Page 38 of Closer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ME AND AFG

LEVI

Sometime around noon, I finally get up, throw on a pair of jeans—no shirt, no shoes—and leave my room. I have plans for painkillers and more booze, but I hear Angry French Girl muttering to herself in the ballroom and I push open the door and watch her as she studies the cello in its stand.

“You know the first sign of madness is—”

“Talking to yourself, I know.”

“Actually, I was going to say it’s flying halfway across the country to stay in a complete stranger’s chateau, but talking to yourself works too.”

That earns me another glare. She could make an Olympic sport out of that shit.She’d win gold every time.

“You shouldn’t leave a cello out in the open like this. The lack of humidity can crack the wood, especially when it’s cold.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she snaps, and then schools her features into something like neutrality. “Shall we get started?”

“You don’t waste any time do you, AFG?” She shoots me a look, like she doesn’t understand my new nickname for her.Good. Women love dark and mysterious. “I thought we’d at least have a drink first.”

“It’s noon.”

“And I woke up thirsty.” I don’t say for what.

“You’re paying me to play, so where do you want me?”

Bent over my piano.

“That’s a joke, right?”

“No. If it were a joke, I would have started it with why does the chicken cross the road?”

I chuckle. “Oh, AFG, I want you everywhere, and anywhere. On the bed, the floor, in the pool, up against that wall.” I point to the flaking wallpaper behind her. “Bent over my piano with that pert little arse stuck up in the air, but since we’re on the subject, why does the chicken cross the road?”

“To peck the cocky rock star half to death.”

“Only half?”

“Oui.” Her mouth tips up in the shadow of a smile. “She realises halfway through that he isn’t worth her time.”

“Ouch, that’s cold.” I clutch my hand to my chest and feign heartbreak. “Hey, while we’re on the subject of frigid bitches, tell me about you, Angry French Girl. Why aren’t you playing sell-out tours?”

“Because even in France assholes with teeny tiny little pin dicks feel threatened by strong women.”

My responding smile is huge. “You fucked the wrong guy, didn’t you?”

She lets out an exasperated breath. “I am not discussing my private life with you.”

“And here I thought we were discussing business? I knew it was because of cock. I was right. I usually always am when it comes to fucking.”

“Fine, yes, I slept with the wrong man, and screwed my career in the process. Are you happy?”

“No. Talent like yours should be shared with the world.”

“Yes, well, sleeping with the wrong man in the industry has only led to me sharing my talent at weddings and playing on the street for coins.”

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