Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  “It’s never been a problem,” he says cockily.

  Now that he’s standing in the light, his brown eyes beaming at me and that stupid smile of his stretching across his even teeth, I know he’s not exaggerating. I have no doubt drunk women have thrown themselves at him to the point of embarrassment at some point in his lifetime. Probably several points in his life.

  I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Walk me to my car? I need to uh…get home.” Home is where the car is, I always say. But I’m not telling him.

  We start walking.

  He says, “Did you find an apartment already? Since last night?” He’s quick.

  “I meant, to my friend’s place.”

  His eyes narrow, “Which friend?”

  “Uh, Bob?”

  He nods, eyes still narrowed, “Bob who?”

  “You know, Bob. Bob Smith.” I don’t sound convincing.

  “Uh huh. You’re going to sleep in your car again, aren’t you?”

  “No!” I lie. “I’m sleeping at Bob’s! He has a huge guest room. Big soft bed. Lots of pillows and a fluffy comforter. It’s luxurious.” I wish.

  “Wanna crash at my place?” he smiles.

  Yes! No! Close your face before your tongue falls out! Because I’m drooling, I can tell.

  “Ahh…” I stammer, “I shouldn’t. Bob would be, ah…worried. He’s expecting me.”

  “Look, N.Y. and C.’s is just up Wilshire, near eleventh. They serve New York and Chicago style pizza. And they’re open till 3:30. We’ll buy a pie, get it to go, and eat it at my place. You can crash on my couch.”

  The offer is tempting, but probably not a good idea.

  He says, “You can stretch your legs out, lie flat. I’ll even give you your own pillow and a blanket.”

  I don’t tell him that I had no pillows last night and my neck was killing me this morning.

  “In the morning,” he smiles his captivating smile, “You can have full access to the bathroom. I’ve got a shower and everything…”

  I’m having a hard time saying no.

  “…but you have to scrub it first, if you want to use it,” he finishes.

  “Your shower?” I frown. “No deal. I’m not cleaning your shower. It’s probably got black mold and two inches of guy grime glued to the walls.”

  “What is guy grime?” He sounds confused.

  “If you have to ask, I’m not cleaning it off.”

  He chuckles, “It’s spotless. I don’t live in a dump.”

  I scoff, “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 34

  VICTORY

  N.Y.& C. Pizza is packed with people.

  It wasn’t crowded when Kellan and I got here shortly after midnight. But the after hours bar hoppers slowly trickled in and filled every table.

  The small one-room restaurant buzzes with youthful late night energy.

  Me and Kellan sit against the wall in one of the black and white vinyl booths that look like car seats facing each other. I decided it was less complicated to eat here rather than get the pizza to go and eat at Kellan’s.

  The walls of N.Y.& C. are painted red. On one hangs framed photos of the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, Yankee Stadium, and Yankees jerseys. On the other hangs photos of the Chicago skyline, Wrigley field, and Cubs jerseys.

  We ended up with a thin crust New York pie at my insistence. Kellan wanted a thick crust Chicago style, which I argued against. He asked me if I was counting carbs, which I heatedly denied. The compromise was to order an Empire State, which has sausage, pepperoni, meatballs, salami, and extra cheese.

  Despite the fact I owed Kellan a pizza for helping me move, he wouldn’t let me pay for it.

  While he chews on a slice of pizza, I say, “I told you I’d buy you a pizza. Let me pay you back.”

  He shakes his head, smiling and chewing. After swallowing, he says, “There’s no way I’m making a girl living in her car buy me dinner. You can make up for it when you get back on your feet.”

  “I don’t like owing people,” I huff.

  He smiles, “Deal with it.” He gulps down the last swallow of his pint of draft Guinness.

  “How do you drink that stuff?” I grimace. “It looks like tar.”

  He smacks his lips, “Mmmmm, tar. I hear that Guinness strains old wet cigarettes into the bottles to fill them. It’s not even beer. And I’m gonna get another glass. You want one?”

  “I’m good. I get enough tar breathing L.A. air.”

