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Us? I think. More like you.
The women—most of them in their early to late thirties, I’d guess—dressed in barely-there halter tops and cutoff denim shorts, all ask for his autograph on the bar’s white drink napkins. He smiles at them; it’s a soft smile, one that doesn’t meet his eyes.
I was honestly surprised when I found out he wasn’t bringing any of his team with him, thinking he would absolutely have at least a couple security guards with him, but he said he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
I look at the crowd surrounding him as I step back. One of the women, who looks like she doused herself in fake tanning liquid and is glowing in the fluorescent lights, loses all control of herself while waiting to talk to Bordeaux and screams, “Sign my titties, B!”
B? She’s nicknaming him?
She moves toward him as he finishes signing a napkin and does an overkill of a shimmy, her gigantic breasts bouncing up and down, almost hitting Bordeaux smack dab in the chin. Holy shit. I cannot. I truly cannot. I’ve seen it all. Bordeaux glances at me and I turn away, not wanting to see him sign a woman’s boobs. Suddenly, I realize two things.
One. Why do I care if he signs women’s boobs?
And two. I bet he signs boobs all the time when he’s out on tour. This is probably very normal for him.
I’m tapped on the shoulder, and I spin around quickly, ready to shut down whoever is touching me. I find Manny’s dark eyes staring back at mine. “Isla,” he says loudly. I can tell he’s drunk, very drunk by the way he sways back and forth while trying to look composed. The liquor he’s consumed over the past few hours, I assume, has finally caught up to him, almost as bad as it has to his soon-to-be wife.
“Hi Manuel,” I say, looking back over my shoulder to find Bordeaux still signing away. “Having fun?”
He shakes his head, running his hand over the back of his neck. It’s something he does when he’s upset, I remember. That may be one of the worst parts of loving someone one day and having them out of your life the next. Someone leaving doesn’t erase their memory, though it would be better if it did. I still remember the way he runs his hand over his neck, how his laugh gets weirdly high-pitched when he’s uncomfortable, and even the way he looks right before he tells me he wants to fuck me.
But I don’t want to remember any of it.
“I was fine until she decided to go all fucking crazy on me.” His accent is smooth, and I can tell how upset he is by his choice of words, especially since he doesn’t typically curse. Suddenly I need to pee. I’m not sure if it’s because I really don’t want to be standing here with him, or if I really just need to pee this badly, but either way, I excuse myself and head to the restroom.
When I’m finished, I wash and dry my hands, tossing the paper towel into the bin, and I glance back at the mirror in front of me. It’s smudged with handprints and God knows what else lingering on the glass, so I inch closer to examine myself before going back out there.
I adjust my dress to make sure this plunging neckline stays covering my boobs and I reapply my lipstick before stepping back. “You are fine, Isla,” I say to myself. My therapist once told me that speaking thoughts out loud makes them feel more real. She’ll be happy to know I’m trying it out, despite standing her up this week. “Just get through this weekend and it’ll all be over. You’ll never have to see him again.”
I roll my eyes at my reflection, feeling silly for talking to myself out loud, and turn away, yanking the heavy door to the restroom open. I’m surprised to see Manuel there, standing right outside the doorway, clearly waiting for me. How does he look even more drunk than five minutes ago? My Lord.
“Manuel!” I say, bringing my hand over my chest. “You scared the shit out of me. Are you okay? What are you doing?” His eyes are different now, glassy and hollow. It isn’t just the liquor and the disappointment of Emelia’s actions. It’s something else. Something I haven’t seen in months.
Sadness.
“I have never seen you look sexier than you do tonight, Isla. The things I’d do to you...” He steadies himself directly between me and the rest of the bar, tucking us both into the narrow hallway the restrooms are in. The sadness in his eyes melts away, leaving desire radiating directly from his pupils and into my own. He makes a move to close the space between us and I hold a hand out to separate our bodies, my stomach tightening at what he’s about to do.
“Manuel, no. Don’t.” So many times, I had thought about how I would react if he ever made a move on me again. I had dreams about it, both in my sleep and daydreams. I thought about him often, and what I would do if he ever tried to come back. Every single time I pushed my body firmly into his and allowed myself to give into him. Familiarity. Comfort. I gave into him, falling back into the safety he provided me with, or what I once thought was safety. False safety. False comfort.
This time, however, I’m not just dreaming. He’s getting married in less than two days, and I refuse to be the woman he fucks over in the same way he did to me. I won’t be that woman. Alarm bells sound in my head as I realize this is absolutely not okay. This is not what I want, he is not who I want.
I extend my arm out farther, pushing against his chest with my palm. He tries to bat my arm away, once, twice, and on the third time, he successfully gets closer to me. “What? Don’t act like you didn’t come back here to get away from the rest of them. I knew what you were doing the minute you walked away from me and came back here. You were leading me here. Well, now I’m here, Isla.”
“What?” I ask, shaking my head. “You couldn’t be more wrong right now. Get off me. Don’t,” I repeat, trying to force him back, but it’s no use.
His body leans against mine, pinning me against the door to the restroom. His breath is hot on my skin, warming my cool cheek with a rum scent. “Isla, you don’t,” he slurs into my skin. “I know you want this as bad as I do. I know how bad you still want me inside of you.” He thrusts against me and I feel how hard he is, only his dark jeans separating him from me.
“Manuel! I said fucking stop.” I try to push him off me, pressing into him harder and shoving him, and just as I go to scream at him again, Bordeaux rounds the corner and in one swift motion, and with his two, large hands, he pulls Manuel off me, sending him spiraling backward flat onto his ass.
“What the fuck are you doing to her?” he shouts, standing directly over top of Manuel. Bordeaux’s legs are on either side of Manuel’s body that’s drunkenly sprawled across the floor. Manuel throws his hands up in defense, trying to block Bordeaux from his next move, but he’s too late. Way too late. Bordeaux’s fist connects with Manuel’s nose, followed by a loud crunch that I hear even over the music.
Bordeaux leans down to eye level with Manuel, who is now screaming and holding his face in his hands. He grabs him by his shirt, yanking him toward his face as he continues cowering into himself. “If you ever touch her again, and if she ever tells you to fucking stop and you don’t fucking stop, it will be the last time you touch any woman. Do you hear me? Who the fuck do you think you are?” Bordeaux’s voice is cool and calm, and unbelievably intimidating. He shoves Manuel backward and almost instantly, Bordeaux’s stare is locked onto mine. “Isla.” His voice is deep, husky, and undeniably sexy as his chest heaves. Even in a moment like this, sex just drips off him. “Are you okay?”
It’s only now that I see the flash of cameras, feel the stare of the patrons on us. In those few moments, it felt like it was only us three. I’m not okay, not at all, but I can’t form words right now. I shake my head as he grabs ahold of my hand, leading me away from Manuel and the mess he’s become.
Eighteen
Bordeaux
