by S. Ann Cole
Just behind him is Muscles, who’s regarding Qwesie with a pensive expression, or is it suspicion? I expected animosity, considering Qwesie constantly talks, in a lewd and obscene manner, about Kiera. In Muscles’ presence. But this look he’s giving Qwesie is not resentful, just strange. Like he knows something. Something he’s not in the least bit pleased about.
Mike is a little off from us, leaning back against the grill, his phone on in one hand, thumb swiping across the screen.
As if sensing me watching him, he glances up, his stare hitting mine. Giving me a slow, lopsided smile, he winks. But it’s not sexy. Not in the least. It’s creepy and uncomfortable. I glance away.
Ten minutes later, when The Mighty Storm ends their set, I decide to use the 4-7 minutes of switching instruments and setting the stage for Saskia Day’s next interval segment to take another potty break.
I’ve imbibed about three glasses of bubbly fizz, and it’s been affecting my bladder rather than my sobriety. I’ve already made two bathroom trips.
Turning in Noah’s arms, I gaze up into never-ending perfection. “I need to make a bathroom run.”
“Again?”
“Don’t give me that,” I carp, smacking his chest. “You’re the one who told me, ‘It’s your b-day, babe; drink to your heart’s content. I’ve got you.’”
He rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his damn eyes at me. Stare shifting over my head, he signals Muscles over. When Muscles nears us, he tells him, “Bathroom run.”
Muscles looks down at me, brows raised. “Another one?”
“Oh, shut up, Black Goliath, before I silence you with a slingshot.”
He, too, rolls his eyes, then looks to the right and signals Mike over. “Mike will have to escort you this time. Boss and I got something important to talk about.”
Noah arches a “we do?” brow at Muscles, and Muscles nods a “we do” nod.
I do not like Mike, and would totally be okay with going without him, but I know Noah won’t let me, so I reluctantly go ahead. Expectedly, Kiera joins in, never giving up a chance to powder her face.
“Is it just me, or have you been giving Muscles a wide berth?” I pry as we make our way through the giant, metal double-doors that lead to the VIP bathrooms.
“I have,” she doesn’t deny. “And the minute we get home, I’m done. I thought for sure we were on the same page, but as it turns out, that’s not the case. You know I don’t do that boyfriend and girlfriend thing.”
“Did you make that clear from the onset?”
“Yes. And he said he was cool with it, that he wasn’t interested in anything serious either.”
“Hmm,” I hum as we push through the bathroom doors, the screams from the crowds dimming, Mike left outside. “Well, obviously, he’s changed his mind. You’ve got that good-good, you ride him too good. Brace yourself, Kiki, because Black Goliath looks like the type who will chase you if you run.”
Kiera abruptly stops and whirls on me, eyes blown wide. “You mean, like, Andrew?”
I make a face. “Heck no. I mean in a hot, make-you-swoon-and-give-in kind of way. Not like Andrew’s psychotic stalking slash terrorizing.”
“Oh.” She relaxes, albeit with a worried crease residing between her brows as we both push into separate stalls.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I hear her mutter from the other stall a minute later. “Seriously? Seriously?”
“What?” I call to her. “What is it?”
“Bloody Mary is here. Got any tampons?”
“In my purse. But it’s stuffed in Noah’s back-pocket. I can go get it for you.”
“Nah, I’m not cool with you being up and down in this crowd what with all that’s going on.” She curses under her breath, and I hear the click and swing of the stall door opening. “It’s not heavy, just spotting, so I’ll go get the purse and be back.”
I listen to the scuff of her wedge heels, the influx of the concert clamor when the door opens, how it muffles when it shuts again.
A long time passes after I’ve taken care of my business, waiting for Kiera. My impatience and irritation grows when I hear a muffled Saskia Day’s voice starting her third segment. As my impatience grows with each passing minute, so do the vociferations of the crowd. Even louder, wilder.
Abruptly, the segment stops, and I hear Saskia Day’s thick voice asking, “Is everything alright down there? Is anyone hurt?”
