Lost Angeles

by Mantchev, Lisa

  “Now, you’re all going to behave yourselves,” I tell them. “You’re going to shut your mouths, open your ears, and listen to my girl here. And if you’re spectacularly good, maybe I’ll sing a song or two in a couple of minutes.”

  “What are you doing?” Lore whispers, cupping her hand over the mic to keep the words from carrying. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Leaning in, I bring us eye-to-eye. This close, I get a better picture of all the details I tend to miss when I’m blasting through life at a hundred miles an hour. The blue of her eyes? It’s not the same as mine. There’s no ice or aquamarine comparison to be made here; no, her eyes are deeper, darker. Not the color of the sky, but the color of the ocean. Endless. Fathomless. And right at the center there are little flecks of gold, the slightest slivers radiating outward until they disappear.

  The tiniest hint of someone else.

  Lore fidgets, those irises flashing sideways and back. She’s getting more anxious with every passing second, probably because we’re deviating from the plan. Not like we really had a plan to begin with, but this definitely wasn’t in her mental playbook.

  “Sing a couple of songs,” I tell her.

  “Why? Where are you going to be?”

  “You wanted to be bait, sweetheart.” Without waiting, I sling the guitar strap over her head. The instrument settles into her lap, and Lore cradles it like she was born holding the damn thing. “So be bait.”

  With that, I stand up and step back, giving her another nod, sterner this time. Lore stares up at me for a long moment. Pursing her lips, she finally looks away, twists very carefully atop the tall stool, and offers up a smile to the crowd.

  “I, um, wasn’t really expecting to play tonight.” She’s got that perfect mix of shy innocence and wry mischief, like some puckish faerie on a string, running into things trying to keep her balance, determined to prove she can do it all without actually flying. “This is a new one, but I guess they’re all new to you, really.”

  Taking a breath, Lore plucks a pick from the mic stand and looks down to find the right finger placements. The entire time, I’m counting off the metronome ticks in my head, one, two, three, four, until she strums out the first chord.

  Wasting words, and wonder why

  My heart is on my sleeve,

  You kill some faithless part of me,

  And I can’t even grieve.

  I wallow in the taste of you,

  The scent of sweetest sin,

  Swallow down my deepest fear,

  So I can let you in…

  I give myself a second. One precious moment to let that voice sidle over every one of my senses. It’s like she’s sliding a knife between my ribs and right into my useless heart. I get it then. I get everything. Hot and cold. Love and hate. Joy and sorrow. I feel every last thing that I’ve been holding away from myself for so long. I’m molten glass plunged into a bucket of ice water, with Lore threading cracks throughout my entire being.

  And then I have to exhale slowly and open my eyes. Step away from her, even though I don’t want to move. After one quick glance at Asher, I head straight back to Jax Trace and his Shrinky Dink sidekick for some answers.

  “Guess dumpster diving with Ke$ha has its perks,” he gets out as I slide into the booth on the opposite side and squeeze in so far that the girl becomes the compressed filling in a really uncomfortable man-sandwich. Jax’s eyes are on Lore, but mine, well, they’re all over Orange Pop here.

  “What the fuck, dude?” she fires off, squirming because I’ve got her pinned tight.

  My nostrils flare, because seriously, I’ve never caught a whiff of anything quite like this before. There’s woman there, all right, along with some other woman, telling me she definitely plays for the other team. There’s also the suggestion of secrets, the same smell that lingers in places where they store really old books. Ozone, like before a summer thunderstorm. And—

  “What are you, an ass-sniffing bloodhound? Quit crowding me.” She levels the demand at me like I give two shits what she wants right now.

  My gaze slides over her. “Look, toots—”

  “The name is Tamsyn, dickhead.”

  “And my name, surprisingly enough, isn’t dickhead, toots.” Then I look at Jax. “Are you going to tell me why you’re running around town with a sin-eater? Your pet pixie here is the second one to come skulking around Lore lately. Incidentally, every time that happens, my girl wakes up with her panties around her ankles and her head in the proverbial spit sink.” Jax opens his big, stupid mouth to answer, so I tack on a cavalier, “And when that doesn’t happen, that other sin-eater tosses a dead girl into the dumpster behind Scion or in my swimming pool. So don’t lie to me, Trace.”

