Forget (40 page)
The only response I got back . . .
Until I see you again, and you’re completely honest with me, you and I will always be unfinished business.
And it’s been radio silence ever since. Not a phone call, text, email, a Goddamn pigeon carrier. Nothing. And I can’t deny the fact that’s what’s killing me the most.
“Welcome to L.A. boys!” Alistair greets us as we step through the glass doors of a conference room. He’s the president and CEO of Wallace & Wright Records, our soon-to-be label. That’s why we’re here, to sign our lives away on the dotted line, and officially start our music careers.
I should be excited, damn near ecstatic, over the fact that my band has signed with one of the biggest labels in the music industry, but all I can think about is Brooke. It still stings like a motherfucker when I think of how she left me.
Two days early and only a note served as her goodbye.
This isn’t goodbye. It’s just, not right now,
it said, but it sure as hell felt final to me.
I’m sorry. I know you deserve better than this,
it said,
but I wanted to refute that claim and tell her I deserve her. She’s the only thing I want.
I’ll always feel it too,
it said,
but I wanted to tear that note into a thousand pieces. If she felt it too, then why the fuck did she run? Because the way I feel for her, nothing could get me to walk away. Nothing.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s the biggest motivating factor in my agreement to sign with a label that’s conveniently located in L.A. Before Brooke, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of signing with a record company and risking our creative freedom as a band, but that all changed the moment I met her. Sure, this is a fantastic opportunity, but the biggest draw moving to L.A. has, is that it gets me one step closer to being with her.
It’s been one month. Seven hundred and twenty hours without Brooke.
But who’s counting, right? Yeah, who am I kidding? I’m bloody counting. Every minute passes slower than the last. Every minute without her is one more minute of agony, another minute where I’m left with a thousand questions and no answers.
I knew she was going to be a challenge. Hell, I knew she was a bloody, flight risk. Her rubbish poker face showed the girl had running tendencies, but I thought I’d got past that giant wall she’d built. I thought I’d shown her how much she meant to me, how far I’d go for her. I thought what we had in Paris meant more than her running away without a goodbye.
Obviously, I was wrong. The girl is stubborn and thoughtless, and it pisses me the fuck off. I kind of hate the change she’s forced within me. I’m not the guy who pines over a woman. Well, I wasn’t that guy, until her. She changed me in a way that I won’t recover from.
Let’s take the inventory, yeah?
- She left me alone without a fucking goodbye.
- I’ve cursed her name a thousand times and punched three holes into the walls inside my flat. (My knuckles are still swollen and bruised from those moments of rage.)
- Hypothetically, most people in situations like this might find themselves wanting to curl up into the fetal position and have a good cry. (Not that I’m that person, but I’m just saying, that’s how most people would feel.)
- And bottom line, Brooke hurt me.
But here I sit, wondering how she’s doing, and hoping she’s okay because I love her. When you’re in love with someone, even when they hurt you, you still find yourself wanting the best for them.
Pathetic? Yes.
Avoidable? No.
I refuse to walk away . . . move on . . . get over her. Christ, even if I did want to, it’s not an option. It reminds me of a quote from
Memories of Suffocation,
Brooke’s favorite book.
“Love isn’t temperamental. There is no time limit or fine print at the bottom of the contract. There is no breaking even, no getting out while you’re ahead. Love is holding your end of the deal, even when you know it’s your heart that’ll be shattered in the end.”
I’m holding my end of the deal.
I’m in this for the long haul.
Call me a stalker or a crazy person, I don’t care.
Brooke and I will always be unfinished business until she’s back with me.
“We’re heading to Venice Beach after this, yeah?” Jesse asks, sitting down in one of the plush, leather chairs around the conference table.
I nod. He thinks we’re going there to check out the Cali scene. I’m going there to visit Wild Spirit, the shop that Brooke owns with her sister. I’ve already gotten the address.
He grins. My brother is all too ready to see what California has to offer. It has nothing to do with tourist attractions and everything to do with women in bikinis.
“You guys, coming too?” he asks Zach and Alex.
They nod enthusiastically, offering an “Of course” and “Definitely.”
A few men in suits file into the room, taking their seats around the table. Alistair greets one guy in particular. He’s young, late twenties, and about as tall as me. The relation between the two men can’t be ignored. I’d guess they’re related.
“Brooke coming?” Alistair asks him.
“Yeah, she’s on her way. Should be here any minute.”
Brooke.
That name is following me everywhere.
We’re introduced to everyone around the table. Lawyers, agent, manager, blah blah blah. And I’m correct on the relation assumption. The guy’s name is Jamie, he’s the vice president at the label, and is in fact, Alistair’s son.
“Well, let’s get started,” Alistair says, motioning towards a blonde dressed in a tight skirt and cleavage revealing blouse. “Audrey, go ahead and pass everything out.” I guess bombshell assistants must be a requirement when you’re the CEO.
Alistair starts to ramble on with his well-versed spiel of why we’ve made the right decision, and how Wallace & Wright is the only label that can take us to the top.
A packet of papers is set in front of me. I sigh heavily, staring down at the Wallace & Wright emblem etched on the cover. The sooner this meeting gets over with the better. I’m already bored and too distracted to keep up with what’s being said. Don’t get me wrong, this is fantastic, and I’m not taking this opportunity lightly, it’s just that men like Alistair Wallace don’t impress me. They live and breathe money. And I get the feeling that if you’re not actively helping him make money, he has no qualms with tossing you off the freight train that is his label.
