Rise by Cassandra Robbins

 

GIA

Present – Twenty-five years old

Paris, France

“Are you going to fall asleep at the table, or can I order us something to eat?” Sebastian kicks my crossed leg, causing my eyes to snap open and my leg to drop with a thud.

“Stop it,” I hiss, straightening up. “I’m jet-lagged already.” I breathe in and look around, mostly for a waitress. I need coffee. Wealth and entitlement bounce from one table to the next as I roll my neck and try to focus.

“Get your shit together. The day just started.” He smirks and leans back in the comfortable chair as his eyes scan my face.

I cock my head and stare right back, but let’s be honest—he has an unfair advantage. The jerk slept the entire plane ride from Los Angeles to Paris. I think he woke up once for some water and a warm cloth for his eyes, then went back to sleep. While I stayed awake, torturing myself for eleven hours, worrying that at any second this might be my last. I have a flying phobia. It started years ago. Maybe I’ve always had it. I can’t pinpoint when it started to be out of control. I guess it kind of crept up on me slowly, one flight after another until Bam.

I’ve tried everything: yoga, counseling, hypnotherapy. You name it; I’ve tried it. But no matter how Zen I am, as soon as I board the plane and smell that recycled air, all meditation is gone.

It’s irrational, but the plane could go down. The thought of having to go through those last seconds…

Sebastian, on the other hand, orders a screwdriver, pops some Valium, and is out in minutes. Meanwhile, I sit in silence, fighting myself not to jump up and scream for the pilot to make an emergency landing.

Which is why I’m exhausted. I need coffee, or a ten-minute nap, not Sebastian’s stare.

“Damn it.” I don’t look away but grab my purse from the floor. Obviously, my appearance is lacking.

“I don’t know why you never listen to me. I begged you to take a Valium or Ativan.” His voice keeps bugging me.

“Because I hate relying on them. I’m stronger than that,” I snip right back at him. He continues giving me the stare. I take a deep breath because I want so badly for it to be true. Unfortunately, this time he might be right. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, and we do have a full day ahead. I give him a giant eye roll as I pull out my makeup bag.

“And I hate that stare,” I say dramatically, opening my compact to assess myself. He throws back his head and laughs as I blink at my reflection in the small mirror.

I’ve got the smoky-eye thing going on, but I’m rolling with it. It’s fashion week, after all, and with the eleven hours of panic I’ve been through, I’m shocked I look this good. My lips are still stained red from the matte lipstick, and my hair has held up well.

I bring the mirror away from me so I can see more of myself. What the heck? I look pretty damn good. Sebastian has no reason to give me his infamous stare.

“You’re strong, Gia. But even Wonder Woman needs a little help sometimes.” His beautiful brown eyes are serious.

I run my hand through my hair. “Fine. You’ve made your point.” I glance over at the cute, dark-haired waitress who’s approaching and mumble, “I’ll take ten Valium on the way home and swallow them down with a bottle of vodka. Happy?”

“I’m dead serious, Gia. This is getting absur—”

“Bonjour, est-ce que tu veux que bois quelque chose?” The French waitress thankfully saves me from the lecture my best friend is about to give. I hate when Sebastian gets on his soapbox or worse, displays his “brotherly” concern.

I have a brother and trust me, he’s enough.

“Bonjour, beaute.” He instantly shifts so that he can give her his full attention, flashing her his beautiful smile and causing the poor girl to blush.

Perfect. I’m never going to get coffee now. Women go crazy for Sebastian when he decides to show interest. The man oozes self-confidence. That, and he’s fucking hot.

“You want your usual?” He speaks without breaking his stare with the waitress.

“Yes, please.” I feel like kicking him with my new heels. He’s being ridiculous.

Sebastian orders in flawless French. He’s from Montreal, so he speaks the language.

I snap my compact shut, tossing it back into my bag and forcing them both to look at me.

“Coffee, s’il-vous-plait.” My accent is horrendous, which is why I always let Sebastian order, but I have zero patience this morning. If he wants to flirt, he can do it after I get a cup of coffee. I recross my legs and sit up straighter.

“We just got off a plane and I’m in desperate need…” I trail off as Sebastian leans forward and takes my hand, smiling at me as if I’m not quite right.

The waitress looks at me blankly as if she doesn’t speak a word of English, which is a lie. Everyone speaks enough to understand coffee. I’m sure she’s wondering what’s the deal between Sebastian and me.

If I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to smile at her so she could be reassured that I have no interest in Sebastian sexually. We’re strictly friends.

Best friends.

Well, best friends who used to have sex. I met him my freshman year at UC Berkeley. I was nursing a broken heart, and he was drop-dead gorgeous and willing to fuck without asking questions. Thankfully we’re two peas in a pod. Within months, we both knew that we’re definitely better as friends than lovers.