  Lore is still singing her heart out, like it’s Madison Square Garden and not some shitty dive bar off the side of Koreatown. iPhones capture the whole thing, the 21st century version of a Bic lighter at a concert, and in ten minutes there will be a hundred different angles of this performance splattered across the Internet. Thankfully, the crowd has almost completely forgotten me for the moment, so I get the opportunity to sit back and watch. To sit back and listen.

  So let it go,

  Let it fall away,

  ’Cause I am bold,

  And braver than you know.

  So let it burn,

  Let the battles rage.

  I’ll fight ’em all,

  So the weak can have their turn,

  Ooooh, let it burn…

  The audience watches her like she’s the answer to all their prayers. It’s twisting something up in Jax, too, I can see it. He takes a second to think. To sort through every word in the English language twice, picking and choosing the ones he’s going to lay on me. And even if he takes all night, I know I’m not going to like what I hear.

  Because I’m an impatient bastard, I turn to Tamsyn and add, “Sound like Benicio’s calling card to you? Because we were hoping he’d show tonight.”

  She scowls at that, dark eyebrows rushing together. “Yeah, yeah it fucking does. Fuck.” Rounding on Jax, she surprises us both. “I told you that was him. Cocksucker.”

  Jax flicks it off, his eyes still pinned to Lore. “Yeah, well, you tell me a lot of things, Tam, but pancakes are not always the answer, and vagina is not as difficult as you seem to think.”

  That shuts us both up, because I have no clue what Trace is on about, but Toots apparently understands and steam just about comes out of her ears.

  “I didn’t say a fucking thing about pancakes tonight, douchenozzle, I was telling you B had something to do with those dead bodies they’ve been splashing all over the news.”

  “So you do know him.” I squeeze her a little harder, like a tube of toothpaste with the cap only half-on. Enough pressure, and she’s going to squirt out whatever information I want, if Jax keeps his mouth shut long enough for me to get it out of her.

  She pushes back at me with her leg, trying to get me to move. “Yeah, I fucking know him, you stupid fanger.” When I don’t budge, she narrows her eyes a little. “How’d you like to wake up with your head in the spit sink?”

  “Hit me with the juice, pipsqueak, and I’ll eat you for breakfast.”

  “Shut up, both of you.” For the first time, Jax fixes superhuman Superman eyes on me. The damn fool look is gone from his expression now. He’s deadly serious and I have to say, it’s all that much more jarring for its rarity. “Are you honestly inferring that you placed Lore up on that stage hoping to lure a serial killer out of hiding?”

  “Because that’s somehow worse than letting him mindfuck half the valley while you shop for vests?” I fire back.

  Jax leans in really damn close, so close that mini-muff is squashed against the leather like the aforementioned pancakes. She lets out a squeak, but that doesn’t seem to faze Trace in the least; he simply closes the gap between us like he’s got every right in the universe to get in my face. In return, he gets nothing from me but the hard line of my jaw.
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br />   “Little girls are one thing,” he says, “but Lore is something completely different altogether.”

  “Why? Because she can sing? Because you want her for Genesis?”

  “No, you giant, narcissistic asshat, it’s because…” Then, instead of answering the question, Jax lifts one hand slowly off the tabletop and points a finger at Lore. “Get her the fuck off that stage right fucking now.”

  “Or what? You’re going to hair gel me to death? Strangle me with your dipshit tie? Or make me wear those ball stranglers you call pants?”

  “I will trip you into sunlight, Xaine,” he says, “after I strap you to a cross and huck wooden darts at your chest.”

  I motion to Asher, who’s standing about as close as he can get to the stage without crawling up on the platform, bow in hand. “Talk to him about buying some UV weapons. You wouldn’t even have to wait for dawn. And you’ve missed the fucking point entirely—”

  Then I stiffen, because the Y-chromosome match to Orange Pop is somewhere in the building; I can smell him. Every fiber of my being wants to launch itself at the stage, but if I do that now, it’s Game Over. Instead, I make sure Asher’s looking my direction, then nod at him. He was already on high alert, but I can practically see his asshole tighten up as he turns the scan the room.

