Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance

by Benjamin, Christina

  My heavy shoulders sag. “What else am I going to do? I’m alone.”

  “Alone? What about your band? I thought music is all you need,” he says mocking me.

  “Maybe it’s not enough anymore,” I mutter.

  Donovan’s voice is missing its usual edge when he replies. “You’re not alone, E. You know you always have me.”

  I bark a bitter laugh. “Ha! That’s a joke. You don’t even know me anymore.”

  “Eric—”

  “No, I’m done being your charity case. Friendship is a two-way street, and we haven’t been in the same zip code in a long time.”

  Donovan’s jaw tightens, but I’m on a role. “Think about it. When was the last time you bothered to support me?”

  “All I do is support you!” he roared. “I funded half the junk in this apartment.”

  I shake my head. “It’s always about money with you, isn’t it?”

  Donovan threw his hands up. “Whatever, man. I’ll come back in the morning when you’re making sense.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I’m not looking for a handout. I’m looking for my old friend, Donovan, the one who actually had time for me and liked coming to my gigs.” Emotion tightens my voice. “Why the hell can’t you ever just be there for me? Whenever I need you, you always have some snide comment to go along with a bought excuse. A pricey bottle of booze isn’t a replacement for being there. I don’t need that, Donovan. I need support and respect.”

  Donovan goes quiet, his eyes wide with alarm. The expression doesn’t fit his normally self-confident face. “I didn't realize—” he starts to say quietly, but I’m not done.

  There’s so much I’ve never said, that I’ve kept bottled up inside of me for so long. “You weren’t even there for me when my mom left because my dad was a drunken lowlife who used her as a punching bag. You didn't care.”

  “That’s not true! I asked you to move in with us.”

  “And every time I tried my dad nearly killed me. How many times did I show up at your house with a black eye or a busted lip and you just asked what kind of trouble ‘Easy E’ had gotten into?”

  “Wait,” he whispers, “You never . . . Eric, you never told me that!”

  “Because I’m just a joke to you. Easy E, the comic relief.”

  “Eric, you never told me about your dad. If you did, I would’ve been there for you. Just like you were there for me when I lost Vivian.”

  “You didn’t even come to his funeral,” I hiss.

  “Whose funeral?”

  “My dad’s!”

  Donovan’s eyes widen. “E . . . you told me you weren’t going.”

  My eyes meet his, cold and distant. “He was my father. Of course I went.”

  “Jesus, Eric. I didn’t know.” He ran a hand through his perfect hair. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You always make everything a joke. How was I supposed to know you were hurting?”

  “If you were really my friend you would have known! You would have seen how messed up I am, how alcohol is the only thing that makes me feel better until . . . until her. She’s all I want, D!”

  “Then we’ll find her, Eric,” he starts to say. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean for it to come to this. I didn't know you were so unhappy.”

  “You’re sorry?” I scoff, both because I’m startled to hear the powerful, successful Donovan Dunn apologize, but also because it just doesn’t help. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You’ve let me down too much—”

  I start to storm away from him, but my foot clumsily catches on the foot of the coffee table. Donovan lurches forward to catch me, but the glass covered ground beats him to it. My hands sprawl out to brace my fall, meeting jagged glass.

  Crimson heat surges from my torn palm as I stare down at ripped and mangled flesh. With a roar of pure pain, I roll onto my back as Donovan leans over me.

  “It’s okay,” he promises, but his face is full of panic. “I’m gonna get you to the hospital and it’s gonna be okay.”

  He says the reassuring words over and over, but I can’t stop shaking my head. “No,” I moan, “it’s my playing hand.” My vision is spotting with pain. “Donovan, it’s over.”

  He speaks, but emptiness is all that greets me as I close my eyes.

  Chapter 16

  Morgan

  Tears that I have fought for weeks spill down my cheeks. I slump against the side of the bathtub, my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking. Though I fight not to make any noise, squeaks of my strangled sobs escape until there’s a faint knock on the door and Stacy’s gentle voice floats through.

