Lost Angeles

by Mantchev, Lisa

  “You sorta smell like spunk.”

  There she goes, sassing me like she hasn’t been run through the damn wringer today, and all I can do is shake my head. It’s a little harder to slough off the tightness in my gut, harder still to ignore the ache in my chest.

  I reach down for her wrists, yanking her off the stairs and into my arms as I head for the shower to deal with all this. “Woman, there is something seriously, delightfully wrong with you.”

  My girl shrieks as I tilt her over my shoulder, but she’s laughing all the same. “Well, that makes two of us.”

  For some reason, that hits me harder than all the rest, wiping the shit-eating grin right off my face.

  “Yeah.” Thinking about everything that Roman told me, and all the things he didn’t, I can only mutter, “It sure as hell does.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lore

  It takes more than a week, but I finally get a minute to myself. Hurricane Xaine is exhausting, and I’m beginning to think you’d have to be immortal to survive it. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep, mostly because my internal clock is all sorts of off-kilter. There are no alarms in Xaine’s world. Day is night, and night is day. That alone has been enough to keep me napping intermittently, eating erratically, and waking up at odd hours.

  Word from PFC is that Benicio’s shredded remains were turned over to the LAPD and identified as a DNA match to the small bevy of girls assaulted and murdered over the last few weeks. Case closed on that and not a moment too soon, but I have the feeling that if Xaine hadn’t broken every bone in Benicio’s body, someone else would have eventually.

  Benny being such a likeable guy and all.

  On a slightly more pleasant note, Asher calls intermittently, giving me updates on Jess as she recovers from her own set of near-death experiences. They didn’t find Doctor Osamu at CasDec; apparently he up and quit soon after my release. Toss another mystery on the pile, because nobody can actually tell me how Jess recovered, only that she did. I should be thankful, but the lack of answers niggles at the part of me that knows there’s more to this story.

  And that it’s not over. Not by a longshot.

  As a distraction, I pick up the Martin D-100 and cradle it in my lap, allowing it to sit in the curve between my crossed legs. It’s a hundred-thousand-plus-dollars’ worth of pearl-inlaid mahogany, rosewood, and dreams, as far as I’m concerned. Xaine might be the only collector on earth who would leave it out for me to play. Hell, he’d probably kick back and listen, but alas, the man of the house isn’t actually in the house right now, because apparently the only thing that it takes to launch a vampire into full-blown pop culture hero status is catching a serial killer.

  Who knew?

  So here I sit, alone for the moment, content as a kitten in a basket full of yarn. I could do this for hours, getting lost in the chords, lost in the songs, lost in the music until my fingers go numb from clutching the pick, until I can’t feel the tips anymore because of the constant vibrations from the wires. I’ve got a notepad propped on my knee, and every once in a while I slip the tortoiseshell triangle between my teeth so I can scratch out a new note or a line of lyrics. It’s what I do, and if nothing else, Xaine can rest assured that I keep busy in his absence.

  When it feels mostly right, I fire up my laptop and lay down a simple recording of the new song, just me and the guitar, to get a sense of how it sounds. The hairs on my arms come up a little when I listen to the replay, which tells me it’s good enough to copy onto a thumb drive.

  Good enough to play for Xaine—

  The doorbell rings, and I jump a mile. It’s an involuntary response, just like I can’t help the dart of excitement at the thought that he might be home, though I know darn well that if he’d locked himself out, he’d be hammering on the door by now. I hop off the couch anyway, setting the guitar down and shoving the thumb drive deep in my pocket. Craning an ear toward the sound of Rosa’s voice, I catch a click and an echo when the front portal is sealed shut again. When I move toward it, I spot the housekeeper headed back toward the kitchen.

  “Rosa, was there someone there?”

  “No.” She turns to face me, already shaking her head. “Nobody.”

  “I am not nobody.” The voice on the other side of the door gives her away, but Rosa only hitches her narrow shoulders at me. A moment passes, but the housekeeper’s expression betrays nothing in the way of acknowledgment. Eventually, our visitor gets antsy over the extended silence. “Hello? Did you leave? Lore?”

