Ruined (Barnes Brothers #4)(17)

It had been splashed under three pictures—Hanson, Monica Dupré, and the last publicity still of Sebastien.

He’d been a dumb-ass and read it.

Just why in the f*ck did people want to mourn and celebrate and wonder about abusive *s? The world was full of them and they asked questions and wondered and brooded. The person they needed to mourn, the artist needed to grieve over, was Monica.

Not Hanson, the asswipe.

So he’d looked back at what had been done for Monica’s birthday.

There’d been hardly anything on the internet.

Sebastien had gone for the bottle and started reading all the bullshit articles written about him, Hanson, Monica . . . for his birthday. They’d done write-ups about Monica, speculating if she’d driven Hanson to do what he’d done.

Was she unfaithful . . .

Rumors that she was leaving him abounded . . .

His obsessive love pushed him over the edge . . .

It was all insane.

She’d been in trouble and people hadn’t seen it then, and they couldn’t see it now. He hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t saved her. Guilt soured the whiskey in his gut, but he still took another drink.

“Sebastien?”





Chapter Six




At the sound of Marin’s voice, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

“Go away,” he said under his breath. He didn’t want her seeing him like this.

It didn’t dawn on him until a few minutes later that it would have been wise to at least close the browser.

By then, it was too late.

“You stupid son of a bitch . . . what are you doing?” Her voice was hard and angry.

Opening his good eye to a slit, he studied her. Or at least he tried. He found himself staring at the curve of her breast as she leaned over and shut down the browser, ending the video replay.

She whirled on him, jabbing him in the chest with her index finger. “Is this what you do all the time? Sit around and torture yourself?”

Nudging her back, he stood up. “No.”

After grabbing the bottle—and swigging back a healthy gulp, he started forward. He needed to be . . . elsewhere. He wasn’t sure where, but elsewhere. Because if he sat around Marin too long, he might go back to looking at her pretty breasts.

For a few seconds, he’d stopped seeing the blood that had filled his vision—his everything—for the past couple of hours. And his nightmares for the past year.

“Give me that bottle.”

He took another drink as he walked into the kitchen. Since his head was spinning a little too merrily, he thumped it down on the island. One thing he’d already figured out was that it was useless to argue with her. She’d just win anyway. He had the hardest damn time saying no to her.

He heard liquid splashing against metal and closed his eyes. “That’s eighteen-year-old scotch, Marin. You could just drink it yourself instead of . . .” He paused, trying to remember what he was saying. “Instead of waishing—wasting it.”

“No, thank you. I prefer to do my drinking after one o’clock in the afternoon, Seb.”

At the soft sound of her voice, he looked over at her. The room spun around him but he didn’t stagger. Sebastien prided himself on being a rather excellent drunk. He didn’t stagger or get stupid—friends always remarked on it. What he did was get sleepy. Soon, he’d end up passing out and he’d probably forget a hell of a lot.

Which was why he drank a lot. He got tired, he slept, and he forgot.

Marin came closer.

When she reached up to touch his cheek, he found himself wishing that maybe he hadn’t been so drunk because her touch felt good. It felt right.

“Why do you keep torturing yourself, Seb?” she asked softly.

“’M not.” He caught her wrist and squeezed, managed to smile. “I’m fine, Marin. You. . . . go on home. Come back later. I’ll be . . . I’ll be sober.”

“You’re hardly ever sober.”

That hurt. He’d spent the past week sober. He wasn’t even totally wasted now. Why hadn’t she come around then? He could have shown her. She might have been . . . well, not proud. Big f*cking deal. Look at me, Marin . . . I’m a good little boy. I’m not drunk. But he had been proud of himself.

Up until now.

Now he was just pathetic.

And he was tired of it.

Frowning, he nudged her hand down and edged around her, moving to the cabinet where he’d taken to keeping his alcohol. He’d long since drank the supply in his bar and he didn’t entertain anymore, so why keep it in such an inconvenient place?

He grabbed two bottles at random and moved to the sink. “Wanna help?”

Focusing on what he was doing, rather than whether or not she’d join him, he fought with the heavy wax seal on a bottle and finally got it open. Marin had already drained the one she held before he got the stopper out of his. The room was soon filled with the heavy miasma of booze—the peaty scent of scotch, underscored with tequila and rum.

When they were done, six bottles emptied of booze, sat on the counter.

“No more drinking, Marin.”

“I’m glad.”

They shared a glance.

Sebastien nodded, feeling awkward, and then he turned away. He staggered a little, half tripping over his feet, and the rush of blood to his face didn’t help his state of mind any. Of all the times to turn into a clumsy drunk—he had to do it in front of Marin?