Revenge 2

by JJ Knight

  REVENGE

  Volume 2

  JJ KNIGHT

  www.jjknight.com

  Copyright © 2014 by JJ Knight

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, fan-made graphics, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  JJ Knight

  www.jjknight.com

  Chapter 1

  Dylan Wolf drives like a criminal on the run.

  “Look out!”

  I cover my eyes with both hands.

  Dylan keeps driving like a maniac. The engine of his black sports car roars as we race down the street.

  I peek through my fingers.

  We narrowly miss being crashed into by a white van.

  “You’re insane!” I yell at him.

  He laughs, just loud enough to be heard over the roaring engine.

  My heart feels like it’s trying to burst out of my chest. I look down at my right foot. My pink shoe is pressing hard against the floor’s car mat. Even though I’m not driving, my body is trying to press the brakes.

  What else can I do? I can’t open the door and roll out, or I’ll be killed.

  There’s no other choice but to grab my seat belt and buckle up. I pull it on with a click.

  By now, Dylan has slowed down a little. We’re still speeding down the street, but at least he’s sticking to one lane.

  “Is this what you wanted to show me?” I ask him. “That you’re a crazy driver?”

  He reaches up and sweeps one hand through his shiny, dark hair. I feel like I’m in an action movie, with a sexy spy or detective. Even during a car chase, the spy always looks perfect and sexy. Dylan’s gorgeous profile is relaxed and confident. He could totally be a movie star.

  He tosses a flirty smile my way, then returns his dark brown eyes to the road.

  “Are we having fun yet?” he asks.

  I grumble something in response. This makes him smile.

  I could just punch that smug look off his face. Since we met, less than a week ago, Dylan Wolf has done nothing but mess up my life.

  He stormed out of a big meeting at Morris Music just now. My new bosses were trying to put together a music recording deal with him, but he freaked out over some stuff in his past. That was about ten minutes ago.

  Today is Wednesday, only my third day working at Morris Music as an intern. I barely know where the cafeteria is, but I’ve already been promoted to the mysterious job of Eye Candy. I was in the big meeting when all hell broke loose over Dylan’s past. Apparently, his name used to be Brandon, and he’s got someone named Susan “stashed away.” I have no idea what that means.

  Dylan slammed his fist on the table and walked out. The music executives acted like this was pretty normal for musicians.

  My boss sent me to follow Dylan out of the building, and get close to him.

  I figured I’d give it a shot, since he’s so cute. Big mistake. He might be cute, but he’s already lied to me at least once.

  Those majestic brown eyes of his looked right into me, stole my heart, and lied to me.

  Right before I got into his car, I found out he was the one responsible for me getting mugged on my first full day in LA. My eye is barely healed, and I’ll probably never feel safe in crowds again.

  And then, if all that wasn’t bad enough, he grabbed me. Physically. I fought my way free, but he threatened to kidnap me and throw me in the trunk of his car.

  I’m pretty sure he was joking about the kidnapping. But I’m not 100% sure. Especially now that I see how he drives.

  He whips the wheel and changes lanes again without signaling.

  I yell at him, “Have you heard of a turn signal? It’s right on the steering column! You can’t miss it. Big stick. Goes up and down.”

  “This thing?” He clicks on the windshield wipers.

  “Very funny.”

  “Are you comfortable over there, Jess? Your face looks red. Or maybe it’s the reflection of that pretty pink shirt you’re wearing. Would you like the air conditioning turned up?”

  “I’d like to not die in this car today, thank you.”

  He reaches over and presses a button on the dash. Cool air jets out of the dash. Sweet, sweet air conditioning.

  He mutters, “I suppose I could slow down a bit. Would that make you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  He keeps muttering to himself. “Should have put her in the trunk.”

  “I heard that.”

  He turns off the windshield wipers, then pushes the turn signal on. It clicks rhythmically.

  He shoulder-checks, then changes lanes perfectly, and flicks it off.

  “Do I pass?” he asks.

  “If this was a driving test, you’d fail. I failed you the second you pulled out of the parking spot and nearly hit three cars.”

  “I knew exactly what I was doing. That’s why I didn’t hit anything.”

  I take two deep breaths. My right leg is still tense from trying to brake. After a minute, I start to relax. The driving is less terrifying now.

  “You’re so cocky,” I say. “How old are you, anyway?”

  He turns away from the road to give me a knowing look.

  “What’s that look for?” I ask.

  “You’re trying to dig info out of me.”

  “Dylan, it’s called having a conversation. Sometimes two people exchange words. Usually questions and answers. Normal people have conversations. They don’t make up songs, arrange muggings, or threaten to kidnap each other.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me more about normal people.”

  “For starters, I’m normal.”

  “You don’t look normal.”

  His eyes scroll down my body. I shiver, and it’s not from the air conditioning. How does he do that? How does he make me feel like I’m naked, even when I’m wearing clothes?

