Those blue eyes widen, and it stops him in his tracks.
“Yes, but you don’t have anyone missing your paintings, not like me,” he says coldly. “I have the weight of the art world on my shoulders, all waiting with bated breath for my next masterpiece, which will never come because that bitch took it when she left me.” A glass smashes against the wall, then another one and then another.
I let out a sigh.
I have come to the realization that Louis doesn’t want to be helped. He’s happy wallowing in his misery, and he doesn’t deserve company. If he wants to waste his best years on self-destruction and self-righteous behavior, then he can go ahead because when he finally wakes up, he’s going to have no one left around him who cares. He’s going to wonder where everyone went who looked out for him.
I walk out, pull the door shut as the sounds of crashing echo through the studio.
“I’m exhausted,” I tell Gabriel who’s standing outside the studio looking worried. “Let him trash it all. If that’s what he needs to do to get whatever it is going on with him out, then so be it. He needs to start making the right decisions, but he doesn’t want to. He’s not ready. So, until then, we put up with him acting like a damn toddler and having a tantrum until he hits rock bottom.
Gabriel nods sadly, and we both make our way back to the house with the sound of smashing and loud bangs being heard from behind us.
I hear a crash inside the house which wakes me up. I look over at the time. It’s 1:23 a.m.
“Motherfuckers.” I hear shouting from downstairs and suck in a deep breath.
Louis spent the day destroying everything, and now he’s come up to the main house to continue his rampage.
“I made you,” he screams, and then there’s another crash.
I turn the corner and find Louis stumbling around, not really able to function.
“I made him.” He’s waving his cell phone in the air. “I found him. I made him. Me!” He throws his phone across the tiled floor, and it smashes, small parts of the phone shatter as it hits the wall on the other side of the room. I watch in slow motion as Louis’ fist connects with the wall.
Shit! That’s his livelihood, those hands.
“Louis,” I call his name, but he does it again.
I rush toward him and cry out, “Stop! Louis. Please stop.” Tears well in my eyes as I look down at his bloodied and bruised hands. He also looks down at them and seems confused as if he isn’t sure how they got that way.
“Let me get the first-aid kit.”
He stumbles and falls onto the leather sofa in the living room. I rush quickly to my office and grab the first-aid kit, but by the time I come back out, Louis is asleep. I sit down beside him, slowly and carefully fixing his hands. He doesn’t stir. He doesn’t even flinch—Louis is that drunk as I clean his wounds. I feel for him because tonight I really saw his pain and how deep it runs.
“I wish I knew how to help you,” I whisper. Seeing someone who you looked up to become a shell of who they once were, is hard. Louis is an asshole, but he’s a talented asshole. I wish I had one-tenth as much talent as he does. I hate that he’s wasting it over a woman who doesn’t give two shits about him.
“You can’t.”
Louis surprises me, making me jump. I thought he was asleep. Those bloodshot blue eyes open and focus on me. I still have his hands in mine trying to tend to his wounds as his fingers curl around mine and squeeze tightly.
“I want to help, Louis.” I look down at him, and for the first time, I see him utterly vulnerable.
He reaches out, his palm touching my cheek. “You’re so beautiful.”
I swallow his compliment down, hating that his affect me. His thumb caresses the apple of my cheek, and I lean into his touch. It’s been six weeks since Toby left me, and I miss the touch of a man. The pads of his fingers are rough, coarse from years of holding a paintbrush. His hand moves and wraps around the base of my skull, his fingertips digging into my hair. “You’re pure sunshine, and I’m nothing but darkness.”
I frown at his words—he’s still drunk.
“I’d destroy your sunshine with my darkness, Emily.”
“Or, I could light up your darkness.”
He smiles at me, and it’s the first genuine smile he has ever given me.
His fingers dig and pull my hair harder. “I wish that were true.”
Butterflies do somersaults in my stomach as this moment seems, well, intimate. Then, before I have a chance, his hand tightens, he pulls my face to his, and he kisses me. Freezing me to the spot, my eyes widen. His soft lips press against mine, while thick fingers tug on my hair. His hard body presses against mine, and a tiny whimper falls from my lips, which opens them to him. He takes his chance and hungrily takes me. Those once-soft lips are now hard with desire. His kiss is all-consuming. He takes and takes, clouding my mind with lust—a lust that’s so deep I can feel it in my toes. I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want Louis Marchant in this moment.
Then, I still, tasting the alcohol on his breath.
What the hell am I doing?
I push myself away from him. His chest is heaving, those blue eyes are bright with desire, and my lips are swollen from his hungry kisses.
He’s drunk.
He’s probably horny, and I’m the closest convenient woman. I untangle myself from him and abruptly stand.
“It’s late. You should rest.” And with that, I quickly make my way back to my bedroom, regret hanging around me like a dark cloud.
15
Louis
I fucking destroyed my studio, but at this very moment, I don’t care
