Chapter 12
Twelve
The high-pitched squeal in my ears was so painful it was beyond pain, a pressure in my eardrums that was somehow heavy, tight, and sharp all at the same time. It felt like I was being stabbed repeatedly in the ear drums with the world’s heaviest and thinnest knitting needle. My vision seemed to pulse with flashes of white, off-white, silvery-white, nothing but white, white, white. As far as I could see, white, seeming to expand and constrict in time with my heartbeat. As I raised a sweaty hand to my face, I realized that I was lying down. When had that happened?
I slow-blinked. The pulsing white had been the view from behind my eyelids apparently, because my eyes had been closed. I was having trouble opening them now; moisture had quick dried in my eyelashes, and they were sealed half-shut. I slow-blinked again, forcing them open, and gasping in horror at the sight above where I lay.
Papers were fluttering all around me. I wasn’t sure where they’d come from; was it pieces of Phillip’s set list for the show? Confetti? Why would there be confetti at a music venue…? My thoughts whirled, my ears still picking up that high-pitched frequency and nothing else. I struggled to move, to get up, to assess the situation, but I felt stuck to the floor. My limbs were so heavy, and there was a sharp pain in my head where I must have fallen. It seemed like a million years ago, but it had only been a couple weeks since I’d had a concussion, and I wondered if I’d reinjured myself. What did that mean? Could I slip into a coma and die? I slow-blinked again, willing myself to stay awake, even though my body was made of pure adrenaline and there was no chance of me falling asleep. My head was throbbing, the squeal in my ears unbearable, and my voice was hoarse, my throat scratchy and painful, as I tried to call for Phillip, who probably wouldn’t hear me anyway.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
What have I done?
I couldn’t think about that now. I had to get up.
I still couldn’t hear, and all I could see was a haze of smoke and the fluttering bits of paper, but I felt the thudding of footsteps on the stage. Or maybe it was just on the floor below the stage, likely a stampede of people trying to get out of the venue, and any second, people would be running around all around me. I’d get trampled if I didn’t get up, practically invisible in my oversized black hoodie, which was still pulled down around my face.
I pulled myself up to a sitting position, wincing, and assessed my injuries. There was the thunk on the head I’d suffered, and my left hip felt a little tender; I’d likely landed on that. I bit down and ran my tongue over my teeth—nothing broken. My fingers wiggled fine, and so did my toes. It seemed I was largely uninjured. Wait. My right arm was wet just above the elbow. I felt with my left hand, and a smear of blood came back on my fingers. Fuck.
I groaned with pain as I pulled myself upright, forcing myself to stand, my feet slipping on the floor, and began to fall back again, grasping for the heavy black curtains and finding no purchase. Going down, I braced myself for the inevitable impact when a pair of arms caught me and held me in place.
“She’s bleeding,” I heard a voice say, frantic, small, and tinny beneath the wailing squeals in my ears. “Look, her arm!”
“I can see it,” came another voice, this one closer, deeper. I felt hot breath on my face, quick and fast, and the rise and fall of a chest against my back. “Where can I take her?”
It was Phillip. I tried to smile at him but couldn’t seem to move my facial muscles properly. Now that he was here, holding me safe and secure, I could stop struggling. He would take me somewhere safe. Somewhere I could rest and think. My thoughts weren’t coming in order, and the flashing white in my head was growing stronger and stronger. Had my eyes closed again? I didn’t even know.
What have I done, I thought again miserably, slumping into Phillip’s warm body, my head nestling against his sweaty chest.
“What does she mean by that?” Lee’s voice, scared and angry. I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken aloud.
“There’s a dressing room through that door.” Benny. “There’s a twin bed in there, and looks like a first aid kit. Let’s put her in there for now, get her out of the way.”
“I think we should leave the venue,” Roberta was arguing. “I don’t feel like we’re safe here. We need to get her somewhere outside with fresh air. What if there’s more explosions?”
There won’t be any more because he’s dead, dead, dead, dead…
“What’s she saying? Who’s dead?”
“Maybe we ought not move her, darlin’.” Sweet, blessed Jamie. So he was okay. I wondered about the pretty dark-haired girl, the one I’d brought to the front row. I couldn’t remember her name now for some reason. Was it Betty? Bella?
