Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights Series Book 1)

by Ina Zajac

  ***

  MATT

  “AH, HELL NO,” Matt said, though it wasn’t loud enough for his mic to pick up. He had just seen her; she was there and everything was going to be okay. She had said so in the way she had smiled up at him just a moment before. But now he was losing her again. Were those The Skeeze’s guys? That bald guy from Portland had her by the arm. Who was the other one?

  “Get your fucking hands off her!” he yelled. This time, he heard his words kick back through the house speakers, over Jeremy’s voice, over Josh’s guitar, and in place of his bassline, which had died. His hands were pulling his bass strap off. The beat was still strong. He turned around to see Nick beaming his high-bright glare down into him. With his eyes he was screaming, “It’s cool. I’ve got it. Go, get your girl!”

  The beat is, he thought as he let Envy go. That’s all these people need. He went to the edge, turned around, spread out his arms and fell back into the arms of the crowd. Cheers went up around him as he crashed back down into a mass of shoulders and hands and what felt like somebody’s head. Afraid he would kick someone, he tried to keep his feet high. He turned his head to the side. “Back! To the back!” he screamed to them. “I’ve gotta get her!” But they didn’t seem to hear him as they surfed him and curved him back around toward one of the side bars. The bar rail was so close—he reached out. All he managed to get ahold of was a beer glass, which slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. They were moving him back to the middle again. “Put me down!” he yelled, but they just cheered.

  The shouting in his face was punctuated by the beat, still steady, though the rest of the band was now silent. The crowd didn’t seem to care. It really was just about the beat, he thought. Nothing else matters. “Put me down!” he screamed again, but they kept rolling him over, hand by hand. Hot beer breath spewed against the side of his face. His stomach lurched.

  And then, under his right armpit, he felt nothing where a hand or shoulder should have been. He latched onto somebody’s arm as he slid sideways and slammed onto the concrete floor. His face smacked into what felt like a boot. He brought his hands together over his face. Pain shot up his right shoulder and neck. People were yanking him up to his feet by his right arm. His shoulder must have landed in lava. He wanted to yell at them to stop hurting him but he couldn’t focus.

  “Via!” he screamed. “Via!” He was too amped up to think straight. She would never hear him.

  And then someone else had him by the back of the shirt. “Come on, man,” he heard from behind him. “Step back, step back! He’s hurt!” the guy yelled out in front of them as he pushed them both on through the crowd.

  “This is supposed to be a holiday show,” the bouncer bitched. “This is supposed to be an easy night, a charity thing.” Then he looked at Matt and grimaced. “Dude, are you okay?”

  He ignored him and stumbled for the door. “Via!”

  “Wait, you can’t leave, you just landed on your head,” the bouncer told him when they reached the door. “Do you know what day it is? Do you know where you are?”

  Matt looked up and tried to look coherent. “They’ve got my girlfriend!” He was going to run to his car, but realized his keys were in his gig bag backstage. “Please man, get me a cab. I’ve got to get to Hotties, they’ve got my girlfriend.”

  “You need to chill,” the bouncer said in the same tone Nick had used during the underwear-out-the-window incident. “You’ll get a cab, but straight to the ER. You need your head checked. And I’m no doctor, but I know for a fact that your arm isn’t supposed to hang like that.”

  CHAPTER 45

  CARLOS

  SHE STOOD THERE looking as pained as a rabbit in a trap. A Rabbotino. Ben had been MIA an hour so nobody was covering the door, but she didn’t know that. She didn’t know her escorts were already on their way back to Portland. His high had fallen out from under him, but there was no more. He’d been high three days, the bender to end all benders. He checked his goody box again. He licked his finger and ran it inside the silky interior. Maybe there was a stray rock. Just one more hit. Nothing. He went to his desk to check one more time. The three envelopes were there. Ready. One for Sonia, the others for his babies.

