Ruined (A Barnes Brothers novel) (6 page)

She closed her eyes and tried to picture him in the role.

The male lead was known simply as Rand, and he was an assassin for a local crime syndicate. After a cop refused to back down over incriminating evidence he had uncovered, Rand was supposed to kill the cop’s wife, Marlena, as punishment, but he ended up developing an obsession with her and became her silent protector, killing those who were sent after he refused the job. Even when her husband was killed shortly before he could testify, the head of the criminal organization wanted Marlena dead, but Rand continued to watch over her, eventually bringing down the crime lord himself.

Rand’s part was dark, deep and intense.

Marin thought of the darkness she had seen in Sebastien over the past months, and then she looked at JD. Her manager was right. Sebastien could play that part.

The question was . . . could she make him see that?

And did he even
want
to come back?

JD stroked a finger down his mustache, holding her gaze. “He can do it.”

Marin looked up from the glass of wine she’d yet to touch. “Oh, I know that,” she said, her voice husky. A year ago, no. But what had happened a year ago, and everything that had happened since, all of that had changed Sebastien.

He could do it. He could bring Rand to life in a way that would make the man who’d written him
weep
with joy.

But . . .

“It’s a matter of whether or not he wants to.”

JD kept the electronic cigarette clamped between his teeth and she eyed the thin stream of smoke—no,
vapor
, she corrected—it emitted from the end. She’d always wondered how well those things worked, but then again, she’d always wondered why people would suck all that tar and rat poison into their lungs to begin with.

Finally, she shifted her gaze back to JD and his insightful stare. He’d been her manager for a long, long time. She had been the one to tell him to take a chance on Sebastien. So many had just assumed that pretty-boy exterior was all there was. JD had never regretted a moment.

His too-knowing gaze had always annoyed the hell out of her. “That boy doesn’t know
what
to think.”

She swallowed and looked away.

Satisfied now, he leaned back. “’Course, it gets worse when you’re around.”

“Well, geez.” Skewering him with a look, she grabbed her wine and knocked it back as if it were whiskey. Lounging back in her seat, she gave him an arrogant look. “And here you were pointing out that I was one of the few who could get through to him. Tell me something, genius . . . why are you so certain that having me talk to him will make any difference at all?”

“Because he wants the part.” JD lowered the slim, black pseudo-cigarette to the table and mirrored her pose. The intensity on his face told her he’d been holding this part back until it was time. Apparently, it was D-day, in JD’s eyes. “You see, when word got out that Michael Townsend had finally done the screenplay—
and
that he wanted you for Marlena, Sebastien started calling me. Asking me who would be playing Rand. I told him then that he wasn’t right for it.”

Marin tipped her head back to stare up at the sky. They were sitting in a sweet little outdoor restaurant, the rush and bustle of LA muted by the greenery wrapped around the private pavilion. Overhead, she could see the almost painfully clear blue of the sky and she searched it, as if it held answers. It didn’t even hold a single damn cloud she could pretend was a fat, fluffy bunny.

Son of a bitch.

“He’d be right for it,” she murmured. She knew without a doubt. Sebastien had the depth to play a lot of parts, but the part of Rand would require more deep-seated pain and anger than Sebastien had ever known, had ever
been
through in his life. That had been the truth of it a year ago.

But last year’s truth no longer applied.

“When do you need an answer?”

“Townsend won’t let it go to production until he’s got a cast he’s satisfied with. You already know that.” He lifted a shoulder and cocked a brow, a smug smile curling his lips. “You should know that Sebastien was actually his idea. He loves the projects you two have been in, although he did listen to the director’s advice when she suggested he probably wasn’t right for this part when it was first being tossed around. When we were talking things over a few days ago, he mentioned Sebastien again, though . . .” JD shrugged. “Sebastien’s different now. He had to grow up. He can play that part.”

“So I’ve got a few days.”

“Probably a week or two.”

She grimaced. She
might
be able to pierce the thick skull of a Barnes man in that time frame.

If she had a battering ram.

***

Sweat dripped from his brow.