  “Is that Jackson Trace?”

  “It’s nobody,” Rosa repeats, and I frown at her, eyes narrowed at her dodgy, well, dodging. Slowly, I reach toward the door knob, but the housekeeper shuffles her body, blocking the latch from my roving fingers. “Mister Xaine said not to open the door for strangers.”

  “Jax isn’t a stranger,” I tell her.

  “He’s strange, very strange,” she insists, gesturing to the gray and white outfit that makes up her uniform. “Too fancy. He dresses like a woman.”

  I laugh at that, then grin wider as Jax’s annoyed voice comes through the door again.

  “I do not dress like a woman! Lore, let me in!” Then there’s a significant pause. “Please?”

  “It’s fine, Rosa.” I’m already reaching for the handle again, dipping my hand under her arm and wrapping my fingers around the cool metal. “Jax Trace is the most harmless human being on the planet. I know children who are more vicious than he is. Total cream puff. Complete softy when it comes to kittens and puppies and babies and—”

  “Ha, ha, so funny. Can we open up now?”

  Raising my voice, I shout through the door, “Rosa’s worried you’re going to hurt me. Promise Rosa you’re not going to bite, Jax.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” There’s a beleaguered sigh from the other side. “Rosa, I am not going to hurt her.”

  I swing the door open before the housekeeper has the chance to intervene. With a huff of disapproval, Rosa heads toward the kitchen, and I’m almost positive I’m going to receive a call from the master of the house very soon. When I return my attention to Jax, he’s standing there in all his Clark Kent glory, adjusting a slant-stripe silver-black tie until it lays flat over his white undershirt. Unbelievably, he’s wearing two vests today: a black one layered over a gray one. The former is open at the front but held neatly together with a short, black chain. His shirtsleeves are turned up, exposing a patterned inner cuff. Black pants and a wide leather belt complete the ensemble, and I have to give the guy props—he knows how to put together an interesting outfit.

  “Nice shirt—”

  “No, I didn’t steal it from a Beiber fan,” he says, pushing past me and into the house.

  “Pffft. Like a Beiber fan would wear something that understated. Give me some credit.” Closing the door behind him, I watch as he cranes his neck, taking in the classic front hall and curved staircase, not looking particularly impressed. “Where’s your sidekick?”

  “Ditched me for pancakes.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “And probably pussy.” Turning toward me, Jax gives me a slow once-over. By the end of it, I get the distinct impression that he’s actually disappointed to find me alive and well and not in need of rescue. “How’re things?”

  “Last time I saw you, you were defying death and the laws of nature. Now you’re stopping by to chitchat?”

  “Pretty much.” Jax gives an impatient shrug. “So, everything’s good?”

  I open my mouth to give him the rundown, then realize everything I say is going to sound like that game you play with the fortune cookies.

  “I’ve been hanging around.” In bed. “Working on a new song.” In bed. “Xaine and I have been…” In bed, in bed, and oh, in bed. “Right. Anyway, I am fine.” When I fumble, the guitar pick I completely forgot I was clutching hits the floor with a little plink.

  Without missing a beat, Jax picks it up and sets it on the table by the door. “So, you turned on the television lately?
”

  “How lately? I’ve been kinda busy…” In bed.

  Fuck you, brain.

  Jax pauses, like he can hear the thought, then moves further into the room with his hands in his pockets. It’s the kind of mosey you would do on a boardwalk or down a beach somewhere. A little bit careless, a whole lot aimless, until he hits the first massive black and white photograph hanging on the wall. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Gives it a real Martha Stewart homey feel.”

  I have no clue what he’s referring to until he jerks his butt-chin upward. Only then do I realize it’s a photograph from the shoot. Xaine and me, larger than life. His finger is hooked in my panties, yanking them down like the puppy in the Coppertone sunscreen ad.

  You know, something totally classy for the foyer.