  “Morgan, want to let us in?” she presses in that way she has of making a demand sound so nice that you have no choice but to oblige.

  I curl up tighter, the room wobbling back and forth in my drunken delirium, my stomach flipping. Even though I told Stacy I’d had some pizza earlier, that had been a lie. I’d barely touched any food since Hanson’s remarks on my body. And after three shots of vodka on an empty stomach, I burst into tears at La Folie and started wailing about how no one would ever want me again.

  Shame burns my cheeks as bits and pieces of the night start to come back to me. I’m such an embarrassment. All I’d ever wanted is circling the drain and my behavior tonight has sealed the deal. I’ll never be a successful model. I’ll never have my name in lights while people gaze at me on a runway. My career is small and pitiful, just like my life.

  Here I am, drunk and depressed in my pathetic New York bathroom, in my pathetic New York apartment. Hanson and Charlotte are right. I’m not cut out for this. I’m just a small-town girl from Kansas who never should’ve been allowed to dream so big.

  Maybe it’s time to stop struggling and go home.

  “Morgan,” Stacy repeats before she jiggles the doorknob. “Let me in.”

  The door swings open after a second, leaving both her and Chloe gazing at me from the doorway. Stacy glides the hairpin she used to pick the lock back into her hair, then walks over to me, kneeling at my side. After a moment, I sink into her arms, letting her hold me the same way my mother used to. God, I miss her.

  My tears fall faster and faster, soaking through Stacy’s pretty lace dress until a stain of mascara remains. I hate that I’ve fallen so far. All I ever wanted to do was make my mother proud. Sure, I was only twelve when I promised her I’d be a model. But those were the only memories I had left to cling to. The ones where I lay curled up next to her in her hospital bed, flipping through fashion magazines and daydreaming about the lives of the beautiful people on the pages.

  My mom always told me I’d be one of them someday. I wanted to achieve that goal for her, for all the time and dreams the cancer had robbed from her.

  “What’s going on, Morgan?” Chloe asks softly when I’m done choking on my sobs. “I know you’re upset about this guy, but I know you and I know that isn’t the only thing putting you in such a state. Talk to us. Let us help you. We love you.”

  To my friends, I’m beautiful and confident, but inside I feel lost and broken. All my doubts have piled up—too old, too fat, too lanky, too blonde, too ordinary.

  Not one single time have I let Chloe or Stacy hear my fears. How am I supposed to tell them that I’m failing—that the cutthroat world of modeling has kicked my ass for possibly the last time?

  I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of every day being a struggle. I’m tired of being lonely.

  I’m just plain tired.

  “I want to go home,” I slur out in a teary whisper.

  “You are home,” Stacy answers in bewilderment. “Donovan drove us all home hours ago.”

  “No. I want to go home, home. To Kansas. I don’t want to be a model anymore. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I haven’t gotten a real job in months. Hanson thinks I’m washed up. It’s only a matter of time before he fires me.”

  I grimace, thinking of the way Charlotte looked at me with pity in her eyes. Ho
w many others had looked at me the exact same way but I hadn’t noticed?

  “Are you kidding me?” Chloe gasps. “You’re beyond gorgeous, Morgan. You’re a drop-dead knockout. Every time I see you all I can think is how lucky you are. Even without a drop of makeup, you’re absolutely stunning. And not only that, but when you walk into a room, you command attention. That’s a gift.”

  “Then why can’t I get a job?” I plead. “Why doesn’t anyone want me? I can’t even get a blind date!”

  “Oh, Morgan. That wasn’t your fault.” Stacy sighs, hugging me tighter.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to give Eric a tongue lashing he’ll never forget,” Chloe insists, her bitter tone furious. “Donovan may be giving him stern words now, but he has no idea what he’s in for with me.”