Phillip’s voice was close in my ear. “She’s alright. She jumped down from the seats and ran out just before the stampede.”
Stampede? What on earth was he talking about? I couldn’t make sense of anything. I couldn’t even gather where I was. Some type of club or something, but why?
Another voice. Jason. “Everybody got out safely. Me and Ollie ran up to the front and led them all out single file. Everybody’s outside and okay.”
Thank goodness for that. My head swam. Wait; what was I thankful for? I couldn’t remember.
“Let’s just get her out of eyesight, out of the way,” Benny urged. “Then…I can help her. I think.”
I tried to move my hands, to grab at Phillip, but he was behind me, and I ended up flailing, my arms grasping at the air.
“Stop trying to move, hon.” Roberta’s voice was a low, comforting croon. “Just be still and let Phillip carry you.”
“Phillip?”
“Yes, Phillip, honey,” she said, her voice higher pitched now, concerned. “Phillip Deville. Your boyfriend.”
I laughed, wishing my eyes would open properly so I could look at her and laugh right in her face. “Phillip Deville? Like he would ever be my boyfriend. Even if he was alive, he wouldn’t know who the fuck I am.” Imagine. “You’re such a bitch, Sloan.” My giggle quickly turned into a wince as strong arms hoisted me and began to jostle me. It hurt. “Put me down, Uncle El. I don’t like it here.”
“Oh, shit, guys.” Her voice had given way to tears. Why was she crying?
“Right.” His voice was in my ear, making its way over the squealing that still tore at my eardrums. I realized—or remembered, I wasn’t sure which—why we were at a venue and why we were here. Phillip was playing a show. “Grab her legs, Benny, and let’s try to get her in there, but we’ve got to go slow, and be gentle. She might have internal injuries.”
He sounded so calm, his voice measured and even. But only I could read what he was feeling inside. His emotions were a swirl of many things: fury at his show being interrupted, confusion, impatience, but most of all, pure, unadulterated fear. I’d never felt him so scared, and the two of us had been through many things together. Phillip was terrified.
I must be more hurt than I’d thought.
But then, as soon as the thought appeared in my head, it was gone again, and the grasp I had on the situation began to slip...
“B-B-Benny and the Jets,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure why that song had appeared in my head.
I felt two strong arms hoisting up my legs, and a loud wail came from somewhere beyond…Then, as the two of them carried me, gingerly, I realized the wail had come from me. I was in pain, but it was a weird, disjointed sort of agony; I could feel it, but I could only feel it outside of me, as though I were picking up a frequency that someone was putting down. It was me but it wasn’t me. Inside me but outside of me.
I tried to cling to my awareness, my mind desperate to continue taking stock of my situation, to take inventory of my injuries, to keep alert for more danger, to be present for whatever Phillip and Benny were doing to help. To remember where I was and who these people were. But it was too much. I felt myself drifting, like a wayward float in the path of a rip current; powerless to stop the wave as it carried me out to sea. Drifting, drifting… My chin slumped to my chest, and I passed out before they got me on the couch.
Daddy’s calloused and rough hand enclosed over mine, but I happily left my fingers intertwined with his as he led me to the metal bleachers in the corner of the dusty lot. It was a hot day, and very dry, so dry you could see the faint outline of red Georgia clay-dust lingering in the air. On a windy day, it might swirl a little and seem to dance, but today it just hung there like a dirty, murky mirage.
I was used to this place; it was almost like a second home. Every Saturday and sometimes on Sundays, I would get up early with Mama in the summers, when it was warm and light before 6:30 a.m. I’d often complain at just how early she’d get me out of bed, but she’d always reward my good behavior with a slightly cold, cheese-stuffed biscuit and a Sprite, which I’d gobble hungrily as our old, rusty Buick traveled down the highway in a mad rush to get the best tables. Sometimes we sold, and always we shopped. Mama said the earlier you got to the flea market, the better deals you would find. We relied on the “fill up your bag for $2” tables, the exhausted mothers selling their kid’s outgrown shorts and jeans for fifty cents apiece (Mama would haggle them down to a quarter every single time), and the produce tables, always tucked away at the end, where the Mexican families would sell the biggest, freshest watermelons you’d ever seen, hacked in half with a bread knife sticking out of the gooey, sweet flesh. Customers were expected to hack off their own piece and pay for it on the honor system, and once Mama had caught me trying to wiggle a piece free with my hand as she stuffed a bag with beefsteak tomatoes, distracted, and gave my hand a slap. To my delight, she’d asked the man behind the table, “How much?” “A dime,” the man had said, his grin as wide as the moon. He grabbed a plastic shaker and sprinkled little red granules all over the fruit. Then he wrapped the piece of watermelon in wax paper and placed it in my little hands, along with a big wad of brown napkins The way that watermelon had tasted—sweet, juicy, with a salty, spicy tang from the little shaker—still lingered on my tongue.
