Revenge(4)

Back in the shared house, my bedroom door has a lock, but I don’t know how many people have the key. Until I get the lock changed, I don’t want to leave the money in my room.

Of course now I don’t have any money to worry about.

Gingerly, I touch my fingertips to my swelling eye. What hurts worse, the eye or the lost money? I can’t tell.

Coming here to the west coast was a huge mistake. My anger is pushed away by the powerful emotions of shame and regret. How dare I try to get above my raising and pursue a glamorous life in the city? I should be back home now, feeding chickens.

I don’t belong here. I’m ashamed of myself for dreaming.

My ticket is for a round trip. I can book the next available flight. Would tonight be too soon?

My eyes burn, and I swallow hard to fight back the tears.

Is this how easily I give up on my dreams?

I’m disgusted with myself. I take a seat on the sturdy edge of the closed guitar case and wrap my hands over my knees to stop them from shaking. Okay, I’m just in shock. This FML feeling will pass. All bad things pass. I haven’t even eaten today, and some food will make me feel better… except I’ve got no money to buy food.

Someone hands me a five-dollar bill. It’s the little kid who snatched the money from the guitar case. His angry-looking mother is forcing him to apologize to me.

I accept the money and tell the kid, “No problem.” He looks terrified, probably because of my swelling eye. I offer him a smile to let him know I’m okay.

They walk away. Nobody’s looking, and I could easily slip the five into my pocket, but I stand up and tuck it into the guitar case instead. Being honest isn’t just how I was raised, but what I believe. Do good and good will come to you.

A man’s voice behind me says, “You should keep that as commission.”

I spin around to find the dark-haired singer standing there. His broad shoulders rise and fall with deep, rapid breaths. His black shirt is torn at the neck.

“It’s yours,” I say.

“Keep it as a royalty on the blue shoes.”

He and I aren’t alone on the street. The original tourists are quietly recording us with their phones from a distance.

“Are you hurt?” I ask him, scanning down his body quickly.

I look for signs of blood or other injury. Below the black T-shirt, he wears faded blue jeans, cut tight along the legs and pegged above the top of his boots. The black lace-up boots are military style. I didn’t think I would like that style on a man, but on him, it works. As my eyes move back up, over his muscular thighs, I forget about my worries.

“Yes, I’m hurt,” he says. “Deeply hurt.”

I flick my eyes up to catch him smiling. Deeply hurt. It’s a joke. He’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse.

I get a feeling I should turn around and run.

But I also get a feeling that if I did, he’d just chase me.

He has that look.

He’s a hunter.





Chapter 3


“You’re deeply hurt,” I say. “Where?”

He grins. “I’m deeply hurt my audience didn’t stick around for another song. Typical bunch in this city. Five minute attention span.”

“It’s all my fault.” My hands wave nervously between us.

What am I doing? Am I apologizing for getting mugged? I shut my mouth and stop myself.

He hands me the most wonderful thing: my wallet.

I gasp and clutch it to my heart.

He tips his head to the side, frowning. “Money’s gone, I’m afraid. He tossed the wallet out onto the street two blocks from here. As much as it killed me to not catch the guy and smash him to a pulp, I figured you’d rather have your ID and stuff.”

“Thank you,” I say, still clutching the wallet with both hands.

I look up into his dark eyes, which are even more mysterious now. The sun is directly behind his head, turning the edges of his dark hair into a copper halo.

“What shall I call you?” he asks. “How about Bruiser, on account of that shiner you’re going to have on your eye?”

“I’m Jessica. Everyone calls me Jess. Or Jessie. Or just J.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“I dunno. Jess, I think. Jessie sounds like a tomboy.”

His smile turns into a knowing smirk. “Are you saying you’re not a tomboy? I saw your face when you got knocked down. You looked like you were ready to shit-kick anyone who got in your way.”

I let out my first laugh of the day—possibly my first laugh since arriving in LA.

“Must be the black eye,” I say, smiling. “Makes me look tougher than I am.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” he teases. “We can’t discover how tough we are without getting knocked on our asses a time or two. Only when we’re down do we find out who our true friends are, and how much strength is within us.”