Sympathy For Diablo (Breathless Eternity, #1) - S.E. Chardou Page 0,1

battles they fought against the French establishment didn’t interest me in the least bit. I was always attracted to music and the poetry of it. I’d been fascinated since I was a young boy.

My father understood and when my older brother, Damien, was accepted in HEC Paris despite his questionable background, he’d let him go.

It only made sense to me that he would want to waste his elite education on disciplining a ragtag bunch of delinquents who’d barely graduated from a local lycée in Versailles—none of us who had any intentions whatsoever of going to university.

Damien took it all in stride but he did get us on a regular practice schedule and the words to songs flowed out of me and my best friend, Jean-Paul, like water. Other than Damien, Jean-Paul was the only man I’d trust with my life. He was the son of the Sergeant at Arms for SOD, and his old lady who’d come from the French side of the island of St. Martin.

A chick magnet who could end up bedding almost any woman he wanted, Jean-Paul preferred to use the name Zero in Breathless Eternity. He possessed naturally tanned skin, ice blue eyes, and features from both his parents. He would have been a great catch. Actually he was and would make my younger sister his old lady when he finally decided to settle down.

Until then, he lived his life to the fullest and had enough fun for the both of us. I didn’t blame him or think his behavior was out of line; forever was a long time to commit yourself to one person.

I was interested in women but they were not the most important part of my life.

I’d been in love only once—similar to the way my father felt about another woman in his life before he committed to my mother—though despite our strong emotions, she was the reason why I had a problem trusting the fairer sex. I loved to fuck but all those lovey-dovey complicated emotions weren’t for me. I wasn’t sure if they’d ever be until Damien sent me photos of her with a cryptic email that read:

She’ll be at the Stade de France concert. I plan to intercept her there. If I can’t make that bitch pay then she’s the next best thing… D

Damien could be described with a lot of colorful objectives but of the two of us, he was the one who’d always kept his cool. His e-mail bothered me for some reason because I’d never known for him to speak about a woman in such a vulgar manner. What did this woman have to do with his past, and why was he so interested in making her pay?

For what exactly?

What could she have possibly done?

I didn’t recognize her at all but there was something about her that spoke to me even through the simple photographs that should have held no long-standing interest for me. She was beautiful in a no-nonsense way. I innately knew if I asked her whether she thought she was gorgeous, she’d be the type of woman who would sigh, maybe laugh, throw her wavy brown hair out of her face, and would probably fail to answer the answer the question. Either that or change the subject, thinking of me as gauche for inquiring at all.

Her eyes—they were catching—just like my brother’s. Where as Damien’s eyes were a startling ice blue with flickers of green surrounding the pupil, hers were hazel with flickers of green surrounding her pupils. They were intriguing, spellbinding, and so much more interesting than my sky blue eyes that changed with my moods but nothing like my brother’s expressive eyes. I’d inherited my mother’s eye color and my father’s blond hair while my brother had a shock of dark brown hair and those gorgeous eyes with alabaster skin that actually could sport a killer tan when he made the effort.

Though my features could probably be described as Nordic, my father was a full-blooded Alsatian who considered himself French through and through. My mother was an interesting mixture of Norman and Basque. She was the reason for my dreaded nickname—Diablo.

She was a true free spirit and lived her life on her own terms. She’d only discovered herself again when she met my father but he came with a club and baggage—a son from a previous relationship.

She’d always accepted Damien as her own, and we grew up as close as two brothers could. Neither our sister, Annalise, nor I would ever consider