  “True that,” he grins. “They’ve got Bud Light if you’re worried about carbs.”

  “I’m not worried about carbs,” I deny. “I’m not much into beer.”

  “You want another soda? And don’t say Diet anything,” he smirks.

  “Get your beer,” I say dismissively and wave him off.

  He walks up to the counter in the back of the room.

  I can’t help but check out his butt in his skinny jeans, which he fills out to perfection. Despite all the interesting “people-watching” I could be doing in the crowded room, I can’t take my eyes off Kellan. He’s friendly with the guy behind the counter, and the people sitting at the counter. It takes all of thirty seconds for him to start chatting with the two hipster guys sitting at the back counter where Kellan is standing. They’re laughing, Kellan’s laughing, you’d think they were best buds, but I’m pretty sure he’s never met them before.

  I really like that about Kellan. He seems so easy going all the time. Considering I lost my closest L.A. friends when Scott kicked me out of Skin Trade, and Rex and Bobby jumped ship and went with him, maybe Kellan is the perfect person to befriend first.

  Friends? A voice in my head laughs heartily. Are you nuts? You can’t be friends with a hottie like Kellan. It will NEVER work. You have been warned.

  I ignore the voice. It doesn’t know what it’s talking about.

  Kellan and I can totally be friends.

  He returns with his Guinness and a bottle of tea a few minutes later. He offers me the bottle, “Here. Unsweetened tea. It isn’t diet and it doesn’t have any carbs.”

  “I told you, I’m not counting carbs!”

  “Uh huh,” he grins.

  I’m not going to reveal that I count calories all the time. But never carbs. “What do I owe you for the tea?” I pull some busking money from the wad of bills in my purse.

  “Put your money away,” he frown-smiles, “you’re not paying for anything.”

  “Fine,” I sulk, putting my money back in my purse.

  He holds his beer up for a toast.

  I ask, “What are we toasting?” I twist the top off the bottle of calorie free tea. For all I know, it could have a million carbs. But it doesn’t have any calories. That’s all I care about.

  He says, “To you getting back on your feet.”

  “I can drink to that!” I clink my tea bottle against his glass then sip it.

  The 20 inch pizza on the table between us is nearly gone. I had one slice.

  “Mind if I finish this off?” Kellan asks, reaching for the second to last slice.

  “You paid for it,” I smile.

  “I did,” he grins and chomps on it greedily.

  I marvel, “How can you still be hungry this late?”

  He shrugs and chews, “I run a lot.”

  “So,” I ask, “what’s with the Gibson shirt?”

  He’s wearing a black t-shirt with a Gibson USA logo on the breast. Only guitar players wear guitar brand shirts.

  “My main axe is a Les Paul,” he says around a mouthful of food.

  I groan, “Les Pauls weigh a ton.”

  He chuckles and wipes his fingers and lips on a napkin.

  I really enjoy watching his lips.

  His lips say, “Katy Perry plays a Les Paul. What’s your excuse?”

  I scowl, “Do you always talk like a sexist pig?” Emphasis on the sexy part. Damn, his eyes sparkle in this light. They’re like topaz gemstones or something.

  “Ho
w does comparing you to Katy Perry make me a sexist pig?”

  “Because you’re comparing,” I growl.

  “I’m comparing you to a woman.” He cocks an eyebrow, “That’s sexist?”

  “No, but the way you cocked your eyebrow just now is,” I snicker.

  He shrugs and grins.

  A fresh wave of people come in the front door of the restaurant. The small room suddenly feels overcrowded with all of them waiting in line to order.

  “We should go,” Kellan says. “We’ve been hogging this table for two hours.”

  That long? Wow, I’ve had so much fun talking with Kellan, I didn’t even notice. I think I’m also dreading what happens next. I could sleep another night in my car, or risk crashing at Kellan’s. I’m afraid of what might happen. My crazy side wants to throw caution to the wind and to Kellan. My sane side reminds me my two year relationship with Scott ended abruptly last night.

  “Ready to go?” Kellan asks as he stands up and downs the last of his Guinness.

