completely in the modeling and acting industries. When all was said and done, he admitted to me he had a serious drug problem, and I once again agreed to help him by paying for him to be in a drug rehab facility that catered to the rich and famous and kept things anonymous and quiet, so the clients could get clean in peace without worrying about losing their status in the industry. Eventually he agreed to this and thanked me profusely. He also apologized repeatedly for what he had been planning to do.

  This morning, my entire body feels as if it’s coated in grime. I didn’t have a chance to shower after a full day at the set before I rushed over here. Knowing Johan won’t mind, I double-check the lock is still in place on the bedroom door, slip into the bathroom, and take a long shower, letting the entire week flow out of my fingertips as the water heats up and eases my tight muscles. When I’m done, I dry off and put my grubby clothes back on, not about to walk out of here in another man’s attire. As it is, the press is going to go crazy when they see me leave a hotel in the same clothes I wore last night.

  Grabbing my shoes, I head to the bedroom door and hear Johan on the phone. I eavesdrop, not believing for a second that he’ll be perfectly honest with me about his dealings, but knowing I have the pictures ultimately puts me in the clear—for now. I also know I will have helped someone I once cared very much for. My mother would be proud. Hell, I’m proud of myself. Besides, he was there for me when I needed him, and I feel as though this has returned the favor hundredfold. Now I can go about my life with Parker, knowing I did right by Johan, and in the end, I hope to be able to say he did right by our friendship.

  “You son of a bitch!” I hear him yell into the phone. “You say a fucking word—”

  I cringe, thinking he’s likely talking to yet another one of his dangerous “very bad guys,” trying to work out the debts with the money I’ve given him.

  “Not thinking she’ll like that much, now that, you know, we’ve rekindled our connection,” he says in a tone I recognize as his sexy voice. It does absolutely nothing for me now, but it’s an odd thing to say to a man you owe money to. So much so that I open the door and pad into the area where he’s standing, phone pressed to his ear.

  “You say I’m scum, but you’re no better,” he sneers into the phone, and turns around. That’s when I realize he’s holding my phone, not his own.

  “Johan? What are you doing with my phone?”

  He ignores me, listens intently, and then presses it off, tossing it back onto my purse.

  “Who were you talking to?” I demand, knowing instinctually, my heart starting to pound a foreboding beat in my chest.

  “Your so-called boyfriend, but I don’t think he’s your man anymore. You’re welcome.” He shivers and makes a gagging sound. “Skyler, you sure know how to pick ’em. First me, then that guy? You’re downgrading, not upgrading. You deserve better.”

  I rush over to him and push at his chest with both of my hands, knocking him off his feet to the couch behind him. He falls in a pile of limbs.

  “What the fuck have you done?” I screech so loud I hurt my own ears.

  “Skyler, the guy is a dick. Threatened me with some shit in my past that would end up getting me killed if it got out.”

  My entire body begins to shake uncontrollably. “Oh my God . . . ohmygod! He thinks . . . Jesus!” I grab my phone and notice the texts and the voice mails. Before dialing Parker back, I listen to his messages and slump to the couch, tears in my eyes. Each message strikes a blow to my heart so deep I don’t know how I’m ever going to heal from it.

  “He thinks . . . oh no.” My world is crumbling all around me, piece by piece, as my stomach clenches and bile works its way up my throat. I’m barely capable of breathing through it.

  “Skyler, what I did was a favor. A thank-you for helping me out. The guy isn’t good enough for you. But you have to go, because he said your security team is down in the lobby waiting.”

  I choke out a sob and stand up, grabbing my things. “Johan, never, ever contact me again. I wish you the best, but you’ve ruined my life for the last time. Please, please consider the money I’ve given you as the gift it is and get your life back together.”

  “Skyler, no, let’s be friends. We helped each other out, like old times . . .” He follows me to the door of his suite.

  I shake my head and spin around, tears falling down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away. “No. Move on with your life. I already have, although I don’t know how I’m going to clean up this mess with Parker.”

  “Fuck him. He’s not worthy,” he states snidely.

  “You’re wrong.” My voice is shredded as though I’ve swallowed razor blades. “I’m the one who’s not worthy of him. I love him, and now he thinks I’ve done the worst possible thing a person could do. Cheat.” I gulp down the pain that single word brings to my heart.

  I spin around and thank my lucky stars the elevator doors open right away when I press the button.

  I’ve hurt the man I love, and I don’t know how to repair it.

  He thinks I cheated.

  Mom, Dad, if you’re up there in heaven, please help me reach Parker before he ends it all.

  I need to tell him I love him, and I’d never in a million years be unfaithful to that love.

  The elevator dings, and I rush out of it and right into Rachel’s arms. She catches me easily. “Hey now, I’ve got you.”