  “You really like my pink shirt,” I say, teasing.

  He snorts and turns his attention back to the road. He makes a left turn, and then a right turn. We’re definitely going somewhere, not just riding around aimlessly.

  This ride feels so surreal. I can hardly believe I’m here, in LA. This is so different from my old life.

  When I was in high school, my friends and I used to ride around our small town for fun. We weren’t even going anywhere. We’d just pile into someone’s car, with more people than seat belts.

  In the winter, we’d have the heater going, and in the summer the windows would all be rolled down. We’d drive up and down the main street of town. If a guy was driving, he’d try to drag race people at stop lights.

  Everything back then felt so new and dangerous. I have to laugh at how tame it was in reality. We barely even went over the speed limit.

  We thought we were so bad for drinking, even when it was just one or two cans of beer passed around five of us. One time, someone brought half a joint in the car, and we all acted like we’d robbed a bank.

  Everything was so life and death, so huge.

  Being with Dylan brings back those feelings.

  Now I’m driving around the big city of LA with a guy who’s hot like an action movie star.

  I thought I was more mature than this, but I’m not. Inside, I’m a squealing fifteen-year old, breaking the law.

  All it takes is one glance fro
m Dylan, one smile, and my heart soars.

  What would happen if he touched me or kissed me?

  My nerves are on edge. I’m so excited to see what happens next.

  Anything can happen.

  Anything.

  Chapter 2

  Dylan keeps driving, not telling me where he’s taking me. Except for the terror of his driving, I like being in a car with Dylan.

  We start to talk about what normal people do.

  “Normal people wear normal shoes,” Dylan says. “Not blue shoes and pink shoes.”

  I laugh. “You sound like you’re reading a Dr. Seuss book.”

  “One of the first songs I composed was with Dr. Seuss lyrics.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He’s mostly keeping his beautiful brown eyes on the road, but he steals a glimpse over at me. “I’m dead serious. Dr. Seuss was a deep guy. Plus I was only five at the time, so it’s not like Kanye was in my life yet.”

  “You were five and making music? Wait. What did you play? Five-year-olds can’t play guitar, can they?”

  He gives me another look, suspicious this time. “Are you noting this down for an article about me? Are you really a Morris Music intern, or a nosy reporter?”

  “Intern. I’m just asking because I’m interested.”

  “I got a guitar when I was nine. Before that, I played piano.” He taps on the steering wheel. “Only because I wasn’t allowed the drums.”

  My legs are finally relaxed now, but I’m still shaky. I have a feeling I’m forgetting something. I did forget something. My phone is in my shoulder bag, back at Morris Music. Shit. I wish I had my phone. Not for calling anyone, but for comfort, because I don’t like not having it.

  If I had my phone, I’d take a picture right now of Dylan. I’d capture this moment. The way the late morning sunshine is lighting up the bottom half of his face. The way his eyebrows wrinkle together when he looks around for street signs. I’m pretty sure he’s lost. He sure looks like he’s lost. I bet he’s too stubborn to turn on the navigation.

  We drive quietly for a few minutes.

  “You’re lost, aren’t you?” I ask.

  He reaches over and pats my leg. His palm lands above my knee, on the bare leg below my black skirt. His hand is hot, compared to the cool air coming out of the dash.

  He makes a clicking sound with his mouth. In his super-deep Elvis voice, he says, “Don’t you worry there, little lady.”

  His hand is still on my leg, sending a heat wave through my body.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You’re Elvis now because Elvis knows his way around LA?”

  “Thank you very much, little lady. I’m gonna buy you a pink cadillac.”

  I laugh so hard, I make a snorting sound. I cover my mouth with my hands and scooch down in the leather seat, trying to disappear. OMG I am such a dork.

  Dylan pulls his hand away from my leg and clicks on the turn signal. He turns to me and gives me a double eyebrow-raise. Something’s happening.

  Without warning, he cranks the steering wheel hard to the left, and we do another U-turn. More people honk and yell at us, but Dylan puts the pedal to the metal and speeds away.

  Ten heart-pounding minutes later, he finally slows down. We pull into a spot in front of an old brick building. He turns off the engine.

  “Home, sweet home,” he says.

  I grit my teeth together. What does he mean? He said he wanted to show me something, but I don’t see anything on this street worth looking at.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “What are we doing here? Is this what you wanted to show me? An old building?”

  “It’s more impressive on the inside.”

  “Well, duh. It couldn’t be less impressive.”

  Why did I say that? I could kick myself. This is a big part of why I’ve never had a boyfriend. I have this weird sarcastic streak. It only kicks in sometimes, mostly when I’m nervous.

  He pretends to be offended. “Jessica Lynn Rivera! Don’t tell me you’re a snob.”

  “I’m sorry. That was rude. I just… I thought you were going to take me for lunch or something.”

  “It’s not even eleven o’clock. I might take you for lunch, if you’re a good girl, but first we’re going to work up an appetite.”