From that point on, Mama made it a point to stop there every weekend for tomatoes, potatoes, and sometimes, when she was feeling extravagant, a juicy peach or big wedge of sweet pineapple or juicy watermelon for me. From that day forward, I always asked for the “spicy red sprinkles.”
Daddy loved the flea market too, but he came on Saturday nights rather than in the mornings. Often, Mama came with us, but there were plenty of times she didn’t. Daddy had no use for shopping, and when Mama did show off her purchases to him, he’d wrinkle his nose in disdain and admonish her. “I might not have a pot to piss in, but damned if I want to wear somebody else’s cast-off clothes,” he’d say with a voice full of spite. Mama got to where she just didn’t tell him where things came from. He knew, but as long as he didn’t know out loud, it seemed like he was okay with it. It was one of many things about my daddy I didn’t understand, but I’d learned to not ask questions.
The one thing Daddy liked about the flea market was the wrestling matches. Every weekend, sometimes twice if there was a double billing, we’d go. I had almost no memories of spending real, quality time with him other than the wrestling, which I loved. Often a live music show—bluegrass or country rock—would follow, and Daddy was friends with one of the bass players, so we usually got good seats. That’s where my love of music, and a good live show, had begun.
Tonight’s wrestling match was a double. We’d see two wrestling matches and then live music; the greasy flyer taped to a power pole said the band was “southern fried rock.” Daddy had patted his pocket and told me we’d eat at the match, a prospect I was excited for because that meant corndogs or nachos thick with bright yellow cheese, a real rarity. Mama hadn’t come with us today, so it was just the two of us. I followed Daddy up the metal bleachers to the very top, where he sat and patted beside him. I sat down, grinning ear to ear, and Daddy read over the flyer, then handed it to me.
I was getting pretty good at reading, so I was able to make out all the words with only a little difficulty. “Double Match Ex…extrav…aganza. Championship Match; Snake-Eyes Blake battles The Swamp Thing for the heavyweight championship belt. Junior Heavyweight Match; A.J. Floyd defends his junior heavyweight title against newcomer THE BLACK WOLF. Later: Music by Johnny Hollis and the Gators on the deck at Beau’s Barbecue Shack! The best Southern Fried Rock in South Georgia!”
“Are we eating barbecue, Daddy?” My stomach rumbled excitedly.
Daddy laughed and shook his head. “I ain’t got barbecue money, little bit, but I could go for a slaw dog. You want?”
“Just a plain one for me,” I said, and stuck out my lower lip. “With extra ketchup. Nachos too, please?”
“Well, I reckon. But only if you say please, and I ain’t springing for jalapenos.” He laughed again, and I laughed too. “And we’ll split us a co’cola.”
“Okay,” I said brightly, beaming. I could already taste the waxy, salty cheese sauce. We didn’t eat out often, so when we did, it pretty much made my day.
“I’ll go get ‘em now before the match starts. You hold our seats,” Daddy said, waggling a finger at me. “Don’t talk to no strangers, and don’t leave this spot. Anybody tries to bother you, you, uh…” He scanned the bleachers in front of us and pointed at a lady with curly blue-gray hair sitting in front of us, chowing down on a chili cheeseburger. “Tap that lady on the shoulder and ask her to help you.” He grinned and disappeared down the bleachers, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his tight blue jeans as he went. The lady with the cheeseburger craned her neck to look at him as he went. Ladies always did that with Daddy. Sometimes men too. Mama teased him about it, and he pretended she was crazy. And then sometimes Mama didn’t find it so funny. I didn’t really understand men and women, and I almost hoped it stayed that way. It seemed like when they weren’t fussing with each other, they were quietly fretting, and I wasn’t sure which one was worse.