  I stare at it, then my eyes skip over the other pictures. All of them have been replaced, making it a parade of my face alongside Xaine’s all the way down the hallway and up the stairwell. Candids from the shoot, film captures from the interviews, the last two weeks distilled into a slideshow. And the pictures are… beautiful.

  Surprisingly honest.

  It’s a little scary, a lot overwhelming, and the worst part is that I have no idea when he changed out the old black-and-white Xaine show for one of the two of us.

  You’re the only fuzzy bunny I want in my house.

  “Holy hell.”

  I’m so busy staring that it takes me a few seconds to realize Jax has wandered off like a little kid at Disneyland. I track him down at the French doors that lead to the backyard. I’ve been out there a handful of times; it’s all immaculate landscaping and perfect blue infinity pool.

  “Sort of a waste for a dude who doesn’t see much daylight.” Jax gestures out the window.

  “Night swimming definitely has its perks,” I say. “No sunscreen required, plus there’s always a full moon. Or two.”

  Jax pulls a face, one that comes up just short of horrified. “Jesus, Lore, I can’t unthink that.” When I open my mouth to expound, he holds up a hand to stop me. “Please don’t tell me anything else about your sex life.”

  I can’t help a small snicker before asking, “What’s on television that I should have seen?”

  “Oh, this, that, and the usual. Xaine, wars in the Middle East, Xaine, celebrities flashing their cooter getting out of limousines—” There he looks at me over his sunglasses. “Try not to leave the house without underwear, all right?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I agree, raising one brow in question.

  In return, Jax tilts up the Aviators and gives me a twice-over, like he can actually discern the general state of my underwear drawer just by staring at me.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I tell him. “You’re the last person who should be judging.”

  He snorts. “Actually, I’m the first.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Never mind, kid,” he says, waving me off. “So, Mr. Rock Star is now Mr. Hero. I’m sure he’s been complete hell to deal with lately.”

  “Not really,” I say. “He struts a little more, talks it to death, but he kinda deserves to reap the rewards, don’t you think?”

  Jax Trace gives me the most peculiar look then. “So, it doesn’t bother you at all?”

  “Doesn’t what bother me?”

  “The growling, the pushiness, the impulsivity, the barking commands, the sexual demands.” Jax rattles through Xaine’s more eccentric traits like it’s the disclaimer at the end of a pharmaceutical commercial. I open my mouth to protest, but click it shut when he holds up one forbidding finger and continues, “The not-sexual demands. The order-everything, give-me-one-of-each, make-it-rain-on-these-hoes, I-want-the-world mentality. That doesn’t disturb you?”

  “Uh, no?” I say, eyes narrowed, because seriously, who died and made Jax the Grand Poobah of Hypercritical Condemnation? “Besides, he doesn’t do it as often anymore. Xaine is a reasonable human being.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Reasonable? Or human?”

  “Yes!” Jax blurts out, then thinks it through and says, “Both.”

  I gape at him, because seriously, what the fuck. “You are so weird.”

  “You are so weird.” Jax shakes his head at me. “He would have driven anyone else on the planet stark raving mad by now, but not you. Never you.”

  “What can I say?” I say. “I like Xaine’s idiosyncrasies. I like Xaine. A lot.”

  Jax opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but instead runs his hand over a day’s worth of chin stubble before he comes up with a different plan of attack. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here. He’s a terrible influence.”

  I shake my head at his audacity. “Sorry, but you’re not my real dad. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Please?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please with a cherry—”

  “Jax!” I bark out, cutting him off. “You are disturbing me. Why are you even here?”

  “Uh,” he says, buying himself a few seconds to come back with, “because I’m worried about you?”

  Eyes narrowing, I glare at him, wishing he would stop hedging and spit it out. There have been a lot of half-truths and shoddy attempts to lure me out of the only place where I feel safe. I don’t kid myself into thinking that Jax Trace doesn’t have an agenda, because everyone has an agenda, but since he’s not willing to share his with me, he’s not getting any piece of me that I can keep to myself.

