Page 47 of Closer

“Bastien?” I roll my eyes. “What kind of pussy-arse name is that?”

She smiles coyly. “Says the man who is named after a pair of jeans.”

“At least it’s not cheese,” I murmur. “Though you do look all kinds of tasty.”

“I am not named after cheese,” she says impatiently. “My name is Brielle. It means ‘Of God’.”

I humph. “Figures.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I say too quickly. “So how did Bastien break your heart?”

“He was my lover, but he failed to mention he was already married with three children. I showed up at his house in nothing but lingerie and a trench coat. His wife tried to murder me with a vegetable peeler.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. Deep, fucking insane sounding guffaws.

“It is not funny. She could have done some serious damage,” Brie says, but even she can see the humour in it, and she laughs too. “I always wondered why Bastien was obsessed with my hands. I thought it was because of how I played, but when I met his wife, it all became clear. She had these huge masculine mitts, all dry and calloused, probably from cleaning up after him and his three horrible kids.”

“So, what happened after she tried to murder you with a vegetable peeler?” I can’t even say it with a straight face.

She sighs. “I confronted him, and he demanded I be removed from the orchestra. Said it was a conflict of interest. Conductors hold a lot of sway, but it was more than that. He knows everyone in Paris, and I could not find work anywhere in my whole damn city. I have my students, but I even lost some of them, because everyone loves to hate the other woman, even when she has no clue that that is what she is.”

“That’s fucked up, but why don’t you just move? You’re easily good enough to play with the Berlin Philharmonic, or Vienna, London, or even Chicago. Fuck, anyone would be lucky to have you. Brie, you should be playing your own stadiums. I can’t understand why you aren’t.”

“It is not that simple. My father is ill.”

“The arsehole who beat you as a kid for not playing well enough?”

“He is not an arsehole. He was making me strong, and now he is weak. I cannot leave him or my mother.”

“Yeah, well in my country, we call that child abuse.”

“I do not expect you to understand.”

I frown and turn my head to glare at her. “Why wouldn’t I understand?”

“Because you are a rock star. You’re a man. It is always different for men. Your ability to play is not judged on whether your face is starting to wrinkle too early, or if your dress is the suitable length, or if you open your legs for the wrong lover.” She laughs, but it’s without humour. “You take off your shirt and play on stage, you drink and do drugs, and make sex tapes, and sell replicas of your penis, and the industry—the world—applauds you for it. I choose the wrong lover, and I not only get my heart broken, but I lose any chance of following my dreams because no one will hire me in France.”

“Then work for me. Play for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Playwithme.”

She cocks a brow. “Is this a sex thing?”

“It can be a sex thing if you want.” I grin, but continue speaking when I see she’s not falling for it. “Stay for the month. Help me write again.”

“I can’t do that. There is my mother to think of. She has no reprieve. No one there to help her take care of him.”

“I’ll make it seventy-five.”

“You gave me fifty for the week. Fifty times four is not seventy-five.”

“You want two hundred thousand euro? Fine. Done.”

Brie rolls to her side and rests her head on her palm. “Are you crazy?

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