The glass door flies open, pulling my attention from the packet of papers. I glance up to see a tiny blur of blonde curls striding into the meeting room. Jamie stands up and takes the coffee cups from her hands. She tucks away the veil of hair covering her face.
My heart jumps out of my throat and hits the table.
Brooke.
My Brooke.
So many unsaid words, so many questions, and yet all I can think about is how beautiful she looks. It’s a brutal punch to the gut. She’s here, in this meeting room, standing in front of me and hugging some guy named Jamie.
Jesse nudges my arm to get my attention, but I’m too focused on her.
She slides her messenger bag off her shoulder and starts to sit down in the seat beside Jamie, but Alistair stops her. “Brooke, before you sit down, let me introduce you to the guys.”
She stands next to him, smiling at the familiar faces in the room. Her eyes make their rounds until they stop at me. Those big brown eyes of hers turn to saucers once she registers that I’m sitting in this meeting because
my
band is signing with
this
label.
But why is she here?
“Dylan, Jesse, Alex, Zach, this is Brooke Sawyer, otherwise known as my son’s gorgeous fiancée, and the woman who will help produce your debut album. Brooke this is the band you’ll come to love and know as Careless Cockups.”
Produce our debut album? She works here?
Wait . . . did he just say fiancée?
My jaw tightens in response, ticking like a time bomb.
Did he just fucking say FIANCEE?
I know I heard him wrong. I take inventory of her hands. A giant diamond sits on the ring finger of her left hand. The brilliant stone mocks me, giving me the intense urge to throw this conference table out the fifteenth story window.
And Jamie is a
guy?
When I saw his name on her phone in my flat, I assumed it was a girl. But no, it was her fucking fiancé. She was lying to me the whole time.
Why would she do that?
I’m about to explode. My fists clench underneath the table.
Jesse nudges my arm again. “Take a breath, mate,” he whispers.
How can I take a breath when all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room?
She looks away from me, clears her throat, and offers a quiet greeting. She doesn’t say a thing about already knowing us, knowing
me.
Everyone, but me, offers something nice and noncommittal in response. Everyone, but Zach, has met her. No one says anything about it. They’re just as shocked as I am. Jesse and Alex have drank with Brooke. They’ve seen her pissed and singing Madonna at Au Fait.
And me, I’ve had my cock so deep inside her that she didn’t know where I ended and she began. How in the hell am I supposed to act like that didn’t happen? That
we
didn’t happen?
She sits down in the seat beside her fiancé.
Her fucking fiancé.
And I stare at her like a madman, boring holes into her skull.
She has a fiancé. That’s the big secret?
Her honey eyes glance towards me and she has the audacity to look tearful. Obviously, I don’t want to see her cry. It’ll fucking kill me if she does. But, seriously? Why does she look hurt? I should be the one curled up in the fetal position underneath this table.
This isn’t goodbye. It’s just, not right now.
The letter mocks me.
Not right now? I’d love to know when exactly we were going to get back together since she has a FUCKING FIANCE! Was it going to be after the wedding? Or before? Or maybe I was going to get to fuck her occasionally the entire time?
I make myself breathe slowly and count to ten in my head.
Alistair talks about marketing plans.
I stare at Brooke
A guy named Nigel talks about a recording schedule.
I stare at Brooke.
Jamie talks about our pre-release tour.
I stare at Brooke.
Remember when I said I’m going to hold up my end of the bargain? It’s going to be pretty bloody hard now, considering the other end of that bargain has plans of marrying someone else.
Someone that isn’t me.
The contract is placed in front of us. I sign in spite of her. She created this fucked-up mess. She strung me along the whole time when she had a fiancé back home. My pen flows smoothly across the dotted line. I glare at her the entire time.
Her response, she shuts her eyes.
Coward. You did this! You ruined us! You fucked me over!
Once the meeting is over and people start filing out, I find myself tossing out hurtful words loud enough for Brooke to hear. “You ever feel like you’re tired of getting fucked in ways that don’t end in an orgasm?”
Her spine goes stiff in response.
“Uhhh . . .
I guess?
” Jesse answers, and then proceeds to ask, “So are we still going to Venice Beach or . . .” He can tell I’m about fifteen seconds away from losing it.
“You guys go without me. I need to go punch something.” I get out of my seat, but instead of confronting her, I stride out the door.
I hear Jesse play it off with a laugh. “Music gets him so amped, mate. He can hardly contain his excitement about signing.”
I find the nearest gym. Sign up for a membership. And the Sunset Sons sing
She Wants
in my ear—
bloody ironic song choice
—while I spend the next three hours taking my rage out on a punching bag.
By the time I leave the gym, I’m convinced I made the right decision by not confronting her in front of everyone. Believe me, I wanted to. I wanted to berate her with all of the questions rolling through my head, but it wasn’t the time back there surrounded by executives from our new label.
Besides, Brooke and I, we’re going to have plenty of time to talk this out since she is our new producer. Maybe my mind is too clouded to think clearly, or maybe I’m truly a bastard, but I convince myself that I won’t make this easy on her. I’ll give back as much as I get, and if my life is going to be hell, so will Brooke’s.