Page 103 of Wilder Love
40
Remy
Two Weeks Later
“Let them talk,” I said, draining the rest of the champagne in my flute as our car stopped outside the drop-off entrance to the Hollywood Bowl. Bastian had sent a car to pick us up, suspecting we wouldn’t show up unless he forced the issue and plied us with expensive alcohol. “They don’t know us.”
“You don’t care?” Shane asked before he knocked back the rest of the whiskey in his tumbler.
“I only care if it upsets you.”
“Fuck ‘em. If you’re okay, I’m okay.”
And I was more than okay. I was downright giddy. We tumbled out of the ridiculous car Bastian had sent—a stretch Hummer with a fully stocked minibar and a driver who looked like Ringo Starr—a little bit tipsy but not drunk. Shane was wearing frayed cargo pants with the hems rolled up, a plain white T, and the straw fedora I took off my head and placed on his. He looked effortlessly cool and gorgeous.
I flicked the brim with my fingertip. “You look jaunty.”
“You look badass.” He gave me a playful smack on the ass and a wink.
What I looked like was a grown-up version of the girl he met, in ripped denim shorts, a black skull tank top, and an Army jacket. He slung an arm around my shoulders and guided us to the outdoor amphitheater. “The beach bum and the queen of the catwalk.”
“The god on a stick and the alley cat.”
“Put your claws away,” he said. “You’ll hurt someone.”
“My sharp tongue already did.”
“You’re my hero, Firefly.” He dipped his head and kissed the corner of my mouth. I fisted his T-shirt in my hands and backed him against the wall. We kissed like it was the end of the world, our hands roaming and our tongues tangling, an island in the sea of people streaming past us in search of food and drinks.
Love tasted like whiskey and warm sunshine and the sea. I was drunk on his kisses and high on his scent. I lifted my eyes to his hazel greens, dark with lust, and hooded with desire. His grin was slow and lazy, and he swept his tongue across the lower lip I’d just been sucking on.
I cocked my head. “What are you thinking about?”
“Baseball. And a museum I went to on a grade school field trip…” I pressed my body flush against his. He groaned, and I laughed, grinding my body against his erection to torture him.
“I’m wet, if that’s any consolation.”
“Not helping,” he said, laughing. “Fuck. This is painful. Look what you do to me.”
I took a step back and we both looked down at the source of his pain. Not going to lie, I wasn’t sorry in the least. Unable to keep from laughing, I shielded his body with mine, giving him a chance to readjust himself in his cargo pants. Then we swaggered to our seats in the Pool Circle right down in front of the stage.
I bumped my hip against his and we took our seats on folding chairs. I was halfway in his lap, our arms around each other, my legs slung over his thighs. We were Shane and Remy 2.0. There was something to be said about giving zero fucks. And there was a lot to be said about telling the truth. It was liberating. After the backlash we got from those photos on social media and the trash talk from the Harts, we refused to take it lying down. One of the perks of being a model and being friends with a rock star was that I knew people and I had contacts.
With the help of Bastian’s publicist, I set all those wagging tongues straight. The Harts filed a lawsuit against me, but they dropped it when Shane and I went to speak with them, taking our lawyer with us. We’d tried to be as respectful as we could of Tristan’s memory, and we’d kept the details vague. Nobody needed to know the whole sordid tale.
In some ways, I felt bad for the Harts but at the same time, it was unfair for Shane to shoulder all the blame and get all that backlash and vitriol aimed at him. Tristan’s death had been an accident and Shane had not gone over there, unprovoked as they’d claimed. The beauty of social media was that there was always a new scandal or a juicy bit of titillating gossip to eclipse the last story. So, in time, I knew the interest would die down and nobody would remember our twenty seconds in the spotlight.
But there had been a few positive developments over the past couple weeks and although we had to wade through a lot of shit to get to this place, I thought we were stronger for it. The surfing community had rallied around Shane and even though he said he could never compete again, it meant a lot to him that his former competitors and fellow surfers had come to his defense.
Sometimes you had to use your voice. It could be a powerful tool.
Bastian took the stage and the crowd went wild, seventeen thousand fans screaming his name. Worshiping him. Hanging on to every note and lyric as if it was their lifeline. He left his heart and soul, sweat and tears on that stage. For his art, Bastian would bleed himself dry. After his live performances, he was always emotionally drained but fueled by adrenaline. A high when you’re feeling low. A dangerous drug for anyone, but especially for Bastian. His highs were manic, his lows laid him out for days or weeks at a time.
He was beautifully broken and damaged, and up on that stage, he looked every inch the rock star, from his tangle of dark hair to his skinny black jeans and beat-up motorcycle boots. He was skinny but cut, sweat coating his bare chest and abs, his shirt having been flung into the audience and caught in the hands of a girl who buried her nose in it and cried with joy.
Shane and I didn’t get caught up in the feeding frenzy. We listened to the music, our arms wrapped around each other as Bastian sang about a girl who was just as broken and damaged as him. He sang about a girl with a ghost-sized hole in her heart who was haunted by the memory of the boy she loved. Hopelessly. Madly. Tragically. Bastian put lyrics and notes to my pain and heartache, and he created magic, turning something ugly into something that was heartbreakingly beautiful. That was his gift, even though sometimes he felt as if he’d been cursed.
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