Let me love you, p.1
Let Me Love You, page 1
LET ME LOVE YOU
SCARLETT COLE
Copyright © 2022 by Scarlett Cole
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
While Manchester rock bands are legends and famous for their antics, the Sad Fridays are purely a work of fiction.
* * *
Published By: Kadelo Group Ltd.
Edited by: Angela James
Cover design by: Letitia Hasser at RBA Design
* * *
E-book ISBN: 978-1-7398672-6-3
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7398672-5-6
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue One: Ben
Epilogue Two: Nan
Thank you
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Scarlett Cole
To the real Chaya.
* * *
For the laughter, latkes, and friendship.
I am ever grateful to know you.
And, thank you.
I could never have written this book without you.
PROLOGUE
December 26th
Ben King, lead guitarist for rock band Sad Fridays, cautiously opened one eye and glanced around at the state of his bedroom. The smell of midnight-ordered pizza made him want to vomit. Although, that could easily have been the bottle of whiskey, or the bottle of vodka that he’d turned to once the whiskey had run out.
His bed was too warm, which meant there was someone in it with him. Without turning over, he didn’t have a fucking clue who it was.
Hopefully he’d called someone he actually liked.
Or had he gone out and picked someone up?
The previous day was now all a blur.
Christmas day. The girlfriends of the rest of the band members had all been whispering in his nan’s kitchen about something.
Alex, his brother and the band’s percussionist and keyboard player, had been requested to join them. A few minutes later, he’d marched out of there like the world had stopped spinning on its axis, telling Ben to get his coat and getting him a whiskey once he’d let them into Ben’s home.
Ben groaned and placed a hand over his face as he remembered what happened next.
Chaya’s engaged.
The pain, as fresh and raw as it had been yesterday, sliced through him.
The next breath was hard.
Even though he’d suspected an engagement would come eventually.
Even though he’d known from the moment he’d realised he was in love with his best friend all those years ago, that she’d never marry him because he wasn’t Jewish.
Even though there had been times she’d looked at him and held him and shown him she loved him too. It had never changed what was expected of her.
What her faith expected of her.
“Fuck me,” he muttered.
“Same,” the male voice next to him said.
Ben breathed a sigh of relief when he realised it was his brother.
“You stayed?”
“Couldn’t let you go through this alone,” Alex said, his voice rough. “You doing okay?”
“Define okay?”
“Stupid question. But we’ll get you through this. Like we have everyone else in the band when things have gone to shit. I’ll go make coffee.”
Gingerly, his brother sat up and moved his legs to the edge of the bed. He was in a pair of Ben’s joggers.
“You could have slept in the spare room, you know,” Ben said.
Alex turned, his curls in disarray. “You threatened to get in your car and drive over to her fiancé’s sometime around your tenth shot. Your plan was to take her on a private jet to Mexico and marry her on the beach. I hid your keys and opted to sleep in here so I’d know if you decided to do something stupid, like call a cab.”
Yeah, he probably would have. And the whole idea was stupid. Even if he’d whisked her away, she would never have married him on a beach because she wanted a religious wedding celebration. The bedeken and the chuppah and the glass breaking. And a Jewish man opposite her. “Thanks.”
Alex shrugged. “You’d do the same for me. For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” Three words that did nothing to describe the feeling.
He felt bereft.
Adrift.
And, weirdly, abandoned. Chaya had been the best part of his day for nearly fifteen years, from the moment he’d found her in a warehouse and rescued her from her kidnapper when she’d been eleven.
Now, she was someone else’s.
When Alex disappeared down the stairs, Ben reached for his phone perched on the bedside table. He scrolled back through his messages, dreading what he’d written.
Ben: You let me find out through fucking social media, Chay?
He’d sent that message about an hour after they’d gotten home.
Chaya: Ben, I’m so sorry. He surprised me. Then wanted us to share the news. Didn’t think anyone would notice until after I’d messaged you.
Ben: Messaged me? You don’t think a phone call would have worked better? Or showing up here to let me know?
Chaya: I was at his house. With our parents. They already don’t understand us. I couldn’t just pause the Hannukah celebration to call you.
Ben: Couldn’t or wouldn’t?
Chaya: That’s not fair.
Ben: Come over. We’ll talk.
Chaya: Why? It won’t solve anything. I love you, but I’m in love with Asher. I’m sorry you found out that way. It’s not how I would have planned it… But…can you be happy for me, Ben?
Ben: ….
Ben: ….
Ben: ….
Ben: I got nothing, babe. I don’t even know what to say right now. You’re going to drift away from me and that sucks.
Chaya: I won’t. I promise.
Ben: You already are. Asher doesn’t like me. I’ve barely seen you the last couple of weeks.