  He jumps out of the car and comes around to my side.

  Holding open the door, he says, “Right this way, Miss Snootypants.”

  “Dylan, if you saw where I grew up, you’d know I’m not a snob. I get sarcastic at times, like when I’m nervous.”

  I’m still sitting in the car. He leans down, until his face is right in front of mine. Our noses are almost touching. Our lips are right across from each other. I stop breathing. He’s going to kiss me.

  Instead of kissing me, he growls, “Do I make you nervous?”

  “Your driving style isn’t exactly relaxing.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges. He’s so close to my face, I can’t see his mouth. But I can tell by his eyes that he’s smiling.

  And what beautiful eyes they are. Dark brown with gold highlights. In the bright sunlight, there are even hints of green. I could stare into his eyes all day and never get tired of the view.

  “You want to kiss me,” he says.

  I put my hand on his chest and push him away. “Don’t flatter yourself. But I am curious about this building now.”

  He steps back, laughing. “If you want to see what’s inside this building, you have to pay the admission price.”

  He’s out of my way now, so I step out of the car. The building isn’t that interesting, but this idea of paying an admission price is.

  “What’s the price?” I ask.

  “Your soul.”

  I shrug. “Sorry. I already sold that to get my plane ticket to LA. Technically, there was a bus ticket, to get to the plane, and a plane ticket. Yup. Sold my soul.”

  He nods for me to follow him around to the side of the brick building, to a door. The door is dark blue, and looks brand new, in contrast to the run-down brick exterior. I stand next to him as he slowly looks through his key ring for the right key. He takes so long, I start to wonder if he even has a key for this place, or if he’s playing a joke on me.

  “Did you really sell your soul?” he asks. His voice is husky, with an extra shot of the grittiness I love in his singing voice.

  “No, not my soul. But a few of my girlfriends acted like I was making a terrible decision. They started treating me like a stranger, before I even left town.”

  “Jealous bitches,” he says.

  “They’re my friends. I told them to come visit me, any time.”

  “Strangers never get as jealous as friends. They wish they had your dreams. Most people look at another person’s life, and they say they want their money. But what they really want is their dreams. They want the one thing money can’t buy. Dreams are what gets you out of bed in the morning, and keep you alive. Well, besides food and oxygen. Trust me, Jess. When you go back home, you won’t be the same girl who left.”

  His words send shivers through me. The way he talks, he seems so sure of himself. And he’s wise. Like he has an old soul. Or he’s been through things. I wonder what he’s thinking about when he gets that sad look in his eyes. He’s got that look right now.

  “Maybe I won’t ever go back,” I reply.

  “You can’t ever go home again. Your body might go, but it won’t be you. And your home won’t be your home. It’ll look like your home, but everything will be off by an inch or two. Nothing’s ever how you left it.”

  “You’re wrong. I’ll prove it. Come and visit with me sometime, and I’ll take you to my favorite donut place. It hasn’t changed in thirty years, and it never will.”

  He puts the key into the door’s deadbolt lock and pauses, turning to grin at me. “We’ll see about that. Now, are you ready to pay the admission price for coming in here?”

  “That depends on the price.”

  “You have to clos
e your eyes, put your hands on top of your head, and let me do anything I want to you for five minutes.”

  I pretend to be shocked. It’s not hard, since I actually am shocked.

  What could he do to me in five minutes? Probably a lot. And judging by the way my body is drawing toward his, I’d enjoy every second.

  “One minute,” I say, making a counter-offer.

  “Two and a half.”

  My pulse quickens. “Two minutes.”

  “I changed my mind. Three minutes, or there’s no deal. There’s a bus stop a block from here. Give me three minutes, or you can hit the road.”

  I glance behind me, up the street. I don’t have my bag, which means I don’t have anything. Not even bus fare.

  More importantly, every inch of me is dying to find out what Dylan wants to do to my body.

  “Fine. Three minutes.”

  He looks surprised, his thick dark eyelashes drawing my eye as he blinks rapidly. “Really? I would have settled for one minute. Remind me not to let you negotiate on my behalf.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  He turns the key in the lock and pushes open the door.

  “I may be an asshole, but at least I’m an asshole with his own firehall.”

  A firehall. Now I know what the big garage door on the front was for—fire trucks.

  Dylan leads the way into the building.

  I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

  There aren’t any fire trucks or grubby things inside this building.

  Instead, it looks like a penthouse apartment. There’s an upper loft, and an honest-to-goodness fireman’s pole right in the middle. It’s brass and shiny.

  Dylan sees where I’m looking.

  “That’s not a stripper pole,” he says. “But feel free to use it. I’d enjoy watching.”

  “This is your place?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “Oh.” My disappointment comes through in my voice.

  “Short term rental,” he explains.

  “I didn’t know places like this were real. It looks like a movie set. I bet they rent it to people who shoot movies in here.”