I hoped nobody would bother me because I sure didn’t feel like tapping the lady on her shoulder. Her hair was such a weird color, and I bet her breath smelled like chili. I contented myself with reading the flyer again, focusing on the pictures of the wrestlers. The flyer was in black and white, but I found I could easily fill in the colors with my mind. Snake-Eye Blake I knew well—he was a tall, skinny man with blond-red hair that was always pulled back in a high ponytail atop his head. He had striking blue eyes, and his signature move was the piledriver. I liked him okay, but he’d been champion for such a long time, and he was a real big hit with the ladies. They always screamed and shrieked over him, something I found very annoying. The Swamp Thing was more interesting because he was big and hulking and wore a mask that obscured his entire face, except for his eyes, which were beady and so dark that I was certain they must actually be black. His long, stringy hair was always wet and falling over his eyes, and I found him more than a little bit scary; he really did look like he’d just come out of a swamp.
The junior wrestlers were my favorite, though, because they were young. Often, they were teens, but sometimes we’d get a really young wrestler, the odd thirteen- or fourteen-year-old. I’d seen A.J. Floyd wrestle once before, and he was a wiry, tough kid with a smattering of acne on his forehead and chocolate-brown eyes. I could tell already that when he got grown, he’d be another Snake-Eye Blake, preening for the ladies.
Then there was the Black Wolf, who I’d never seen before. I scanned over the picture, committing it to memory. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he stared at the camera straight on, holding his arms over his chest like someone in deep prayer, or perhaps lying in a coffin. It was a weird pose, but it suited him. His jet-black hair fell over one eye. His eyes were dark and hollow, with gray smudges under them that could have been natural or eyeshadow; it was hard to tell. His fingernails were painted black, and he had a nose ring, which I found shocking. People could get earrings in their noses? My eyes scanned the picture over and over, a weird feeling going through me. I’d never seen a kid like this before. But something about him called to me, and I felt myself fervently hoping he’d win this match tonight. This new kid, this brilliantly dark outsider.
“Who you bettin’ on tonight, little bit?” Daddy was already back, sliding in beside me. He handed me a hot dog wrapped in aluminum foil and placed a plastic platter filled to the brim with chips beside us.
“Swamp Thing,” I said, holding the warm hot dog, enjoying the toasty feel of the hot aluminum foil in my hand, “and for the second match…this one.” I pointed at the Black Wolf with my free hand.
“The new kid?” Daddy wrinkled his nose and took a giant bite of slaw dog, wiping the excess dressing from his chin with a napkin. “He looks like a punk ass to me.”
“He is not!”
Daddy laughed and opened the little plastic container of cheese sauce, drizzling it all over the chips. “He’s wearing nail polish. Of course he’s a little punk.”
Hot tears sprang to my eyes. “He IS NOT!”
“You like his little nose ring?”
“Stop!”
“Alright, alright. Eat your hot dog, little bit.” Daddy laughed and took a long sip of Coke. He shook his head. “Ain’t no daughter of mine gonna grow up and be no goth. I aint’ havin’ it, see?” But he was smiling.
I was miffed, but I was also starving, and I knew better than to argue with Daddy, especially if he was in a good mood—those could turn sour on a dime. I grabbed a chip and munched it, resolving to silently root for the Black Wolf as much as I wanted. Daddy couldn’t stop me.
The first match went pretty much as expected. The Swamp Thing gave as good as he got and even surprised Snake-Eye Blake with a steel chair to the noggin at one point, but not even a carefully delivered suplex was enough to win the match. Snake-Eye was simply too wily and beloved for all that. At the very last second, he’d gotten Swamp Thing’s giant body into a figure-four headlock, and that was the end of that match.
After a brief intermission and bathroom break, it was time for the second match. I found myself almost vibrating with excitement. I couldn’t wait to see the Black Wolf.