A sudden pounding at the door makes me jump, and half-a-second later, Mike sticks his head in. “Miss Cooley? Come on.”
Scurrying out the door, I ask, “What’s going on?”
He grabs my arm. Hard. “The crowd’s getting outta hand. Over-packed. Too much for security to handle.” He begins tugging me in the opposite direction of which we came.
“This is the wrong way,” I try to point out. “Where are we going?”
“Our section is in shambles. The others already left. They’re out the back waiting on us.”
“Oh.”
The shrills and clamor from the crowd is deafening. A concert this huge should have been in an arena. Guess I won’t be licking Mal from Stage Dive’s face tonight.
We get to a back door guarded by a wall of a security guard. He exchanges a look with Mike, and then he nods, opens the door for us. It’s in that moment, as I stumble out the door, that I know my instinct about Mike was never wrong.
Outside, in a dark and narrow alley, are two vehicles: A white Bentley glistening under the street lights, and a big black GMC SUV. Neither are the rented vehicles we rode here in.
I stop moving. Mike’s fingers tighten around my arm, and he roughly forces me to move.
“It’s you,” I say, my voice hoarse, my throat dry. “You’re Andrew’s spy.”
“Shut up and keep moving,” he grounds out, dragging me toward the Bentley.
“No.” I dig my heels in, fighting to get out of his grip. “No! No!”
Cursing under his breath, he lets go of my arm and moves in front of me. I pay attention, calculate. His stance tells me he’s going to attempt to throw me over his shoulder. Big mistake.
As he slightly bends to tag me and lift me, I reach out and grab his shoulders, nails digging in, and then I drive my right knee straight up to his groin, just like Noah taught me.
He lets out a howl, doubling over, his hands shooting down to his groin. The doors to the GMC open and two men in black hoodies jump out, moving toward me.
I don’t wait. I turn and bolt to the back door, pound it with my fist, screaming for help.
It screeches open, revealing the scary security guard who let us out.
“Please, help me,” I cry helplessly. “They’re trying to take me. Please, help.”
The man crosses his arms over his chest, arches his eyebrow. Too late, I realize he’s working with them. This, it’s all planned. His dark stare rises over my head, and he nods.
Before I can begin to plead again, a big, course, calloused hand covers my mouth, a muscled arm bands around my middle, and then I’m lifted off the ground, and hauled away. My screams stifled, my struggles futile.
When I’m finally released, set to sit, it’s in a car that smells like new leather. Frigid air-conditioning circulating a scent I’m all too familiar with.
The car door slams, and I wince. “Click” goes the automatic lock.
I’m in the back seat. My eyes flick to the driver. Fat neck, shiny head. On a deep inhale, I close my eyes and muster all the courage I can to look to the right of me.
I open my eyes.
I look to the right.
There he sits. Casual as you please. One leg propped over a knee. Wicked black eyes on me. Index finger tracing back and forth over his bottom lip.
He doesn’t speak.
“Andrew,” I whisper.
In a flash, his hand shoots out, grabs my thigh and yanks me across the car seat, a terrified squeal escaping me as I crash into him. One hand curls around the back of my neck, holding me tight, while the other moves to m
y hair, fingers gently combing through the freshly straightened stresses, tugging at the ends. “Welcome home, baby.”
Bringing his face close to mine, he rubs his scruffy cheek against my nose.
“We…we’re in San Francisco,” I get out, trying and failing to sound strong and unaffected.
“Oh, Lotty,” he replies through a chuckle, his face moving back so he can pierce my eyes with his. “When will you learn?” Leaving my hair, his hand drifts down to my breasts, squeezing and kneading through the material of my dress. Slowly, softly, his fingers walk to the dip of my cleavage, up, up, up to my neck, and then…pop, he rips off my tracker necklace, powers down the window, and throws it out. At once, the car speeds off. “Your home is wherever I am, baby.”
NOAH
“WE HAVE IMPORTANT things to discuss?” I repeat, watching Lotty and Kiera go off with Mike.
