Revenge (Volume 1)

by J J Knight

  REVENGE

  Volume 1

  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

  People are staring at me.

  I’m walking down an LA city sidewalk, dressed in the nicest clothes I own, but I still feel eyes on me.

  Am I walking like a bow-legged country hick? I check my reflection in a store window. I should try walking less like a tomboy who grew up riding horses and tractors.

  People can probably tell I just stepped off the plane yesterday.

  I place one foot in front of the other in an imaginary straight line. My walk feels more feminine, but now my hips are wiggling.

  I reach up to pull the elastic band from my damp brown hair. The high ponytail looked sporty and fun this morning in the foggy bathroom mirror, but I realize now it isn’t right for my first full day in LA. I shake out my hair.

  A whistling sound rattles me.

  Great.

  A panhandler just wolf-whistled at me.

  “Hey, little girl!” he calls after me. “Where’d you come from?”

  I keep walking. Damn. I’m still not blending in. Is it my face?

  Fluffing my straight brown hair out with both hands, I glance around for somewhere to put on my makeup. Most girls apply their makeup at home, in the bathroom. That’s exactly what I would have done, if my skanky new roommate hadn’t barged into the shared bathroom this morning.

  I’d just finished my shower. I was brushing my teeth when she came in and dropped her robe right behind me. She was butt-naked. I didn’t know what to say.

  She turned on the water and stepped in behind the plastic curtain without a word.

  I clutched my bath towel around my body, shocked. My new roommates said they share everything, but I didn’t realize they meant everything.

  A minute later someone else barged in. It was Caleb, the random guy she brought home last night. I guess he decided to join her. In the shower.

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  My life is definitely changing. It’s not the easy transition I expected.

  Two days ago, I was waking up to the sound of roosters crowing. This morning, I woke up to the sounds of my roommate crying out Caleb’s name. And then some other things I wish I could un-hear.

  Now I’m exploring my new neighborhood. I’m scouting for places I can escape to when the sharing in the shared house becomes too much.

  At the end of the block, I look left and right to make a note of where I am. My phone has a map on it, but I’m still worried about getting lost.

  My eye is caught by a shape halfway down the block, to my right. This street doesn’t look very welcoming. There are a bunch of boarded-up empty storefronts.

  The shape ahead isn’t a scary one, though. It’s a person, taking a guitar out of a case.

  My heart leaps up with excitement.

  I’m really here. In the city. Where future rock stars might be found on a street just like this, busking for coins.

  Walking toward the person, my heart races. I slow my pace and pretend to be interested in the FOR LEASE signs I’m walking past.

  Patting my hair smooth, I approach the guy with the guitar. My palms are so sweaty, I’m probably just making my dark brown hair frizzy, but I don’t know what else to do with my hands.

  This guy with the beat-up guitar is cute.

  Really cute.

  Or maybe cute is the wrong word. He’s not a boy, but a man.

  He has dark hair, straight and black, long on top and shorter on the sides. He slips off a lightweight olive green jacket that looks army surplus, and drops it next to the guitar case.

  Wearing only a black T-shirt, his tattoo is on display. Wrapped around his muscular arm is a tattoo of something with wings.

  I’m totally staring.

  He adjusts the strap of his guitar and strums a couple chords just as I’m slowly walking by.

  My feet stop moving, and now I’m standing only five feet away from him. I look around nervously. He twists the knobs of the guitar, doing a tweak on the tuning.

  My mouth opens and the words drop out. “Should I come back?”

  His head jerks up and his dark eyes meet mine. He seems surprised to see me there. His expression turns from concentration to amusement. There’s a flirty look in his eyes.

  “You’re just in time,” he says.

  I slip my hands into my pockets and shrug. I can’t embarrass myself any further if I keep my mouth closed.

  He begins to strum a basic rock progression. Good so far.

  The guitar looks like it’s been through a few owners, with the varnish worn through in spots.

  Never mind the guitar. His arms are incredible.

  The sight of his arms makes me giddy. I’ve got a college degree, but here I am, feeling like a teenager.

  He keeps playing, but not singing.

  How long is this intro? I don’t mind waiting and watching. He’s got big hands, but they move confidently along the frets.

  He clears his throat, then sings, “Why did you wear those blue shoes?”

  I think he’s singing a song, but it sounds like a question.

  I’m confused. I look down at my shoes, which are blue. Just a coincidence?

  When I look up again, he’s grinning at me, looking as sly as a fox in the henhouse. His dark brown eyes captivate me. I shiver as his intensity shocks through me like a lightning strike.

  The LA sun is high overhead, but I feel like I’ve stumbled into a thunderstorm. Electricity in the air gives me goosebumps.

  He repeats the line, with different wording. “Pretty brunette girl, where did you buy those blue shoes?”

