Chapter 8
Eight
Ella
The next Friday is Valentine’s Day. Bartleby’s was busy for the early dinner rush, but since then, it’s been slow.
It suits me fine, because my mind is filled with music.
On Monday when Kingston and Sebastian took me to the university, I spent my time with the practice piano working out lyrics and music for a new song.
And the song is for the guys.
Will I ever work up the nerve to share it with them? Doubtful. But I wrote it, and it’s not bad.
For some reason, sharing my body with them isn’t nearly as scary as sharing something that I wrote and composed…something about showing this to them, the inside of my heart, is so fucking scary, I can barely stand it. My pulse picks up every time I even think about playing the song for them.
A big group of guys enters the pub. My heart stutters all over again until I realize they aren’t the same guys who were asking about Tommy. Those guys haven’t come back, but that doesn’t stop me from having minor panic attacks every time I think I see them.
The guys sit in Natasha’s section, and she flirts with them while taking their orders.
I lean against the counter, waiting for my last table to finish their drinks and pay their bill.
I’m not in a rush, because after work, for the first time in a week, I’m going back to my apartment.
My door is fixed, and Kingston insisted on checking it out before letting me move back in.
My face heats at the thought of him showing up at my apartment building. He probably thinks it’s disgusting, especially in comparison to his luxurious penthouse.
At any rate, he deemed the new door good enough.
And now my meager belongings are in a duffel, all ready to bring to my apartment.
I’d be lying if I said I was one hundred percent thrilled about this.
In fact, I’d be lying if I said I was even one percent thrilled.
Kingston’s penthouse is, well, amazing. The pool. The bedroom. The kitchen. The roomy, comfortable couches. The well-stocked refrigerator. The woman—who isn’t me—who comes by to clean the place once a week.
One week in the lap of luxury, and how quickly I was spoiled.
Natasha returns to the bar to put in her new table’s drink orders. While Kevin mixes drinks and pours beer from the taps, she leans next to me, elbows on the counter like mine.
“Are you doing anything for Valentine’s Day?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing special. You?”
“I have options, apparently.” She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out several scraps of paper with names and numbers written on them.
“Hey, congrats,” I say, laughing and knocking her shoulder with mine.
“Oh, thanks so much. And you? No plans? I highly doubt your boyfriends are going to let Valentine’s Day pass without treating you somehow.”
“They didn’t say anything. But Kingston surprised me on Monday with a practice room at the university.”
“Practice room? Sounds kinky.”
We laugh.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “It’s for musical instruments.”
“You’re musical?”
I nod. “A little.”
“I think you’re probably being modest right now,” she says, giving me a side-eye.
“Okay, I’m really into music,” I say. When she continues glaring, I add, “And I’m good at it.”
“ There we go.” She grins. “Own your awesomeness.”
“What are you doing working in a pub?” I ask. “You should be a motivational speaker or a life coach or something.”
“Not a bad idea,” she says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.”
My last table is done, so I run their card. Now I can cash everything out for the night. In a few minutes, I’ll be free.
I just wish I was going back to Kingston’s, instead of to my own place. He and Bash have spoiled me, I’ll admit it.
Kingston
I’m parked outside Bartleby’s and starting to feel antsy. Bash is supposed to be here by now. I text him, but he doesn’t respond.
I’m starting to get pissed.
It’s Valentine’s Day. We’re taking Ella out, remember?
Nothing. Fucking asshole. I get that something’s on his mind, but he doesn’t get to play the tortured artist for weeks and weeks. He needs to get the fuck over it and either talk to me about it, or talk to someone else.
I would hope he feels he can talk to me, though. I was the one he came to that night, almost seven years ago.
He’d let himself into my apartment at four a.m. I woke up to the sound of him clattering around in the kitchen. He’d tried to get himself some water and broken a glass.
I’d never seen Bash cry before. I’ve never seen it since. But when I came out of my bedroom, still stupid on sleep, he’d been sitting on the kitchen floor, sobbing.
“Fuck, what’s wrong?” I asked, hurrying over.
“It’s broken,” he said.
“It’s just a cup.” I got a dustpan and broom and started sweeping.
“No… I’m broken,” he said. “I fucked…I fucked up, King. King, I fucked up so bad.”
“Hey.” I dropped the broom and grabbed Bash’s arm, pulled him up off the floor and away from the glass. “Talk to me.”
“Why? It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t undo what I did.”
“Shit, Bash, did you kill someone?”
“Just as bad,” he said. “I hurt someone. A woman. Fuck—fuck— fuck .”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Trina.”
“You hurt Trina?”
“No, Trina came and got the woman. I was still passed out. I don’t remember drinking that much, King. King, I have a problem. Fuck! I have a problem.”
“Okay, we’ll fix it,” I say. “There’s nothing we can’t solve.”
“I can’t undo what I did!”
I didn’t think it was possible, but I had to ask. “Did you rape the woman?”
“No? Maybe! I don’t fucking know, King. Trina said it was bad, she took the woman to the hospital. Did I rape her? Did I punish her? I don’t know. Trina paid her off, got her to sign some NDAs, I don’t fucking know.”
“So the woman won’t press charges.”
He shook his head. “No. But she should press charges. I deserve to lose everything. I’m a piece of fucking shit and I don’t deserve…”
He trailed off. His despair scared the shit out of me that night. If he’d been sober, I would’ve given him a drink, or maybe a sleeping pill, anything to calm him down. But he’d been messed up. So I’d helped him into the guest bed and then I’d sat in the chair nearby, watching him sleep.
A piece of Bash died that night.
