CHEERS DARLIN’

LEVI

“Meow yourself,” I say, as Angry French Girl joins me at the bar. The reception is due to start any minute, and I’m sure she’s supposed to be greeting the guests with the sound of her cello as they arrive, but it seems AFG didn’t get the memo about the reception starting early—at least for me, anyway. She smiles at the bartender and orders in French. Fuck. That’s hot, and if I weren’t so goddam miserable, I’d push her up against the bar and tell her she was going to be a little late in starting her set.

I don’t know if she’s deliberately flirting with the help, and fuck knows what the hell they’re saying, but I don’t like the way he looks at her. I don’t like the dismissive way she looks at me, so I slam my glass down on the bar and jerk my head at the waiter.

His arrogant gaze slides to me, then back to AFG, as if to say, “Can you believe this guy?”

“Fill it up, sweetheart.” I shoot him a wink. He looks horrified. “And keep ’em coming.”

“Are you taking my advice to sleep with a French man after all?”

“That depends. Are you finally going to give me your room number, because I should warn you now, I am an expert at navigating threesomes.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. It just so happens I’m so good at sharing, that I gave away the bride to that fucking douchebag Ryan.”

“Okay, well good luck with that,” she says, but her eyes are no longer on me, they’re firmly fixed on the bartender, as if she’s commiserating with him. “Excuse me, I have to tune my instrument.”

I nod to the cello resting in its stand against the far wall of the room. “You’re good.”

“No, I am the best.”

I chuckle. “I have no doubt.”

“Too bad you’ll never find out how true that statement really is.” She walks away.

I slide off the bar stool and grab her wrist, pulling her up short. “You need to stop walking away from me, Angry French Girl.”

She glances coolly at her wrist held in mine. “And you need to learn how to take a hint, roi de la chatte.”

The bartender makes a choking sound, and I have no idea what she just called me, but I want to hear it again and again, as I pound my dick inside her. I’m just about to extend the invitation when we’re interrupted by a geriatric giant.

“Levi! What the fuck, man? I’ve been looking for you all over.” Zed.

“Fucking, cock blocker,” I hiss.

“Hey, you’re the cellist.” Zed points to AFG, unable to take the fucking hint that he’s not welcome here. “You’re really good.”

“Merci.”

“Do you have a card or something?”

“Oui, one moment.” She holds up a finger to indicate he should wait and she pulls a business card from her tiny purse and hands it to him. Fucking arsehole. I’m trying for a whole twenty-four hours to get a number out of this woman, and Zed accomplishes it in two seconds flat. “Excusez-moi. I have to go, or I’m afraid I will be fired.”

She slinks off. I yank the card out of Zed’s hand and study it. Brielle Kagawa. That’s not a French name. Or ... maybe it’s only half a French name. Underneath is her phone number. I pull out my phone and save it to my contacts. “Thanks, I’ve been looking for this.”

“You’re welcome.” He gives me one of those child-like grins and claps me on the shoulder. “Now come on, they need us for photos.”

“I’m not taking any fucking photos. Red and Ryan don’t want me messing up the snapshots of their happy day, anyway.”

Fuck. Even their names match. Arseholes.

And just like that, I’m reminded all too keenly why alcohol is going to be my girl tonight.

***

I sit by the bar and down another shot of patron. Weddings suck balls. Correction, weddings suck balls when you’re in love with the bride. Usually I love weddings, the booze, the cake, the women. This wedding though? It was perfect. A goddam fucking fairy tale in the French Riviera. No paps, no reporters, no helicopter hovering overhead. Just stars and romance and lovey-dovey shit enough to make me want to puke. Or maybe that’s thanks to the half bottle of patron I’d consumed since sitting at this very bar.

The hauntingly sorrowful sounds of AFG’s cello float all around me. Cutting, eviscerating, flaying me open, and tormenting me as I throw back shot after shot of liquor. I am Bromios. Roaring, boisterous, and drunk. No matter how much I consume tonight, it won’t be enough. Never enough.