Daddy, much to my surprise, had gone back to the concession stand during the break and emerged with a huge paper plate of funnel cake, crispy and golden and topped with a cloud of powdered sugar and cinnamon drizzle. I’d never tasted funnel cake, and my eyes must have been like dinner plates as I watched him approach, holding the paper plate high above his head, where it bent and threatened to rain powdered sugar down on his head. I’d asked for funnel cakes plenty of times, but at every fair, every festival, Mama and Daddy had always said they were too expensive. And Daddy was so cheap he’d squeeze a nickel until the juice ran out. How many times had I heard him say, “Dessert? What dessert? What you need me to buy candy and shit for when they’s cereal at the house?” And yet here he was with funnel cake. What had brought this on, I wondered.
The ring announcer entered the arena, and my heart clenched. Daddy sat the funnel cake down beside him and looked at me.
“Somebody’s gonna join us for this next match, okay?” he said, seeming suddenly nervous. Which was weird, because Daddy never got nervous. I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Somebody I want you to meet.”
“Okay.” I sipped the dregs of the now-flat Coke, pretty much just ice now. I’d met plenty of my parents’ friends before. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was.
“This friend of mine,” he said, wringing his hands together, “is a special friend. Not a friend of your mama’s and mine, but just mine alone. You understand what I mean?”
“Yes,” I answered, though I really didn’t.
“She’s a real nice lady. I think you’ll like her. She has a son about your age. You’ll like him too.”
“Okay,” I said again, my eyes flickering back and forth from the ring to the funnel cake that sat beside Daddy. I was equally exited for both. Who cared about Daddy’s dumb friend?
A woman sat down then, her aura a blend of Aqua-net and Body Fantasies perfume, the kind in the little different colored plastic bottles I always begged for at Walmart. Her hair was curly and very blonde, almost white. Her orange-lipsticked mouth smiled very wide, so wide she reminded me of the Cheshire cat, but she didn’t seem sinister. Rather, she seemed to be a little desperate in a way that made me feel sorry for her. I managed to look away from the funnel cake long enough to give her a welcoming smile, the best I could muster, wiping nacho cheese from the corner of my mouth. Then I noticed the boy who sat down beside her.
The boy was very tall, and very skinny. I guessed he was a couple of years older than me, or maybe he just appeared so because he was so tall and lanky. His hair was the same shade of light, almost white-blond as his mother’s, though his was spiked on top and longer in the back, ending in a rat-tail that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in a few days. He had blindingly bright blue eyes, and thin lips over a straight, white smile. He stared at me silently, solemnly, and did not smile back at me, even though I gave him the same welcoming grin I’d given his mother.
“This here is Stormy,” Dad said, his own smile big and wider than I was used to. He suddenly looked like a used car salesman, his chest all puffed out in a semblance of pride, his hands big and gesturing. “She’s a little bit shy, but she’s a sweet girl. Ain’t you, little bit?”
“Hi,” I said, and the woman reached out and tousled my head, her long red nails glinting in the late afternoon sun. I didn’t much like that, but I sat still and let her. I was used to older people making a fuss. They’d always say stuff like “ain’t you pretty” and comment on my manners.
“Hey there, Stormy,” the lady said in a smooth, soft voice, as though she were afraid to startle me or herself. “I’m so happy we finally got to do this. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long, long time.”
“You have?” I said, surprised. I didn’t have the first inkling who this woman was.
“And this here is my son, Nikolai,” she said, putting a hand on the boy’s back and giving him a little caress. “He’s shy too, like you.”
“Am not.” The boy’s voice was such a low murmur I could barely hear him.
“There’s something special about Nikolai, Stormy,” Daddy said, his grin even wider. “Something that’s also special about you—something the two of you share.” He ripped off a giant hunk of funnel cake from the plate beside him, then ripped the hunk in half, and handed me a piece. He handed the other half to the boy.
Nikolai was still staring at me. Whatever this special thing was, he already seemed to know. I felt uncomfortable and put on the spot, so I popped a chip in my mouth and busied myself crunching as though I weren’t bothered, leaving the piece of funnel cake on my plate (I’d go back to it later, when Daddy wasn’t watching me so intently).
“Do you want to know what it is?”
“Okay,” I said with a mouthful of delicious funnel cake, and the woman’s smile dropped for a millisecond before she picked it back up again, bright and shiny as ever.
