Lost Angeles

by Mantchev, Lisa

  Her answering groan sparks another grin.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” I tell her, leaning my own butt against the makeup counter. “You can sleep when you’re dead.”

  Lore mutters into the cushions and rubs one hand against her assaulted backside. Has to be hot to the touch, because I can see a partial print peeking out from beneath my boxers. “Where are my pants?” She lifts her head to look at me for the first time. “And why does this keep happening?”

  “Lose your pants often?”

  “Not as often as you seem to lose your shirt.” She sits up, bleary-eyed and blinking like an owlet, fingers creeping up to touch the spots on her neck.

  Opening the mini-fridge, I rattle my way past bottles of cane-syrup sodas and hyper-caffeinated energy drinks to find her a bottle of vitamin water. Passing that over my shoulder, I go for the plastic-wrapped kit that’s complete with vial and hypodermic. “You need to eat, drink, dress, and be in that chair in fifteen minutes so hair and makeup can work on you.”

  “What’s happening, exactly?” Lore peers around, probably trying to figure out where the hell we are.

  “Command performance, apparently. Don’t ask me, I just own the place.” I’ve already got the needle out and filled. Those blue irises follow my every movement, and the closer I get, the more mistrust creeps into them. Lore pushes back into the cushions, watching me with suspicion, and I can see every muscle in her body go tense as I flick the bubbles out.

  “No needles, no drugs,” she says with a note of panic I haven’t heard from her yet. “I don’t want any drugs.”

  “It’s not drugs, it’s FeedFade.” I reach out to grasp her by the wrist, but she snatches her arm out of my grasp, tucking it close to her body and prompting me to frown. “It’s something to perk you up and help replace the blood I took. Over-the-counter stuff, standard issue, nothing that’ll mess you up. I know the guy who makes it, actually, he’s—” A colossal douchebag. “…not so bad.”

  She still looks skeptical, but she doesn’t fight me as I roll her arm over and jab her with the hypodermic, jacking it into her bloodstream with about as much drama as a flu shot. Lore’s face doesn’t even register the pinch from the needle, but she still manages to look wounded.

  “It hurts that you don’t trust me.” It doesn’t, not really, but it’s disconcerting how she doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. I’m so used to that never-ending stream of female blather that not getting it from Lore is actually a little unsettling, so much so that I find myself babbling in its absence. “Seriously, I took you in, put a roof over your head—”

  “Shredded my clothes, stole my pants.” She’s joking, smarting off at me like it’s her god-given right to yank my chain. Sometime between the shower and my bed, Lore came to the conclusion that we were partners in crime, and I suppose that once you’ve been inside someone’s veins, things do get a little more intimate than a handshake.

  “Cleaned you up, Goldilocks, and let you sleep in my bed.” I turn and drop the needle into the sharps container. The clothing rack next to it is full of swag and sparkle. Flicking through the hangers, I pluck off a gem-studded bra, a short leather skirt, and a pair of stockings that are patterned to look like she’s got two holstered guns tattooed on her thighs. It’ll be hot, no doubt. Maybe too hot for Ms. Apple Pie.

  Sure enough, when the clothes hit the leather cushions next to Lore, her brows draw together. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “That is the rest of it.”

  “I’m not wearing that,” she says. “It’s not even a shirt. It’s a sparkly bra.” For an answer, I grin the kind of grin that lets her know in no uncertain terms that I’m highly aware of the skimpy nature of the uniform. With an impatient huff, she adds, “At least give me something to wear over it.”

  “Nope.”

  “Xaine, come on, I can’t wear that. I’ll be mostly naked.” She rubs an incredulous thumb over the hand-sewn crystal gems. The bra is something a Victoria’s Secret model would wear with a chain mail underbust corset and a pair of giant angel wings. She’ll be perfection in it, as long as she doesn’t go all coy on me.

  “What’s the problem? You were entirely naked in my shower last night. Didn’t even bat an eyelash.” Without waiting for an answer, I head for the door. “You wanted to run with the big dogs. Now the biggest damn dog in the pack is telling you to put that on. Unless you want an outfit that matches mine, and yes, that does mean what you’re thinking.”

