Revenge(3)

I pull out my wallet, feeling watchful eyes on me. This money is all I have. The internship wage won’t start until the end of the month.

I can’t afford a donation, but the guy sang about me.

And he made me feel so much, though now that the song is over, I hate him. He gave me the world, made me feel loved, and then took it away. I’ll never hear that song again, so it will haunt me. For that, I despise him.

I’m pulling a bill from my wallet when a hand grabs my wrist roughly.

A guy in a dark jacket, the hood pulled up over his head, is grabbing me. His other hand pulls at the wallet I’m clutching. I’ve got a good grip, and fear shoots through me, making me clench my hands tighter.

He swears and growls at me, “Let it go.”

I’m so shocked and tense, I couldn’t loosen my grip even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. This money is all I have.

I yell, “No!” My voice comes out weak and useless over the sound of the crowd, like when you try to scream for help in a dream.

The guy in the hoodie won’t let go of my wrist.

I struggle, trying to get the attention of the people around me. I open my mouth to scream just as he rips the wallet from my hands. I stumble backward, crashing into other bodies.

People are screaming and pushing.

Someone hits me in the face.

The pain makes me see stars.

Down I go.





Chapter 2


Pain blossoms from my eye to my body.

My vision goes white. I sink to my knees on the sidewalk.

After a few blinks, I can see through the gaps in the crowd. The man in the dark jacket is trying to push his way through the crowd. He’s not gone yet.

Another hand reaches for me. I bring my arms up to cover my face from another strike. The hand stays reaching out. I take a breath.

It’s the musician. He’s reaching his tattooed arm toward me. The wings on the tattoo belong to an angel.

I place my hand in his. He tugs me to my feet effortlessly.

“What happened?” His eyebrows knit with concern. The grit in his voice is still there when he speaks.

“My wallet,” I sputter. “That guy. He stole it.”

I point to the man in the dark hoodie. Just then, he shoves someone out of his way, knocking a woman to the ground.

The dark-haired singer’s expression changes. His upper lip curls into a snarl. My skin feels cold all over. Suddenly, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to the mugger.

The singer’s eyes flash with rage. He hands me his guitar, practically throwing it at me. He takes off running on powerful legs. He’s strong and agile, cutting through the crowd easily.

He speeds away, the soles of his boots making footfalls that ring in my ears as he races up the street. He’s gaining on the mugger as they round a corner and disappear.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the sounds of a conflict. Fists connecting with jaw. I grip the guitar tightly, holding my breath.

There’s no sound but cars passing by and the murmur of confusion around me. Someone asks if I’m the singer’s girlfriend. I open my eyes.

The tourist woman in green says, “You know him?”

“Just a friend,” I say weakly.

Why am I lying? I don’t know.

The man who robbed me is a obviously a criminal. I start to get worried. He could be in the alley knifing the singer right now. Cutting him.

Sure, I’m his friend. The lady believes me. Of course she does. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger for a someone you don’t even know.

Two teen boys in the crowd laugh and shove each other. They race away down the street, following after the men. They both have their phones raised in front of them, recording everything.

The crowd is thinning out now. People wander back to whatever they’d been doing.

I spot a small hand—a child’s hand—darting into the still-open guitar case on the pavement. The child snatches a bill.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, elbowing my way to the guitar case. Kicking it closed to protect what money remains, I grumble, “Is everyone in LA a fucking thief?”

People give me a wide berth. I’m shocked at my own language. I don’t usually swear, but I don’t usually get mugged, either. My vision is blurring, but just on one side. My bruised eye is swelling, already closing against my will. Did the mugger punch me? Or was it just a random elbow from someone in the crowd?

Anger grows in my stomach, like fire.

My face.

My face isn’t worth much, or all that pretty, but it’s mine. I re-open the case and put the guitar inside, on top of the bills and coins. There’s about thirty-five dollars in here, or a tenth of what I had in my wallet.

How could I be so stupid and carry all that money with me? Five days ago, I took all my money out of the bank. I wasn’t sure about finding a branch of my small bank in LA.