  “I’ve had enough,” he told himself as he rummaged through his goody drawer, his gateway to despair. “I’ll never freebase again.” He found his favorite crack pipe and threw it hard against the wall behind the bar. She startled and stepped over to the couch but didn’t sit down. Didn’t say a word.

  “There are two fat lines left,” he said pointing to his final offering on the coffee table. “The big one has your name written all over it: Violetta Rabbotino.”

  “I don’t want it,” she said. “I want to go.”

  Her voice was strong, like she was trying to act tough. Silly rabbit. Her good-girl attitude was pissing him off. The cocaine called to him and he obeyed. He sat on the couch, leaned over, and quickly inhaled the line on the left—the smaller of the two. He would be a gentleman to the end. He turned, happy to see she hadn’t tried to bolt. She really was such a sweetheart. He loved her, more than he had ever loved Sonia.

  He held the straw out for her. She stood her ground, clueless as to the futility of her abstinence.

  She cocked her head to the side and took a couple of steps closer. “Your eye. You got into a fight?” she asked, looking more curious than concerned.

  She didn’t know. Interesting. “Yeah, you should see the other guy.” He gave her a wink with his good eye.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your real name,” he said, taking a drink of his scotch. He’d opened the good shit. The bottle he’d been saving for his big court win, the vindication day that was never coming. He picked up the article and held it up for her. “Found this,” he said. “Such a sad story. Read it to me.”

  “No.”

  “Your parents died ten years ago today; isn’t that a coincidence?”

  She just stood there and trembled. He’d never seen her look so pale, like she was dead already.

  “You can sit down,” he said.

  She ignored his advice. “Do you want money, is that it?”

  Offended, he looked her up and down. “Money means nothing to me now.” He held the article out for her and enjoyed the way she leaned back in repulsion. “Look at this picture of your parents. Your mother was stunning. I would have enjoyed knowing her. I can see now why you’re so fucking insecure. Trying to live up to this? Impossible.”

  “I hate you.”

  Yes, he thought. Hate is good. Hate means she loves me. If I can hurt her, then she loves me. Something wet smudged against the paper in his hands. Sweat. He needed another hit. Goddamn it. Where was Ben? He set the article on the coffee table, bent over, and sucked up the last line. It would be his last. The soul splintering was over. Cocaine couldn’t hurt him anymore.

  “Why am I here?” she asked.

  “The media won’t cover suicides,” he said. “But they will cover murder-suicides, especially if the poor victim is a Rabbotino.”

  She looked at the door. Ah, he thought. She’s starting to get it. It would be for the best. He was doing her a favor. He loved her too much to leave her behind.

  “You know,” he began. “Your father loved you.”

  She just looked at him. Worry lines crossed her forehead. Her jaw quivered ever so slightly. It was obvious that she needed a man to hold her.

  “He wanted to kill you because he didn’t want you to have to pick up all of his pieces. He wanted to protect you.”

  “Carlos—“

  “It’s my turn to talk,” he continued. “I saw Maya and Sam yesterday.” He felt his voice waver, but he forced himself through. “I had to meet them at a fucking McDonald’s with a court-appointed chaperone.” He reached down, found Kaytlyn’s vodka tonic, and finished it off, not bothering to wipe his chin. “They want nothing to do with me,” he said. “Their mother and her boyfriend have brainwashed them.”

  His bra
in synapses were firing messages his convoluted mind couldn’t comprehend. He was a stupid man. Nobody ever told him so, but he’d always felt it. The way teachers ignored him. The way girls talked down to him. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself. His life wasn’t his fault. There were too many fucking foster families—eleven placements in fourteen years. There were too many visiting days at the state pen. Too many awkward hours spent with his old man. He would do better for his babies. He wasn’t a monster.

  “You had it easy, you know that?” he asked. “You have no idea what a rough childhood is like.” She just stood there, listening. He wished to God he could believe she cared for him. He needed somebody to care. But what were the odds? Still, she was such a good little actress that it was hard to tell. No matter. Shit was about to go down.

