Trust (London Love #5)

I wanted to fight him, take charge. This was my car. I was driving. I certainly didn’t fancy crashing into a bollard or something over some pap trying to climb my bonnet so they could get a clear shot of The Dieter’s ugly mug.

He wasn’t exactly ugly.

Well.

I snarled at him as he got in.

“Seat belt, mate,”

He looked confused but did as he was told. Pushing the hood off his head, he shook those messy blond strands of hair around like he was in some kind of shampoo advert. Dick.

“Keep your head down,” I suggested as I rolled down my window so I could put the ticket in at the barrier.

“Yeah,” was all I got in response.

At least he’d drunk his coffee and crammed a croissant down his neck. A bit of energy. I knew what I was like without food in the morning. I may have survived school on air and stupidity, but these days, I needed my three decent meals, as my meds made me feel nauseous without the padding of food in my stomach.

I was such a grown-up. It was kind of…scary.

I managed to drive up the ramp and onto the road without any interruptions. Not that me and my rust bucket would have attracted attention anyway, but you never knew. Those paps could be brutal, and it wouldn’t have been the first time they’d lurked around the parking garage, in the lifts, down the back corridors. Some even paid for rooms so they could be on the lookout at all times.

I glanced over at him when I stopped at the lights. His head was still bowed, and he was wringing his hands.

“You okay?” I asked gently. He didn’t look okay, and this was fucked up. What the hell was I doing?

“Look. I’m not kidnapping you or anything. You can go wherever you want. Just say the word and I can drop you off.”

“Nowhere to go,” he muttered.

“You keep saying that, but that, my friend, is bullshit. You have property. I read stuff. And your parents live somewhere up north. A quick Google told me you have plenty of places to go. Not that I can drive you all the way up there, because I have work tomorrow. But, man. Talk.”

“I…” he started. Then the silence once again filled the car, like there was so much he wanted to say but couldn’t make his mouth do it. Not like me. Because this was me. Impulsive and stupid and…ahghthg.

“There’s a place up here on the left,” I said. “Tube station. I can just dump you there. Find your own way to wherever fuck you want to go. Is that an option?”

His hands shook. Good. I was getting to him.

“You have to talk to me. I’m not stupid, G, but I’m also not a bloody clairvoyant. What are you hiding from?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted. Oh, we were unhinged, all right.

“Okaaay.” Smarmy. That was also me.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m just so tired of it all, and I’m trapped by all these contracts and things I have to do and I have to rock up to the studio on Monday and I have nothing. Zero. No ideas. And they will have some contracted songwriter lined up to put tracks down because they know I’ve lost it and can’t produce shit and everyone just wants to squeeze the last drops of sanity out of me and I can’t…fucking…”

“It’s okay.” I tried to sound soothing, but in reality I was as rattled as he was. This Dieter was not just unhinged. He was depressed and off his head.

“Then I’m apparently writing a novel, only I have three people writing it for me and I have no idea what it’s about and then I have to go on some book tour and speak to people. They want me to go on TV and talk books.”

“Terrifying.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever even read a bloody book. Not since school. I’m a fraud, everything is a fraud, and I flunked this movie thing from the start. They were all talking behind my back, and the director was in tears at one point. I can’t act. I really can’t. And they’re going to release this shit and the whole world will laugh at me, and I just…”

He stopped. Dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m fine,” he said, followed by a stream of shallow, noisy breaths.

“You’re not. And that’s okay.”