Lost Angeles (10 page)

“Cheapskate,” he observes as he moves back into the chorus again.

“Keep going,” I say, abandoning my jeans for the moment and settling next to him, reaching for the second guitar. “I have more quarters, but you have to make it worth trading in my laundry money.”

He slants a look at me. “Tough crowd.”

“Less grumbling, more attention to your fingering, or my change stays where it is.” I lay a harmony over the top of what he’s playing, bracing myself for the inevitable—

“So you
are
interested in my fingering.” A half-smile comes at me through a fall of hair that’s black as a raven’s wing. “Where you keeping those quarters, anyway? Last I checked, Hanes doesn’t make panties with pockets.”

Rolling my eyes, I deadpan, “I keep them in my coin slot, duh.”

His reply is another grin. After another few bars, he adds, “Congratulations. You’re the world’s oldest teenager.”

“Pot,” I say, plucking out a counter tune until we’re dueling acoustics, “The Devil Went Down To Georgia”-style, “meet kettle.”

But he’s watching my hands, not my face, picking up speed, fingers flying over the frets. I might have given him shit before, but there’s no faulting his playing now. Truth be told, it takes all my concentration to keep up, to match him note for note, but I’m doing just that. And he’s delighted by it; I can see it in his eyes in the half-second I can spare to look him full in the face. It’s all pieces in a kaleidoscope, tumbling over each other as the world turns: the pluck of the strings, the wooden boards of the stage under my ass, the weight of the guitar in my hands, the blue of his eyes, the music—

“Xaine?” comes the startled inquiry from backstage, and we both miss the next note as Reille strides out, her heels clicking a very different cadence.

Adirato
.

She takes it all in, from the impromptu jam to the fact that I’m missing my pants, and then frowns. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Yeah,” Xaine tells her, rapping his knuckles against his guitar. “Take a hike and tell the staff to steer clear. This is a closed rehearsal.”

Then I realize I’m in that dream, the one where I’m onstage, in my underwear, and a bunch of people are staring at me. Glancing out over the previously-empty dance floor, I see a small crowd has assembled, including but not limited to The Trio… who are, for all intents and purposes, my friendly rivals. A flush crawls up my face as I turn my eyes toward the floor, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear.

“Your phone must be off, Xaine, because the lawyers have been trying to reach you.”

“Tell them to fuck off—”

But then he stops himself. When I lift my eyes, I realize he’s looking not only at Reille, but at a small cadre of uniformed officers and suited minions.

One of the men in blue speaks up. “We just have a few more questions for you, sir, but Ms. Reece insisted that your lawyers be present.”

Xaine’s gaze bounces from face to face for a moment, lip curling in irritation. “I’m busy. Come back later.”

The Dark Prince hath spoken.

“They IDed the body. The girl’s father’s a senator.” Reille doesn’t look all that impressed with the display. “You’ll talk to them now, or they’re going to drag you to the precinct, and we both know how you feel about the precinct.”

But Xaine doesn’t budge. “I answered all their questions the last time. And I didn’t kill that girl so they didn’t come packing any
evidence
. Seems to me this is a matter of politics, and the police and the lawyers and everyone else can go fuck themselves, because I’m not going anywhere.”

Nope, I was wrong.
Now
the Dark Prince hath spoken.

Obviously well-versed in Xaineology, Reille clucks her tongue and asks, “Are we done showing off for the pretty girl yet, or do you want to strut and posture some more before we leave?”

Then, as if she’d aimed a laser pointer at my face, every eye that wasn’t on me before turns in my direction. The last thing I want to do at this moment is get up practically naked in front of the assembled crowd, but I do, returning the guitar to its stand and grabbing my jeans. One leg and then the other, and Xaine’s watching the whole show.

With a tiny huff of frustration, I wave a hand at him. “Just go.”

Xaine grins and stands there as if he’s
not
facing down a shitstorm of mass proportions as he quips, “What’d I tell you about dismissing me?”

The second I have the pants zipped, I reach into my pockets, my fingers bumping against a metal surface. Far from a quarter this time, I come up with the heavy metal disk Jax Trace tucked into my hand back at the motel. I’d forgotten I had it, but here it is, glinting in the stage lights.

When I return my attention to Xaine, he’s grinning at me so hard that he might just break his face on it. And while I have zero intention of rewarding his bad behavior with my gold souvenir, some part of me just can’t let it end. Not like this.

I dig out another quarter and flick it at my new friend with a very noir, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

He plucks it from midair. “Fresh from the coin slot, and still warm to the touch.” Finding the humor to wink at me in passing, he follows the bevy of suits and uniforms toward the stage door. “Sure you don’t need it for laundry? You
have
been scooting those granny panties across the floor for the past hour. Two bits would have bought you half a load at the Sip ’n’ Spin.”

“My granny panties are none of your concern,” I say. “And the joke’s on you. I’d have paid far more than fifty cents for a jam session with the Dark Prince Apocalypse.”

As Xaine disappears into the shadows, he shoves the coin deep into his pants’ pocket. “I’m going to tuck this in with the rest of my roll.”

“That’s the scoop I’m giving the tabloids!” I yell after him. “How it’s costing me money to work here!”

“Keep it up, Apple Pie!” he hollers back even as Reille shoots me a disgusted glare and shoves Xaine out into the hallway. “It’ll cost you a
dollar
next time—”

And the door slams shut, effectively giving him the last word on the matter.

Four centuries on this earth… of course he’s perfected his timing.

People scatter to various jobs around the auditorium, but it takes me a second to realize Reille Reece is still standing there, heel tapping lightly against the stage-hollow flooring, frowning at the exit door.

She doesn’t even look at me when she speaks. “It’s in your best interest to keep your distance.”

“And why’s that?”

