Ruined (Barnes Brothers #4)(16)

Marin tipped her head back to stare up at the sky. They were sitting in a sweet little outdoor restaurant, the rush and bustle of LA muted by the greenery wrapped around the private pavilion. Overhead, she could see the almost painfully clear blue of the sky and she searched it, as if it held answers. It didn’t even hold a single damn cloud she could pretend was a fat, fluffy bunny.

Son of a bitch.

“He’d be right for it,” she murmured. She knew without a doubt. Sebastien had the depth to play a lot of parts, but the part of Rand would require more deep-seated pain and anger than Sebastien had ever known, had ever been through in his life. That had been the truth of it a year ago.

But last year’s truth no longer applied.

“When do you need an answer?”

“Townsend won’t let it go to production until he’s got a cast he’s satisfied with. You already know that.” He lifted a shoulder and cocked a brow, a smug smile curling his lips. “You should know that Sebastien was actually his idea. He loves the projects you two have been in, although he did listen to the director’s advice when she suggested he probably wasn’t right for this part when it was first being tossed around. When we were talking things over a few days ago, he mentioned Sebastien again, though . . .” JD shrugged. “Sebastien’s different now. He had to grow up. He can play that part.”

“So I’ve got a few days.”

“Probably a week or two.”

She grimaced. She might be able to pierce the thick skull of a Barnes man in that time frame.

If she had a battering ram.

***

Sweat dripped from his brow.

His muscles were warmed and tired from the hard, driving five mile run.

Sebastien had plans for the day ahead—he usually did. Now that he’d finished his workout, those plans included a long, cool shower, a nice quick lunch, and then a long drive down the coast.

He was trying to pump himself up to head up to San Francisco and visit his parents.

He thought maybe he could do it.

He missed them.

He missed his brothers.

He missed his little buddy Clayton, and he had to admit, he was sort of falling in love with Ressa’s niece, too. Or he had been, until he’d fallen into this hole he was now stuck in. Seeing them all again at the wedding had been . . . nice. When he hadn’t been overthinking things.

“Not stuck,” he muttered, staring up the steps that led to his house. The waves rolled up against the beach behind him and he was tempted to just flop down until his legs no longer felt like putty, but he knew better.

So he put one foot in front of the other and dragged himself up the steps. While his body was worn out, his brain was revved up and he felt more . . . at peace with things than he had in a while.

A week of sobriety had done him wonders. When he’d gotten through it the other night without breaking, he’d almost felt . . . well, not good, but . . . decent.

Sebastien was most definitely scraping rock bottom—or he had been until Marin had shown up at his door and told him he was going to his brothers’ weddings.

She’d all but pushed his sorry ass out of the door and he was grateful.

Seeing his folks, his brothers, Abby . . .

He realized he was smiling when the scar on the side of his face tightened, but he didn’t stop just because of how the twisted tissue tugged, at odds with the rest of his features.

Yeah. He thought just maybe he would go see his folks.

***

An hour and a half later, he was slumped in front of his computer, staring at an amateur video uploaded to YouTube, watching the spray of blood as he killed Hanson Smith.

He’d gotten online for one simple reason: he wanted to book a room in San Francisco. He might not need it—he usually stayed with his folks—but he wanted that escape in case things got hard. He didn’t want to need it, but he’d feel better if he had it.

But he never made it to the hotel website.

He’d seen a headline on the home page and he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

He’d clicked.

Now, mind awash in memories and grief and regret and rage—and booze . . . mustn’t forget the booze—he sat there staring at an oversized image of Monica’s face.

The memory of her, the last clear memory, kept playing in his mind over and over.

The wind teasing her hair.

Her lips curved in a sad smile.

That pretty sunset dress.

His hand tightened around the bottle of scotch and he lifted it to his lips. It was a quarter empty now. In some dim, still-functioning part of his brain, he realized that it would have been wise to just dump all the booze out, like he’d originally planned.

The video ended.

The link to another came up and he clicked play.

This one showed in detail—in slow motion, guys!!!!—how Sebastien Barnes smoked that f*cker’s ass.

That was the title of the video.

The whiskey in his gut sloshed around and he thought he might be sick.

It would have been Hanson Smith’s fiftieth birthday today. Sebastien hadn’t known. If he had, he would have stayed the hell away from the internet. The headline that had caught his eye had infuriated him. He shouldn’t have clicked.

He knew that. He shouldn’t have done it.

But he clicked.

The Tortured Life of an Artist Gone Too Soon