  That’s right buddy, you keep that pole clenched right where it is.

  The only complication is that it’s packed wall to wall in here and I need a way to separate the fans from the Fuzzy Bunny mindfuckers. With that in mind, I flash my fangs at the next waitress who heads past the table. When she ducks nearer the booth, I toss my black AmEx at her. “Try to keep up, ok?”

  She gapes for a second. “What’s this for?”

  “Hold on a second and you’ll find out,” I tell her, sliding out of the booth, stepping onto the bench, and planting both feet on the table the second the last notes from Lore’s song fade to nothing. “Intermission! Drinks are on me!”

  The bellow carries to the farthest corners of the room, and the applause that had already started doubles over on itself. The bartenders start lining up shot glasses as everyone turns and makes a beeline for the liquor. They act like I’m personally pouring each drink myself, and that’s fine by me, because as long as they’re headed away from my girl, they can think whatever they want. I keep my eyes peeled after that, because I’ve tipped my hand, made a spectacle of myself, and everyone in the place is headed for the bar.

  Except for Benicio. He’s headed straight for Lore.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Lore

  The world is completely silent for all of three minutes. It’s just enough time for me to close my eyes. Just enough time for me to get comfortable. Barely enough time for me to forget. Absolutely everything fades away, slipping from my fingers the moment they strike that first, soft chord. It’s easy to lose myself in the music, to let the worry and fear slide away and just let it all go.

  Of course, peace like this doesn’t last forever. When I open my eyes, the world surges back with a vengeance that I’m not immediately able to understand. Xaine’s standing on a table, shouting to the room. People crowd toward the bar, chaotic and cheering. My eyes shift back to where I last saw my vampire rock star friend, but he’s not there anymore. Instead, he’s plowing his way toward me with a single-minded purpose that sparks my own panic. He yells my name, but I see it more than I hear it as a heavy weight slams into my back and the tight anchor of an arm slides around my waist.

  “Heya, Lo,” a familiar voice whispers into my hair. His breath curls into the shell of my ear, hot and damp, sending a ripple of revulsion down my spine. “Heard I might find you here. Social media is a beautiful thing.”

  “Benicio.” My own voice sounds so distant. “Been looking for you.”

  “I know.” He pulls me backwards, tugging me into the crowd that’s thwarting Xaine. “Saw you shaking your ass on TV. Thought you mighta missed me.”

  Xaine’s shoving people out of the way, bouncing bodies off other bodies, yelling something over to the side. I search the crowd for Asher, but he’s not where I left him either. I spot Jackson Trace turning and tugging Tamsyn toward the front door. I’m caught in a tornado of anarchy, a perfect storm of chaos. The bulk of my safety net has vanished into thin air, and here I am, fish-on-a-hook, biting back a scream as Benicio’s tongue touches the bare curve of my earlobe.

  “I missed you,” he says. “The other girls don’t taste quite so… damaged.”

  I’m not entirely sure when that became a desirable personality trait, but I’m not really in the position to protest. He’s hauling me backwards faster than Xaine can catch up, and I start to think that maybe it’s best. Maybe I need to be caught. Maybe Benny and I need to finish this thing once and for all.

  “Make you a deal.” The words fall out of me on a rush, expelled from my lungs by the shackle of my captor’s forearm. “Do whatever you want, but I want to keep the memories this time.”

  “Trust me,” Benicio huffs out on a laugh as he plows backward through an emergency exit, “you don’t. You really, really don’t.”

  “I need them.”

  “Nobody needs these kinds of memories,” he says. “Nobody except me.”

  One more heave, and he pulls me outside, into the alley where I stood not a half-hour before. The night air’s gone cold, and the bricks are drowning in shadows. Shifting his grip, the sin-eater curls his other hand over the lip of a dumpster and pulls it over to block the door. I have a moment to wonder if that’s the dumpster I’m going to end up in before he turns, starts dragging me away—

  And pulls up short at the business end of Asher’s Glock.

