Healed by You Read online

  “Oh, ouch, so sorry, but if I may say. . .”

  “I know how much you love being right, so is this the part where you say ‘I told you so’?” I asked, before downing the final remnants of my drink.

  “While, I do love being right, this is something I don’t take any pleasure in,” she replied, tapping against the keyboard. “Except for the fact that I won . . . fifteen hundred dollars.”

  I choked out a laugh. “You bet on my divorce with Heather? Who else was in the pool?”

  “You don’t really want to know that, do you?”

  “Along with being correct, I know that you love being direct.”

  “That I do.”

  “Giving it to me straight, that is why I pay you the big bucks,” I reminded, and poured another drink.

  “We bet on how long the marriage would last. Your friend Ronan had ten months.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” I grumbled.

  Ronan Connolly would be getting a call from me soon. It wouldn’t be to harass him about the bet, I didn’t care about that, I needed him put this place on the market.

  “Okay, getting back to the matter at hand, my divorce. First, I want the best lawyer.”

  “You don’t need the best,” she interrupted. “You caught her cheating and you have a prenup, you’ll get everything. But, since you are seeking my advice, go with Hersh, he’s repped Denise Richards and Camille Grammer, or go with the DissoQueen. I’ll schedule a lunch with Donna and the two of us will work out a joint statement for the press.”

  I dropped to the sofa in the den. “I’d like to leave the cheating out of this because the public doesn’t need to know that, and I’m sure she’ll agree to irreconcilable differences. However, because we are dealing with Heather, draft a few social media posts for me in the event that she decides to spin her story first. I need to be prepared. If she tries to imply that I was the one cheating, I have no qualms with resorting to petty tactics.”

  “You don’t need to stoop to her level. You’re the bigger star.”

  “Save the morality speech for another day.”

  “Consider it done.”

  I ended the call, and tossed my phone on the cushion beside me. This wasn’t how I saw my day ending—alone and on my way to being good and drunk.

  During filming earlier in the day, I channeled all my emotions; pulling from somewhere deep inside thinking about living in a world, existing in a space where my wife wasn’t there. It sucked balls. Poor choice of phrasing given the situation at hand.

  I’d felt the stress melt away once I’d showered and changed after filming, because I had been on my way home to see my loving wife to celebrate. Now there was nothing to celebrate. Everything had changed, everything around me was cold, dark and hollow.

  SITTING OUTSIDE ON THE terrace of Caffè Torino, sipping a bicerin, the Turinese specialty drink made of espresso, bitter chocolate and whipped cream—this was my favorite part of the day. It was hard to believe that I had been living here almost a year.

  My eyes scanned over the piazza, there were very few people on a laptop, a tablet or some kind of electronic device. Practically, everyone around me was talking, having real conversations. I adored the rhythmic tone of the Piemontese speech, the stressed consonants sounded like a commanding poem confirming one’s affection for their true love. I’ve grasped a good portion of the Italian language, but I was no expert. Bringing the glass to my mouth, I blew across my drink. The outdoor heaters were on because this spring day was especially chilly. I didn’t mind though; the city was bashfully beautiful hiding under the Alps with its misty grey skies.

  Pulling my pashmina tighter around my neck, I concentrated on the article in front of me. I was weeks away from launching my new website—Cocktails and Couture dot com, a fashion, beauty and lifestyle website where I would be sharing my style secrets and favorite cocktail recipes. My agent told me that I’m a “global influencer.”

  By social media standards I was already popular being a lingerie model, and over the past few years I had been on Instagram sharing my street style and behind the scenes moments from my photo shoots.

  When I started dating goalkeeper, Harry Brackman, my brand exploded overnight. Harry had been on loan from Chelsea to Juventus this past season. He was the first Englishman to play for an Italian team in thirty years and the team was hitting on all cylinders. A championship was a real possibility.

  As much as I loved living here, I was chomping at the bit to get back to our home in London. I swiped over the most recent text message from my publicist confirming an upcoming photoshoot for Minx Bag in New York.

