Page 69 of Closer

I smile, because it sure as hell felt like it—feels like it. I’m right back where I started. Different pussy, same scenario. At least Brie isn’t marrying one of my other bandmates. So, I guess, that’s progress. “You wanna find me a flight and drop me at the airport?”

“Of course, monsieur.”

“I’m gonna miss you, Margaux.”

“I’ll miss you too, boy.”

I bend and pat Dog on the head, and then I climb the stairs, and walk the hall back to my room where I throw a few basics into a duffle bag. All my shit is still in my Sydney apartment, and if it’s not, then I’ll just start again. There’s nothing there worth anything. I have the shirt on my back, and a bank account brimming with cash—that’s all I need.

Forget women.

Forget France.

Forget everything that isn’t music, because she’s the only mistress who’s always been there for me when no one else was.

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