Taking a breath, I studied the ceiling. Focused on the watermarks adding to the cycle of beige in my living room. “We’re not stuck here. Just starting here.” Lowering my gaze, I scrunched up my face at her. “You gonna play or what?”
“Oh, please.” She scoffed. “I’m not going to play it. I’m going to kill it.”
“That’s the spirit.” I grinned at her and started counting off, “One, two… One, two, three—”
We all hit different chords.
I winced.
“Okay, okay, stop.” Clearly, I hadn’t started simple enough. But if it got any easier, we’d be playing patty-cake. “Slower, and on three. Ready?” At their nods, I gave three measured claps, picked up my guitar and positioned my fingers on the strings. “One, two, three—”
A cat died, ever so quietly, in my beige living room.
Yikes. “Okay, let’s try again.”
I hadn’t thought it possible, but the next three attempts were even worse.
“Oh, God. Stop.” Letting my guitar drop into my lap, I raked my fingers through my hair. I’d been completely convinced once the three of us were together, we’d just click—like magic.
Wow, had I been wrong. And I had no plan for us sucking, not this hard. “Put everything down and let me think.”
“What’s your deal, Freshy?”
I squinted at Nabila through one eye. “Are you suggesting that was good?”
“Fuck no. That was shit.” Her bass swung from the cord around her neck. She pulled a pin from her hair and jabbed it toward the drums. “Oscar was way off.” The pin swung to point at me. “And you barely hit a chord.”
“Playing longer won’t fix this.” I sighed. “Nabila, you’re coming in too soon. Oscar, opposite problem. You're coming in too late. You’re the drummer, you’ve got to lead the beat.”
“Oh, no, Ash. I can’t lead.”
“Sure, you can. You’re the drummer. Just cue the beat on three, and we’ll follow your lead and come in at our marks.”
“No, no, no.” Oscar shook his head rapidly. “I can’t go first, I—”
“Seriously, he can’t,” Nabila said. “Feeders don’t lead, they follow.”
“Fuck, Nabila.” I gaped at her. “You sound like one of the Ferals.”
Pins appeared between her fingers, bristling like a steel porcupine. “What are you calling me, Fresh One?”
I aimed my guitar pic at her. “I’m not calling you anything. I’m saying that you sound exactly like Plant—shitting on Oscar and the Feeders…” I sucked in a breath between my teeth. “Come to think of it, maybe I am calling you something. I’m calling you a shitty Feral wannabe.”
“Come on, you two, let’s not fight,” Oscar said.
“How dare you,” she hissed.
“Just calling it like I see it,” I fired back.
“Oh yeah?” She stepped toward me, pins bristling.
“Yeah.” I lunged out of my chair, slinging my guitar behind my back to keep it out of the line of fire.
“Please stop fighting,” Oscar whispered.
“Bullshit.” She bared her teeth at me. “You’re the last person who gets to call me a fucking Feral. I’m just stating the facts of our world—”
“Facts? You mean the things we want to change?”
“—like the sensible person I am,” she continued, as if I hadn’t said a word. “But you.” Nostrils flaring, she took another step toward me, close enough to scrape my guitar strap with the tips of her pins. “You stick your fucking tongue down a fucking Feral’s throat—and not just any feral, you’re with the fucking leader. Don’t deny it, I heard about all of it this morning from the other mixers.”
“So what?” I knocked her hand aside. “I kissed Nash, I didn’t start parroting him like a Shifter puppet.”
“You kissed Nash?” Oscar sounded horrified.
“First a kiss, then the make out hallway,” Nabila said, lips curled in distaste. “It’s only a matter of time until you’re Nash’s little bitch, doing whatever he wants and saying whatever he wants.”
“You take that back,” I hissed. “I’m no man’s puppet.”
“Good thing Nash isn’t a man,” she hissed back.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Stop fighting!” Oscar lurched to his feet. “Stop it. I can’t lead. Nabila’s right. That’s our world. And I was stupid to think I could change it.” He tried to tug his drum kit apart, but we’d fastened the pieces together too well to dismantle it in a hurry. With a final glance, he abandoned the kit. “Forget it.”