His muscles were warmed and tired from the hard, driving five mile run.

Sebastien had plans for the day ahead—he usually did. Now that he’d finished his workout, those plans included a long, cool shower, a nice quick lunch, and then a long drive down the coast.

He was trying to pump himself up to head up to San Francisco and visit his parents.

He thought maybe he could do it.

He missed them.

He missed his brothers.

He missed his little buddy Clayton, and he had to admit, he was sort of falling in love with Ressa’s niece, too. Or he had been, until he’d fallen into this hole he was now stuck in. Seeing them all again at the wedding had been . . . nice. When he hadn’t been overthinking things.

“Not stuck,” he muttered, staring up the steps that led to his house. The waves rolled up against the beach behind him and he was tempted to just flop down until his legs no longer felt like putty, but he knew better.

So he put one foot in front of the other and dragged himself up the steps. While his body was worn out, his brain was revved up and he felt more . . . at peace with things than he had in a while.

A week of sobriety had done him wonders. When he’d gotten through it the other night without breaking, he’d almost felt . . . well, not
good
, but . . . decent.

Sebastien was most definitely scraping rock bottom—or he had been until Marin had shown up at his door and told him he
was
going to his brothers’ weddings.

She’d all but pushed his sorry ass out of the door and he was grateful.

Seeing his folks, his brothers, Abby . . .

He realized he was smiling when the scar on the side of his face tightened, but he didn’t stop just because of how the twisted tissue tugged, at odds with the rest of his features.

Yeah. He thought just maybe he would go see his folks.

***

An hour and a half later, he was slumped in front of his computer, staring at an amateur video uploaded to YouTube, watching the spray of blood as he killed Hanson Smith.

He’d gotten online for one simple reason: he wanted to book a room in San Francisco. He might not need it—he usually stayed with his folks—but he wanted that escape in case things got hard. He didn’t
want
to need it, but he’d feel better if he had it.

But he never made it to the hotel website.

He’d seen a headline on the home page and he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

He’d clicked.

Now, mind awash in memories and grief and regret and rage—and booze . . . mustn’t forget the booze—he sat there staring at an oversized image of Monica’s face.

The memory of her, the last clear memory, kept playing in his mind over and over.

The wind teasing her hair.

Her lips curved in a sad smile.

That pretty sunset dress.

His hand tightened around the bottle of scotch and he lifted it to his lips. It was a quarter empty now. In some dim, still-functioning part of his brain, he realized that it would have been wise to just dump all the booze out, like he’d originally planned.

The video ended.

The link to another came up and he clicked
play
.

This one showed in detail—
in slow motion, guys!!!!—how Sebastien Barnes smoked that fucker’s ass.

That was the title of the video.

The whiskey in his gut sloshed around and he thought he might be sick.

It would have been Hanson Smith’s fiftieth birthday today. Sebastien hadn’t known. If he had, he would have stayed the hell away from the internet. The headline that had caught his eye had infuriated him. He shouldn’t have clicked.

He
knew
that. He shouldn’t have done it.

But he clicked.

The Tortured Life of an Artist Gone Too Soon

It had been splashed under three pictures—Hanson, Monica Dupré, and the last publicity still of Sebastien.

He’d been a dumb-ass and read it.

Just why in the
fuck
did people want to mourn and celebrate and wonder about abusive assholes? The world was full of them and they asked questions and wondered and brooded. The person they needed to mourn, the artist needed to grieve over, was Monica.

Not Hanson, the asswipe.

So he’d looked back at what had been done for Monica’s birthday.

There’d been hardly anything on the internet.

Sebastien had gone for the bottle and started reading all the bullshit articles written about him, Hanson, Monica . . . for
his
birthday. They’d done write-ups about Monica, speculating if she’d driven Hanson to do what he’d done.

Was she unfaithful . . .

Rumors that she was leaving him abounded . . .

His obsessive love pushed him over the edge . . .

It was all
insane
.

She’d been in trouble and people hadn’t seen it then, and they couldn’t see it now.
He
hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t saved her. Guilt soured the whiskey in his gut, but he still took another drink.