  “You father was badass, taking your mother out the way he did,” he said. “But then, he had access to his cheating wife. I don’t. All I have is you.” He looked over at the stripper pole in the corner. “And I have her too, I guess.”

  ***

  VIA

  SHE TURNED AND SAW her—a blonde, crumpled up next to the stripper pole in the corner.

  “Is that?”

  “Kaytlyn, yes it is,” he said.

  “Oh my God. Is she?”

  “Dead? I would think so,” he said. “She’s been like that for half an hour. I just wanted her to dance for me one more time, but she wouldn’t shut up. I just couldn’t listen to her another minute.”

  “You strangled her?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I used my hands. Technically, I think that’s choking.” He laughed in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “She always said she was up for trying erotic asphyxiation.” His speech was faster now. His voice more excited. “Mattais is the one who gave me the idea actually. Oh, and that’s how my old man offed my mother. I guess it’s a classic.”

  His words just passed over Via as she stepped toward Kaytlyn, who was lying on her back with her arms and legs sprawled out. She was wearing the cowgirl outfit. The suede bra clung against her ghostly glittered chest. The skirt hugged her pale thighs, and she wore one white cowboy boot. Her cool-blue eyes were open, but not looking at Via, not attempting a connection with the world.

  She remembered that her mother’s body had been in much the same position. An image no child should ever see played again inside her head. Mama’s hair had been shorter than Kaytlyn’s, and a richer shade of blonde, but her blue eyes had also been open. It was all so vivid again. Mama’s chest, blown apart, flesh and intestines exposed. Her blood, speckled across the wall, or maybe it had been Daddy’s blood. Most of his face was gone. It must have been a big gun, though she hadn’t seen it. How she wished she hadn’t seen any of it. Why hadn’t she listened to the pretty lights? They had told her not to look, that it wasn’t real. What if this wasn’t real? What if her entire life up to this point had just been a dream? Maybe she would wake up and start over in some other realm. Better luck next time.

  “Is this a deal breaker?” Carlos asked. She turned to see him with a black handgun in hand. He wasn’t pointing it at her. He held it at his side. “You won’t love me now?”

  She felt the pressure of the room imploding, squeezing her into a speck of dust. Matt and Nick were probably still on stage. There would be mingling after the show. Ben hadn’t been at his station and hadn’t seen her come in. Nobody knew where she was. Carlos was going to kill her. It had been what she had thought she wanted. What she had thought she deserved. That was then. The death day countdown was over, but now that it was happening, she needed to live. What would he do with her body? She didn’t want to spend the rest of the winter in a shallow grave in the forest behind some tree.

  “What are you going to do with her?” she asked. “And with me?”

  “Vixen, baby, we don’t need to worry about her,” he said. “No escape, no trial. I’m never, ever going to prison. You get it? You must not have been listening before. You and I are going out like your parents did.”

  He held the power. He held the gun. Maybe she was mental like her father, insecure like her mother, but this was her life. She wanted it now. Just because they hadn’t realized their power didn’t mean she couldn’t. Her life had to mean something. It didn’t mean anything yet, so she couldn’t die.

  “You should start begging,” he suggested. “Your body. Use that. That’s what women do. They complain, act like victims, but everybody knows bitches run the fucking world.”

  She had no idea what he wanted her to say.

  “You look good tonight,” he told her. “I want to see your body. On my desk.”

  “Wait.” She had to stall, but her brain was betraying her, simmering into a sludgy stew. “You say you want to hear my story,” she said. “If you put that down, I’ll tell you.”

  A grin spread across his face. He turned around and put the gun on the desk, then stretched his arms out wide. She walked over and put her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. He spun her around and backed her toward his desk. His breath was hot and nasty.

  “So sad you wanted to confide in me now,” he said. “It’s too late for us.” He leaned over and slid the gun further out of her reach, and then pressed her up against the desk. “Still, tell me.”