  My phone pinged with a breaking news alert from Tinsel and Hollywood dot com.

  It’s the end for Grady James and Heather Young.

  I swiped open the app and began reading though the story.

  “We entered our relationship with love, and it’s with love, respect, and kindness that we leave it.”

  Sadness filled my heart. Man, this was not the way to find out two of your friends had called it quits. Although, I used the term “friends” loosely, more like we ran in the same Hollywood social circles. Heather introduced me to Grady backstage at the Nadia’s Dream fashion show after they first started dating. Not to mention, Grady and I share the same publicist, Haven Cardwell.

  Hollywood Vibes was the next outlet to report their split followed by People and then TMZ. Unusual, that they weren’t the first media site to report any rumblings.

  “Is this seat taken?” a deep voice asked. Not any voice, it was a voice that was quite familiar.

  My breath hitched, when I looked up confirming the sight of his intense dark brown eyes staring back at me. They were the exact shade of the drink in my hand. After slipping my phone into my bag I gestured for him to take a seat. “Harry, what are you doing here? Did your training sessions go well?”

  “Yes, so well that Brian gave me the rest of the afternoon off,” he replied smoothly, signaling for a server. “We need to have a talk.”

  Dread filled me and my stomach sank. These are the last words I expected to hear.

  “Un caffè corretto alla congnac, prega.” The server acknowledged his order and Harry returned his gaze to me.

  “I need to focus on my game—finish the season strong. And with the World Cup on the horizon, I think it’s best if we cool things down a bit.”

  I stared blankly as his words swirled around me. Despite his rough, warm hand on top of mine rubbing softly, it didn’t take the sting away from the words—break-up . . . sorry . . . unbelievably sorry . . . distractions. Each one sliced through my soul like a knife through soft butter.

  “You did nothing wrong, please know that . . .”

  The blood rushed to my ears, as my eyes darted from table to table. My body shook and sweat climbed up the back of my neck, spreading over my skin like hot lava. He was dumping me and in public no less, knowing perfectly well that I wouldn’t . . . couldn’t make a scene.

  “Harlow, I love you, I never wanted to hurt you.”

  I blinked up at the sound of his voice, numbness settled around me, gripping my heart and squeezing. Tears cascaded down my face and there was nothing I could do to stop them from falling.

  I AWOKE TO A splitting headache and swollen eyes. When I found more than the strength to just stare up at the ceiling fan, I managed to drink. Pain flooded my heart as it did every morning when I woke up remembering the image burned in my brain of my ex-wife being fucked like a porn star in our kitchen.

  Pressing my palms into my eyes, I tried to scrub the memory from my mind. I stumbled over the rug, crashing into my dresser and sank to my knees. Groaning, I pressed my cheek to the floor, seeking the coolness of the hardwood.

  Flashes of light and darkness mixed together. My temples throbbed with ache, and the memories from the last few weeks blurred together. After spending a month in my Manhattan loft, avoiding everyone and everything social except some unavoidable work commitments, somehow, I’d be
en persuaded to attend a party.

  My agent scored me an invite to one of the hottest events of the year. The place was packed wall to wall with actors, models, athletes, and musicians. I wanted to avoid the stares, and the hushed whispers about the broken-hearted Grady James, so I tried to stay under the radar. Under the radar consisted of a shared bottle of tequila with a twenty-two-year-old Brazilian swimsuit model, neither a great choice for my health.

  I think that chick broke my dick.

  Enough time had passed since the divorce decree. Three months to be precise. I should be over Heather by now and enjoying being underneath a hot model riding my cock. I pushed up from the floor and managed to hobble down the stairs. Early light poured in from the windows, although it was still pretty dark. By my guess, it was probably five-thirty. The early morning surfers were undoubtedly gathered on the beach suiting up. I’d join them, but I was too tired.

