Kelsey #2
“I don’t want to know.” Even if curiosity makes me hang for his next word. Just once I’d love someone to tell me that his life has been impacted negatively. Karma is supposed to be a bitch, not a groupie. I wish he would rot in hell.
Like I am.
The server comes back with a couple of beers and some ice wrapped in a kitchen towel. Bronx puts the compress on my ankle. “Looks like a sprain. Have a drink. It’ll help you forget about the pain.”
There is no amount of alcohol that could make me forget my pain. And seeing Bronx—as much as I missed him—is a reminder I didn’t need.
Still, I don’t get up and leave. I linger, and it’s not because of my damaged ankle or having nowhere to go where Marco won’t find me.
I miss my old life and my old friends. And the way things used to be when I was with L.A. Riot. When I loved the boy and the future was much brighter than it is now.
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing running around the streets in your underwear—”
His gaze is beyond concerned. It’s like he’s seeing a friend hit rock bottom. It drops to my bare legs.
“Oh my God.” I would laugh if I wasn’t mortified. “Do you think I’m a prostitute now?”
He shrugs. “No judgment. I would totally pay you to take a nap in my bed if I thought you would take me up on the offer.”
“Wow.” I sit back. “I ought to be insulted.”
Except that he’s always been a flirt.
My stomach growls and I press a hand to my abdomen in the hopes it will quieten. All that running on empty and then running for my life has left me starving. “No, I’m not a prostitute.”
“No. You look like you could sleep for a thousand years.” He grabs the front of his shirt and tugs it away from his neck. “That’s what I meant.”
“Yes, things are shit lately.” I drop my attention to the coaster under my beer. It’s bronze with a black frame and the name of the place in the middle. “That’s what happens when you’re blacklisted from your industry.”
And then your apartment burns down a couple of months later.
And some asshole bumps into you, knocking you into traffic a couple of months after that, causing you to end up in the hospital for weeks while you physically recover from a trauma you can never mentally or emotionally recover from.
Leaving you with a stack of hospital bills you can’t pay.
I lost everything. All of it gone in what felt like the blink of an eye. Each new loss breaking me worse than the last.
Every job I’ve managed to land since then has only lasted a few weeks. Then the job I was hired for or the shifts I was assigned dry up. Almost as if someone is actively working to make sure my life is still hell.
At this point I’m not sure why I don’t lie down and die. Only that I’ve always been too stubborn to quit. Would it have been the worst thing if Marco had pulled the trigger tonight?
“So, what were you doing in your underwear in the middle of the street? And who was that creep in the car?” Bronx reminds me of his presence. I have to believe there’s a reason for it.
The server comes back with a loaded tray. He places two plates on the table in front of us. Artful dishes that smell like heaven and make me salivate.
“You’re too skinny,” he says. “I can see your bones, and I’m worried. Eat. Tell me about your troubles.”
I cut a tiny bite and pop it between my teeth. It melts on my tongue and happy chemicals release into my blood stream. The chill deep in my bones starts to recede as the warmth of the speakeasy and the food in my belly heats me through.
“I witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.” I speak with my mouth full. Disgusting habit, but hunger trumps manners. “Or maybe I was.”
Gary had ordered me into that room, and he seemed to know Marco well. Either he figured out our relationship somehow, which is unlikely, or he decided I was expendable. Prick.
“That man was—”
“Was my foster brother, actually.”
Bronx’s brows lift in a straight line. The guys didn’t know much when I was managing L.A.
Riot. Except Riot. He knew how much I hated going back to that house.
How I’d avoid it for as long as possible.
What he knew he kept close to his chest. And even he wasn’t aware what Marco was truly capable of.
“My foster brother is a thug.” I pick up my beer and bury my emotions in another swig. He’s also the type of guy I would wake up to find in my bed despite having locked the door before I went to sleep. I never wanted to rehash those experiences.
“Should you speak to the cops?” Bronx asks.
“You just told me you thought I was a prostitute. Do you think the cops are really going to care what I have to say?” I start to tremble and the food threatens to come back up.
The cops didn’t believe me the last time I called them on Marco.
Fifteen and a troublemaker. Drama creator; that’s what Marco’s father called me.
The cops chose to believe him. Later I realized it was because of the business they were in.
I was collateral damage.
I cover my mouth with my hand and squeeze my nose between finger and thumb. “He knows where I live now, Bronx. He’s not going to stop hunting for me. And I have nowhere to go.”
I don’t want to fall apart. Not from the shock. Or the fear. I have tried too hard to stay strong and get back on my feet. Does it even matter? Everything keeps getting ripped away from me. How much more can I fight?
“Yes. You do.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’ll come stay with me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Whatever your life is now. It’s not where you’re meant to be.”
“I know that.” I was meant to be with them. Until Riot chose her over me.
And she didn’t even stick around. Six months later she was dating the rapper from Effect. “It doesn’t matter.”
I can’t stay with him. They’re about to tour. That would mean being around the band. Too close to the man that crushed me for his career. I stand up and start to unzip the jacket. I won’t see Bronx again. I won’t be able to give it back to him, and it’s his favorite.
“We need you,” he implores, giving me those puppy dog eyes that have worked on hundreds of women and men. “L.A. Riot needs you. He needs you.”
Why would he twist the knife in like that? He is as aware as the rest of them that it was Carmine Savant himself that had me blacklisted everywhere for punching his daughter in the mouth. Even if I could see myself going back for Bronx and Golden... “I told you I don’t want to know.”
“He’s a mess, Kelsey. He’s acting like Neil did before we sent him to rehab.
Remember that. The rockstar lifestyle is ace, but there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.
I’m worried. Golden is too. Carmine’s getting sick of him.
Ever since you left and Neil died, he hasn’t been all right. Maybe—”
“I’m sorry about Neil. I truly am. I miss him too.” Remembering our friend breaks my heart. “But Riot’s not my problem.”
“He hurt you. I get that, but—”
I shrug out of the jacket and hold it out to him. It’s cold and suddenly there are eyes on me since I’m almost as nude as the woman performing. “No, there’s no but. He hurt me too much for me to ever forgive him.”
“I didn’t.” He refuses to take the jacket from me. “Golden didn’t. Couldn’t you see whipping Riot back into shape as helping us? He’s fucking chaos. I don’t know what else to do honestly. He won’t listen to anyone. They want a minder on him.”
“Not me. Anyone but me.” I drape his jacket on the back of the chair.
“It would give you protection from your foster brother. All that security we take everywhere we go. He couldn’t get anywhere near you. Not to mention, a warm bed, meals, and enough money to get you back on your feet after the tour.”
Once I would have done anything for the band. Even more so for Riot Maddox, but in the interest of self-preservation pretending that I never had this conversation with Bronx is the only thing to do. I bend down and kiss his cheek. “Bye, Bronx.”
I limp toward the exit with the shreds of my dignity, not that I have any left. The rain has returned, though the storm has moved on. The street is sodden, lights glittering on the wet surface.
And a black Escalade sits opposite the speakeasy. Waiting. Marco didn’t go anywhere.
Damn it. I shrink back. My back meets a solid, warm wall.
Bronx steadies me.
The music in the speakeasy switches to an orchestral version of one of L.A. Riot’s old songs; ‘Chokehold’.
I choke on it.
My favorite L.A. Riot song. Until he changed it for her. Sang it with her. Turned it into their duet. Now, it’s bitter ashes in my mouth. Another sign I should tell Bronx I will work out how to survive on my own.
“I’d say take some time to consider my proposal,” Bronx says near my ear. “But since you can’t run and you need somewhere to hide... Do you really have any other option?”
As much as I wish it were any other way... “It appears not.”