Chaya: Hopefully being engaged will help Asher get comfortable with our friendship.
Friendship? Ben scoffed at the word. Friendship had never been big enough or bold enough to describe the two of them. It was like saying Lionel Messi was an average goal scorer.
Ben: No. He won’t, Chay.
Chaya: Sorry to do this to you at Christmas.
Ben: Day of the year doesn’t matter, babe. It would hurt this much if it was a wet Wednesday in February.
Chaya: Don’t make this harder, please.
Ben: It’s as hard as it fucking gets. Just… don’t disappear, Chay. I think I’d hate that more than anything.
Chaya: I won’t, Ben, I promise.
1
Four months later…
With aching ribs, Ben gingerly shoved his gadgets in his backpack and waited to step off the private jet that had flown them through the night to Manchester after the first leg of their American tour. The sun was out, unusual for April in Manchester, and Ben grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his bag.
He knew the pain in his body would go, but the video of evidence of what had caused it would be online forever.
Chaos went on around him. Cabin bags were being packed. Shit thrown across the aisle at each other. Had anybody seen a hoodie? Were their bags being taken into the terminal or put straight into the car?
Their energy was high, despite the all-night flight. After years of struggle, the band had finally made it. From touring up and down the UK in a van that Ben, a former mechanic, kept on the road, to touring America in a style he hadn’t yet become accustomed to.
Ben didn’t care about the details as he pulled his dirty blond waves back from his face with a hair bobble. One of Chaya’s, his best friend. Former best friend. Whatever she was. He couldn’t think of her now. They’d barely spoken since their texts on Christmas Day.
She’d done what she promised not to. She’d pulled away from him. Immersed herself in her life with Asher.
And he’d thrown himself into bouts of drinking and hooking up with random strangers when loneliness overwhelmed him.
His head pounded, the sun was too fucking bright, and even the luxury of a well-equipped private jet hadn’t changed the fact he hated flying and couldn’t sleep on a plane.
“Yes,” Luke, the band’s drummer said, dipping his head to the window. “Willow and Zale came to meet the plane. He had a shit night, apparently, so she took him out for a drive.”
Zale had been the result of Luke’s one-night stand with Willow, the American social media influencer. Somehow, they’d turned it into the happiest of ever afters.
Jase, their lead singer, hurried down the aisle, bag in hand. “Can we get the doors open? I’ve got ninety minutes before Cerys leaves for work at the recording studio, and I want to see her.” Jase and Cerys, the daughter of famed music producer, Jimmy Bexter, had met when they’d worked on their last album in Detroit.
“Is Iz working today?” Ben asked Matt, the lynchpin of the band. It was Matt’s song writing and perseverance that had gotten them as far as they had, and he also played a mean bass. His fiancée, and Luke’s sister, Iz, worked as an events planner and part-time at a homeless shelter.
“No. Day off. And the builders just finished the renovations, so the house will finally be dust free and we can move in.”
Envy so visceral that the bite was almost as painful as his ribs stabbed right through him. Everyone was making progress in their lives. Iz and Matt were engaged and had bought a double-fronted Victorian fixer-upper. Four bedrooms, Matt had said, because they wanted a big family.
Jase and Cerys were the same. Engaged at Christmas and recently moved into a large modern detached property in an exclusive neighbourhood in Didsbury Village.
Luke and Willow were up to their eyeballs in caring for a newborn while being on tour, but everyone was thriving. Iz had been staying with Willow to help out while Luke was away.
As the thought of Luke’s ongoing obsession with looking at houses online passed through his head, Ben’s brother, Alex, stepped out of the bedroom at the back of the jet with his girlfriend, Zoe. She’d flown out for the end of the tour as soon as her university semester had ended. The pair of them looked rested, and Alex signed something to Zoe, the talented percussionist, that made her blush.
Whatever she signed in return had Alex laughing. While she could speak fine, having lost her hearing recently they’d sign when they didn’t want to be understood by anyone else.
Knowing his brother’s kinks far more than he’d like to, he’d bet that they’d gotten up to all kinds of mischief that went well beyond simply joining the mile-high club.
But his own life was freestyling backwards.
It had been for one hundred and eight days.
Since Alex had broken the news to him that Chaya was engaged.
“We’re heading to the centre to check in,” Alex said, slapping him on the shoulder, way too chipper for Ben’s gloomy mood. “Do you want to come with us?”
Alex had started an arts centre, Simply Create, to ensure all local kids in Manchester had access to the arts in an LGBTQ+ safe space. While his brother was pansexual, he’d fallen in love with Zoe, and they’d built it together.
Together.
Fuck. What a word.
“No, I’m good. Home. Bed for a few days.”
