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Revenge(6)

By:JJ Knight


“My instinct is to protect you,” he says.

“That’s nice, but honestly, I’m tougher than I look. People underestimate me.”

He raises his eyebrows, looking even sexier, which I didn’t think could be possible.

“I’ll take that as a warning,” he says. The sound of his voice is gruff, and reaches down deep inside me, just like when he was singing. “So, Jess, what’s a country girl like you doing here in the City of Angels? Don’t tell me you’re an actress, one of those sad-eyed girls with daddy issues who’s two stiff drinks away from a career in adult entertainment.”

My body stiffens. How dare he be so rude?

“No,” I spit, hurling my answer at his smug face.

“That’s what they all say.” He laughs. A mean laugh.

He might think this is fun teasing, but I was raised to know that even teasing has a kernel of truth. This guy is underestimating me, even though I warned him not to.

I spit more words at him. “I’ve got an internship in the music industry, if you must know. I just got to LA yesterday, and I start my new job tomorrow at the music label.”

He stops laughing and leans back suddenly, dropping his arms and looking awkward. “Which one?”

Now it’s my turn to smirk. “Not one of the big three, but not the smallest of the indies, either. Starts with the letter M.”

“Fucking hell.”

Now I can’t stop grinning. I’m shaking, still jittery from the attack, plus this conversation, but I’m feeling brave and lippy.

“I’m just a lowly intern, but maybe I can put in a good word for you. I liked your song, and you have a good voice.”

“A good voice?” Anger flashes across his face, and this time it’s not anger at someone else, but at me. I’ve insulted him.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “You’re a good guitar player, too. I’m sure you have lots of potential.”

He glowers at me, stepping back to where his guitar case sits on the sidewalk. “You don’t know who I am,” he says.

I felt bad for a minute, but now I’m pissed. How the hell am I supposed to know who this guy is?

He grabs his guitar case, his tattooed bicep bulging as he flexes his arm to adjust the grip. He looks down at the olive green jacket on the sidewalk. He kicks the jacket with the toe of his boot rather than pick it up.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I offer.

He turns his back to me, pausing to peer back over his shoulder. “Take care of that eye. Put some ice on it when you get home.”

He walks away, his boots loud on the sidewalk. After a few paces, he begins to whistle to himself.

I feel the urge to chase after him, but I just stand with my back to the building, my eyes memorizing his angles.

“What’s your name?” I call out after him. He doesn’t answer. “You forgot your jacket!” I yell.

He slows down for a moment, like he’s thinking about coming back, but then he keeps going. His hand flips up. For an instant it looks like he’s waving at someone, but he isn’t. He’s giving me the finger.

I think.

Yes, that’s definitely his middle finger.

What an asshole.





Chapter 4


I pick up the olive green jacket he left behind.

What a weird guy. First he gets my wallet back from a mugger, then he acts like a jerk. Why would he care that I work at a record label? You’d think he’d be nicer if he wants to make it as a singer.

I look around to make sure nobody’s watching. Holding the soft, well-worn fabric to my nose, I take a tentative sniff.

Mmm. The jacket smells like him.

I’ve always wanted a cool army-surplus jacket, but Nan doesn’t approve of girls wearing men’s clothing. She doesn’t mean anything by it. That’s just how her generation is. She likes everything to match, from head to toe. Nan says the only good color of underwear for a lady is white. I don’t ever buy underwear unless it’s white and cotton, because she’ll just throw it out.

Now that I’m living on my own, though, I can wear anything.

I shake the sidewalk dirt from the green jacket and slip one arm into a sleeve tentatively. The jacket is enormous on me. Pulling it on, I stroll down the street until I find a reflective window to use as a mirror.

The cuffs reach down past my fingertips. I like this feeling of smallness, of fitting so neatly inside the shape of the jacket’s owner, like a nesting doll.

This is a good look for me, too. I scruff up my hair, trying to look tougher. With my one eye swelling up, I resemble one of those street kids I’ve seen around, trying to hustle money for a hostel. I shiver at the thought of being homeless. I might have become one of those kids, if I hadn’t had two people looking out for me. Only one of those people is still alive in this world. One day I’ll be completely alone.