He slunk past us and disappeared down the hallway. A brief breeze the only indication he’d left the apartment.
“Great job, Ash.” Nabila stormed after him, slamming the door in her wake.
My sound-proofing did its work. Maybe too well. Because the hollow bang that died almost before it began felt all too reminiscent of my hopes for Oya’s Blade.
Because I had no idea how to fix this.
Unable to be alone in the beige, surrounded by the remains of my failed band practice—maybe my failed band—I’d headed out with my guitar. If I was going to figure out how to fix this, I needed space and air. Crossing the artery named for my favorite orange juice, I found myself in the university district.
The University of Nevada, Las Vegas was way closer to The Milton than I’d thought possible.
Weird.
It seemed wrong that my dead-end, demon-run apartment should be within reach of a place where so many people were able to plan for their futures. Taking classes, expecting to get jobs and families. In the middle of the day, the campus was probably crawling with kids from money, or kids with massive student loans—maybe both. And were they all wearing that UNLV logo with the hat? That shit was creepy.
On second thought, it made perfect sense to have the demons nearby.
Happily, all the university kids seemed busy with Saturday night parties and study dates, leaving their parks quiet—lucky me that other people had better lives.
Ducking around a group of beer-soaked frat boys, I found myself a nicely lit park bench in a corner and readied my guitar. Without an amp, it would sound pretty shit, but that didn’t matter. I knew the feel of the right chords, and my voice would do the rest.
After the shit show of band practice, I needed music.
My music.
Closing my eyes, I strummed my fingers over the strings, felt the tone through my bones.
Come on, Muse, help me find the answer.
It started as nothing but a hum and a meandering, meaningless tune. Nothing but a series of chords and vocal exercises. Then it changed. My hum became words, the chords settled into a rhythm, and I realized I’d begun playing my mom’s favorite songs.
I wasn’t playing to a muse, I was praying to my mother.
I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.
Mom. I need you and you’re not here. Tell me how I fix this.
The song poured out of me. Elton’s Tiny Dancer blending into a string of Linda Ronstadt ballads, then shifted again into Sweet Child of Mine. Guns’n Roses made that song an anthem to scream into the sky. But tonight, as I sang, it became a hymn to my previous life. Slow and achingly sad, riddled with the happier times and dreams I’d left buried in the ground.
“I knew that was you,” a low male voice said.
My eyes popped open.
Lucas stood before me. Clad in worn gray joggers and a thin t-shirt sporting the ubiquitous UNLV logo, hair damp from a recent shower, he was clearly on his way home from a workout.
And holy shit, he looked even hotter tonight in those worn out clothes. Like edible hot. How was that possible?
“Uh, hey,” I stammered, desperately trying not to swallow my tongue.
Something sparkled in those incredible eyes of his. “Mind if I join you?”
I shrugged. “It’s a free bench.”
“I’ll take that as an invitation to sit.” He grinned at me as he sat down, slinging
one arm along the length of the wooden bench, so his hand rested almost behind my shoulders. A whiff of fuckboy cologne, mixed with shampoo and freshly scrubbed man, hit me like a sucker punch.
Longing shot through me and I locked my crossed legs in place, clutching my guitar as if it could keep me from lunging out of my seat and jumping him on a public bench.
Geez. What was with me this week?
For the past two years, I’d barely glanced at a dude. Then I get to Vegas and I’m suddenly falling all over myself around two completely different, but totally lust-worthy guys.
“What brings you to campus, Ash?” Lucas asked.
“I just… needed some air.” Trying to pull my thoughts together, I took my time packing my guitar into its case. “Didn’t realize my place was so close, but the parks here seemed music-friendly.”
“Definitely.” He chuckled. “Though usually, it’s a bunch of hipster dudes serenading their beards.”
I gave a mock gasp of surprise. “Never say I classed up the joint?”
He leaned toward me, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“My lips are sealed.”