“Sebastien?”

At the sound of Marin’s voice, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

“Go away,” he said under his breath. He didn’t want her seeing him like this.

It didn’t dawn on him until a few minutes later that it would have been wise to at least close the browser.

By then, it was too late.

“You stupid son of a bitch . . . what are you doing?” Her voice was hard and angry.

Opening his good eye to a slit, he studied her. Or at least he tried. He found himself staring at the curve of her breast as she leaned over and shut down the browser, ending the video replay.

She whirled on him, jabbing him in the chest with her index finger. “Is this what you do all the time? Sit around and torture yourself?”

Nudging her back, he stood up. “No.”

After grabbing the bottle—and swigging back a healthy gulp, he started forward. He needed to be . . . elsewhere. He wasn’t sure where, but elsewhere. Because if he sat around Marin too long, he might go back to looking at her pretty breasts.

For a few seconds, he’d stopped seeing the blood that had filled his vision—his everything—for the past couple of hours. And his nightmares for the past year.

“Give me that bottle.”

He took another drink as he walked into the kitchen. Since his head was spinning a little too merrily, he thumped it down on the island. One thing he’d already figured out was that it was useless to argue with her. She’d just win anyway. He had the hardest damn time saying no to her.

He heard liquid splashing against metal and closed his eyes. “That’s eighteen-year-old scotch, Marin. You could just drink it yourself instead of . . .” He paused, trying to remember what he was saying. “Instead of waishing—wasting it.”

“No, thank you. I prefer to do my drinking
after
one o’clock in the afternoon, Seb.”

At the soft sound of her voice, he looked over at her. The room spun around him but he didn’t stagger. Sebastien prided himself on being a rather excellent drunk. He didn’t stagger or get stupid—friends always remarked on it. What he did was get sleepy. Soon, he’d end up passing out and he’d probably forget a hell of a lot.

Which was why he drank a lot. He got tired, he slept, and he forgot.

Marin came closer.

When she reached up to touch his cheek, he found himself wishing that maybe he hadn’t been so drunk because her touch felt good. It felt right.

“Why do you keep torturing yourself, Seb?” she asked softly.

“’M not.” He caught her wrist and squeezed, managed to smile. “I’m fine, Marin. You. . . . go on home. Come back later. I’ll be . . . I’ll be sober.”

“You’re hardly ever sober.”

That hurt. He’d spent the past week sober. He wasn’t even totally wasted now. Why hadn’t she come around
then
? He could have shown her. She might have been . . . well, not proud. Big fucking deal.
Look at me, Marin . . . I’m a good little boy. I’m not drunk.
But
he
had been proud of himself.

Up until now.

Now he was just pathetic.

And he was tired of it.

Frowning, he nudged her hand down and edged around her, moving to the cabinet where he’d taken to keeping his alcohol. He’d long since drank the supply in his bar and he didn’t entertain anymore, so why keep it in such an inconvenient place?

He grabbed two bottles at random and moved to the sink. “Wanna help?”

Focusing on what he was doing, rather than whether or not she’d join him, he fought with the heavy wax seal on a bottle and finally got it open. Marin had already drained the one she held before he got the stopper out of his. The room was soon filled with the heavy miasma of booze—the peaty scent of scotch, underscored with tequila and rum.

When they were done, six bottles emptied of booze, sat on the counter.

“No more drinking, Marin.”

“I’m glad.”

They shared a glance.

Sebastien nodded, feeling awkward, and then he turned away. He staggered a little, half tripping over his feet, and the rush of blood to his face didn’t help his state of mind any. Of all the times to turn into a clumsy drunk—he had to do it in front of
Marin
?

“Here . . .”

She came to his side but he pulled away. “I can do it,” he snapped.

“Sebastien—”

“Don’t touch me!”

She jerked back, stung.

He saw the hurt in her eyes and he swore, because that was the last thing he’d ever wanted.

“I . . . Marin . . .”