Muscles draws in close, arms crossed. “Yep.”
“Well, whatever it is, it better be good for sending Lotty off with Mike. She hates him.”
“What? She told you she hates him?”
“Nope.” I slip my hands in my pockets. “She’s my woman. I pick up on these things.”
Muscles smirks. “Sure you’re not just jealous?”
“What’s this important thing with need to discuss?” I exact.
He sobers. “Lots’ ex. Tommy finally unearthed his carefully buried background.”
“Anything helpful?”
“Yeah…” He drags this word out, and his hand goes to the back his neck, rubs. That move. Shit. That rub-neck move, Muscles does this only when he has extremely bad news. He throws a glance over his shoulder at Q, who’s tonsils-deep with a blonde he picked up within five minutes of our arrival. “Turns out…he’s got a brother.”
I frown. “How do you figure that’s helpful?”
Muscles head swivels back to me. “Andrew Jameson’s real name is actually Drew James.”
“Wha—” I start, then break off as this fact registers. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? No. No way. No way in hell. “Q doesn’t have a brother.”
“That you know of,” Muscles amends.
With a jerk of my head, I move farther to the left, out of earshot, and Muscles follows. “Maybe he doesn’t know,” I attempt to defend. “Q would never betray me like this.”
“What did he tell you he was doing in Dubai last weekend?”
“I didn’t goddamn ask,” I snap at him. “I’m not his goddamn keeper.”
Not even a flinch at my pissed-off tone. “Our sources picked him up villa-shopping with Lotty’s ex—his brother.”
Unable to allow myself to believe this, I stare and say nothing.
Muscles goes on, “Q’s dad, Papa James, had a mistress. How he managed to have a Hispanic mistress all the way in New York, only he knows. Long story short, Drew James is the result of that affair. Six years in, the wife died, still none the wiser of that affair or the kid. A year later, Papa James moved his mistress and kid to London, tried to make it work as a family. Q forgave them and was on board, glad to have a brother, but Drew wanted none of it, tried to run away countless times. He was hostile, rebellious, acted out. At eighteen, they gave up and let him go.
“He moved back to New York. Cut all ties. Changed his name. Wanted nothing to do with the James’ side of his family. That’s the last of what we have on him. How he got back in touch with Q, or why Q omits he has a brother, we don’t know. Nonetheless, facts are facts. Your boy and your girl’s ex are brothers.”
There I stand, muddled, confused, trying to wrap my head around all this, trying to process it so it all makes sense, when Kiera skips up to us.
“Lotty’s purse,” she demands, hand out.
“What?”
“Lotty’s purse,” she repeats. “She said it’s in your back pocket.”
Frowning, I pat my back pockets, belatedly remembering that I’d wrestled it from her earlier after she spilled champagne on her dress trying to hold both her flute and purse in one hand so she could have one free hand to wave in the air. Crazy woman.
“What do you want with her purse?” I question.
“I want something from it.”
“Specifically what do you need from it?” At this point, after hearing what I just heard, I trust no one with Lotty.
“What the hell’s your problem, dude?” She flushes, her gaze flicking to Muscles and then back to me. “Just give me the frickin’ purse. Lotty’s been my best friend forever. She’s been your girlfriend for, like, two seconds!”
Keeping the purse put, I cross my arms. Like hell she’s getting this purse.
Before I can voice this, Saskia Day runs on stage and the crowd goes insane.
If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be at a rock concert, I would’ve laughed in your face. Concerts and crowds and screaming youngsters, not my scene.
I like quiet, relaxation, mediation. I like being at home. I like sweating. I like back-shots. I like blow-jobs. I like licking pussy. I like climaxing. I like fondling nipples.
This? This kind of noise and music and new adult BS, I do not like.
But this is what Lotty likes, so I do it for her. And I’ll do it for her every given day if that’s what she wants. Because giving her what she wants is what gives me pleasure. I could come just watching her laugh. How can I not marry her?
The crowd is getting wilder, deafening, which is baffling, considering Saskia has been on the stage twice so far. I glance at Kiera, and her eyes—now ridiculously dreamy—are glued to the stage.