His gaze dropped, and I could have sworn he stared at my lips for a moment. Then he eased back and pointed to a nearby coffee shop. “Can I grab you a coffee, Ash? Maybe an overpriced donut?”
My Portland-loving heart sure missed fancy donuts. “Tempting…”
“But?” He quirked an eyebrow in question.
But I’m getting caught up in you too quickly for my own good. Everyone in Vegas had their own agenda, and I was sure Lucas was no exception. I had to remember I’d met him because he’d been watching The Milton from the shadows—and I still had no idea why. “But I should probably be getting home,” I finally said.
“One for the road?” He stood, offered me a hand up.
That couldn’t hurt, right?
“If you’re buying.” I grinned up at him.
I took his hand and the touch of his skin shot pure electricity all the way from my palm to my chest. Wrong. This could hurt. This could hurt a lot. Face flushing, I quickly tugged my hand free and shoved them in my pockets.
“Ah.” He coughed. “What’s your poison?”
Was it my imagination, or were his cheeks flushed, too?
“I… Uh…” Come on, Ash, use your words. “I… Whatever has chocolate.”
“You got it.” He headed for the cafe, paused. “Do you coffee?”
I didn’t think Lucas was a creepy thing—he just didn’t feel like it—but lying seemed to be a recipe for trouble in this world, so despite not wanting the college hottie to think I’m a loser, I opted for the truth. “Not really. Honestly, I’m more a hot chocolate person.”
Dimples popped in his cheeks. “Got it. Gimme five.”
Holy shit, those dimples could stop trains.
While he ordered from the counter, I did what I could to fix my hair—no joy, I hadn’t bothered spiking it for practice, then I’d left in a hurry—and smoothing the ripped jeans and old t-shirt I’d tossed on. Ugh. I hadn’t even remembered eyeliner.
Oh, well.
Good thing I’d already wowed him with my music. I rubbed on some cherry Chapstick and accepted my fate.
“Here. You can tell me if I passed the test.” Lucas winked and handed me a warm pastry bag and a small, hot drink. “You seem like a chili chocolate lover.”
Spicy chocolate?
Yes, please.
I took a bite and groaned with pleasure. The donut was perfect, from the dense cake batter to the chili and brown sugar coating. The drink was just as good, the chocolate so dark it was almost bitter, with just the right kick of heat at the end. “Oh my god, that’s so good.”
“Victory is mine.” He tore off a huge chunk of what looked to be an apple fritter, fist-pumped it, then crammed it in his mouth.
“I salute your chocolate selections, sir,” I laughed.
I slowly started walking back the way I came and he fell into step beside me. I didn’t really want to leave, didn’t want to go home and face Nabila and Oscar—or worse, have to deal with the Bulldog gloating over my failure.
“Can I walk you home, Ash?”
“Wha…?” I glanced at him in surprise. Obviously, he knew where I lived. I should probably say yes—he was smoking hot, I enjoyed his company, and it would be the perfect chance to figure out what he wanted. But part of me didn’t want to pull back the Lucas curtain and find out he was something horrible. “Um… I don’t know.”
“Part way?” Somehow he managed to cram the rest of his giant donut into his mouth.
It was really hard to find a dude threatening when his cheeks resembled a hamster’s.
Besides, nothing about him was triggering my “it’s a scary thing” reflex. In fact, instead of the cold that emanated from Churchill or Sunglasses or even Jim, the air around Lucas seemed warmer, safer.
I wanted more. Even just five minutes.
“Uh, sure.” I ducked my head, focused on my own donut. “If you like.”
We walked in silence for a moment.
I felt the questions churning under his skin—because I had the same thing happening to me. I wanted to ask him everything—why he was watching The Milton, why he’d warned me to not go inside—but if he wasn’t a scary thing, I had no idea what kind of trouble that would stir up.
“Ash. Can I ask you something?” His voice was quiet, a gravely edge that warned me something serious would follow.
I swallowed hard. Was it time to rip off the Band-Aid?
“I… I guess,” I said softly.
He cleared his throat.