  What did he want to hear? She would figure this out. She was going to get out of this alive. “My father had gone through highs and lows before. When he was high, he worked in his studio for days on end. They went out all the time. They loved each other. I know they did.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “Then what?” He kissed the side of her forehead and then her cheek, along the now faint bruise from the beating he had given her. She wanted to pull away, but instead she brought her arms back down to her sides and held them there. Her stomach churned and tormented her.

  “His doctor had checked him into some psychiatric hospital a few days before. I don’t remember that part. I have big gaps between my memories.”

  He had his hands under her dress. “Why are you wearing tights? You should be wearing stockings with garters.”

  What was he talking about? He was becoming erratic. “It’s freezing out,” she said. “I wasn’t planning on impressing you.”

  “Or your big rock star? Cause I’m sure he prefers garters too. All men do. You weren’t planning on banging him tonight?”

  She couldn’t answer.

  His expression crept up into a smug grin. “He doesn’t want you anymore, does he? Now that I’ve had you.” He laughed. “So, I win.”

  No. Maybe she was a loser, but there was no way Carlos was going to come out of this a winner. She had to keep him talking until Matt came. He had to come for her. He had to notice she was gone. She called for him with her heart, as hard as she could, but she knew she couldn’t wait for him. She had to rescue herself.

  Carlos pulled back, putting some space between them, but stared her down. “Take off the boots, and the tights. And keep talking.”

  She leaned down and unzipped her left boot. He pulled it off and tossed it over his shoulder. She unzipped her right boot. Ready with an arrogant smile, he tossed that one as well. It reminded her of a wedding reception somehow—like a depraved garter toss.

  “Now the tights, but not the panties,” he said. “I want to take those off myself. And keep talking.” She complied as he watched.

  “I shouldn’t have been hiding behind the tree in the first place, but there was this present.”

  His sweaty face lit up, excited. “Present?”

  “Yes, a portrait of me that my father painted, and you can’t kill me tonight, because they’ve just found it. It’s in New York. I’ve never seen it. I have to see it before I die.”

  “How do you know it’s of you?” He held her by her waist. She shivered. He was pulling her in.

  “Because it’s the one thing that I ever asked for, and because he promised. He had hinted about it for months,” she said as she felt bitter a
cid gurgle up the back of her throat. She coughed.

  He chuckled. “You’re just like every other stripper then,” he said. “Daddy didn’t give you enough attention.”

  She stiffened against him. Ouch. The old sting of her father’s rejection raced through her like it was brand new.

  He inched his hand up her arm over her shoulder to her neck. His gentle touch sickened her. He brought his fingers up just under her chin. “Fucking look at me,” he said, forcing her chin up.

  She looked in his eyes to find that his expression, so brutal just a moment ago, was now hollow and hopeless. It terrified her even more.

  “He would have killed you too, you know,” he said in a way she found almost tender. “Do you wish he had?”

  “I used to.”

  “It will be best this way, dying tonight, with me. I won’t leave you behind. You’re just a bit late, but you’ll be with them again, very soon.”

  She didn’t dare speak. Her next words would make all the difference. Whether she would ever see Matt again. Ever see anyone again. She wanted so much to skip with Bella again.

  “The dress,” he told her. He stressed the s’s like a snake. “The neck’s so high. Get it off. I want to see the bruises. I want to see what I’ve done to you.” His eyes became crazed, like he was desperate to get through to her. “I didn’t want to do that, you know, but you love it when I hurt you.”

  She acted like she was finding the zipper at the back of her dress. She took her time. She had to stall longer. It couldn’t end here like this. They couldn’t find her body here, naked.

  He was slick with sweat, even his hair. His eyes were wild. God, he was the picture of delusion.

  “Sonia did this. She did this to me,” he insisted. “I never touched my daughter. I swear to fucking God. She knows that. Sonia will have to live with this. She did this to me.”