  Slamming the door shut behind me, I entertain the spectacular mental image of us both onstage topless as I duck into my own dressing room. An hour later, I’m down a shirt and up four pre-show packs of blood. Headed backstage, I catch Lore at the pass door, and I’m almost disappointed to see she caved and put on the bra. She added a sheer black tunic, the kind that will accentuate every inch of her skin the second the lights actually hit it. The skirt ends at her high upper-thigh, and the embroidery on the stockings ratchets the whole ensemble to nearly-lethal levels. Then the stilettos pull the trigger on the gun.

  Her chin tilts up a few degrees as my eyes scour her from head to toe. “Two hours in your studio,” she says like we’re dealing. “With unrestricted access to software, mixing, and instrumentals.”

  “I don’t negotiate with terrorists,” I say, deadpanning it.

  “Fine, four hours,” Lore says, upping the ante.

  “You signed the papers,” I tell her. “I own you now.”

  “Nope, you own seventy-five percent of my music, since you decided not to fork over an advance, and this—” She gestures to the sexy gunslinger outfit, “is at least ninety percent of me. I could be wrong, but it feels like there’s some wiggle room here.”

  “I specifically told them not to include ‘wiggle room’ in the contract.” I reach out, lacing my fingers through hers and towing her past the techies and dressers and into the tiny corner behind the main curtain. “But litigious mumbo-jumbo aside, sweetheart, if you keep coming home to my place, I’ll show you all my equipment. Hell, you can play with it for as long as you want.”

  She looks skeptical. “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ll even let you finger my baby grand, pluck my guitar strings, tickle my ivories, and bang my bongos.” Euphemisms or not, I’ll give her as much studio time as her little heart desires. We just have to get through tonight. “You want to peek at the front of the house?”

  She shakes her head, rearranging perfect curls, and I suddenly realize that they’re a whole lot less Technicolor than before. Reaching out, I catch a platinum ringlet around my finger.

  It’s not the same, it’s not the fucking same at all.

  I can’t say why it kindles a spark of vague annoyance in my gut, but it does. Stylists, they do their thing, but I liked the way her hair was before.

  Didn’t even get a chance to find the gold at the end of the rainbow.

  I realize, then, that Fuzzy Bunny’s staring at my face, waiting for me to judge her. She doesn’t look exactly nervous, but she’s chewing the inside of her lip, the way she does when she’s thinking hard about something. It’s an old habit, that much is obvious, because there’s a tiny crease in her chin, permanent, like crow’s feet or laugh lines.

  “Still enough time to ditch your shirt,” I stage-whisper at her, enjoying the glare I get in return.

  The sound guys hand each of us a mic and an earpiece; at my signal, the lights cut out and the crowd falls into the darkness. A hush spreads across the huge room crammed wall-to-wall with mouth-breathers. In the pitch dark, I tow Lore center stage, keeping a firm grip on her wrist until a single brilliant white spot flares to life behind us, slicing through the auditorium while leaving our faces in complete shadow. Squeezing her hand, I lift the mic to my mouth. No introductions. No bullshit pandering to the crowd. Just the song they all crowded in to hear.

  Angel on high,

  I pulled you from the heavens,

  And dragged you down, down, down,

  Into my spe
cial brand of hell…

  Completely a capella. No soundtrack, no accompaniment of any kind. We didn’t talk about arrangements because, frankly, I wanted to see what Lore would do.

  She joins in on the second verse, layering her voice atop mine the way the silk sheets slither against each other in my bed.

  Angel boy, the stars weep to see,

  What you’ve become since falling

  But I just can’t seem to let you go,

  And maybe that’s just as well…

  I get the burn almost immediately, lava snaking through veins that went stone-cold so long ago. Then the piano and violins join in with the sort of swell that’s like a slow arrow shot through my chest, flinging me into a melody that’s as strange as it is familiar.