“He’s dangerous,” she says, grip tightening down on her forearms. She’s practically hugging herself, but she pries one hand away long enough to trace down the side of her face with a delicate finger. There’s a scar there, the slightest little white line that I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. “He falls in love at the drop of a hat, but it’s the falling out that hurts like hell.”

“If it’s so imperative that I stay away from him,” I say slowly, “then why did you hire me in the first place?”

“I had my reasons.” The words are brittle; she’s like a piece of glass, with that hairline fracture across her cheekbone.

“Which were?”

It’s a soft prompt, but even that’s too much for her, and Reille switches gears, tipping her chin upward to look down at me. “I haven’t given him the contracts yet. You could leave before things get out of hand. I can make the papers disappear. Tell him you refused to sign them.”

There’s guilt there, and a touch of fear.

“Why would I do that?” I say, and offer up a knowing smile. “I’m closer to where I want to be than I’ve been in over a year.”

Then I get the full force of her glare, and she hits me with a curt, “Fine. It’s your funeral.”

Spinning around, she practically makes a run for the stage door so I can’t ask her anything else. Trouble is, she can’t outrun what happened to us, and if I keep at it a little longer, Reille Reece is going to crack open and tell me everything I need to know.

The impromptu jam session’s still kicking around in my head two days later, right along with the impromptu interruption, and the impromptu senatorial visit that followed shortly thereafter. I’m on one of the VIP room couches, fingers tangled in strands of long, black hair. When the stage manager had asked what I wanted pre-show, I told him to bring me a four-pack of different blood types. The girls had gotten hammered in short order and shot up whatever special sauce Trick St. John is peddling these days; I’d gone through them one by one to find the flavor of the night, but it still wasn’t quite what I was in the mood for. Boredom’s a bitch, I guess, because this is the vampire equivalent of opening the refrigerator door again and again and still finding nothing noteworthy on the other side. Now three of them are curled up in a college-lesbian, sexually-experimental cuddle pile on the floor, and the fourth is leaning back far enough for me to absentmindedly twist strands of her hair around my finger as the holes in her neck slowly clot. I’m already geared up to go onstage, leather pants to guyliner. Normally I’d be parked in my dressing room, but the sound system is better out here, and the Fuzzy Bunny is the opening act.

I have time to sit here and chill for a bit. Just be. Just listen.

Wasting words, and wonder why my heart is on my sleeve,

You kill some faithless part of me, and I can’t even grieve.

I wallow in the taste of you, the scent of sweetest sin,

Swallow down my deepest fear so I can let you in.

The words are hers, and I have to admit that I like the sight of her perched on the bench of Scion’s baby grand. The recorded guitar strains are also hers, if I don’t miss my guess, and I’m thoroughly getting my rocks off on the combination, even if she doesn’t know it.

And I let it go, let it fall away,

’Cause I am bold, and braver than you know.

So let it burn, let the battles rage,

I’ll fight ’em all so the meek can have their turn

Oh, let it burn…

And that’s all the peace I get, because two seconds later, Reille barges in. She ignores mini-orgy on the floor, tossing a thick stack of papers onto the glass table in front of me. The girl I’m petting like a stray cat gets a single pointed glance. Then the resident redhead turns on one perfect Jimmy Choo heel and heads for the door without a word.

Catlike reflexes mean I’m up and off the couch, disentangling limbs in record time. My hand wraps around her wrist—
Jesus, she’s skinny
—and I can feel every tiny bone under the surface of her skin.

“Where’s the fire?”

“There are about a hundred of them, and I’m putting them out four or five at a time while you fuck-and-fang your way through the Gamma Delta chapter of
I Eta Pi
.” Reille raises an eyebrow and glares down at my hand, like she’s willing me to either turn her loose or spontaneously combust. “Those papers are from the legal department. They’ve managed to dig the club out of some serious shit, but only because they promised the senator and several people on the planning committee that you would look into a considerable security upgrade.”

“Time to call in Big Brother.” Worst pun ever, because Asher Reece’s company was the one that installed the current system.

“Do it yourself, or have one of your Happy Meals do it for you.” She’s still eying the place where I’m touching her. “Miss Chase’s contract is in there as well, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” Except that’s not entirely true, and judging by Reille’s expression, she knows it. “Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because you’ve managed to keep me here, running around, catering to your every whim, talking and negotiating and
bribing
you out of trouble,” she blurts out, then tacks on an angry, “
again
.”

“Pretty sure that means you’re good at your job.”

She huffs out an impatient sigh. “I’ve been here for thirty-six hours straight, Xaine. I need a shower. I need to eat something that doesn’t come up from the kitchen or out of a vending machine. I need to get the hell out and get some fresh air.”

“Sure you don’t wanna hang with me for a bit?” Almost enjoying myself, I jerk a thumb at the VIP room.

Reille smiles sweetly, but there’s a whole lot of
go to hell and don’t come back
under that smile. “I don’t really
do
group sex.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Besides, like you said, they’re just food.”

“I never really developed the palette for Playmates, but thanks for the generous offer.”

There’s buzz at the door, someone accessing the VIP room with a key. “Xaine,” a voice greets me smoothly, then adds, “Miss Reece.”

Reille turns on one pointy heel. “May I help you?”

Uuuuuuuuuugh, Sebastian.

Sebastian Winters pops in and out of the limelight, making mad grabs for whatever he can get before making himself scarce. Hard to take him seriously when he looks like one of those tall, blond, and sturdy guys who pack surfboards around Venice Beach, flexing their muscles. Tonight he’s rocking the European club-casual button-down, with enough of them popped to show off his tribal ink, which he did
not
get hammered into him on some island by a native, I can almost guarantee. The last time I clapped eyes on him was about a hundred years ago, when he was hellbent on trying to get in on the ground level of Cas’s steel manufacturing venture.