  “I have to get home! Now!” I state emphatically, terror and anxiety ripping along the frayed edges of my consciousness.

  “Okay, okay, we’ll get you home, but you have to calm down. There’s an entire mess of paparazzi outside.”

  “I don’t care! I need to get to Parker!” I yell hysterically.

  Rachel nods, grabs the baseball cap off Nate’s head, and tugs it down over mine, shielding my sodden face from view. She removes her long jacket and wraps it around me protectively. “Keep your head low. They don’t need to see your tears. Don’t give them that.”

  I nod and wrap my arm around her familiar weight as they lead me through the throngs of people screaming my name and taking pictures. I jump into the SUV and slam my back against the leather. “Did you talk to him?” I put my arm on Nate’s shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  “And . . .”

  “He said he’d be gone before you ever stepped foot out of the hotel.”

  I smash my hand against the
back of the seat and scream my frustration. “No! No! No! This can’t be happening. I love him. Don’t you understand!”

  “Yeah, Sky, we do. You love him. We know that. He knows that. It will be okay. We’ll get through this together. Right now, we need to get you home and safe.” Rachel’s voice is controlled and completely in charge.

  I shake my head and slump into the seat. “I’ll never feel at home again. The only safe place I’ve ever been since losing my parents is in his arms. And he’s gone. I don’t know how I’m going to get him back, make him understand what happened.”

  Rachel rubs my arms and tucks me lovingly against her chest, the way I imagine a sister would. “It will all work out,” she promises. I fear that promise is empty before she ends with, “When love is involved, there’s always a way.”

  The end . . . for now.

  MONTREAL: INTERNATIONAL GUY BOOK 6

  To Pierre Bourdon.

  You shared your love of Canada

  and the French-Canadian ways

  with me and my soul sister.

  These two California girls will never forget

  standing in the snow, in the spring . . .

  the busted tire in Old Quebec . . .

  dazzling vistas, snow-covered relics . . .

  and a church light show that

  will live in our hearts forever.

  Merci, kindred spirit.

  1

  Hollow, inside and out. Everything I am, everything I thought I could be, I left in the hands of a woman. A beautiful, effervescent, sexy, and in the end . . . manipulative cheat. I should have known it would never, could never work between us. She’s famous. A celebrity. I’m nobody when compared to all that is Skyler Paige.

  My fuckin’ dream girl.

  Why would the likes of her settle for a businessman, a beer-and-baseball-type guy living in Beantown, when she could have anyone in the entire world? It makes no sense. We made no sense, even though for a while, I thought she was mine. I held all of her beauty and what I believed was her soul in my heart.

  Somehow, I lost it, lost everything.

  I have no idea how to move forward. What my next steps should be. I’ve honestly not felt this low in . . . forever. Even when Kayla burned me, it didn’t feel like this. Like I’ve been gutted, skewered beyond repair.

  There’s also the issue of my brothers. Once Bo and Royce find out, they are going to be all over me. Forcing me to talk about her, get over it, move on. How does one get over or move on from the love of their life? Sure, I’ve been hurt in the past. Which means I knew exactly what I was getting into when I signed on for a relationship with Skyler. Yet I still waded in. Blinded by her sweet honeys, her self-doubt, and the way she seemed to need me.

  Having Skyler count on me made me feel ten feet tall. Being her man, hearing her voice in my ear on the phone each night, having her body in my bed every chance we got, was living a dream. And like all dreams can do, mine so easily turned into a nightmare.

  With her, I guess it just wasn’t meant to last. I’ve found a lot of things in life are like that. Not meant to last. My mother even warned me about such things when I was a boy.

  “Sometimes beautiful moments are like sand slipping through your fingers one granule at a time. When you’re experiencing it, it’s the biggest, brightest sensation in the world. And then, as quickly as it came, it slips away. We’re left with only the memory of that moment, of the feeling of having something so soft and glittery within our grasp. That’s part of its beauty. Knowing you had a hold on it for a brief time is a blessing. Remember that, son. Not everything in life is meant to last.”

  I walk to the kitchen to get another beer, planning to add it to the other four empty bottles on the table. I took the flight back from New York in a complete daze. I only recall going to the first phone store I saw, buying a new phone, downloading my most recent backup from the cloud, and shutting it off. I’ve since locked myself in my apartment. The landline rings at random—caller ID shows the calls are probably from Wendy—but I ignore it and let the calls go to voice mail. I numbly move around. I’d told Royce I was going to take a few days, touch base with them sometime today. He probably thinks I’m balls deep in my woman right now, which is exactly where I should be!

  Intense anger screeches up my spine and surrounds me like a living, breathing evil. “Goddamn it!” I roar as the claws of betrayal slither all over my skin, digging into any bit of meaty flesh they find. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up, and I clutch the empty beer bottle in my fist and look up at the ceiling.