  Here beside me,

  Tucked beneath me,

  Surrounded by me,

  Oh, baby can’t you see?

  I swear I only take my eyes off Lore for a second, but it’s long enough to catch the only other lights on in the entire room. A low amber wash paints the VIP balcony, catching hold of midnight sequins, tossing out the suggestion of a slinky dress and a pair of chandelier earrings and a flaming red updo that I would recognize a mile away. Reille is up there, doing what she does best when the other big dogs come out to play. I’m sure her most charming smile is in full effect by now. I can’t see them from here, but the fuck-me shoes have to be epic tonight.

  You burn ever-bright,

  My every wrong set right,

  You show me there’s still light,

  You are the light,

  And I want to walk with you…

  In your light.

  I’m concentrating on the music, because we are tits-deep in the second verse. Concentrating on Lore, who’s putting everything that she is and that she has into my lyrics, my song. Frankly, I don’t have bandwidth to spare for Reille until I see who’s standing next to her, and I nearly miss the next line.

  That cocksucker.

  What in the holy hell Cas is doing here tonight is a mystery to me, unless it’s not why he’s here, but for whom. Reille is giving him ten kinds of cold shoulder up until the point that Cas reaches out and calmly snags her by the wrist, then everything coalesces into a single shard of fury that I want to ram into his eye socket.

  I don’t want her, she doesn’t want me, but Reille is under my protection. No longer my girlfriend or lover, merely my—

  Property? Territory?

  All of the above, along with a bunch of responsibility and no sex, to boot. I choke on the idea, but it’s the truth, because my venom is running through her veins and my scent is all over her flesh.

  She looks pissed, frankly, which is good. The challenge in her expression is the same as when I dragged her off to the Palisades. It’s a look I grew to love and then grew to hate and somehow didn’t miss when it disappeared. I’ve seen its ghost since she returned to Scion after getting out of rehab.

  But the real thing is back, and she’s giving it all to Cas.

  You burn ever-bright,

  My every wrong set right,

  You show me there’s still light,

  You are the light,

  And I want to walk with you…

  In your light.

  And Cas… Cas is staring down at me. Because he knows. He knows who this song was written for. The song I just handed to the universe wrapped up in another woman’s voice. His hand twists until the metal links of Reille’s bracelet dig into her wrist. She has a full head of fuck-you steam going, and whatever she says to him—

  It’s the wrong thing.

  Because the next instant, that stupid chain is broken, and Cas turns toward the stage with it dangling in his hand. Then I get the furious glitter to his eyes, the way his jaw is clenched tight. It looks like he’s going to issue some sort of challenge. Instead, one arm pulls back and a little to the side, then he lets loose, like he’s skipping a stone. My eyes fix on the bracelet as it twists and spins, glinting as it arcs over the audience and hits the stage with an audible crack. The perfect Tiffany links skid across wood and between wires, coming to rest around the too-tall column of Lore’s heel, winning the luckiest game of horseshoe in the universe.

  The words “30 Days” shine up at me from the single, silver charm.

  When I lift my eyes back to the balcony, I catch Cas turning on his heel and towing Reille toward the door. He disappears into the shadows beyond my line of vision; the moment her red head follows, adrenaline surges through my system. I’m already moving, reaching out to grasp Lore’s bicep and pull her backstage with me. Thankfully, she rolls with it, but in those heels, her only real choices were walk or fall.

  “Come on, sweetheart, I need you to keep up.” Dangerous to drag her along with me, but I can’t leave her alone and vulnerable to another Benicio-flavored assault. I lead Lore into the hallway and head for the stairs that lead to the private balconies.

  “Xaine, slow down!” she gasps. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’ll explain—”

  When? In a minute? When you tackle Cas in the back hallway and finish what you started at Roman’s house?

  The building alarms kick on, the security systems activating with a loud whine. Reille must have pressed the panic button on her watch, because reinforced glass sheets slide into place over doors and windows as they lock down. A calm voice explains that help is on the way, please don’t be alarmed, drinks are complimentary until everything gets sorted out. Up ahead, there’s the VIP portal, offering a near-panoramic view of street. Reille’s scent lingers in the air here: her perfume, her shampoo, her pheromones, her fear. Letting go of Lore, I hurl myself against the barrier, but I already know that I’m not getting out.