  I don’t even remember how I ended up at my house in the Hamptons, but the one thing I did know was that I hadn’t left this place since I’d arrived. In fact, I wasn’t sure how long I’d been here, but it’s been some time and my dick has healed so that’s a plus. Days were long and slow, nights even longer. It had been weeks since I’d had a full six hours of sleep at night.

  After downing half a bottle of water, I plodded to the couch, dropping like a bag of wet cement. Exhaustion hit me like a freight train, and the bottle of water slipped from my grip when I tried to place it on the coffee table. My eyes closed, but I managed to reach out tugging the blanket over my body.

  “Mr. Grady, you need to pay me now.”

  Camped in front of my television wearing only a pair of old grey sweats, I looked up to see my housekeeper, Thora, standing with her arms folded, tapping her foot against the tile. She was annoyed about something. Bobbing her head like a clucking chicken, her lips were moving but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. All I heard were the sounds of booing coming from the TV. Some bleached blonde, trailer park princess was yelling at her redneck boyfriend . . . husband . . . maybe it was her son. Clearly whacked out of her mind, this broad was the “rode hard and put away wet” kind.

  “What is it, Thora?” I said, shoving a hand through my long hair.

  “You need to pay me, Mr. Grady. It is Friday . . . payday.”

  “Oh . . . okay.”

  Friday? Is she fucking serious?

  A few years ago, Thora came highly recommended by Mrs. Carrigan, my nosy neighbor. Which for the most part, I appreciated her looking out for me.

  Standing up from my couch, I then walked down the hallway to my study. Feeling a little light headed, I stumbled hitting the wall with force. My eyes lifted, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. Jesus! I looked pale as fuck. My skin was ash grey. Apparently, I’d been working on my lumberjack look with this scruffy beard. My eyes were glassy and that was when it hit me, the smell of sweat and old gym shoes. Images of the basketball locker room in high school came to mind. Yep. That horrid smell is me.

  Scrubbing my hands down my face, I mumbled, “I need to get my shit together.”

  I opened my safe and pulled out a few hundred dollars. I preferred to pay Thora without the logistics of going through my accountant. Balancing my household expenses made me feel like a normal person with a grasp on reality, not the La La Land life.

  Reality smacked me in the face, hard. I knew that I couldn’t continue down this path. I needed to pull myself out of this funk and become a functioning member of society again.

  “Here you go,” I said with a grin.

  She shook her head and walked away. I got the feeling Thora was as disappointed in me as much as I was with myself. The door closed behind her and I sighed with relief.

  After a quick shower and shave, I pulled on a freshly washed pair of denim jeans and a grey zip-up hoodie. Grabbing my keys, I hit the road and parked my shiny black Mercedes at my favorite restaurant: an old-school diner that served the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had.

  “Grady James, welcome back to The Harbour, sugar,” Nancy, the owner called out to me over the ringing bells. Nancy’s Diner was a local hot spot, and had been around for thirty years. Wiping her hands on her checkered apron she rounded the long counter and greeted me with a warm hug. Her thick, jet black hair smelled of syrup and bacon.

  Minimal creases appeared around her eyes, when she smiled, it lit up the entire room. Pulling back from our embrace, her light brown eyes gave me a once over.

  “Sugar, you are much too skinny these days. What kind of work they got you doin’ out there in Tinsel Town?”

  Her question was as charming as her southern drawl. Shaking my head, I gripped her shoulder and said, “Work is just fine.”

  Fine and just fine were the only emotions I could seem to admit openly to feeling. Angry, pissed off, distraught, helpless, overwhelmingly sad and gutted were my true feelings—the total cliché of a broken man. But, as long as my mental faculties were with me I would shove those way the fuck down, because showing them would only get me sent straight to the therapist’s office.

  The only healing I needed was the ocean. Surfing or sailing the waves, the ocean was truly the last free place on earth. I think Bogart said something like that.

  The diner was barely packed mid-morning on a Friday, a few locals sat at high-top wooden tables and a group of fisherman huddled together in two small booths. The smell of fresh pancakes and apple-cinnamon from the baked goods case made my mouth water. I saddled up to the far end of the counter and Nancy poured me my usual cup of coffee: black with a pinch of sugar in the raw.

