Revenge

Chapter 1


People are staring at me.

I’m walking down an LA city sidewalk, dressed in the nicest clothes I own, but I still feel eyes on me.

Am I walking like a bow-legged country hick? I check my reflection in a store window. I should try walking less like a tomboy who grew up riding horses and tractors.

People can probably tell I just stepped off the plane yesterday.

I place one foot in front of the other in an imaginary straight line. My walk feels more feminine, but now my hips are wiggling.

I reach up to pull the elastic band from my damp brown hair. The high ponytail looked sporty and fun this morning in the foggy bathroom mirror, but I realize now it isn’t right for my first full day in LA. I shake out my hair.

A whistling sound rattles me.

Great.

A panhandler just wolf-whistled at me.

“Hey, little girl!” he calls after me. “Where’d you come from?”

I keep walking. Damn. I’m still not blending in. Is it my face?

Fluffing my straight brown hair out with both hands, I glance around for somewhere to put on my makeup. Most girls apply their makeup at home, in the bathroom. That’s exactly what I would have done, if my skanky new roommate hadn’t barged into the shared bathroom this morning.

I’d just finished my shower. I was brushing my teeth when she came in and dropped her robe right behind me. She was butt-naked. I didn’t know what to say.

She turned on the water and stepped in behind the plastic curtain without a word.

I clutched my bath towel around my body, shocked. My new roommates said they share everything, but I didn’t realize they meant everything.

A minute later someone else barged in. It was Caleb, the random guy she brought home last night. I guess he decided to join her. In the shower.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

My life is definitely changing. It’s not the easy transition I expected.

Two days ago, I was waking up to the sound of roosters crowing. This morning, I woke up to the sounds of my roommate crying out Caleb’s name. And then some other things I wish I could un-hear.

Now I’m exploring my new neighborhood. I’m scouting for places I can escape to when the sharing in the shared house becomes too much.

At the end of the block, I look left and right to make a note of where I am. My phone has a map on it, but I’m still worried about getting lost.

My eye is caught by a shape halfway down the block, to my right. This street doesn’t look very welcoming. There are a bunch of boarded-up empty storefronts.

The shape ahead isn’t a scary one, though. It’s a person, taking a guitar out of a case.

My heart leaps up with excitement.

I’m really here. In the city. Where future rock stars might be found on a street just like this, busking for coins.

Walking toward the person, my heart races. I slow my pace and pretend to be interested in the FOR LEASE signs I’m walking past.

Patting my hair smooth, I approach the guy with the guitar. My palms are so sweaty, I’m probably just making my dark brown hair frizzy, but I don’t know what else to do with my hands.

This guy with the beat-up guitar is cute.

Really cute.

Or maybe cute is the wrong word. He’s not a boy, but a man.

He has dark hair, straight and black, long on top and shorter on the sides. He slips off a lightweight olive green jacket that looks army surplus, and drops it next to the guitar case.

Wearing only a black T-shirt, his tattoo is on display. Wrapped around his muscular arm is a tattoo of something with wings.

I’m totally staring.

He adjusts the strap of his guitar and strums a couple chords just as I’m slowly walking by.

My feet stop moving, and now I’m standing only five feet away from him. I look around nervously. He twists the knobs of the guitar, doing a tweak on the tuning.

My mouth opens and the words drop out. “Should I come back?”

His head jerks up and his dark eyes meet mine. He seems surprised to see me there. His expression turns from concentration to amusement. There’s a flirty look in his eyes.

“You’re just in time,” he says.

I slip my hands into my pockets and shrug. I can’t embarrass myself any further if I keep my mouth closed.

He begins to strum a basic rock progression. Good so far.

The guitar looks like it’s been through a few owners, with the varnish worn through in spots.

Never mind the guitar. His arms are incredible.

The sight of his arms makes me giddy. I’ve got a college degree, but here I am, feeling like a teenager.

He keeps playing, but not singing.

How long is this intro? I don’t mind waiting and watching. He’s got big hands, but they move confidently along the frets.

He clears his throat, then sings, “Why did you wear those blue shoes?”