I’m not the type of girl who’s ever going to be in a serious relationship, and Sebastian is a playboy. He’s also my partner, my rock, my voice of reason. I’d do anything for him, which is why I’m in Paris. He’s broke again.

Sebastian likes to live way above his means. His theory is that if you live like you’re the best, you will, in fact, become the best.

As absurd as that thinking is, it works for him most of the time. I’m the opposite. It makes me nervous if I have to dip into my savings account. Sebastian doesn’t even have a savings account, another reason why we’re better as friends.

Crossing my legs, I glance down at my new heels. They’re soft black Italian leather and crisscross up my ankles. I admit it—I have a weakness for shoes, and even though I pride myself on not being impressed by wealth, I was excited to see the shiny black box waiting for me on my bed when I checked in. The shoes were a welcome gift from Alberto, the designer we’re shooting. Timing is everything.

Alberto exploded this year in the fashion world. I met him backstage at the Emmys. Some of the actresses were wearing his dresses and I was there to shoot the cast of Schitt’s Creek.

We hit it off, drank way too much champagne, and ended up at the Abbey doing shots. He passed out that night at my cute Venice bungalow and we’ve stayed close. He’s young, talented, and has a fresh take—not the same crap we’ve seen over and over.

When he called me two weeks ago and begged me to come to Paris to shoot his upcoming collection, I turned him down.

Fashion Week is a lot: the crowds, parties, celebrities, egos. I’ve done it twice and vowed never to do it again.

Unfortunately, he had already gotten ahold of Sebastian who was over the moon about being able to make rent and spend a week in Paris first class.

So… here I sit, dead tired, no coffee, and all-around feeling off. I keep thinking it’s exhaustion, but it’s more like an anxiety or nagging feeling. As if I forgot to lock my door or left my flat iron on.

Yawning, I try to ignore the laughter from my best friend and the waitress. Coffee and breakfast seem forgotten. Might as well check my phone for messages.

Quickly I scan all the missed calls to make sure none are from my mom or brother. Zero from them. Unfortunately, I have ten, no, twelve from my ex and soon-to-be-former agent.

Perfect. I glance up at the gorgeous hotel. Its stunning, giant floral displays are tastefully arranged all over the hotel filling the space with a soft but fresh smell. Whites, creams, and golds grace the lobby and restaurant we’re sitting in. I lean my head back to admire the ornate turquoise beams that house the glass ceilings.

My phone vibrates again. I don’t need to look down to know it’s my ex. I can sense his craziness across the ocean.

I try hard not to regret things, but Jeff is one big fat mistake. This is absolutely the last time I get into a relationship with my agent.

Why? Why do I do these things?

Maybe I was feeling pressured to find someone or I was sick of sex without some sort of connection. Whatever it was, in a moment of weakness I said yes to Jeff. He’s older, powerful, and rich, not to mention one of the best agents on both coasts. All signs pointed to him being stable and secure.

God, was I wrong. I’ve never been with a more paranoid, borderline narcissistic man. Not to mention the sex was beyond bad. Cringeworthy, really.

I close my eyes and try not to let my mind remember his body. Great, now I see him naked.

Jesus.

Clearly I have shit judgment when it comes to men. It has to be hereditary, maybe even a Fontaine curse. After all, I do come from a long line of bad decision-makers.

My mom. Worst taste in men.

My Grandmother Fontaine. Miserable for thirty years, and now that my grandfather is dead, she’s speeding around Pasadena in a red Corvette. And don’t get me started on my dad and his numerous failed marriages.

I reach for my glass of ice water and almost laugh. There’s only one Fontaine who is happy and in love.

My brother.

It’s unfathomable.

Axel never even wanted to fall in love. He hated it. Made fun of it, yet somehow he’s happy.

With kids. I’m an aunt to twin girls. Surreal if I take the time to think about it. Axel is actually living my childhood fantasy. The house, kids, maybe throw in a dog. He even has a white picket fence around his yard.

It’s kind of a drag. He doesn’t even care when I tease him, just laughs and agrees, then grabs Antoinette and kisses her as if there is no one else in the world. Which makes me feel like shit. I’ll never have what they have. Then that causes me guilt because I do love my brother and I’m happy for him.

Back and forth I ping-pong. It’s why I’ve kept myself busy working and avoiding Antoinette’s calls. She’s knee-deep in planning their wedding, and she wants me around for it. But she has a whole crowd of women who love her, most in happy relationships. I’m like the third wheel.

My phone vibrates again, bringing me back to the now and the waitress’s over-the-top laughter. Can she be any more obvious? Sebastian isn’t going to be into her as soon as we pay the check. That’s mean but true.

