Chapter 4
SCOTT: THRILLER
The abandoned old Allard Street house was nothing but a carcass.
Slated for the wrecking ball, the place had been stripped to the studs and was now just a collection of two-by-fours holding up a sagging roof.
Bare bulbs dangled from uncapped wires hooked onto rusty nails driven into the beams. Broken windows were covered in plastic, and crooked boards were nailed across the front door, leaving only a crawlspace-sized gap where concertgoers ducked inside single file.
Technically, the house belonged to my buddy Johnny’s uncle, who’d rented it out since the sixties.
The last tenant, Old Man Charlie, had collapsed in the kitchen and not been found for months, long enough to seep into the subflooring.
The smell had never left. No matter how many times we played in there, the first whiff always landed like a punch. Thick, warm, and rotting at the edges.
Until demolition day came, it was our venue, and tonight, Rabid Jackal and a hundred of our closest friends had it packed tight.
We needed a place like this: neutral ground for the Venice Beach crowd who remembered what our town was like before rival gangs turned the Boardwalk into a battleground and pushed working families east. Rabid Jackal was a local band, not known outside the city limits, but the people who showed up came for the music, the keg, and the two-dollar cover—no questions asked.
The stage was rigged along the back wall, the beer was flowing, and the crowd was already shoulder-to-shoulder. We were minutes out.
Marco stopped short.
“McKallister!” he yelled over the noise. “Where’s Wolfie?”
“Aw, shit.” I slapped my forehead. “Left him in the truck.”
Wolfie was our mascot—a department store dummy dressed in a ragged Halloween werewolf costume.
We strung him on a fishing line and, during the third song, let him zip across the crowd.
Well, “zip” was optimistic. Wolfie was a finicky flyer, more likely to nosedive into someone’s beer than make it across the room.
But he was ours, and the spectacle of his debut was always the most anticipated moment of the night.
“I’ll get him,” I said, weaving through the packed house. I ducked under the plywood boards, noting they did more to trap people inside than keep trouble out. If a fire started, the Allard Street House would go up like a death trap. Which, let’s be honest, was half the fun.
Outside, I sucked in a breath of fresh ocean air and made my way to my truck.
The residential street was already jammed with cars, but overflow parking was conveniently located at the cemetery next door.
Not that I needed tomb-side parking. I was the talent.
Which meant I could roll up over the curb and park right on the dead, crunchy lawn.
VIP parking, baby.
I reached into the back and grabbed Wolfie.
As I shut the door, I caught a movement under the streetlight.
A woman was standing there in a white petticoat dress scattered with delicate blue flowers, looking like she’d walked out of a fairytale.
I’d thought she was beautiful at the gas station, but I wasn’t prepared for this.
The dress. The British Parliament updo. And jewelry that should’ve come with its own bodyguard.
I was stunned. Sure, I’d given her the flyer, but I never thought she’d actually show.
“Michelle?”
Her head snapped up, relief flooding her face so fast it made me laugh. She must’ve realized she was in way over her head the second she laid eyes on the Freddy Krueger house we were calling a venue.
“Oh, thank god,” she exhaled. “I wasn’t sure I had the right address. It’s a… a house. How can you be performing in there?”
“You’ll understand when you get inside,” I said, joining her on the sidewalk.
“If,” she corrected. “If I go inside.”
“You came all this way, Michelle. Aren’t you at least a little curious?”
“Any curiosity I had is now losing out to self-preservation.”
“You drove through a questionable part of town—dressed like royalty, no less—to watch a metal concert with a guy you met at a gas station. Honestly, it’s a miracle you made it this far. Might as well come inside.”
“Is that a cemetery?” she asked, pointing behind me.
“It is,” I said. “Had my first kiss behind Anita Hall’s plot. Smoked my first joint leaning against Elmer Guck’s headstone. Guck always had my back.”
Michelle stared at the rows of tombstones. “So just to be clear. Every formative milestone in your life happened on top of a corpse?”
“Not every milestone. I learned to ride a bike in the Kmart parking lot.”
She shook her head, bemused. “You’re weird.”
“And you’re dangerously beautiful,” I said, laying it on thick… but meaning it.
Michelle blinked slowly, like the words had caught her off guard. Which made no sense. The girl from the gas station had confidence to burn and looks to match. Compliments had to chase her down daily.
“Thank you,” she said, fiddling with the clasp at her neck.
That gave me my first close-up of the choker—a whole row of blue gemstones circled in diamonds, sparkling under the streetlight.