  Looking for an excuse to stay, I say, “Are you okay to ride your motorcycle? Maybe we should stay awhile longer.”

  “What, after two beers in two hours on top of almost an entire twenty inch pizza? I think I’m good to ride. The beer is all trapped in my stomach with the grease. I’ll be fine.”

  He’s probably right. I remind myself I don’t have to make any decisions until I get to my car.

  We squeeze through the crowd inside and walked outside to the sidewalk on Wilshire. It’s almost 2:00am and the night air is still warm.

  Gotta love it.

  L.A. does have a few perks.

  Kellan’s black Honda is parked right in front of N.Y. & C.’s. Parking is never a problem for motorcyclists. Maybe I need to get a bike. I know how to ride. My dad taught me on dirt bikes when I was little. And if I got a bike, parking it next to my Altima every night and sleeping in my car would seem almost normal.

  I shake my head. One, that’s stupid, and two, I can’t afford a bike anyway.

  Kellan already has his helmet on, “You ready?”

  Now or never. “Ahhh…” I glance across the street at my Altima. I scored good parking because we got here late at night but before the after hours rush. Had it been the middle of the day or now, I would’ve been stuck parking three blocks away from N.Y. & C.’s.

  “Hop in your car,” Kellan says. “Let’s go.”

  Wow, I need an excuse. I can’t do this.

  Going back to Kellan’s place is a bad idea. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. I’m fragile right now. Not that I let it show. Kellan is hot. It would be way too easy to let him comfort me. I don’t know that I have the strength to resist his advances, which we both know are waiting in the wings. I don’t know that I want to resist them.

  Which is why I need to sleep in my car.

  Again.

  “My place is like a mile from here,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  I glance at my car. I glance at Kellan. Fuck it. I can’t help myself. “Okay.” I jog across the street between passing cars and climb into my Altima.

  I’m going to regret this.

  Somehow.

  Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow.

  But way too soon.

  In the mean time, I’m going to enjoy myself.

  Chapter 35

  KELLAN

  I keep an eye on Victory’s Altima in my side mirror as we cruise down Wilshire. Even this late, there’s still traffic. Not as bad as during the day. But L.A. never sleeps.

  A bunch of pedestrians start to cross one of the many big striped crosswalks spanning Wilshire in this part of Santa Monica. There’s no lights at these crosswalks, so you have to keep your eyes open for people. Pedestrians almost get hit all the time. Sometimes they do get hit, and it’s never pretty.

  As it is, I’m surprised there’s not more rear enders between cars because inevitably someone isn’t paying attention and has to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the pedestrians. The cars behind are never ready for it, and every time it happens, it’s a close call for everyone involved.

  I know better.

  I ease up behind the SUV that is already stopped for the people crossing. The lane to my left is open and the BMW driving in it slams on the brakes when the idiot driver finally notices the pedestrians at the last second, laying down twenty feet of rubber. Of course, it was hard for the BMW to see the pedestrians because the SUV in front of me was blocking the BMW’s view. Perhaps if the BMW had been paying attention…

  Like I said.

  Idiots.

  I turn in the seat on my Honda and nod at Victory while I smirk and cock my thumb at the BMW.

  She smiles back and waves from her Altima.

  I instantly forget all about the idiots in the BMW.

  Damn, Victory really is fucking hot. Triple XXX and girl next door all at the same time.

  I can’t get over how she doesn’t act like 99% of the hotties I’ve dated in L.A.

  Most L.A. babes are well aware of the value of their looks and use them at every opportunity. It gets old. That’s why I’m always using stupid lines on them, seeing if I can fuck things up, because I don’t care one way or the other who goes home with me.

  They’re all lame anyway.

  But Victory is something different. Sure, I totally want to bang her. Who wouldn’t? Any guy breathing would beg to be with Victory. But she doesn’t know that. Or if she does, she doesn’t act like it. Either she’s innocent, and all I want to do is protect her, or she’s wise to it and doesn’t obsess about it, in which case I totally respect her.

  The people crossing in the crosswalk have made it safely to the far side of Wilshire. The SUV in front of me pulls forward.