“Rock God,” a girl screams as she runs past our table.

Time stops.

For one terrible moment I break out in a cold sweat. I take a breath as dread slithers up my spine causing goose bumps on my arms.

I’m hearing things. My brain is just tired. No way did I hear her correctly.

“Gia?”

I almost scream, or puke. Either one is close to happening. Sebastian frowns at me, but who cares. My eyes dart around to look at the crowd lined up at the entrance.

“What did they just say?”

Breathe. I need to breathe. He wouldn’t be here. I’m hearing things, that’s all. I blow out some air and wave my phone.

“What are you talking about?” Sebastian snaps. “Answer your phone or turn it off.” Then he turns back to the waitress again.

“We have to go.” I slam my hands down loud on the table, causing the silverware to clank together and water to spill onto the white tablecloth. Both Sebastian and the waitress stop.

“What’s wrong with you? It’s a celebrity, for fuck’s sake.” He scowls and turns sideways to look over at what seems to be the coming attraction.

“Mon Dieu, this has to be someone big.” The waitress rubs her hands up and down her pants and I want to scream numerous things at her… like I knew you spoke English, and Why didn’t you get me coffee? And most importantly, Is there an emergency exit?

“Gia?” Sebastian’s voice makes me jump. Christ, I’m completely unraveling.

“What?” I sound hysterical, but fuck it, I am, so why pretend. I need to save us… me, whatever… Holy shit, I’m full-on panicking. Breathe, Gia. And think.

I’m not doing either.

“Rock God! It’s him. Rock Godddd, I love youuu,” a woman wails as she clings to her friend.

“Sebastian. Now.” I grab my bag and vault out of the chair, causing both waters to spill over. It’s like a bad dream that I want to wake up from but can’t. I feel rather than notice the ice water that’s soaked my white pants and drips onto my new heels.

“Goddammit,” I say, wanting to burst into tears, but screw that. I have to get myself together and think.

Okay. One. It’s him.

Two. I need to either toss my phone into my purse or throw it against the wall because it’s vibrating again.

Three. I’m acting ridiculous. Rhys Granger is a nobody. A part of my past—that’s all. Eventually, this was bound to happen. In fact, I’m surprised it took this long.

“O-kay. I guess we’re going.” Sebastian finally stands and I’m tempted to throw myself into his arms.

Electric energy pulses around the large space. I clear my throat and dump my phone into my purse, swinging it over my shoulder.

“Maybe we should wait for the crowd to move.” He nods toward the door.

“No. We need to go now. I don’t have time to get into this—”

“Oh, it’s Granger, from The Stuffed Muffins.” His eyes focus above my head.

“Shit.” Biting my lip, I stare at a button on his shirt.

“Interesting… he’s coming over here.”

“What?” I want to cry but that can wait. Don’t look back, I chant in my head.

“Yep… and he’s got Paulette with him.”

The waitress squeals. “I love them! Granger is magnificent…” Thankfully she switches to French. She was bugging me before. Now I really dislike her.

I close my eyes to brace myself. He’s as bad as they come. A viper waiting to strike, and once bitten, his poison will take you down.

The hotel is a swarm of noises: hushed, excited whispers, gasps of adoring sighs, feet pounding, and a pulsing electricity of chaos that only he can bring.

Then silence.

And I know he’s behind me. I can feel him. His body heat seeps into me.

“Gia.” That voice, it goes straight to my core and slithers up to my stomach. It’s deep, melodic, almost gravelly. I haven’t heard it in years. Sounds flood back in as I take a breath and turn.

And there he stands.

Intoxicating. Riveting. A legend. And my greatest mistake.

A crowd forms around him as usual. He’s like the Pied Piper, but instead of the rats following him, it’s people. He draws strength from them, lets their adoration make him grow stronger. I have no idea how he knew it was me, or maybe I do—I’ve had this sense of foreboding for the last twelve hours.

He’s wearing black Ray-Bans. He must be high or inebriated. I remember a time when he’d make fun of famous people wearing sunglasses inside.

“Rhys.” I nod, my voice slightly raspy, which aggravates me.

I don’t need to see his bourbon eyes to know he’s dissecting me. He’s an addiction that’s always been unhealthy for me.

His full lips turn into his signature smirk—actually, more like a slight snarl—and my heart thuds.

Lucifer. With dark hair, looking like he hasn’t brushed it in days. My fingers tingle as I fight myself not to reach out and try to tame the untamable.

“Who’s this, Granger?” Paulette. Her loud southern drawl breaks all his dark magic. I puff out air and smile. How did I not see her? She’s over six-feet tall and clinging to him.

Her eyes travel up and down my body, stopping to stare daggers at my face. I stare right back. She’s everything I hate. Not because she’s a famous supermodel, but because I see myself in her desperate eyes.