  Placing the steaming mug in front of me, she said softly, “I was really sorry to hear about your divorce. How you holding up, sugar?”

  I put my hand over hers and lied. “I’m doing okay, doll. Thank you for asking.”

  “What can I get you to eat?” she asked, pulling her notepad and pen from her apron pocket.

  “A short stack with blueberries and a side of maple brown sausage.” Before she turned to walk away I gave her my irresistible smile to further my case in the “I’m just fine, the same Grady James” façade.

  “You got it.”

  I scanned the diner, sipping my coffee. The place was nearly the same as it was last time I was here, it was a comforting feeling. I practically grew up here.

  My father was a writer, and over the years he penned dozens of books and screenplays during our summers spent in The Harbour. He took me to the Polo Club and bought me my first pair of riding boots. I learned to swim, surf and sail all on the waters that surrounded The Harbour. This town held an abundance of fond childhood memories. My parents were so vibrant here I was moved by the nostalgia of it all, giving me cause to buy a place.

  “Here you go,” Nancy announced placing the hot plate in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Unwrapping my silverware, I shook my head. “No thanks, Nancy.”

  I ate my breakfast in comfortable silence, occasionally drumming my fingers to the music piping through the speakers. My phone pinged with a message from my agent.

  Jennifer: Don’t forget the casting call today. I’m sending you the information.

  Fuckity Fuck. Fuck. I forgot this was today.

  Me: Do I really need this job?

  Jennifer: I’m not your accountant but, if you’d like to purchase that damn sailboat you keep talking about, yeah, I suggest you attend this callout.

  Me: Yes, Boss.

  “RISE AND SHINE, SLEEPING beauty.”

  The voice belonged to Afton Buchanan, my former college roommate. I’d been staying at her place in The Hamptons since Harry decided to rip out my heart. Nothing like being told that you’re a physical, mental and emotional distraction to your significant other’s professional career.

  Pushing my eye mask up onto my forehead, I let out a long groan. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, there is only so much sulking I can allow you to do,” she said, plopping down on the edge of the bed. �
��You’re coming into the office with me today. We have a casting call and I’d like you to take over our Instagram for some behind the scenes exclusives.”

  Afton was the President of Buchanan Beauty, her family’s cosmetics company. I had mad respect for her; she was a tough as balls business woman, not an entitled rich Daddy’s girl who was handed the corner office. Instead of taking the summers off to party and travel the world during college, she spent her time at the company studying sales figures and listening to lectures on the latest remedies in skincare.

  I rolled up to a sitting position. “I don’t know, Afton.”

  “You’re officially done moping, Lo,” she ordered, rolling up to her feet. “You need to get out of bed, and back to the land of the living.” She moved to stand in front of the mirror, fluffing the ends of her dark brown hair.

  As much as I wanted to crawl back underneath the sheets and sleep my life away, she wasn’t wrong. It was easier to hide away and not face reality that my perfect life had fallen apart. It was easier to ignore the fact that the man that I loved more than anything in the world had shattered my heart. Every morning when I woke, I hoped and prayed that it had all been a bad dream.

  “Come on,” she said, grasping my wrists and tugging me forward. “Take a shower and then put on something cute. I’ll schedule you for hair and makeup when we get to the studio.”

  I laughed. “Okay, okay fine. I’ll go with you.”

  “Excellent.” Afton’s smile grew wider, highlighting her dimples and the twinkle in her blue eyes. “Get moving. We’re having breakfast on the patio in thirty minutes.”

  My head rested against the headboard and as I scrolled through the notifications reading the morning headlines and gossip. Nothing interesting.

  For a moment, I allowed my thoughts to drift to Harry and my fingers itched to Google his name. I wondered if he was telling me the truth about our relationship being a distraction, or if he had fallen in love with someone else. My mind retreated to the darkest places. The only time his name appeared in the tabloids was in direct reference to soccer. Nothing personal.