Alone.
Because Chaya was no longer his…even by their definition of what it had meant before she met Asher.
It was stupid to think there’d always be a him and Chaya. Until there wasn’t. Until Asher wormed his way in, telling her that their relationship wasn’t healthy.
Which, in truth, it wasn’t; always hovering right on the line of friends who were almost lovers.
But in the months since Chaya and Asher had met, there had been a rift between Chaya and himself so deep that he couldn’t see the bottom of it.
Because she’d picked Asher.
The proof had been the final nail in the coffin.
The jet doors opened, and everyone made their way to the front. Jase was out and over to his assigned car without waiting for their suitcases. “Grab my bags, will you, Matt? I’ll pick ‘em up later.”
“Will do,” Matt said, stepping onto the tarmac.
Luke dropped his bag and ran toward the terminal where Willow and Zale stood just outside the door, Willow making Zale’s pudgy little hand wave. Ben grinned when Zale, now nearly six months old, realised his dad was running towards him. Little legs and arms flailing.
He’d missed the little fella, and liked babysitting for Luke and Willow so they could get a break occasionally.
There came that envy again as Luke scooped them both into his arms.
Ben grabbed all of his bags and dumped them in the trunk of the car assigned to him, Zoe, and Alex. Their instruments were being shipped separately. Once inside, Ben checked his phone.
“Ah, crap,” he muttered.
“Everything okay?” Alex asked.
“Nan wondered if I could pop round. The tap in her kitchen has been leaking for four days and the drip is driving her mad.”
“You know you can pay someone instead? You don’t have to fix everything for all of us anymore.”
Ben shook his head. He found joy in the art of repair. People and things. He’d been a mechanic before the band took off, and some days he missed the simplicity of it. It was the place his life had value. “Nah. I’ll go get my toolbox and drive over there.”
The car fell quiet as Zoe dozed against Alex’s arm.
He shouldn’t look, but Ben couldn’t resist opening Chaya’s social media page. Perhaps it would have helped if she wasn’t so damn photogenic. But she looked stunning in every single picture. Long brunette hair, so thick and glossy, he’d always loved the feel of it, and a smile so bright it never ceased to make his day. One with two of her girlfriends outside the CrossFit gym on the parkway. A family dinner with her sister and brothers. Three with Asher.
Looking all smarmy and comfortable with Chaya’s family.
One with Chaya’s dad’s arm over his shoulder in welcome. Something her father had never done with Ben.
Even after he’d rescued Chaya all those years ago, he’d never been particularly welcoming.
He closed his phone and opened up the news.
Is Ben King heading for a breakdown?
Is it all too much too soon for Sad Fridays’ guitarist?
New in: Guitarist falls off stage while drunk.
Ben turned his phone off, rubbed his hand over his face, and closed his eyes. The band’s PR team had reassured him it would blow over. Apparently, some celebrity A-List couple was about to issue a statement about the state of their marriage, which would wipe him off the top of the headlines.
He could only hope so.
When he pulled up outside his nan’s house an hour later, toolbox at the ready, she was brandishing her phone at him through the window before he’d even stepped into the garden.
“Benjamin Ashton King. Do you want to tell me why there are photos everywhere of you falling off the stage and being too drunk to climb back on it?”
She’d used his full name. An immediate clue to how mad she was.
He slipped his free arm around her and squeezed. “Hey, Nan. I missed you too.” He hissed as the action hurt his ribs.
She sighed and relaxed against him. “Don’t make me have to worry about you, lad. After all this time worrying about Matt and Jase making up. And Luke getting through his addictions. And people not accepting Alex. You’ve always been the steady one.”
“Yeah, well. It is what it is. Can we get inside? The sun’s too bright and my head’s banging.”
Nan stepped back inside, and Ben followed her lead. Her house smelled of cinnamon and sugar. A sure sign she’d been baking, likely for all of them now they were home.
“You smell like alcohol,” Nan observed, a wrinkle across the bridge of her nose.
“We walked straight off the stage last night to the airport via an X-ray on my ribs that cost someone a few grand. Painkillers did fuck all, but partnered with a solid single malt, I was able to pass out.”
Nan walked into the kitchen of her small two-up, two-down Manchester home. “Well, that’s a sure-fire way to win the Darwin award for idiocy. You fell off the stage. Concussion is a thing.”
Ben placed the toolbox on the floor, trying to ignore the way his stomach suddenly lurched as pain fired through his ribs. “No concussion,” he hissed, leaning on the small table he’d sat at ever since he was small. “Just bruised ribs.”
“Then what are you doing out of bed?”
“Because you messaged about your goddamn tap, Nan.”
Nan put her hand to her chest, and he took a deep breath.