Shouldn’t music tame the savage beast? Here, hers was eating me alive, engulfing me as if it were fire, and razing my pain to ruin. I wasn’t lying before when I said she was good. She’s fucking incredible, and I might even be able to enjoy it had she not been playing a Muse song. Fucking Muse. Who gave her this set list? I know it wasn’t Coop, ’cause he hates Muse as much as Ali and I do. Still, everything else she’s played tonight has been rock fucking solid. She hasn’t lifted her gaze once. She isn’t checking out the dance floor or seeing which celebrity she can spot next. Her eyes are closed, her face is expressive as hell, and she’s here for the music and the music alone—though I’m sure the hefty pay cheque Coop is likely giving her is an added bonus.

“Dude, there you are,” Zed says, as he sits his arse down on the stool beside me and slaps a hand over my shoulder.

“I haven’t moved all fucking night, Zed.” I salute him with a shot, throwing back the liquid and slamming my glass down on the bar. “Lucky you found me.”

“How you holding up?”

“The woman I love just married my fucking bandmate. How the fuck do you think I’m holding up, cunt rag?”

He nods emphatically. “You’re right, that was a stupid question.”

“Aren’t they always with you?”

“Hey, I resent that, man.”

I raise my shot glass and indicate to the barkeep for another. The bastard hardly speaks a word of English. Fucking France. Who gets married in France, anyway? Oh yeah, my arsehole bandmate. That’s who. The waiter looks like a douche. I don’t know that it’s any one thing in particular that I loathe about him, or if it’s just that he can’t seem to fill my glass quick enough, but I wanna kick his arse.

And where the fuck is Ash? When we started this band, it was always Zed and Coop. They were inseparable, they were brothers, and surprise, surprise, I was the third wheel. But when Ash came along, we gained a bass player, but I gained a brother. I didn’t have to be the third wheel anymore, until Coop and I fell in love with the same woman that is. Ash’s supposed to be keeping tabs on me tonight, though I guess it’s lucky he’s not. It means I can drink as much as I want to. And speaking of, I grab Zed’s drink and down the lot in one go. Wincing when I don’t feel the bitter afterburn of alcohol.

“Jesus, fuck! What is that?”

“Water,” he deadpans.

“Why the hell are you drinking water?”

Zed shrugs. “I haven’t had my daily quota.”

“Christ. Dude, could you just be a normal fucking rock star for once? Order a goddam real drink.” I swivel in my seat when I hear the first strains of “Give Me Love”. “Oh, fuck me! Ed Sheeran now, really?”

Several of the guests turn in my direction and glare, including Coop’s mum, who’s always been a snooty bitch. Angry French Girl doesn’t miss a beat. She doesn’t even know I’m here. Story of my fucking life. But the man of the hour notices. He kisses his beautiful bride on the cheek and stands from the table, pushing back his chair. Ali grabs his arm, but he leans in and whispers something in her ear and she lets go.

“Okay, come on.” Zed grabs a fistful of my tux, hefting me off my seat. My legs threaten to go out from under me, but I hold firm. Or maybe I’m just as pathetic as a kitten held by the scruff of the neck. Either way, I stay upright so ... winning.

Coop comes up behind me. I know it’s him without looking because I’d know that cocky arsehole anywhere. There’s a magic that happens when you play music with another gifted musician. I might hate his fucking guts, but I could pick his energy out in a crowd full of rock stars. Course, he and I fucked his lovely wife together for a series of months on the road, so just like Ali’s, I’m pretty sure I’d know his scent anywhere too.

“Hey, man, I was just trying to get him to leave the bar,” Zed says to Cooper.

“It’s okay, why don’t you let me talk to him?”

“Yeah, why don’t you let Coop clean up his own goddam mess, Zed?”

A beat later, Cooper sits in the stool that Zed had occupied just moments ago. He orders in French. When the fuck did this arsehole learn French?  The douche canoe bartender gives Cooper a hesitant look but begins making the order. He slides one in front of Ryan and sets the other before me. I gulp it down in one long swallow. It spills all over my tux, but I don’t care.

“Congratulations,” I say, slamming my empty glass down on the bar.