She went to back away and he caught her arms. The strappy tank she wore left too much of her skin bare and the feel of all that softness under his hands hit his alcohol-laden brain hard and fast. The need lingering just under the surface began to pulse through his veins and he throttled it down as he grappled for a way to fix the pain he’d caused.

“It’s not . . . I’m sorry,” he said. “I just . . . I don’t want you having to . . .” He stroked a thumb down her arm. “It’s my own damn fault if I end up on my ass, Marin.”

She tugged away from him again and he let go, his hands falling to his sides, big and empty and useless. She turned away from him and that sense of uselessness increased, only getting worse when she sniffed. Standing a few feet away from him, she cleared her throat. “We should get you sobered up,” she said. “I came out here to talk to you.”

Sebastien didn’t want to sober up and talk, though. He wanted oblivion, wanted to forget the misery he had caused.

She sniffed again and drawn in by the slump of her shoulders, he came up behind her. She’d scooped her hair up, exposing the elegant curve of her neck, the vulnerable nape.

“I’m sorry, Marin,” he murmured.

She went to duck away and he brought his arms up, caging her in by the counter. She tensed.

The scent of her was getting to him and he told himself he needed to listen to her—get some food in him, some water, take a shower . . .
sober up
—instead, he dropped his head down on her shoulder. The nearness of her already had him rock hard and all the months of celibacy began to whisper like demons in his ear.

But when she sighed and turned around, he didn’t do anything.

This was Marin and she’d made it clear she didn’t want him.

“It’s okay, Sebastien.” She reached up and touched his cheek. Her thumb slid over the scar.

He caught her wrist, ready to tug her hand away—he’d take her touch anyway he could get it, but not there.

Except Marin wasn’t easily deterred, a fact he’d learned all too well over the past year. “You need to stop drowning your demons in alcohol and you’ve got to stop chasing them down yourself. They do a good enough job finding you on their own.”

With his thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist, he searched for something to say in response.

“I don’t—” But he had to stop, because he wasn’t sure she was wrong. He’d thought he was
running
from them, but they always caught up to him when the nights were quiet. Back when he’d been drinking them away, they’d be there waiting when the fog of alcohol cleared. Now, at night, when he lay awake, they were just . . . there.

Too often, he’d drift to sleep only to jerk awake in a panic, thinking he was back on that sidewalk again, staring down Hanson while time slowed to a crawl as they grappled for the knife.

“You don’t what?” Marin stared at him challengingly.

“I killed a man. And it was all for nothing, because I didn’t save
her
,” he said hoarsely. “And now . . . hell, Marin. Look at me. I’m
nothing
now. And do you see how they talk about her?
What did she do
?”

He threw out his arms as he said, his voice scathing, “How did Monica push that fabulous artist over the edge? Where did
she
go wrong? They blame her!” he shouted.

“And . . .” His voice hitched. “Sometimes I do, too. Because if she hadn’t left
me
 . . . Fuck. If she hadn’t left me, she’d be alive. And I wouldn’t have killed him. I wouldn’t know what it was like to have blood on my hands. Sometimes, I wish
he
had been the one to win that fight.”

“No.”
The urgency in her voice was echoed in her eyes and Marin leaned in. She was a tall woman and in the shoes she wore, she was almost level with him.

If he hadn’t been so drunk, he might have realized what she was going to do and he could have pulled back, because it was something that would snap his fragile control.

But if he hadn’t been so drunk, none of this would have happened to begin with.

Marin’s hand slid to the back of his neck and she tugged him closer. At the same time, she pressed her lips to his, speaking softly.
“No,”
she said again. “Don’t you
ever
say that.”

The second her mouth touched his, Sebastien’s thoughts faded . . . stopped . . . died.

Say what?

Her mouth was on his.

Marin
was kissing him.

It wasn’t in front of a camera.

It wasn’t for a publicity shoot.

She was kissing him.

It was one of those friendly little pecks—the kind one friend might give another.
It will be okay . . .
That’s all the kiss meant and he knew it.

At least, that’s all it meant to her.

But for him . . .

In the span of a second, it seemed a million thoughts rolled through his mind. He wanted to grab her, pull her against him, and deepen the kiss.