  Click.

  “Well, hello there.” Ash’s voice is low and monotone, and if I didn’t know him better, I’d almost say I detect a hint of bemusement in it. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Something slams into the other side of the door, hard enough to make the metal to bulge outward. The pounding comes again, the heavy impact of something that keeps beating at the inside, trying to get out.

  Xaine.

  The heavy dumpster slides, inch by metal-screeching inch, until the door opens far enough that he can shove it the rest of the way, and my vampire watchman steps into the night. Two sets of footsteps echo at the other end of the alley as Jackson Trace skids to a halt with Tamsyn at his side. All at once, everything comes to a grinding standstill, bodies frozen in place, everyone staring at everyone else.

  “You’re surrounded, Benny,” I say. “Trapped.”

  “Eenie, meenie, miny, mo. Two mortals, a vampire, and a sin-eater.” He pulls me close until we’re plastered front-to-back. I stare ahead at Asher, but his expression is carefully blank. The gun is locked and loaded, but we both know it might not do anything. “Hardly ‘trapped.’”

  There’s a snarl from Xaine, and Benicio’s head shifts until I can feel the wild flutter of his eyelashes against my temple.

  “One more step, bloodsucker,” he says, “and I’ll snap her pretty neck.”

  He keeps me immobile, using me as an all-too-human shield. I’ve got a free hand, but it’s the one opposite the pocket where I stashed the taser. Shooting Asher a look, I glance downward briefly, willing him to understand. Willing him to do something, anything to keep Benicio’s attention away from my roving fingers.

  “Seems like you’ve had pretty good luck hunting these parts,” Asher says, drawing the sin-eater’s gaze and drawing the heat off me. “Lots of pretty girls around here. Everyone’s a blonde in LA, huh?”

  “They’re all garbage,” Benicio says, shifting his feet. I can feel him glancing about for an escape route, and he’s pulled tighter than Asher’s stupid bowstring. “They all die before I’m done with ’em.”

  “But not Lore.” It’s Jax this time, entering our little stand-off. “She didn’t die so easy, did she?”

  The sin-eater breathes harshly in my ear, and I can feel his heart thrumming wildly against my spine. Not with fea
r, but excitement; the erection he’s digging into my ass is evidence enough of that. The hand on my wrist lets go and slides north, fingers skimming over the fabric of Xaine’s T-shirt until Benicio’s damp palm crosses my clavicle and curls around my neck. Right about then, I start getting a little warm. The heat spreads, but not as fast as before, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, Benny’s whole bag of tricks revolves around the element of surprise.

  Well, half the bag, anyway.

  Benicio nuzzles the place where my neck meets my shoulder. “No, she didn’t die. I could keep going deeper, and deeper, and deeper…”

  It apparently doesn’t matter to him that Asher’s got a gun trained on his face or that four people surround him, blocking every avenue of escape.

  He’s not afraid.

  “I could take the memories out and put them back a thousand times, and each time she’d be sweeter. Riper.” The rough scratch of Benicio’s jaw chafes at the flesh of my neck, rasping over Xaine’s puncture wounds. I feel lightheaded now, drifting on soft waves of desire. “Her body, her face, her fucking eyes… she’s perfect.” He chuckles into my hair. “Right, Xaine? Doesn’t she remind you of everything you ever loved?”

  “Fuck you—”

  “Everything you lost?” Benicio says, hurling the words at my guard dog. “Everything you had, and everything you fucked up? The thing you wanted so badly you’d kill it to keep it with you?” There’s an answering growl from somewhere over my left shoulder. “Yeah, kinda feels that way for me, too.”

  “Let her go,” Jax’s voice chimes in. “You don’t really understand what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah, fuckstick,” Xaine says. “You hurt a hair on her head, and I will shred you.”

  “It’s okay, Benny,” I purr as I lean my head against his shoulder. Everything’s tilting sideways, and with every second that passes, I slip a little further away. “I get it. You can’t help it. Some people… they just taste so good.” Pushing back against my captor, I press the soft curve of my ass into his not-so-soft front.