  White. Flat. Nothingness.

  Images of her flood my vision.

  Skyler in Johan’s arms . . .

  Spending the night in his bed . . .

  Those delicate hands on his body . . .

  His lips on hers . . .

  It’s like a demented waterwheel, dropping the next load of horrible pictures, each one worse than the last. My skin is awash with violent tremors as though a bucket of spiders has been dropped over my head and they’re skittering across my skin.

  “Why, Skyler? Why would you do this to me? To us!” I holler into my empty apartment, the fire inside me building to epic proportions, burning flesh and muscle from the inside out. I can’t fucking take it. The despair. The ugliness I feel about the one woman I gave my goddamned heart to!

  Another image of her blowing me a kiss enters my mind, and I clench my teeth, close my eyes as tight as I can, and impulsively pull my arm back and smash my fist and the beer bottle into the kitchen wall. Not only does the glass shatter and cut into my hand on impact, my fist goes straight through the drywall.

  A searing pain ricochets up from my hand, through my forearm, and to my shoulder. A guttural scream tears through the room as I fall to my knees, clutching my bloody hand. I barely catch myself on the counter as I go down, breaking my fall. My knees hit the tile violently, and I jerk, my body shuddering as the agony of my hand and knees filters into my consciousness.

  The door to my apartment slams open, and I barely glance up. A pair of dirty black motorcycle boots come into my view.

  “Brother . . . fuck!” Bo’s tortured voice penetrates my consciousness as the man leans down and grips my shoulders. “Jesus Christ . . . what did she do to you?”

  I close my eyes, shame flowing out every one of my pores.

  Bo lifts my arm. “Shit, Park, you’re gonna need stitches. You might have even broken your hand. What did you do?” He glances at the smashed section of wall above the counter where I’m kneeling. “You hit the wall?” He snatches a towel from the counter and wraps my hand. “And how the fuck did you cut your palm? Dude . . . it’s deep, and you’re bleeding like crazy. We have to go to the emergency room.”

  I shake my head. “No way. Not going.”

  “Yes, you are. Unless you want me to call Mrs. Ellis to talk some sense into you? I think that might be a bit more painful than swallowing your pride and letting your brother take you, eh? Now come on, you’re soaking the towel through, and blood freaks me out.”

  Blood freaks Bo out.

  I stifle a chuckle as the four beers I finished in the last hour twist and turn in my gut. The woman I love cheated on me. Just like Kayla. My past rushes to the surface along with the heartache. Haunting me. Digging the vile knife of betrayal deeper into my heart.

  My mouth salivates, and a sour taste flows over my tongue. “Oh no.” I make a gagging sound and clutch at my stomach with my good hand.

  Bo hauls me up and over to the sink just as my liquid lunch pours out of me. When I think I’ve got it all out and the heaving stops, I turn on the faucet and rinse out my mouth. The acid in my throat burns like I’ve swallowed razor blades.

  “Bottle of water, please.” I point to the fridge.

  Bo gets a bottle, puts it on the counter in front of me, and leaves the kitchen without a word. I’ve barely taken a handful of calming breaths before he’s crouching at my feet with my Nikes in place. I shove my feet in on
e at a time while he ties them for me in silence, taking care of me when I can’t do the same for myself. He snags my gray hoodie from where it lies on the counter and eases me into the garment, helping me carefully push my wounded hand through the armhole as gently as possible without adding any pain and suffering.

  Christ, I have the best friends.

  He leads me toward my front door and grabs the keys to the Tesla on the way out. Bo drives a motorcycle, and he knows I won’t ride bitch. Injured or not. No way, nohow.

  The car is quiet as we motor down the road to the closest hospital.

  “You gonna tell me what happened?” he finally asks.

  I sigh and rub at my forehead with my free hand. “Not much to say.”

  He chuckles and gives me the side-eye. “In my experience, there are always very good reasons a man puts his fist through a wall, and all of them center around one thing . . .”

  “Oh yeah? Do bestow your worldly wisdom on me,” I crack numbly.

  “A woman.”

  I grind my teeth and focus my gaze out the window.

  “Your woman is probably the hottest woman alive, and a beauty like that can also be hard to hold on to.” He glances at me with an expression of pity plastered across his face. “Then there was this morning’s top sleazy magazine report, which has her leaving last night from her home and going to the St. Regis Hotel in New York. That same report states she left this morning from the same hotel, which also happens to be the exact hotel her ex-dickhole is staying at. There’s no way it’s a coincidence,” he surmises.

  “Not a coincidence.” I sigh and clench my teeth, trying to hold back the boiling frustration the admission causes.