  “Tongue lashing?” I echo numbly, almost laughing though it only makes more tears burn my eyes. “Nobody talks like that, Clo.”

  She smiles at me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders and hugging me so that I’m sandwiched between my two best friends. I close my eyes, inhaling a deep but shuddering breath.

  “Your dreams are going to come true,” Chloe whispers into my shoulder. I can feel her looking at me though I don’t open my eyes. “Mine did. I never saw it coming, but it happened. All I ever wanted was to work at Dunn Advertising and—”

  “And you got lucky,” I interrupt. “You found the love of your life and the career of your dreams. But I’m not lucky, Chloe. I’m not like you.”

  “You’re not,” she agrees firmly. “I may have gotten lucky, but you’re more than lucky. You’re talented and tenacious. You always have been. When you want something, you get it. This is going to come to you, too. I know it. I feel it in my bones.”

  I close my eyes tight, my whole soul aching with the weight of my heavy heart.

  I used to be as certain as Chloe but I don’t think I’m that girl anymore. This city and this lifestyle have chewed me up and spit me out. Everyone has a breaking point and I think I’ve finally reached mine.

  Chapter 17

  Eric

  I am surrounded by a sea of sterile white walls. I stare blankly ahead, listening to the heart monitor beside my bed punctuate the eerie silence. Beyond my hospital room, nurses and doctors bustle back and forth, tending to patients.

  Two days have passed since my intoxicated meltdown with Donovan, an event that still fills me with humiliation. I can only remember fragments of the conversation my best friend and I had, but I do distinctly remember shouting at him and then slicing open my hand.

  With a wince I lift it, inspecting my stitched palm beneath the delicately wrapped gauze. I’d been so drunk when I arrived that I didn't remember much. Not having my stomach pumped, not the surgery or the dozens of stitches used to put me back together.

  I’ll be lucky if I can even play guitar again, let alone the Lancaster Stadium show. It was probably a blessing the agents weren’t going to be there. If I did manage to play, I’d certainly sound like garbage with this Frankenstein hand.

  The band came to see me as soon as they heard about my injury. I guess Donovan called them. They were devastated about the prospect of missing the show. My ruined hand was about all the bad news they could handle. I didn’t have the heart to tell them about the label reps bailing too. There would be time to explain it later. I might as well let them enjoy one last performance. I know they won’t want to continue when they find out the truth.

  It’s hard to believe that the end of my dream has arrived so soon. It means I’ll have to hang up Camilla for good and get a real job. Even though the thought of sitting in a cubicle makes me want to chuck myself out a nearby window, I’m working on accepting it. Maybe Donovan will have an opening for me.

  If he ever speaks to me again.

  I won’t blame him if he doesn’t. All I’ve done the last two days is replay what I can remember of our confrontation, and none of it is good. Anger and alcohol made me take out my frustrations on Donovan. But my mess of a life isn’t his fault. It’s mine.

  I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate my life while I’ve been here recovering in my hospital bed. The morning after my arrival, when I finally regained consciousness, Donovan had been sitting at my bedside. He was asleep, half curled into a stiff hospital chair that would leave him sore for days, his suit crumpled and his hair mussed. He must’ve been completely exhausted because he continued snoozing away even as the doctor walked into the room to check on my hand.

  The news the doc brought was sobering. Literally.

  “Your blood alcohol content was .28 last night, Eric,” he’d explained quietly, staring at me from behind a set of thin-rimmed glasses, his mouth an equally narrow line. There was no gentleness or compassion in his eyes—only judgment.

  When I stared at him blankly, he’d heaved a sigh and sat down, laying my chart on his lap. He folded his hands and leaned forward after taking off his glasses, letting them dangle from the front of his white coat.

  “Do you even understand what that means?” he asked, answering before I could manage to shrug. “Over .3 is life-threatening. At .35, irreversible damage can be done. Your body starts to shut itself down bit by bit until there’s nothing left to sustain you. You could have, and probably would have, died last night if your friend hadn't gotten you here.”