“I know this is hard for you—”

“Hard? You don’t know the meaning of hard, Ryan. You’ve had every goddam thing you wanted handed to you from the day you were born.”

“I know you like to think that, because it makes it easier for you to hate me, but I had to work at a lot of things in my life. Maybe I had a better start than you, but I lost her once too. I know what that feels like.”

“Only, now your ring is on her finger, and I’ll never have her again.”

“No, you won’t. Ali is mine. You kiss her again, I’ll kick your arse. The only reason I’m not doing it right now is because I feel sorry for you. I can’t imagine how much it hurts to have had her and know you’ll never get to touch her again, so I’m giving you that, but if you ruin this night for us, if you embarrass her in front of our friends and family, I’ll see to it that you’re out of our lives for good. I don’t want that. The guys don’t want that, and she doesn’t want that.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone knows that whatever Cooper Ryan wants he gets anyway, so you say the word, buddy, and I’m out.”

“Hard as this is to say after your shitty behaviour lately, I don’t want you gone. There’s a reason we’re a multi-platinum award winning band and it isn’t my vocals, or Zed’s drumming, Ash’s bass, or your axe, it’s all of us.”

“Right, just one big happy fucking family.” I stand and kick my stool from under me.

“Quinn,” Coop says, and I turn and face him, grabbing a drink from the bar that belongs to the woman beside me. I gulp it down.

“Congratu-fucking-lations, the best man won.”

“Jesus, she’s not a competition, Levi. She’s my wife. I’m not sorry it didn’t end the way you wanted it to. And I am sorry that you’re hurting. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on my worst enemy.”

“Well, it’s a fucking good thing we’re best buddies, isn’t it? Cheers,” I say and turn so that I can see Ali, who is approaching the two of us warily. “To the bride and groom, may they live happily ever after. If anyone needs me, I’ll be stroking my gigantic cock while I imagine sinking it inside her again. You remember that don’t you, Coop? The way she begged me for more?”

From out of nowhere I’m smacked in the side of the head so hard I land on my arse, and a livid Cooper shakes out his fist as I drag myself to my feet. Before I can hit him back, Ali throws herself between us and shoves my chest.

“Stop it! You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Come on, Red, let’s not pretend you don’t love this shit. You always did love seeing me bending over backwards just to please you. You loved to keep the two of us on a tight little leash, especially me, and just when I thought you’d let me get all up in that fucking glorious pussy of yours, you’d pull the rug out from under me.”

Coop lunges for me again, and I stagger back, But I’m not quick enough. I’m clumsy, and drunk, and I stumble several paces and topple to the ground, right on top of Angry French Girl’s cello. A collective gasp goes up from the guests. Splintered wood digs into my back and I stare at Brielle whose face is red with what looks like unshed tears.

“Shit! I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“Espèce de trou du cul! Abrûti d'ivrogne!” The sorrow in her face turns to fury. Her arm lashes out and she beats me with her bow. The delicate hairs snap against my skin like a whip, and then I’m forced to hold my hands protectively in front of my face as she beats me until the stick breaks. “Tu n'est qu'un misérable déchet humain! Je te souhaite de mourir en enculant un mouton!”

“Même pour une raclure dans ton genre cela semble être une bien trop belle mort.” Angry French Girl throws her hands up in the air. I scramble to my feet, and she points a long, slender finger at me. Poking me in the chest, stabbing with each new word. “Je te souhaite de contracter une maladie nécrosante qui te rongera lentement la queue!”

She stalks away, and then out of nowhere, Ali slaps me. The sound cuts through the murmurs from the scandalized guests. My cheek smarts where her small hand connected with my face, my eye throbs like a bitch from her husband’s fist, and my arms are covered in red, stinging welts from Angry French Girl’s bow. “You need to leave.”

I laugh. “I thought you’d never fucking ask.”

“You know earlier when you came to my room, I actually felt sorry for you.” Her voice trembles as she whisper-hisses the words. “It hurt seeing you in so much pain, but I won’t forgive you for ruining this day for us.”