I’m not saying that to minimize what the woman went through, the one he hurt. What she has to live with now—a constant nightmare in her past, is worse. But I don’t see her on a daily basis like I see Bash. And I would testify in a court of law that he is constantly tortured by what he did.
I never liked how Trina handled him afterward, either, acting like it needed to be shoved under the rug, not spoken of, not dealt with beyond a few weeks in a rehab center.
According to Bash, she paid off the young woman for him.
I don’t even know how much cash Sebastian threw around for the woman’s silence.
Despite there being no trouble for Bash since then, I haven’t forgiven Trina.
My only consolation is Trina lives in New York, and when she comes to the west coast, she stays in Los Angeles. She’s had no reason to interact with Bash in person. Which is good, because he looks physically ill whenever Trina calls.
He thinks he’s ill because of guilt, but I think that woman is a fucking disease.
The loud voices of a group of people walking past pull my attention back to the present. Bash still isn’t here. As I watch the pub, Ella opens the door and steps out wearing black jeans and a black button-up top beneath her new coat. I get out of my car and she spots me immediately.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “I was just going to take the bus.”
“All the way to my place?”
“Um…” She chews on her lip. “I thought I would stay in my apartment tonight.”
“On Valentine’s Day?” I ask her. “Do you really want to be alone?”
“Well, it’s just a commercial holiday, and—”
“And that fact doesn’t stop me from wanting to spoil my little girl,” I say.
She groans. “I’m already more spoiled than you know.”
“Good,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “That means I get to spoil you some more.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that complete lack of logic,” she says with a laugh. “Where are you guys taking me?”
“I think it’s just going to be you and me tonight,” I say.
“Oh.” She sounds a little disappointed, but as if realizing that, she says, “I’m still glad you’re here, though.”
“I know, sweetheart. It would be better with all three of us, but we’ll have fun just the same, okay?”
“Yes, definitely okay.” She grabs my hand and kisses my knuckles, looking at me through her eyelashes in a way that has my cock twitching to attention. “So, where to?”
I’d been thinking somewhere low-key so Bash wouldn’t have to worry about getting spotted by fans, but since he’s not here, I no longer have to worry about that. “Wanna go to Vice?”
She beams. “Yeah.” Then her smile fades. “But, actually, no.”
“Why not? You looked excited for a second.”
“I can’t wear…this,” she says, plucking at her work clothes.
“Well, that brings me to your Valentine’s Day gift.”
“You got me a gift ?”
I can’t tell if she’s happy or angry or what, but she’s my girl and fuck if I’m not going to spoil her.
“Yes, I got you a gift,” I say, lowering my voice to show her I mean business. “It’s a dress. And you will wear it and you will fucking like it, little girl.”
Laughing, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“You haven’t even seen it yet,” I say, frowning.
“If you picked it out, I know I’ll like it.”
Now I’m feeling bad for getting all dominant about the dress. “Seriously, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it. We can go pick something out together and go to Vice another night.”
“Come on, Daddy, show me the dress already,” she says.
I help her into the car and watch, breath held, while she pulls the top off of the box. The shimmering, light pink and black dress glows in the car’s interior light. It’s girlie, but still grown-up. I’d thought it would be perfect for Ella, but I’ve been nervous she won’t like it.
My fears were for nothing, though, because Ella squeals in delight, her eyes shining. “Kingston, it’s perfect!”
“There are a few pairs of shoes for you to try on, to see which ones work,” I say, opening a large shopping bag stuffed with boxes. “You can keep them all, or send any back that you don’t like.”
“I don’t deserve all of this,” she says, but I’m relieved to notice her feelings of inadequacy are no longer preventing her from accepting these small kindnesses.
She starts pulling open boxes and trying on shoes, and she finds her favorite pair.
“Hmm,” she says, mischief in her voice. “There’s no changing room in this car.”
“No, there’s not,” I say. “Do you think I’m going to be a gentleman and turn around while you get naked?”
“I fucking hope not,” she says.
“Language, little girl.”
She just laughs.
We’re going to have so much fucking fun tonight.
Sebastian
Kingston has texted me yet again. I ignore the message, again. In front of me is a vodka tonic, a shot of tequila, and a pint of IPA.
So far, I haven’t touched even one of them.
I’m not at Kitty Cat Karaoke. I tried, and nobody seemed to notice me or care I was around…or maybe I just wasn’t giving a fuck. But when I tried to order alcohol, Rick shook his head at the server and came over to talk to me.
Fuck his concern. I stood up and walked out of the building. And now I’m at this dive, and I have three glasses in front of me. They should be tempting, right? But I don’t care one way or the other.
When alcoholics at the AA meetings talk about their addiction, they make it sound all-consuming. They want to turn to alcohol in times of sadness, in times of shock, in times of anger or other strong emotions—even positive ones like happiness and contentment.
It’s never been like that for me. Right now, I just want a drink because let’s be fucking honest, I’m hoping to self-destruct.
The bartender has walked past several times, but she looks so bored, she barely spares me or my drinks a glance.
I should be with Kingston and Ella right now. He wanted to take her out for Valentine’s Day. But Trina’s been texting, my songs are shit, and I’m not good enough to hang out with someone as pure as Ella right now.
Through the warped glass of the vodka tonic, I see a pair of long bare legs approaching.
“Bastian?” a feminine voice says.
“Not interested,” I say.
“Aw, you shouldn’t be drinking, sweetheart.”
The voice is familiar. It took me a second to place it, but only one woman would know about the drinking.
I look up, bleary-eyed and tired, and face the last person I wanted to see.
Trina Jack, my agent, is standing right in front of me.