“That’s not real, is it?”
She stared at me, like the question itself made no sense. “Of course it is.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Probably worth more than my truck.”
Her raised brows suggested I’d undershot the estimate.
“You didn’t specify a dress code,” she said.
“It’s a metal concert—in a gangland warzone. The dress code is implied. And for the record, I wasn’t expecting you to show up looking like… this.”
“I came straight from the charity event,” she said. “Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. I’m a big fan of this look. It’s just… our VIP list isn’t exactly upper crust.”
“Oh, no.” She smirked. “Are you telling me Brooke Astor didn’t RSVP?”
“I don’t know who that is, but I can promise you Brooke’s not here. Our VIPs tonight are two parolees, one guy who might be a cult leader, and Rat—three teeth, no shirt.”
Her brows lifted as the reality check landed.
“I’m just saying… I wouldn’t leave your neck unattended.”
Michelle said nothing, probably calculating her exit strategy. I half-expected her to bolt. Instead, she doubled down. “Anything else I should know?”
I gestured toward the boarded-up husk behind me, the crumbled awning piled in a heap next to the front door. “You’re going in there. Keep your hands to yourself, and for the love of god, don’t touch anything that looks wet.”
Her eyes widened. “What if everything looks wet?”
“Then I suggest hopping. Everywhere.”
She was scandalized.
I held up my hands. “Kidding. Mostly. You’ll be fine. Just… don’t lick anything.”
“Oh, well, that won’t be a problem,” Michelle said.
“Not a licker, huh?”
“Obviously not. I have manners.”
“Wait. Licking is bad manners?”
She gave me a look like I was severely challenged. “What do you think?”
“I think I’ve been misinformed.” I laughed. “How do you eat an ice cream cone, then?”
“With a spoon, of course. Like any civilized person.”
I shut my gaping mouth. “And here I was, worried you wouldn’t fit in tonight.”
Michelle eyed the furry dummy in my arms. “Why are you hugging a werewolf?”
“It’s a prop,” I said, trying to maneuver Wolfie into a somewhat cool position. “And I have to get him inside.”
She swept her arm toward the house. “Lead the way.”
“Right. Just… you know, lower your expectations.”
“Oh, trust me. They’re low.”
“If you think the outside’s bad… wait until you get a whiff of the inside.”
“You know, Scott,” she said with a smile, “you’re not exactly selling your concert.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? If I didn’t sell it, then why’d you ditch Prince and drive out to the slums?” I paused, staring her down. “I think you’re tired of safe. You want the kind of night you have to lie about later.”
Michelle blinked, like my dare was working its way past her defenses and waking up a part of her she usually kept under lock and key.
Her gaze drifted toward the house and something subtle shifted.
Her shoulders squared. Her feet planted.
And when her eyes returned to mine, I could see the echoes of rebellion in them.
“Give me your vest.”
“My vest?” I clutched the denim. “I’m performing in it.”
“Not anymore,” she said, then hiked her dress straight over her head.
My jaw hit the crumbling pavement. Not just because the girl who ate ice cream with a spoon was casually undressing under a streetlight, but because of what she had beneath—a white silk slip that skimmed just above her knees.
And yeah, her nipples weren’t exactly hiding their opinion on the chill of the night air.
Every one of the rich-girl fantasies I didn’t know I had was suddenly coming alive.
“I’m either walking in there like this, or I’m walking in there with your vest,” she said. “Your choice.”
“I vote for the nipple slip.”
She arched her brows. “So would Rat and the rest of the felons.”
Fair point. I couldn’t exactly guard her all night, and that slip wasn’t built for condemned houses.
With a groan, I peeled off my lucky vest and handed it over.
She slid it on like it belonged to her, then unpinned her hair.
Glossy brown curls spilled down her back in a slow-motion freefall, and just like that, sweet Sandy morphed into full-blown Greased Lightning.
Hot. Fucking. Damn. My life had just become a movie.
“And so I don’t have to worry about a jewelry heist tonight…” Michelle unclasped her necklace, removed her studs, slid off her bracelet, and held out the glittering pile in her palm. “Here.”
I lifted my hands like she was offering me a live grenade. “Oh, no. I’m not going to be responsible for that.”
“Well, I can’t exactly leave thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry in the Benz. It’s a convertible.”
“Oh, Michelle. If only you could hear how that sounds coming out of your mouth.”
Her eyes widened, then she cracked up. “I sound like a spoiled brat, don’t I?”