He wanted to take her to the floor, spread her thighs, and come inside her—although he’d need to get her naked first.

He wanted to tear away from her and get distance between them—possibly consider a move to the Arctic because that might be far enough away to keep from throwing himself at her and demanding why in the hell she wouldn’t give him a chance.

Instead, he pulled back. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

In a startling second of sobriety, he realized he needed to get away from her before he did something really, really stupid.

“Sebastien . . .” Marin’s hand slid from his neck back to his cheek.

He went to pull away and this time; she was the one who caught his arms. Through the faded cotton of his old T-shirt, he could feel each finger, like she was imprinting herself on his skin and his blood began to pulse hot and fast in his veins.

Lowering his head, he focused on the gleaming tiles under his feet while Marin continued to speak. His blood was roaring too loudly for him to understand even a fucking word and his cock was now pulsing in time with his heart. When her hands stroked down his arms, he finally twisted away from her and paced a few feet away. She started to approach and he spun around, bracing his hands against the refrigerator. It lit up under his touch, the opaque glass going clear, revealing the recently stocked contents but he didn’t see anything. He’d shut his eyes tightly and was focusing on breathing.

His head was a little more clear.

“Sebastien, would you talk to me?” Marin said.

He opened his eyes, stared ahead.

Inside the glass-fronted fridge, he saw a bottle. “I don’t think talking is a good idea, Marin,” he said raggedly.

It was a bottle of vodka. He’d forgotten it was in there.

As Marin started yet again to reach out to him—he didn’t need
therapy
from her—he all but ripped the refrigerator door open and snagged the bottle, striding toward the deck that faced out over the ocean.

He had the lid off the bottle and had already downed a quarter off it by the time she caught up with him.

“Damn it, we just dumped out your entire liquor cabinet,” she said, going to tear the bottle away from him.

Sebastien shrugged away. “Don’t worry. I’m not buying any more once this is gone. I just . . . I really need it right now.” If he got drunk enough, his cock wouldn’t work. Since Marin wasn’t going away, he figured that was his next best option.

She tried again to get the bottle. “You stupid ass. Why are you doing this?”

He fumbled with the lock to the deck door a few times before he managed to open it and squinted up at the bright light of the sun as he stepped through. The treated glass of his windows left him unprepared for the dazzling brightness.

He took another swig from the bottle, felt a comfortable numbing haze settle around his brain, and thought maybe he could relax a little.

Maybe.

Making his way over to the railing, he leaned against it.

Reflexes already slowed, he didn’t move fast enough when Marin made another go for the bottle. He managed to get it away, but he also managed to drop it, and the cold liquid splashed all over his bare feet.

Glaring at her, he pointed at the boards of the deck, now soaked with vodka. “You spilled it!”

Her eyes sparked, hard and angry. “
You
spilled it. Are you trying to drink yourself unconscious?”

“Yes!”
Exasperated, he shoved a hand through his hair, almost poking himself in the eye when he misjudged where his hair was in conjunction to his face. “That’s
exactly
what I’m trying to do.”

Her face softened and Marin took another step toward him.

He couldn’t back away because the railing of the deck was at his back. Also, everything was starting to spin around like a fucking Tilt-A-Whirl.

“That’s not going to make it all better. Everything will still be the same when you wake up. You need to deal with the problems, Seb.”

“I
have
.” Setting his jaw, he glared past her shoulder and tried to think about something
other
than the problem: a need for her that had become soul deep.

“You haven’t. You’ve hidden away from it for the past year—”

She stopped speaking.

She’d gone to brush his hair back and he caught her wrist, slanting a gaze at her.

She must have seen something on his face.

Marin swallowed.

Sebastien told himself to let her go and just head inside, lock himself in his room. If he got horizontal, he’d pass out. It would be for the best.

“You think . . .” He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. When he looked back at her, she was no longer swimming in and out of focus, although his head sure as hell was. “I was drinking earlier to drown things out, yeah. But this time? I just want to get so wasted I can stop wanting what I can’t have, Marin. If you want to help, maybe you should just leave.”