A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1) (6 page)

“I guess this is goodbye, then,” he states,
coldly.

“Brody,” I say, softly.

“Bye.”

I jump up out of the chair and run into the
bathroom, locking myself into a stall, bawling like I have never bawled before.
I don’t know if it’s the booze or the jet-lag but this breakup feels so much
worse than the last breakup. Brody really is gone. He really did give up on me.
And in my warped, screwed up brain, it feels like
he’s
the one leaving because I can’t have babies, instead of the
other way around.
 

After a good, long cry, I come out of the stall
and reapply my makeup. Once I feel complete again, I make my way out the
bathroom door.

“
Hiya
,” a voice says,
from behind me.

“Hi,” I reply, continuing to walk away without
looking at who’s coming up behind me.

The voice jogs up past me and walks backward in
front of me as I continue my pursuit down the hallway toward the steps back up
to the club. “Hey, um, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That looked
pretty bad there.”

I sneer back at him, “Eavesdrop much? Jesus!” I
push him aside and begin climbing the stairs up to the noisy club.
His accent is freaking sexy as hell! But I
can’t care about that now.

He follows up next to me, obviously not taking
the hint that I’m unimpressed, “Okay, okay, I deserve that. But crying girls
are like moths to a flame for me, I’m afraid. You see, I’m a bit of a fixer. I
see a situation or problem and I have to fix it. Have to. So please, tell me
how I can fix this situation for you properly so I can sleep tonight. I won’t
be able to sleep a wink without cheering you up a little,” he finishes his
speech at the top of the steps that open up onto the dance floor.

I take in his appearance and decide he doesn’t
look like a complete creeper. He has on a stylishly faded button-down dress
shirt with dark denim jeans. His hair is blonde and a bit longer on the top and
swept off to one side in a hipster-style cut. He has kind brown eyes that look
like he is genuinely trying to be a nice guy.

As I gaze around the crowd, looking for my
friends, my eyes land on my dancing partner from earlier, and a funny idea
comes to mind.

“A fixer, huh?” I air-quote at him
sarcastically as he rolls his eyes and halfway smiles. “Well, if you really
want to cheer me up, you’ll go and ask that lovely gentleman for a dance.” I
challenge, and point over to the fun boat who’s still standing in the middle of
the dance floor.

“What? You mean, that giant
Green-Mile
looking bloke being the life
of the party?” he inquires.

“Yep,” I nod, pursing my lips together to
contain my smile.

“Yeah, alright! I don’t give a toss, he’s
probably a big teddy bear underneath all that scary business.” And off he goes.

Oh my
God, he’s really going to do it!
I watch him weave in and out of the crowded
dance floor, making his way over to the incredibly large black man. I try
searching his face for any amount of discomfort, but if he’s feeling it, he’s
definitely not showing it.

When he stands in front of the man, he’s a good
foot shorter, which is saying something because he doesn’t seem like a shrimp
to me. Suddenly,
Mr. Fix-it
starts
hollering at the crowd and clears a small area on the dance floor.
What the hell is he doing?

He reaches his hand out to the man in a
gentleman-like manner with a slight bow, receiving an unceremonious scowl in
return. Seemingly un-phased, he shrugs his shoulders, turns his back to him,
drops down and starts doing…
the Worm?
Oh my God! The Worm! I laugh hysterically as the crowd goes wild around him.
I’m incredibly torn between watching the spectacle on the floor or the jolly
black giant up above. Just when I think this tough guy might actually crack a
smile, he grabs his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and puts them on,
turning his back on the ridiculous scene in front of him.

This new sexy Brit obviously has a warped sense
of humor like mine. He stands up, looks at the man we’re all trying desperately
hard to please, shakes his head, and begins sauntering his way back toward me
with lots of pats on the back from the crowd.

“I did my best!” he shouts over the music, as
he gently grasps my arm, allowing a few people to squeeze their way behind him.

His gentle touch ignites prickles down my arm.
I look at him with my jaw dropped and say, “Worth it.”

“Worth what?” he quips.

“That scene,” I gesture toward the dance floor,
“made coming to this city completely worth it.”

“You’re American, right?”

I nod.

“Well, I’d love to hear more about what brought
you here,” he says, still holding onto my arm.

I quickly shake my head and begin scanning the
crowd for Leslie or Frank. I do not like the direction this interrogation is
going, so I need to run.

“Okay, okay, bad idea. Don’t tell me why you’re
here…don’t say a thing about it, I don’t give a toss. But at least let me buy
you a drink. I did just do the bloody worm, after all!” he says, looking
hopefully at me as I see Leslie and Frank sitting at our table.

I turn to him and decide the only way to forget
about Brody is to keep myself distracted. This guy seems like he could help
with that.

“See the two redheads at that table?”

“The guy that looks like
Carrot Top
?” he asks, completely serious.