At that moment, the crowd began to cheer as A.J. Floyd emerged from the locker room and sauntered toward the ring. As he grabbed the ropes and launched himself into the ring, white fog poured from the locker room entrance, and a loud, throbbing sort of music started to play. I recognized it as Ozzy Osborne, who Daddy would sometimes play when he was deep in his cups. A silhouette appeared in the doorway and stepped through the fog, and out stepped a muscular young man dressed head to toe in black, and as he turned to survey the crowd, I saw a large black wolf on the back of his black jean jacket.
The Black Wolf! The sound was deafening, with the crowd evenly split between boos and cheers as the newest wrestler made his way to the ring. He took his time, playing to the crowd, smirking as people jeered him. I caught the blond boy’s eyes and saw he was grinning with excitement too.
Daddy leaned over toward the woman and said, “I’ll tell them after the match. I promise, darlin’.”
“Sure you will,” she said, and I could hear her bitterness loud and clear, even over the maddening crowd. Finally, I took a bite of funnel cake.
I woke up with the taste of sweet fried dough and salted watermelon in my mouth.
A hand was caressing my face. Wiping my forehead down with something cool and damp. It felt so good, and I was tempted to drift back off into the slumber I’d just returned from rather than deal with this latest catastrophe, the details of which were rushing back.
I opened my eyes slowly, carefully, since they were still partially sealed shut from my own tears. I didn’t even remember crying, but obviously I had. Phillip loomed over me, wetting my face with his handkerchief, dampened with a glass of cool water that he held in his other hand. The water sloshed over the glass. Phillip’s hand was trembling.
I smiled at him tenderly. “Phillip. I’m okay.”
He leaned down and planted the gentlest of kisses on my forehead. “I know you are, love. Or very soon will be.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m just rattled. You worry about yourself. How do you feel? Other than your head…and your leg…Do you have any other injuries? Anything else hurt?”
“My leg?”
“You got a pretty major gash on your left thigh,” he said, and then I remembered the slick of blood that had come off on my hand.
“I think that’s it,” I said, my voice a croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I mean, I don’t know, but I think so. My head really hurts. Bad. But other than that, I think I’m okay?”
“Benny’s going to set you right,” he said, gesturing to Benny, who stood behind him, a worried expression on his face. He brushed my cheeks with the cool cloth. “In just a minute.” He peered at me. “Do you remember? Everything from earlier?”
“Yes,” I said, staring back at him, wiping at my blurry eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“For a minute there…” Phillip’s lip trembled. “For a minute there, you forgot some stuff. You forgot me.”
“I did?”
“Yeah.” He wiped at his brow. “Worst two minutes of my life.”
“What about Shank?” I asked, moving to sit up. Phillip’s large hand held me down.
“Don’t get up. Shank’s laying out there in back of the stage, dead as a fucking doornail,” he said matter-of-factly. “And good riddance to the fucker.”
“For real this time?”
“For real,” Phillip said. “Jamie checked the pulse. Nada.”
“This is gonna sound weird, but…” I took a shaky breath. “Does the name Colt Leather mean anything to you?”
A brief look of amusement passed across Phillip’s face. “Well, yeah,” he said. “He was in that shitty post-grunge band Necrofeelya back in the day. Well, till they kicked him out. I read recently he’d been getting up to some bad shit, not that I’m surprised. Why?”
“Did you two ever meet?”
Phillip thought. “Not that I recall. Though he did audition for the Bloomer Demons when I was gone.” He laughed. “Scared them clean off auditioning anybody else. Jason ended up doing the vocals for that album.” He looked at me strangely. “Why are you asking about that guy, Stormy?”
I started to move, but his hand was still pressed against my chest. “Don’t even think about it, Spooner,” he said, his eyes flashing fire.
I nodded reluctantly. “Your show…” I said softly, and he lightly stroked my face . “It got ruined…”
“It’s okay,” Phillip said, grazing my cheek with his fingers. “All that matters is that everyone got out okay, and that you’re okay. That’s all I care about.” I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. So everyone had gotten out alright. Everyone except Shank, that was. That was a good thing, so why did I feel so weirdly empty?
“He came here to hurt us,” I said, my eyes filling with more tears. “To hurt everyone.”
“I know.”
“I can’t understand why.” I moaned, a fresh throb hitting my temple. Phillip reached forward and gently closed my eyes for me, his hands warm on my face. I’d have to tell him about Colt Leather eventually, but I just didn’t have the strength right now.