  “Hookay, it’s time for you to go now.” Gripping him by the arm, I shove him toward the front door. “Look, I don’t know the entire story, and I sure as hell don’t know how you fit into it. So thanks for your concern, but unless you’re going to give me some idea as to why you keep popping up in my life, then maybe you should mind your own business.”

  Jax lets me bundle him toward the foyer, but at the end of my speech, he puts on the brakes, his newspaper-print Oxfords skidding a little as he comes to a halt. Momentum carries me forward until I bump against his back. To his credit, Jax reaches out to steady me because someone at some point taught him some manners.

  Or at least enough manners that he balks at the idea of letting me fall on my ass.

  “You’re right,” he says at last. “You don’t know the entire story, and if I have any say… any say at all… you won’t. Ever.”

  “Why? If you tell me, will you have to kill me?”

  A smile kicks up the corner of his lips, and I’ve gotten so used to being around Xaine that the blunt, white squares of Jax’s teeth actually seem strange.

  “I believe people should be allowed to live their lives, Lore. I don’t believe anyone should be treated differently because of an accident of birth.”

  I decide to jerk his chain. “Are you telling me I’m secretly a princess? ’Cause I’m not sure I’d really complain.”

  “Royalty of a sort.” Jax peels off the glasses, hooking one earpiece into his vest. He fixes me with a stupid grin, eyes glinting with humor when he quips, “Princess Pain in my Ass.”

  “Everyone in this town is so funny.” I give him a wry look.

  “Present company included,” he says, offering up more of that stupid eye-twinkle. “Well, my job here is done. I’ll see myself out.” Jax turns himself toward the door, raising his voice to yell, “Rosa! Have my horse and buggy brought ’round!”

  She materializes out of nowhere, rushing in to deliver an incomprehensible string of Spanish. For his part, the man of the hour lets himself be shooed toward the door, interjecting smartassed remarks at intervals.

  “No, Rosa, I do not have time to hear about your lord and savior, Jesus Christ,” he says. “Alas, I can’t stay for a bite of your taco pescado—” He takes her heavy slap to the back of his skull and ekes out, “Ow! Okay, fine, I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear the dominatrix costume,” just before she slams the door in his face.
r />   Chuckling, I shake my head. “What a weirdo.”

  I reach for my pick, the one Jax dropped on the foyer table. Except a familiar gold coin’s sitting in its place, glinting in the overhead lighting, warm to the touch when I pick it up. My eyes flash immediately to the door, and I wonder if Jax is still outside. Tamping down on the impulse to check, I flip the coin over in my palm, staring at the blank golden surface, but when I turn it over once more, a picture appears—

  “Lore! Where the hell are you?”

  I startle when Xaine’s shout emerges from the general direction of the garage. There’s a momentary surge of guilt, like he’s caught me doing something illicit. The coin gets tucked into a back pocket, and I take a few steps in the direction of his voice. “I’m in the front hall. Why are we yelling?”

  Xaine swings around the corner, walking with the swagger I’ve come to know so well. He looks damn pleased with himself until he hits the foyer and takes a deeper sniff at the air. “Why was Jax Trace in my house? Was that his car at the gate?”

  “You can smell that?” It pops out before I can stop it. “And if it’s a gray Audi, then yes, it’s his.”

  “Jeezus. It reeks like a metrosexual’s wet dream in here.” Xaine reaches up to pinch at his nose with a scowl. “Like fresh skunk spray right up your nostrils, then multiply that by a hundred and douche.”

  “He does not smell that bad,” I say. “In fact, he smells kinda nice. Like cologne and those little flavor crystals you put in your laundry to boost the scent.”

  “Try turning your olfactory senses up to vamp level and tell me that again with a straight face,” Xaine grumbles. “What the hell was he doing here, anyway?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea.” Not a lie. I don’t know, and the way these boys like to keep their secrets, I never will. “Probably came by to make sure you haven’t killed me or something.”

  Xaine’s eyes narrow, his lean body curving toward mine. He’s sniffing me now, like a bloodhound. “You sure that was it?”