My nostrils flare as I bite my lip to hold back
the laughter that is screaming to be released.
Oh my God, I can’t wait to dump that one on Frank later!
“That’s
the one. The one and only. Those are my friends. You can buy me a drink and
meet me over there.”

“Got it!” he shouts, already retreating toward
the bar.

“Do you even care what I want to drink?”

“I’ve got it covered!” he replies, barely
audible.

Taking a deep breath, I hurry over to our table
because I need a moment to talk to Frank and Leslie before this
fixer guy
hunkers down with us.

“What the fuck, Finley?” Leslie screeches out at
me after I tell her what I did. “Why did you call him?”

“I couldn’t help it!” I reply, feebly, shouting
over the loud music.

“You are a moron of epic proportions. Epic!”
she states dramatically, flailing her hands above her head in case I can’t hear
her clearly.

I quickly glance around to see if
Mr. Fixer
is on his way over yet.

“You were the one who ended it with Brody.
You!” she points at me with dramatic hand gestures. “This is all in your crazy,
fucked up head. If you want to end it with him, then end it and be done.
Calling him and being nice and normal is plain torture.” She aggressively sucks
the remainder of her V&T through the thin neon green straw.

Frank gets up from his chair and stands between
Leslie and me, “Alright kittens, retract the claws. We’re here to have a good
time, remember?” he coos, forcefully enough to be heard. “Now, Fin-Bin, who was
that lovely piece of eye candy you were chatting with back there? He looks
delish!”

“Is that me you’re talking about—or the
Green Mile bloke?” the fixer inquires loudly from behind.

“Well,
hellloooo
,”
Frank purrs at him, his eyes roving him up and down.

“I’ll take that as me. I’m Liam,” he says, in
his delicious British accent, holding his hand out to shake Leslie’s, then
Frank’s.

“Liam,” Frank mouths, to no one in particular
with a dramatic flick of the tongue on the L.

“This seat taken?” Liam asks, sidling up to the
stool next to me.

He sets four closed bottles of beer down on the
table in front of us and shoots me a wink. “Hope you like beer, it’s the only
thing I could buy with sealed lids. Speaking of which, I truly hope you don’t
accept open drinks from random blokes you meet at a bar! You could be
roofied
, for Christ’s sake!”

“Yeah!
Roofied
, for
Christ’s sake!” Leslie repeats as she eagerly snatches her aluminum beer bottle
and twists the cap off for a drink.

I eye Liam speculatively as he opens one and
hands it to me. He then hands one to Frank and grabs the last one for himself.

“So, I’m Liam. And you guys are…”

“Frank. Frank. Just, Frank,” Frank looks beside
himself. He’s awkward and fidgety and trying unsuccessfully to twist the cap
off the beer, while staring directly into Liam’s eyes.

“Keep your panties on, Frank. This one looks
like he’s into brunettes, I’m afraid,” Leslie says, elbowing Frank in the side.
“I’m Leslie, the best friend.”

“Hello Leslie, the best friend. And you are?”
he asks, turning his chocolate eyes at me, glancing quickly at my mouth first,
then back up to my aqua eyes.

“Finley.”

“Finley,” he grins like he knows a secret no
one else knows. “Leslie is correct, Finley. I do like brunettes,” he smiles
brazenly at me.

I raise my eyebrows and turn back to Leslie,
“Whew! Lucky me. He doesn’t even have to know me before he decides he likes me!”

He squints his eyes in response to my sarcasm,
clearly not impressed.

“I was worried for a second there, but nope,
now I got it. My hair is brown—I win! I’m the perfect female specimen
because I have shit-colored hair,” I hoot obnoxiously, taking a swig of my
beer.

Leslie drops her chin and glares at me. Visibly
uncomfortable, Frank looks down at his beer.

Liam lets out a huff of air and a small bark of
a laugh as he stands up and gently
smooths
his
wayward blonde hair to the side.

“Leslie…Frank…it was nice to meet you guys.” He
turns to me, “Fin, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. Enjoy the rest of
your evening.” And with that, he makes his way away from our table and back
toward the bar.

Frank is the first to break the uncomfortable
silence, “Christ, Finny. That was downright bitchy, even by my standards.”

“Yeah,” Leslie juts out her jaw, shaking her
head at me. “Not cool, Finley.”

What’s wrong with me? Sure, I’m sarcastic and
like to joke around, but even I don’t know what the hell that was all about.
Without thinking, I jump out of my chair and press my way through the crowd
toward Liam’s blonde hair that stands out above the heads of people.

“Uh…Liam!” I shout, trying to get him to slow
down so I can get through the swarm of people.

He looks back with a confused frown on his face
as I finally catch up to him.

“I’m not a bitch,” I say, in a normal voice.

Liam gives me a puzzled look, turning his ear
towards me.

“I said…” I yell, “I’M. NOT. A. BITCH!”