“Does it matter?” he asked softly. “At least we know he won’t be chasing us ever again.”
“Where’s Beth?” I asked.
“Is Beth the girl with the black hair?” Benny asked. “She saved our fucking asses. I was wondering who the fuck the girl with the hula hoop was in the front row and why she was upstaging my show, then that bang went off, and half the people in the venue didn’t even notice at first because they were so dazzled by her lights. Phillip dropped his guitar and shot backstage to find you. Then the next thing I know, the girl is rushing up onto the stage, dashing right under security’s arms and grabbing the mic, telling everyone calmly to exit single file, slowly, that hula hoop still flashing like hell around her waist.” Benny shook his head. “And they actually listened to her. Jason and Ollie helped organize the crowd, but it was her idea. Everybody got out safe because of her.”
I closed my eyes again, grateful. Beth had come through. I made a mental note to thank her profusely later. It felt almost like divine fate had sent her to me at just the right time.
“If there’s a silver lining to any of this”— a distinctly Southern voice spoke up beside me, Jamie — “It’s that you’ll get so much publicity out of this, Deville. Everyone will be talking about it.”
“I don’t think a bunch of media scrutiny is what Stormy needs right now, or any of us, for that matter.” Phillip’s voice was sharp. “And nobody will want to come to our shows now, probably. Not if they think it’s a security threat.” To my shock, Phillip’s face crumpled and a lone tear ran down his cheek. He grabbed my hand and kissed my knuckles. “Oh Stormy, I’m so sorry. This was all such a bad idea. Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I said, reaching forward to wipe away his tear. “You’re just living your life. You shouldn’t have to stop doing that just because of…of all this. I’d never ask you to.”
Benny came forward, holding a small, cloth bag with a leather strap. He looked down at me with concern. “The cops will be here any minute, and I’m sure there will be paparazzi on their tails, so if I’m going to do this, I need to do it now.”
“Do what?” I asked. I was having trouble remembering what was going on. My head felt woozy. “I didn’t die, did I? You’re not bringing me back?” I slow-blinked and laughed. “Wait, if I’m talking to you, then obviously I’m not dead…did I already get brought back? Am I undead now too?”
Phillip put his head in his hands. “She obviously has a head injury, Benny. I’m worried.”
“It’ll be alright, man.” Benny put a hand on his shoulder. “I promise.”
“So you’re not going to bring me back?” I asked, head still throbbing.
Benny laughed. “That’s your thing, not mine. You give life, I take it away, remember?”
“You’re going to take my life away?”
“Not a chance.” Benny grinned. “You just lay back, Stormy. I’m just going to say a protection spell over you. See if we can’t put back a few of those marbles you seem to have lost and try to heal that leg.”
“Can’t we just put a bandage on it?” I sighed, trying to rise again, but Phillip and Jamie put hands on my shoulder to stop me. As I leaned back, I felt a wave of pain deep inside my torso, near my ribs. “I’m so tired of magic. No offense.”
“None taken. I’m always sick of it,” Benny agreed. “Though it’s nice to have someone to share the burden with. However I feel about the magic, it’s still a part of me. And yours is part of you. We can’t get rid of it.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “Besides, it’s either this or the hospital. I’m assuming you don’t want to visit the latter?”
I thought of all the reporters who might show up, the questions doctors might ask, having to sit in a cold, sterile, and uncomfortable bed with only bad daytime TV to keep me company, and nodded. “You got me. Fine. Do your magic, oh sage Black Wolf, and heal me by the light of the moon.”
“I know you’re being a sarcastic bitch, but I really liked the sound of that.” Benny grinned and sat down at the stool Jamie had drug over for him and opened the little bag. “For real. I like it a real fucking lot. It sounds sexy and metal as fuck.” He shook his head. “From now on, everyone can address me as the sage Black Wolf.”
“Kiss my ass,” I said, and Phillip laughed.
“She’s already back to herself,” he said with a smile, then looked at me with his blazing, dark eyes. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?”
“Yes,” I said, wincing as I leaned back on the flat little pillow, resting my aching head against the loveseat’s armrest. “Nikolai, wherever he ran off to. I need to see Nikolai.”