Chapter 22
I’m sitting on Briar’s front steps when a cab pulls up. I check my watch–she’s earlier than I expected. The Sunday matinee has barely finished, and yet somehow she’s managed to flag down a cab and get from the West End to here.
I stand as she tumbles from the car, ditching her large tote bag on the pavement, hurtling towards me. She throws herself at me, a tiny tornado of hugs and tears, and I catch her instinctively, my arms wrapping around her trembling frame.
When I finally manage to pull back enough to see her face, the breath gushes from my lungs.
For a start, she’s still wearing her stage makeup—she usually wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it outside the theatre.
It’s streaked now with tears that have carved pale tracks through the foundation.
Her hair hangs lank and dirty around her shoulders.
But it’s what I see beneath the smeared concealer that makes my vision blur at the edges.
Bruising. Dark purple fingerprints circling her throat like a necklace.
My hands shake. I grip the fence rail behind to keep from swaying; the rage hits so hard I can barely breathe.
If I didn’t know her piece-of-shit boyfriend had already left the country, I’d be on to the police.
No—forget that. I’d just go round to his house and deal with the fucker myself.
I’m not a big guy, but with what he’s done to my sister, my vision goes narrow and white-hot; I reckon I could take him apart piece by piece.
Let him feel what it’s like on the receiving end.
I force my hands to unclench, will my jaw to relax. She needs me calm. She needs me here.
I scoop her back into my arms, partly to comfort her, partly so she can’t see the murder in my eyes. She made me promise not to tell anyone, and I’ll keep that promise. But Christ, it’s killing me.
“Bee, it’s okay, love. He’s gone and I’m here.”
“I know,” she sobs against my chest, her whole body shaking. “And I’m sorry.”
“Sorry he’s gone?” The words come out rougher than I intended. How could she be sorry when the bastard who claimed to love her did this to her?
“No.” She pulls back slightly, wiping her nose on the cuff of her jumper with a gesture so achingly young it breaks something inside me. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. You told me a week ago to end it. And I didn’t. I’m so bloody stupid, believing him when he said it wouldn’t happen again.”
“Hey.” I tip her chin up gently, careful not to touch anywhere that might hurt. “You’re not stupid. Not ever. You just have a beautiful, kind, trusting heart. And that’s exactly why we love you.”
She crumples again, fresh tears spilling over. I gather her closer, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing slow circles on her back.
“Come on,” I murmur when her breathing starts to even out. “Let’s get you inside. Cup of tea, yeah? And we’ll get you cleaned up.”
One arm around her, I guide her up the steps, her bag forgotten on the pavement. That can wait. She leans into me heavily, as if her legs might give out, and I match my pace to hers, letting her set the rhythm. Whatever she needs, however long it takes—I’m here.
“Why don’t you go up for a shower?” I suggest. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
She heads upstairs, and I busy myself in her kitchen.
There’s still a picture of Briar and the arsehole pinned to the fridge.
The way she’s looking at him with her eyes like fucking heart emojis makes me want to puke.
If this is where love gets you, maybe I’ve been doing it right all along.
I grab the photo, tear it into tiny pieces, and shove it in a bin.
My phone pings with a text. My first thought is Rachel. Maybe she’s changed her mind about giving us a proper chance. The small leap of hope dies when I see the name on the screen.
Bianca Chomondley-Smith, reminding me that she’s on her way back from Indonesia and suggesting we catch up for a drink.
Again. The second time today. For the past two months, I’ve been fobbing her off with short, bland replies, and she still hasn’t taken the hint.
Two months of celibacy while I tried to figure out what I actually wanted from life, from relationships.
Two months of turning down easy lays because I thought I was ready for something real.
Then, Rachel walked into that house and proved me right.
When I kissed her, she kissed me back like she wasn’t performing for an audience.
We could give each other shit and joke around, but we could also talk about the hard stuff in our lives.
She actually listened when I told her about wanting to write songs for the band instead of just being the drummer—didn’t laugh or tell me to stick to what I’m good at, like everyone else had.
I thought I could convince her we could face that stuff together.
I had more meaningful conversations in one week with Rachel than all my other girlfriends put together.
For the first time, I felt like someone was seeing me, not just my rock star reputation and healthy bank balance.
And then she told me it was just a bit of fun. That we should leave it there.
Bianca’s a nice enough girl, sure. Predictable, safe, the kind who’d be thrilled to be seen out with me. Nothing like the models and influencers I usually go for, which I thought was the point. But after Rachel, the idea of settling for someone I don’t feel that spark with feels like giving up.
Still, maybe that’s what I deserve. Maybe Rachel’s right and I should just go back to what I’ve always done. I could post a story with Bianca, watch the gossip rags celebrate the return of ‘Heartbreaker Hargrove’. Show Rachel I’m moving on just fine, thanks.
I start to type a reply to Bianca, something casual about meeting up at a pub, but before I can hit send, Briar’s footsteps sound on the stairs. I look at the words on my screen—charming and flirty, but shallow, and everything I swore I wouldn’t be anymore.
I delete the message and shove the phone in my pocket. My sister needs me, and right now, I’m just going to be the person she can count on.