I feel like shit, not because she hit me, or her husband hit me, or because their damn cellist went nuts and beat the shit out of me with her bow, but because I can see, really see how much I hurt the woman I love, on the one day that should have been magical. I ruined it for her, I ruined any chance of her being happy because I wanted her to feel as miserable as I do.

“Ali—”

“Just go, Levi. Go and sleep it off because if you don’t leave now, Cooper will hit you again, and I won’t stop him.”

I wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth and turn away, pushing through the throng of wedding guests. I don’t walk to my room like she suggested, but instead, I make a beeline for the front gate of this fucking mansion. I want out of here, out of France, and as far away from the happy couple as possible.

***

“Give me my fucking keys,” I shout at the valet, grabbing his lapel and shaking him, hard.

“S'il vous plait, Monsieur, je vous en prie. I cannot.”

“Levi!”

Christ. I let go of the tiny French man—though looking at him now I can see he’s just a boy, probably no older than seventeen. He stumbles back a few paces. “What do you want, Ali? Don’t you have a husband to annoy now?”

“God, you just can’t stop fucking everything up, can you?” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “I told you to go to bed, not accost the valet and go off half-cocked.”

“You should know by now that I don’t do what I’m told, and nothing involving my cock is ever done by halves.” I snatch the keys from the stunned kid and jump in the car. Best thing about convertibles? You don’t need to use a door.

“You’re not leaving in that.” Ali points to my shiny red Ferrari 458 Spider.

“Did you miss the part where you married someone else? You don’t get to tell me what to do.” I rev the engine. Her eyes narrow into slits.

“God, for one second could you stop being such a spoiled child. This is my wedding, Levi. I don’t expect you to like it, but I do expect you to put up and shut up because if the situation were reversed, I’d have given you this. I wouldn’t enjoy it.” She gives a derisive laugh. “Hell, I’d probably be drunk off my arse too, but I’d give you this day. I’m just sad that you couldn’t see past your hatred for Coop to do the same for me.”

I shake my head. She’s right. I know she’s right, but I can’t let it go the way she could. I’m not as good as she is. “More fool me, right? For loving you so much I actually give a shit that you’re marrying someone else.”

“Married,” she says quietly, blinking back tears.

“What?”

“I married someone else. It isn’t going to go away. I can’t undo it. I don’t want to undo it.” She reaches out and strokes my cheek. I pull away. “I love him. I chose him.”

“Kinda got that, Red, what with you standing there in a wedding dress with his ring on your finger.”

“Then please, just try and be happy for me, because you’re breaking my heart right now.”

I take a deep breath, swallow back the lump in my throat and nod. “I’m only this much of an arsehole because I love you.”

“I know. I don’t know how to fix it, or how to fix you and Coop. I tried to walk away from you both, but I need you in my life, Levi.” Tears spill freely down her cheeks. “I know that doesn’t make sense, and if I could live without you both I would, but ...”

“You don’t have to live without both of us, just me.”

“Levi—”

“I can’t do it. I can’t stay here. Not tonight. Not knowing that he gets to put his hands on you, to have you, and keep you.” I slam the gearstick into drive.

“Don’t do this, please, you’re drunk,” Ali begs. “Give me the keys.”

“I love you, Red.” I rev the engine and take off.

“Levi,” she screams, running after me. I glance in the rear-view mirror. Tears blurring my vision as they stream down my face, I navigate the narrow drive to the gates of the estate and the steep hairpin turns of the road thereafter. I have no idea where I’m going, or how long I’ve been behind the wheel, but I’ll drive until I run out of road. I’ll drive until I can forget her, until this wedding and the things I said—the things I did—no longer haunt me.

Or I would have if I hadn’t lost control. If my screeching tires didn’t slide on the asphalt, and the front of my very expensive hire car didn’t fold like paper as it smacked headfirst into a brick building. Between the liquor and the adrenalin, the pain in my ribs, and the willingness to just let go, my thoughts aren’t coherent. There’s no fight or flight. There’s no desire to do anything at all but sleep, and as Ali’s tear-streaked face flashes before my eyes—as my life flashes before my eyes—I know I fucked up.

Big time.

Again.