  Death.

  My whole life I’d considered myself invincible. I was untouchable, strong, fearless. But I was kidding myself. I’d almost died and I might never get to play guitar again thanks to the injury I caused myself. I wanted to be Easy E, to make some sort of sarcastic comment or joke to lighten the mood, but the doctor’s stare was so heavy that even my ill-timed humor couldn’t help me cope.

  “I want to tell you never to drink again, son,” the doctor said sternly. “But I know how this works. I’ll probably see you again in three months, lifeless on this same bed you’re in now. Next time, luck won’t save you. Nothing will. I’ve seen so many young people like you lose this battle. Lives wasted, potential squandered. Think hard about that, son, and whether your future means anything to you and the people who care about you before you pick up the bottle again.”

  With that, the doctor stood up, grabbed my chart, and left the room. I was again plunged into silence, except for the sound of Donovan’s breathing.

  He’d woken about thirty minutes after that, though he had little to say to me. He’d made sure I was alive and would stay that way for at least the foreseeable future, and then he was gone.

  Still, the words of the doctor remained. They hung in the air long after night fell, and the sun rose once more. They buzzed between my ears, playing on an endless loop that I had little control over. I haven’t been able to eat or to sleep. All I’ve been able to do is brood over what happened that night and how exactly I got here.

  Had Donovan not come over, I wouldn’t be breathing. I would’ve blacked out and died in a pile of my own vomit.

  Was alcohol really to blame or was it just my self-destructive nature?

  I was so determined not to share the pain in my heart or my true feelings that I turned to booze to keep everything suppressed. Even if liquor wasn’t entirely at fault, it would be the wisest choice to cut it out completely, especially with my family history.

  I could tell by the doctor’s expression that he doesn’t expect me to be able to do such a thing . . . but I’ve spent my entire life proving people wrong.

  It’s going to be a hard road. Life as a musician is practically synonymous with indulgent intoxication, and if that doesn’t work out, I’d be so bored at an office job that I’d have a hard time staying away from the bottle . . . but still. I can do this. Whether I manage to find another path in my music career or if I end up with a boring nine to five, I can stop drinking as long as I know I have something worth living for.

  My mind aches when I consider all the mistakes I’ve made in my life that relate to drinking. All the songs that remain half finished, all the conversations over potential o
pportunities forgotten, all the friends and new relationships I might have pushed away.

  Then, there’s my angel, perhaps the most haunting lost connection of all.

  Had I not been so plastered, maybe I would’ve asked for her name. Maybe I would have looked at her note right away instead of allowing Alex and James the chance to destroy it. Maybe I never would’ve let her leave . . .

  How different my life might be if I didn’t dilute all my problems with alcohol. It’s clear to me now that as soon as I’m out of this hospital, things need to drastically change and I need to make some major apologies. Donovan’s first. My oldest friend who’s tried his best to be there for me even when I won’t let him. Then Chloe, who I’ve surely made feel uncomfortable with my drinking habits. Then there’s the poor girl who I flaked on the other night. And my band . . .

  The list is endless, but some way or another, I’m going to find a way to make all of this right again. I have to. There’s no other choice.

  Chapter 18

  Morgan

  “Chloe, I promise I’m doing fine,” I say quietly into my phone, keeping one eye on the closed bathroom door while I hide from Hanson and Charlotte.

  Chloe and Stacy have both been hovering over me like mother hens since my drunken meltdown. I can tell Stacy doesn’t want me to move back to Kansas and leave her stranded without a roomie and a friend, but I honestly don’t know how much longer I can put up with this—or how much longer I’m even going to be employed at Hanson’s agency.

  Every time he walks up to me, I expect him to tell me he’s cutting me. I’ve just been loitering around the agency for days hoping to make an impression on any potential clients who come in for meetings, but Hanson hasn’t even given me a single go-see since I was dropped from my last job.