He stares at me speculatively, dancing his eyes
down to my mouth again.
Damn, why does he
have to do that? It does serious things to my belly.

“Prove it!” he shouts back at me.

Hesitating, I try to decide if he’s worth the
effort. I figure I need to do this for myself as much as I need to do it for
him.

A railing that surrounds the dance floor is to
the left of where we are standing. Three metal beams parallel each other
horizontally with a good two feet between each.

I smile and hold my index finger up to him,
encouraging him to watch me. I walk over to the bars and climb up the first two
beams, throwing my leg over the top beam to straddle, and balance my feet on
the second beam with my long red skirt bunching up on top of the bar. I look
over to him as he gazes at me, expectantly.

I take a deep breath, cup my hands around my
mouth, and shout as loud as humanly possible, “I’M NOT A BITCH. I’M JUST HAVING
A REALLY BAD FUCKING YEAR!”

“Oh stuff
it, would
ya
!”

“Get
a life, loser!”

“I’ll
shag
ya
!”

“Shut
the fuck up!”

I glance around trying to place the voices of
all the people heckling me, then look over to Liam. He’s smiling and nodding
his head approvingly.

As I crawl my way back down the tall barrier, I
feel large hands grab me by my waist and guide me down to ground.

“No need to bloody shout!” Liam yells in my
ear, pulling back and laughing softly at me. “Want to get some fresh air?”

“Sure,” I reply. He leads me by the small of my
back out the front door to where the doorman is holding back a line of people waiting
to get in. We get stamps on our hands so we can return without having to get
back in line, and Liam ushers me down the side of the brick building a small
distance away from the people.

My head is readjusting to the deafening silence
outside compared to the booming bass inside. I drag my hand down the side of
the brick wall and look over to Liam with a smile on my face. He smiles back at
me and it feels like we’re having a complete conversation without saying a
word.

“So,” Liam starts, “A bad fucking year, eh?”

“You could say that.”

“I’ve had some of those,” he replies, leaning
next to me alongside the brick wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “So,
what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” I say,
turning around, picking at the brick with my fingernails.

“Have you seen much of London yet?” he asks,
turning and mirroring my movements.

“Not much…some of the neighborhood I’m staying
in, I guess, but that’s it so far. I haven’t been here long.”

“What are you doing tomorrow, then?” he leans
one shoulder against the brick and crossing his arms again like he’s posing for
a Senior Picture.

I can sense where this is going and my heart
races with anxiety. This guy is cute, enormously cute. He’s got an unbelievably
sexy accent and seems nice and normal. But I can’t even consider dating anyone
yet or spending any significant amount of time with someone that is so
obviously interested in me.

“I still need to do a lot of unpacking. My
suitcases…and in here,” I say, pointing to my head.

“
Ahh
, that’s probably
a heavy load,” he replies, touching my head and lightly brushing his fingertips
in my hair.

I close my eyes and relish in the touch for
just a second.

“I should hope it’s a heavy load, otherwise one
could call me a ditz,” I retort back with a small grin.

“That is one thing I can definitely tell you
are not,” he says, standing upright off the brick wall. He glances back toward
the club. “Well then, perhaps I can give you my number on the off chance you finish
unpacking early and want to buy more things to unpack.”

“That would probably be okay,” I reply,
tentatively.

“And in case you forget that you want to
purchase more items to unpack someday, maybe I can get your phone number, too.
For purely logistical purposes, of course,” he declares, dropping his chin and
raising his eyebrows shamelessly.

When I look a little skeptical, he quickly
adds, “It really is the least you could do after treating me so rudely this
evening. And on my birthday, of all days.”

My eyes turn wide, “It’s your birthday?” I ask,
shocked.

“’
Fraid
so,” he sucks
a big gulp of air between his teeth and rocks back and forth on his feet. “So,
unless I get this gorgeous, passionate, and funny
brunette’s
number tonight,” he smiles, cheekily, “I may have
birthdays ruined for me for the remainder of time and space.”

I frown as I consider his ballsy joke. It takes
guts to throw the brunette thing back in my face so soon, but it’s exactly
something I would do, so I can’t help but smile a little. Not to mention
gorgeous
and
passionate
are ringing in my ears on repeat in his sexy British
tone. I shake my head and concede, “You’re good,” I reach over and grab his
phone out of his hands, “I’m giving you my freaking number just because that speech
was
that
good. Bravo, Romeo. Bravo.”

He smiles proudly at me.
He looks so adorably pleased with himself right now.

After assuring me he understands I’m not ready
to hang out any time soon, we part ways and I return to my table of redheads.
Leslie appears to be deep in thought. I eye her speculatively but she shakes
her head, so I let it go. I’m still feeling slightly gloomy about the whole
Brody situation, but I know Leslie is right. I made this decision. I need to
stick to it.