  I toe the shifter on my bike and gradually accelerate up to the speed limit. Victory follows.

  And, oh yeah, Victory shreds on guitar like Yngwie Fucking Malmsteen. You don’t run into a girl like that every day.

  Or any day.

  Yeah, Victory is fuckin’ awesome.

  I totally want to bang her.

  Does that make me a pig?

  I guess it does.

  I smirk to myself as we turn onto my street in West L.A.

  Chapter 36

  VICTORY

  Kellan flips up his helmet visor and says, “This is it.”

  He straddles his bike, his boots on the ground. He leans his weight on the handlebars and his arms flex in a sexy dance of tight taut flesh.

  I nod dumbly, keeping my lips pressed together so I don’t lean out and lick his arms until the tattoos come off.

  Muscles.

  He says, “Follow me. I’ll find the closest space we can, then walk you back to the apartment.”

  I nod dumbly.

  More muscles.

  He accelerates slowly down the street.

  I stare at his ass.

  Mmmm. It looks so good on the motorcycle.

  He stops at the end of the block and looks back at me.

  Oh! I’m supposed to follow.

  I drive toward him, cautious not to rear end him because all I can think about is his rear.

  Two blocks later, Kellan stops his bike, waving and pointing at an open space beneath a glowing streetlight. I like that the space is well lit. My car is less likely to be broken into.

  I sigh to myself. I was never paranoid about parking in L.A. before this morning. Stupid car thieves.

  I park, get out, and lock my car. Hopefully no one will notice that the passenger door lock is mostly useless.

  “Ready,” I smile.

  Kellan circles his bike slowly in the middle of the street until he stops beside me. “You know, you’re the only girl I’ve seen who wears a Whitesnake ‘Slide It In’ concert shirt. Did you find that at the bottom of some thrift shop somewhere?”

  I shake my head, smiling, “It’s my dad’s shirt. He got it at the show, way before I was born. He gave it to me forever ago.”

  “Really?”

&
nbsp; I nod proudly. My dad rocks.

  Kellan grins, “Nice. Most women don’t want to wear a t-shirt that has a cheesy white rattlesnake with tits. But I think it’s awesome.” He glances at my chest, presumably to look at the graphic and not my boobs.

  The Whitesnake graphic is literally a white rattlesnake that is coiled to strike and has scaly human breasts, which it thrusts forward provocatively.

  Kellan motions toward the back seat of his bike. “Hop on babe, you and me are going places,” he chuckles.

  I shake my head, “Okay, but only because you like Whitesnake.”

  He laughs, “All women like the white snake,” he says suggestively.

  I roll my eyes, “Keep talking like that, and I’m filing a restraining order.”

  He chuckles again and glances into my car at the big Marshall speaker cabinet in the back seat. “Oh shit. I forgot about your stuff. You probably want to bring your Fender and that classical inside. Don’t want to leave a couple nice guitars like that in your car all night. Or your amps.” Still straddling his bike, he leans down so he can see into my passenger seat. “Hey, what happened to your amps?”

  I wince.

  “What?” he asks uncertainly.

  “Someone broke into my car this morning and took everything.”

  His eyes goggle. “That sweet white Strat you played last night at The Cobra?”

  “My dad gave me that guitar.”

  “No shit?” he commiserates. “That fucking blows. I’m sorry, Vic—”

  I scowl the instant he says Vic.

  “I mean, Victory. Sorry. I forgot. Victory.”

  I like that he remembered.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I’m really sorry about your guitar. At least they didn’t take your classical.”

  “You mean the Contrares?”

  He nods.

  “It’s not mine. I had to borrow it for tonight.” My guts knot thinking about it. How am I going to explain the broken guitar to Johnny and Karen tomorrow?

  “What?” Kellan asks, concerned.

  I don’t know if I want to talk about it. I already feel bad enough. But I look at Kellan’s eyes beaming out of his helmet. They glint back the streetlight overhead like smokey jewels. Against my will, I say, “Some skater punk knocked me over onto my classical and totaled it.”