Puzzled, I toss my gaze to the stage, too. And then I get it: Saskia Day’s husband is on stage. The same husband Lotty told me every woman—including herself—wants to sleep with.
The overrated pretty boy is perched on a stool while Saskia dances around him, stopping every now and again to give him a lap dance, crooning lyrics that’re giving me a headache. That’s all. That’s. All. Yet the crowd is tearing the roof down. Jesus, I’m really too old for this shit.
Muscles assesses our surroundings, the ground vibrating beneath our feet. “Boss, I’m thinking we should—”
Crash!
The fence separating the VIPs from the regulars collapses as the crowd bulls toward the stage. Our special section is elevated so it doesn’t suffer the same fate.
At once the music stops, and a stampede begins.
“Is everything alright down there?” Saskia Day asks, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. “Is anyone hurt?”
Her husband leaps off the stool, tags her around the waist, throws her over his shoulder, and runs off the stage with her.
I watch in horror as people attempt climbing the stage to get to them, stepping on each other, some using each other’s heads as ladders.
Hell, there’s going to be a truckload of causalities at the end of this.
“Let’s get out of here,” I tell Muscles. “Where the hell’s Lotty? Why isn’t she back yet?”
“Let’s just go out this way,” suggests Muscles. “We can get her from the bathroom on our way out.”
Except, on our way out, before we even hit the hall to the bathroom, Mike comes limping from the right, and Lotty is not with him.
Red coats of fury blur my vision as I push through everyone to get to him, grab him by his shirt, drag him up to his full height, glaring down at him. “Where is she?” I growl. “WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?”
“I don’t know, boss,” he groans, avoiding my eyes. “She came out of the bathroom and told me there’s someone outside she needs to see. When I tried to stop her, she kneed me in the sack and ran off. By the time I was able to chase her, she was out the door and climbing into a waiting car. So sorry, boss. I let you down.”
No. NO. She did not pull this shit. No. She didn’t. After everything, she’s still gone back to him? I thought I had her. I thought I had her.
“You got a plate number?”
Still no eye-contact. “No, boss.”
“You, trai
ned and licensed, didn’t get a plate number?”
“No, bo—”
Jerking him, barking in his face, “Look at me and tell me you didn’t get a plate number!”
His unfocused eyes come to mine and hold them only for as long as, “I didn’t.” But at “boss,” those eyes drop to the floor. Something’s not right.
“He’s lying,” Kiera dips in. “No way Lotty would leave without seeing Stage Dive. Especially if she knows going back to him means she’ll never get another chance to see Stage Dive. It’s him. He’s the mole.”
Mike jerks out of my grip, getting up in Kiera’s face. “Bitch, are you on crack? I’ve been loyal to this man for damn near three years! Where the hell do you get off accusing me of—”
Muscles intersects, pressing a hand to Mike’s chest and pushing him back. “Call my woman a bitch again and you won’t like the results.”
“Hold up, can someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” This is from a very perplexed and irritated Q. “What kind of trouble is our mouthy little brat Lotty in? And why would she leave when the only reason us grown men are in this kiddies’ den is because of her?”
At that, I catch Muscles eye, and he gives an imperceptible shake of his head. Yep. Things are definitely not making sense. Q can’t be the one helping his brother if he doesn’t even know what’s going on with Lotty.
In respect of her privacy and dignity, I kept her issue with her ex to just my security team. Mom and Kiera heard from Lotty.
Clapping my hands, I rub my palms together. “You know what, I’m too old for this. Lotty wants to go, then let her go. Let’s get back to the hotel. We’ll fly home in the morning.”
“Are you serious?!” Kiera explodes, suddenly in my face. “You’re not going after her?!”
“No,” I reply, moving around her to continue moving, everyone else following. “I tried to protect her, and she chose to go back to him. I don’t have time for this. I’m a businessman, not the mafia. So, no, I’m not ‘going after her.’”
“Go back to who?” Q asks again. “Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”