  Someone nudges my elbow, and I jump, startled. It’s just an older couple who look like tourists in their matching green hoodies. They’ve also stopped to hear the musician play.

  The gray-haired woman nudges me again.

  “He’s asking you a question,” she says.

  The hot guy keeps playing the melody. He shifts up a key and sings, “Blue shoes for your blue heart.”

  His voice is gritty, yet gentle.

  He sings, “Blue shoes to keep you cold at night.”

  I cross my arms. I don’t like what he’s implying.

  “My heart isn’t blue,” I say.

  “Are you sure? Have you seen it?”

  “And you’re not supposed to ask a girl where she buys her clothes. What if these shoes came from a thrift store?”

  He misses a beat in the music, laughing at me.

  More people gather around to listen. I can feel my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

  The singer tips his head to the side, revealing a clean-shaven neck below a line of facial hair stubble. His neck tendons are beautiful, just like everything about him.

  “Thrift store girl,” he sings, then hums a few bars without words.

  I think he’s composing a song on the spot. The gathering crowd nods and smiles, enjoying the show.

  He pauses, then starts over again. “Thr
ift store girl. I know about your blue shoes. You say you never do this, but we both know you do.”

  My cheeks are blushing. His eyes are so flirty.

  He sings, “Good guys don’t care about the means or the ends. Good guys don’t care how you get your revenge.”

  I swallow hard and look down at my shoes. He’s still looking at me. The people crowding around us are, too. Someone points to my shoes.

  Yes, they’re definitely blue. These blue shoes of mine.

  His voice is really gritty and sexy. It’s a natural grit. He’s got talent, that’s for sure.

  He hums through the next part of the song, dropping in the occasional phrase.

  I only dare look up as high as his shoulders, avoiding his eyes.

  Those forearms. Tendons flexing as he plays.

  I’m blushing again. I’m blushing because I’m imagining his hands away from the guitar and on me. Just me.

  He could sweep one arm around me and caress the small of my back with that beautiful, confident hand of his. His other hand could move up to my face, one long finger running along my jaw, tilting my head up by the chin. I would have to close my eyes, or risk fainting, and he’d bend down and bring his lips close to mine, and…

  I cross my arms tighter across my front. I should get back to my plans for the day. My feet won’t move, and now I’m blocked in by the crowd. Is it normal for so many people to gather around a street busker, or is this guy someone famous?

  Curious, I force myself to look up at his face. My eyes stop on his mouth, and the rest of the world disappears in a fog.

  His lips are perfection, not too full or thin. He’s still singing about bad girls in blue shoes, but the words are jumbling with my thoughts about his arms around me.

  My chest begins to ache with longing.

  I try not to want things I can’t have, but I can’t make this feeling go away. When you tell yourself to stop wanting something, you just want it twice as bad.

  I blame the music. A song can dig its way into your soul like no other thing. A few lines with the right notes, and your heart can soar, or shatter. Music can make you feel brave, or broken, or both at the same time.

  This is why I’m here, in LA.

  My love of music.

  Music is the only form of magic in this world, except maybe for love. Not that I’d know much about love.

  Now I’m standing on a sidewalk, staring at a stranger’s lips, feeling brave and broken at once. This must be what love feels like.

  I uncross my arms and push my hands into my pockets. My fingertips connect with my wallet. I’m keeping it there in my pocket instead of in a purse, because I don’t know how safe this area is. Also, being a tomboy, I don’t exactly own a single purse.

  He finishes the song, and the crowd that has gathered claps and cheers for another one.

  He starts up again with a more upbeat tempo.

  People push past me to get closer. They toss money into his open guitar case. In less than thirty seconds, he has more than twenty dollars piled up on the dark crushed velvet.

  I pull out my wallet, feeling watchful eyes on me. This money is all I have. The internship wage won’t start until the end of the month.

  I can’t afford a donation, but the guy sang about me.

  And he made me feel so much, though now that the song is over, I hate him. He gave me the world, made me feel loved, and then took it away. I’ll never hear that song again, so it will haunt me. For that, I despise him.

  I’m pulling a bill from my wallet when a hand grabs my wrist roughly.

  A guy in a dark jacket, the hood pulled up over his head, is grabbing me. His other hand pulls at the wallet I’m clutching. I’ve got a good grip, and fear shoots through me, making me clench my hands tighter.

  He swears and growls at me, “Let it go.”

  I’m so shocked and tense, I couldn’t loosen my grip even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. This money is all I have.

  I yell, “No!” My voice comes out weak and useless over the sound of the crowd, like when you try to scream for help in a dream.

  The guy in the hoodie won’t let go of my wrist.

  I struggle, trying to get the attention of the people around me. I open my mouth to scream just as he rips the wallet from my hands. I stumble backward, crashing into other bodies.

  People are screaming and pushing.

