IT’S CALLED TACT, ARSEHAT

LEVI

When I wake, it’s to bright lights overhead, an uncomfortable bed, and a white room that reeks of disinfectant. My stomach turns, and my throat feels like a bunch of razorblades threw a fucking kegger. I glance around and see Ali’s worried face, and Coop’s pissed off one.

“Jesus, who died?” I rasp, though it hurts like a son of a bitch to talk.

“You arsehole,” Ali snaps. Tears form in her eyes, but she blinks them back and her expression is lit with fury. “You almost died.”

Coop puts his arms around her, pulling her into his side, and that hurts worse than the pain coursing through my body right now.

“They pumped your stomach,” Coop says. “Vanessa is pissed. It’s a PR fucking nightmare. You’re on goddam TMZ walking naked through the snow in Prague.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit is right. As soon as your arse is up out of bed, Guidelli wants a video conference call. They’ve cancelled the last five shows of the tour, refunded thousands of dollars in ticket sales—again—and they’re giving us three months to sort out our shit.”

My brows shoot up in surprise, and even that hurts. “We get three months off?”

“No, fuckface. We get three months to clean up our shit, or we’re dropped from the label. Personally, I think it’s kind of fucked that all of our careers are in jeopardy, instead of just yours, but hey, Ash and Zed won’t play without you, so it is what it is.”

Ali’s shoulders sag in defeat and she glares at her new fiancé. “Coop.”

“So that’s your plan, just to kick me out of the band?”

“It’s not something I’ve ever wanted, not even when things were ...” He glances at Ali. “Difficult with the three of us, but I won’t lie, Levi. We’ve all had enough of your bullshit. Either you can deal with this, or you can’t. Which is it, because Ali and I are using these three months to get married—”

“Jesus, Coop.” Ali shakes her head. “Really? You said you’d let me handle it.”

“What?” he demands of his future wife. “It’s not like he doesn’t know you said yes.”

“It’s called tact, arsehat.” Ali laughs humourlessly and then turns her gaze on me. She flops heavily in the chair beside my bed, takes my hand, and squeezes. Even as she holds my hand and prepares to feed me some bullshit line about this getting easier, her ring feels like a brand as the platinum band rests against my skin. “I know it hurts, and I know right now Coop and I must seem kind of cunty—”

I scoff. “Kind of?”

“The last thing either of us want is to hurt you.”

“Then don’t fucking marry him!” My voice breaks and I swallow down the lump in my throat as I glare at her.

“Fuck me, I’m done with this conversation. Ali, I’ll meet you downstairs,” Ryan says, shaking his head, and then without another word, he yanks open the hospital room door and leaves, slamming it behind him.

“Don’t marry him, Red,” I beg, squeezing her hand in both of mine. I know I sound pathetic, probably look it too, but I have to try. “Please, please don’t marry him.”

Tears spill over both of our faces, and I don’t care if it emasculates me completely. I don’t give a shit. All I care about is her.

All I want is her.

“I’m marrying him, Levi, and I know asking this of you makes me an arsehole, but it would mean a lot to me—and to him—if you would be there.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re asking. If you did, if you had even the slightest inclination, you wouldn’t ask me to do this,” I say through my teeth.

“I do—”

“No. Get the fuck out!”

“Levi, please ...” She sniffles and wipes away her tears as she climbs to her feet. I want to pull her on top of me. I wanna kiss the shit out of her, even now, even when she’s gutting me this way. I want to grab her hands and run them through the blood that surely must be pouring from the hole in my chest where my heart used to be, but I don’t.

I don’t say a fucking word.

I don’t do a fucking thing, and Ali walks out of my hospital room, and out of my life, probably, for the last time.