Page 17 of Anthem of Love and Loathing

Going to the hotel with Bronx had been a mistake. Seeing Riot again... seeing the ghost of someone I used to care deeply about... but he’s not that man. The man I thought I knew wouldn’t have been as cruel as he was.

The white powder under his nose was a dead giveaway as to his state of mind. Bronx was right about that. He’s in his drug-addled, whoring era.

The boy I used to know has turned into a man I wish I’d never met.

I double palm my cup of coffee to chase away the cold. It’s raining again. Big fat drops that slant in to cover the pavement and hit the diner windows. I don’t have the time or energy to waste on Riot Maddox when this morning’s search for shelter has been fruitless.

The server keeps looking at me, trying to decide at what point kicking me out in this weather becomes suitable since I’ve refused to order anything other than black coffee on any of the four times she’s dropped by the table.

My stomach growls, but the meal I shared with Bronx last night should keep me going for a few days. If I can ignore the gnawing hunger when it comes.

I have no clothes beyond the shirt and sweats I borrowed from Bronx. No home to go to. No money other than the fistful of coins I, again, borrowed from Bronx. Borrowed, not stole. I’ll pay him back once I get on my feet. No phone. No shoes…

My ankle was a lot better when I woke and the swelling had gone down enough for me to don my heels and start pounding pavement in the search for shelter. But it’s already throbbing and in the beginning stages of turning into a cankle.

And still this peace is better than being face to face with the man who ripped my heart out. Then acts like I’m the one who hurt him.

Why am I thinking about him? Why can’t I shut it off? Why did I let him get so far under my skin that I fucked Bronx’s face in spite? The guilt of using my friend like that pushes to the front, causing an ache in my chest.

Yet another reason I couldn’t have stayed. Even if I’d wanted to. Riot would make me lose my damn mind and the next mistake I make could be the one that I can’t walk away from.

I curl in on myself as emotion overwhelms me.

His face stares down at me from the side of the building. He has his arm wrapped around Sonatina’s waist, and she’s resting her hands on his shoulder and chest. Both are striking serious, sexy faces. Their duet album has finally dropped.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Carmine demanded I be removed from my role as L.A. Riot’s manager. And the shock of the two of them right there, even in poster form, guts me. I take a step back and…

My memory after that gets hazy. Did someone push me? Or were they trying to save me? I tried to ask... while I was lying on the road waiting for an ambulance. Surrounded by people wanting to help and to gawk. But no one had seen anything.

The hospital recovery was long. My bills multitude. My losses far more than I can endure. The purgatory I woke to never-ending. I force away the memories that make me feel like I am drowning. Compartmentalize them. I can’t let them take me under. Not now.

I need to find somewhere to stay. I need to worry about clothes and a job. If only I could go back to my apartment and pack a bag. But that can’t happen, because Marco will have someone waiting for me.

I count out the coins for the coffee. No tip. Can’t do it. Not when this is all I have to survive on.

I leave the diner, head down against the rain and the wind. Not that it matters. I’m drenched almost instantly. My bare arms turn purple, goosebumps covering every inch. I hug them around me. My goal is the next shelter on the list I made before I left the hotel.

At the next shelter—like the ones I visited this morning—I get turned away by a volunteer with too much guilt.

She’s lovely and offers me a jacket, which I take with much appreciation. She tells me she wishes she could help and asks if I have friends or anyone I could stay with. She suggests another place to try.

The day passes with more rejections. The rumbling in my belly grows louder and more uncomfortable. All the shelters are full.

My feet hurt in these stupid stripper heels, and my ankle pains with every step. I’ve lost sensation and I’m getting concerned about circulation. These shoes were not meant for walking block after city block. Definitely not on a sprained ankle.

By the time the sun starts to sink, I’m shivering violently and no closer to a solution for my problems. I’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel with my contacts, and I’m too scared to take another strip club job, because Marco will probably look for me in those places when I don’t go home.

The only people I have left to reach out to are Riot’s brothers, and while they would have helped me when we were together, I’m sure they hate me as much as he does. Whatever he told them is bound to have made me out to be the villain.

A black Escalade rolls by.

The fine hairs on the back of my arms stand on end. Unless Marco has already found me. What if he followed me to the hotel last night? What if he waited for me to leave? He could have followed me all day. Biding his time, knowing at some point I’ll be too tired to run or fight.

My stomach churns and the urge to vomit hits me hard enough to make me bend over and gag. I fight the instinct to flee from my fear without proof that it’s warranted. If that Escalade pulls up though, I am going to run like the hounds of hell are on my tail. Marco will never get the opportunity to touch me again.

The car turns at the end of the block and disappears. The fear lingers. The rain falls harder.

Falling into Marco’s clutches is something I can’t let happen. Even if that means taking Bronx up on his offer and joining the guys on tour.