  Someone hits me in the face.

  The pain makes me see stars.

  Down I go.

  Chapter 2

  Pain blossoms from my eye to my body.

  My vision goes white. I sink to my knees on the sidewalk.

  After a few blinks, I can see through the gaps in the crowd. The man in the dark jacket is trying to push his way through the crowd. He’s not gone yet.

  Another hand reaches for me. I bring my arms up to cover my face from another strike. The hand stays reaching out. I take a breath.

  It’s the musician. He’s reaching his tattooed arm toward me. The wings on the tattoo belong to an angel.

  I place my hand in his. He tugs me to my feet effortlessly.

  “What happened?” His eyebrows knit with concern. The grit in his voice is still there when he speaks.

  “My wallet,” I sputter. “That guy. He stole it.”

  I point to the man in the dark hoodie. Just then, he shoves someone out of his way, knocking a woman to the ground.

  The dark-haired singer’s expression changes. His upper lip curls into a snarl. My skin feels cold all over. Suddenly, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to the mugger.

  The singer’s eyes flash with rage. He hands me his guitar, practically throwing it at me. He takes off running on powerful legs. He’s strong and agile, cutting through the crowd easily.

  He speeds away, the soles of his boots making footfalls that ring in my ears as he races up the street. He’s gaining on the mugger as they round a corner and disappear.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the sounds of a conflict. Fists connecting with jaw. I grip the guitar tightly, holding my breath.

  There’s no sound but cars passing by and the murmur of confusion around me. Someone asks if I’m the singer’s girlfriend. I open my eyes.

  The tourist woman in green says, “You know him?”

  “Just a friend,” I say weakly.

  Why am I lying? I don’t know.

  The man who robbed me is a obviously a criminal. I start to get worried. He could be in the alley knifing the singer right now. Cutting him.

  Sure, I’m his friend. The lady believes me. Of course she does. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger for a someone you don’t even know.

  Two teen boys in the crowd laugh and shove each other. They race away down the street, following after the men. They both have their phones raised in front of them, recording everything.

  The crowd is thinning out now. People wander back to whatever they’d been doing.

  I spot a small hand—a child’s hand—darting into the still-open guitar case on the pavement. The child snatches a bill.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, elbowing my way to the guitar case. Kicking it closed to protect what money remains, I grumble, “Is everyone in LA a fucking thief?”

  People give me a wide berth. I’m shocked at my own language. I don’t usually swear, but I don’t usually get mugged, either. My vision is blurring, but just on one side. My bruised eye is swelling, already closing against my will. Did the mugger punch me? Or was it just a random elbow from someone in the crowd?

  Anger grows in my stomach, like fire.

  My face.

  My face isn’t worth much, or all that pretty, but it’s mine. I re-open the case and put the guitar inside, on top of the bills and coins. There’s about thirty-five dollars in here, or a tenth of what I had in my wallet.

  How could I be so stupid and carry all that money with me? Five days ago, I took all my money out of the bank. I wasn’t sure about finding a branch of m
y small bank in LA.

  Back in the shared house, my bedroom door has a lock, but I don’t know how many people have the key. Until I get the lock changed, I don’t want to leave the money in my room.

  Of course now I don’t have any money to worry about.

  Gingerly, I touch my fingertips to my swelling eye. What hurts worse, the eye or the lost money? I can’t tell.

  Coming here to the west coast was a huge mistake. My anger is pushed away by the powerful emotions of shame and regret. How dare I try to get above my raising and pursue a glamorous life in the city? I should be back home now, feeding chickens.

  I don’t belong here. I’m ashamed of myself for dreaming.

  My ticket is for a round trip. I can book the next available flight. Would tonight be too soon?

  My eyes burn, and I swallow hard to fight back the tears.

  Is this how easily I give up on my dreams?

  I’m disgusted with myself. I take a seat on the sturdy edge of the closed guitar case and wrap my hands over my knees to stop them from shaking. Okay, I’m just in shock. This FML feeling will pass. All bad things pass. I haven’t even eaten today, and some food will make me feel better… except I’ve got no money to buy food.

  Someone hands me a five-dollar bill. It’s the little kid who snatched the money from the guitar case. His angry-looking mother is forcing him to apologize to me.

  I accept the money and tell the kid, “No problem.” He looks terrified, probably because of my swelling eye. I offer him a smile to let him know I’m okay.

  They walk away. Nobody’s looking, and I could easily slip the five into my pocket, but I stand up and tuck it into the guitar case instead. Being honest isn’t just how I was raised, but what I believe. Do good and good will come to you.

  A man’s voice behind me says, “You should keep that as commission.”

  I spin around to find the dark-haired singer standing there. His broad shoulders rise and fall with deep, rapid breaths. His black shirt is torn at the neck.

  “It’s yours,” I say.