I waited, the silence weighing on me as we crossed Tropicana and moved into Paradise territory.
“That song you were singing, the last one, your version was so unique, it sounded like it was something special, something personal,” he finally said. “I wondered if you’d tell me about it?”
I blinked in surprise.
That was not what he’d meant to ask me, I knew it. I’m not sure why, but it felt like a peace-offering, or maybe a promise. Both of which were totally nuts. Still… Weirdly, I wanted to answer.
“I guess. If you’re sure that’s your big question?” I slanted a look at him.
He gave me a lopsided grin. “Can I say it’s one of them?”
Truth. Huh.
“Fine. But usually guys don’t want sob stories, so take disclaimer as fair warning: I can’t promise I won’t end up sniffling like a loser.”
“I’ll consider myself warned,” he replied solemnly.
For some reason, his words warmed my insides.
Unwilling to let it show, I fixed my gaze ahead, studying the way the street lamps made patterns on the car roofs as they passed by. “My mom loved that song. A lot. She decided I was her ‘Sweet Child’—total mom propaganda, of course,” I made a face at him. “—but even after I proved this wrong by breaking into the baseball field and using the PA system to test out my new song, she insisted.” My lips curved at the memory. “She used to sing it at me whenever I’d been a shit—in the kitchen or in the middle of a Starbucks, she never held back.”
“Public humiliation strategy, huh?” He chuckled. “Mine’s big on that, too.”
“My mom owned it. She did not fuck around when it came to public humiliation.” I grinned at him. “She’d sing at me—and let me tell you, she had pipes—until I apologized, usually while laughing so hard my sides hurt.”
“Hah!” He nudged me with his elbow. “Mine doesn’t sing, but if I screwed up, she’ll hunt my ass down and tear a strip off me. Took me months to stop waiting for her to pop up in my statistical theory class.”
My lip wobbled. “She’s still around?”
“Oh yeah. At home and pissed at me for insisting on UNLV.” He laughed. “It’s the one time my older brother gets to be the golden child, I’m telling him to enjoy it while it lasts.” Lucas rolled his eyes, then his expression sobered. �
�Your mom isn’t…”
Swallowing hard, I shook my head. “No,” I whispered. “She died just before I came down here.”
“Damn. Sorry, Ash.”
“Me, too.” I rolled my shoulders. “She always knew what to do, you know?”
He gave a slow nod. “I kinda do. My mom is a force. She drives me crazy, but I can’t imagine being without her.”
“Exactly. That’s… that’s exactly how it is,” I murmured around the emotions clogging my throat.
“That why you were singing that song?”
I glanced at him suspiciously.
“What?” He held up his hand in surrender, then punched a fist over his heart “It got me right here.”
“Jerk.” Forgetting myself, I punched him lightly in the side and got confirmation that—oh, yeah—he was ripped. I wanted to touch him again and a cool splash of guilt washed over me. I was torn between missing my mother and these stupid hormones I had zero use for.
I forced myself to stop thinking about how touching him made my hands tingle and my mouth kept moving of its own volition. “I was thinking about her. Wondering what she’d tell me to do. I… had a bit of a falling out with my new band—” Why the hell was I telling him all this? I should stop, but the words kept coming. “—and it wasn’t totally my fault, but it also wasn’t not my fault and I just…”
“Wanted your mom to kick your ass until you sorted it out?”
“Basically.”
“I get that.” He touched my arm, a brush that heated my whole side. “You sure you want to patch things up? Not everyone at The Milton is, uh… I mean…”
Whoa, buddy, nearly admitted stuff, didn’t you?
“These two are good ones, even if they piss me off sometimes,” I said, deciding not to push him. “And yeah, I want to patch things up with them.”
“Okay.” He looked a little unsure, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he gave me another gentle nudge. “If it helps, my mom would tell me to get my head out of my ass and go make amends. Oh, and I had to mean that apology. If she found out I’d lied, watch out! She’d hunt me down and make me pay.”
“Been there!” I leaned into him, just for a moment. “My mom never accepted anything less than a real apology.”
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