She wants him so bad she’s willing to humiliate herself for one more moment, one last scrap of his attention.

It’s what he does best, and no matter how much self-esteem you start with, by the time Rhys is done with you, you end up exactly like her.

“You fucking dick, you promised.” Paulette lunges for me.

And I’m done.

I step back and straight into a warm, hard chest. Strong, familiar hands wrap around me. I’m dizzy, completely off balance, as if the breath has been knocked out of me.

“Let go of me,” I sneer and watch in horror as Paulette clumsily reaches for the table, misses, and grabs ahold of the tablecloth instead. The sound of her hitting the floor, along with the breaking glass, makes him move us backward.

One tan, tattooed hand has wrapped around my stomach, while the other snakes up to my neck, bringing my head slightly back.

I smell him.

Fresh, clean, with a slight hint of smoke. I used to be obsessed with his scent. Loved it. For some reason it calmed me.

Today is different. This day, I hate it because it’s gonna haunt me. It’s all happening too fast, like a whirl of colors and loud cursing with Paulette sitting in a pile of water, silverware, and glass.

“Brat.” His voice is like a caress, and my whole body feels alive, tingling, as if liquid heat has been injected into my veins.

I try to move, only to be jerked tighter; he has to be high. My heart is pounding so hard I know he feels it.

People are screaming. Phones are filming and yet none of it matters.

“Fuck you, Rhys,” I snarl, the pain I’ve kept locked up escaping. I shift so I can look up at him.

He’s tan and his face sports days of dark stubble. A shiver of unease and excitement runs through me. He’s trying to intimidate me. His rage radiates off him, seeping into me. Like an infusion, it gives me strength.

I’m not the same girl who worshipped him my whole life. He can play the brooding rock star. But he’s in the wrong.

This is bad, so very bad.

He never should have touched me. We’re like a match ready to set fire to dry brush, incinerating and destroying all in our path.

My face is inches from his mouth; his breath kisses my lips. I’m so close I can see through his dark sunglasses.

Our eyes lock and do battle.

Pain.

It’s a new pain, fresh and powerful. I’m actually grateful he’s holding me. Because this agony wants to steal my soul and never give it back.

We’re ugly and damaged.

Damaged people should never be together. But then that’s the allure: it’s forbidden, addictive.

“Who is she?” Paulette says, her face a puffy mess.

Sebastian reaches down to help her, frowning at Rhys.

The restaurant is a buzz of activity. Security is clearing people out; busboys are cleaning up the glass.

He holds me tight, and I can feel his hard cock on my ass. I hiss at his gall. Then he lets me go. I reach back for a chair to steady myself.

“She’s nothing,” he says tightly, then turns and steps over to Sebastian. “Who the fuck are you?”

Sebastian looks shocked. “I’m the one helping your girlfriend. The fuck’s wrong with you? Gia, get over here.” And I almost groan out loud. Because unless Rhys has changed…

He hasn’t, and in seconds, Sebastian is on the floor.

“Rhys, stop it, you maniac. You’re going to get arrested.” I grab his arm, looking around at all the phones filming us.

He looks up at me, then down at Sebastian as he stands, sneering.

“Has his cock been inside you?” His eyes narrow, and I hate that my stomach dips.

“Stay away from me.” I drop to my knees to help Sebastian.

“What is wrong with you?” I hiss up at him. A jolt of energy zings through me as it dawns on me that I can see his eyes. His sunglasses must have come off when he attacked Sebastian. For a split second, I swear I see pain. But it’s gone so fast, I might have imagined it.

“Here. Breakfast is on me.” Rhys snorts. Reaching into his pocket to toss a wad of money at us, he takes Paulette’s hand and drags her toward the exit.

“Jesus, Sebastian.” I grab a napkin from the table to dab his bloody lip. “Are you okay?”

He pushes my hand away. “I’m suing that motherfucker. What the hell just happened?” He glares at me, kicking the pile of hundred-dollar bills away in disgust.

“He’s a friend of Axel’s.” As if that should explain why he acted like a lunatic. “I’m so sorry.”

He looks over at the crowd following Rhys. “I’m calling a lawyer. Take pictures, Gia.” He motions for the police who were talking to the manager.

Suddenly I’m forgotten as he switches to rapid French. I assume he’s telling them that Rhys Granger attacked him for no apparent reason.

I sit down in the chair and wait for Sebastian to finish, trying not to think about Rhys, his smell, and the past. Rhys Granger was a fantasy. He’s clearly not stable. The drugs and booze have caught up to him. Another cliché fallen rock star, only he’s far from fallen. If anything, he’s at the top of his career.

Rock God… that’s what they call him.

But to me, he’ll always be the one who makes all the girls cry.