  When I pull back my arm and slam my fist into the glass, it doesn’t break. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even rattle. On the other side, Caspian and Reille are standing before a long, black limo, the shiny paint glimmering in the refracted light from Scion’s water feature. They’re also caged in by a considerable goon squad. The sound of my banging draws Reille’s attention, but her green eyes barely flicker in my direction, in Lore’s direction, before she pointedly averts her gaze. There’s a smile on Cas’s lips, the sort of smile I’ve seen him wear on the dueling fields, the battlefields, and in the board rooms. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something to the men in black, but then Reille leans in close and whispers something in his ear that changes the entirety of his demeanor.

  Get in the car.

  Puzzled at first, he gives her a strange look before she repeats that single phrase and gestures to the open limo door and the pit of shadows within.

  Get in the car.

  Those golden tiger eyes of Cas’s skip over everything, seeking, searching, finding the reason for Reille’s sudden dissent. There’s a flicker of something, the slightest pause. If I didn’t already think I was imagining things, I’d say that he flinches, recoils even, his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder. Slowly, I turn my head, a golden halo catching on my periphery. I can feel Lore’s warmth, her humanity, next to me at the window. She puts her palms to the glass, standing there still as a statue. Another glance at Cas shows me that he’s still caught, wrapped up in the same thrall.

  When he finally looks away, our glares connect, and I can’t help the snarl that curls my lip. There’s another second of hesitation from Cas, those eyes of his skipping from my face to Lore’s face to Reille’s. Then his jaw hardens, his chin tilts upward, and those tiger eyes of his glass over. The next second, he ducks down into the limo and slides Reille across his lap as their escorts squeeze in after them.

  “No!” I ball up my fists and pound my hands against the thick, unbreakable surface until a delicate set of fingers slide over mine. Lore’s touch is feather-light, but it’s enough to punch a hole in my blind curtain of temporary insanity.

  “You have to stop,” she tells me.

  “I have to go after her.” The words tear through me, costing both of us
something. “She’s mine. I need to—”

  Nothing. It all goes blank. Cas must have finished his game of Fuck You, Xaine in the privacy of the car, because I can’t feel any part of Reille anymore. He’s bitten her. Hit the manual override on my claim. His name is on her now, stamped across her body and filtering through her blood:

  Property of Caspian Declan.

  My rabid fury drains away until I’m left empty, hollow, echoing, and all the while, a very calm voice on the loudspeaker seeks to reassure me.

  “Please do not be alarmed. There’s no reason to panic.”

  Maybe the voice is right, too. Watching the black sedan pull away from the curb, I’m a little cold-cocked by the way this played out. Ten minutes ago, my world was full of sound and movement, action and people, everything frenetic and insane, and now…there’s nothing. Everything has gone perfectly, deathly still. Like the residual hum of amped bass, emptiness whirrs inside my head in a silence that’s so loud that the rest of the world feels muted.

  For the first time in months, Reille’s presence is gone. I’m not sure whether to be pissed or relieved, so I settle on a little of both. I could sit here and worry that Cas is going to hurt her, but he won’t. Pain for the sake of pain isn’t his game. I’m slightly more concerned about the limo and the thugs, and I have this vague itch at the back of my brain that’s starting to connect certain specific dots.

  Whatever.

  Not my fucking circus.

  Then I’m standing there, staring out the glass, a little at a loss. This must be what the genie feels like, when someone uses their last wish to set him free. The cuffs are off, the obligations are gone, and everything inside my head is only me now. Well, me and…

  Lore.

  She watches the car pull away too, her expression a shifting landscape of confusion, concern, and fear. “I know him.”

  I frown, because that makes about as much sense as everything else that’s happened tonight. “Everyone knows him.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yeah, he’s kind of famous.” More like notorious.