Page 18 of Anthem of Love and Loathing

Riot stares at me from the world tour poster under the lights of a bus stop shelter. Defeated, I sit on the bench and curl my legs up to my chin. Am I really willing to consider it?

Would it suck that bad to take Bronx up on his offer? Riot would be a pain in my ass of course. There’s no way he’s going to willingly work with me. He’ll probably go out of his way to try and make the job Bronx wants me to do impossible. But I’ve handled him before—albeit a far less angry version. I can do it again. One last time.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. Not Riot. Not with how we ended things. Certainly not after last night. The touring and spending time with my guys. The music scene. I was good at my job. This might be my last chance to do what I loved.

Bronx said he would pay me enough to get set up once the tour is over. Since I can’t go back to my old life with Marco out there searching for me, I’ll need to move to another state. Another country would be better. Since I can’t get a job or land a place to live without clothes, money, and ID, that money would go a long way. The tour would give me time to work out what my next steps are.

I stare up at Riot, with his self-satisfied smirk. It’ll mean working with him in close quarters. It won’t be easy. But when was it ever easy? Not when I was hiding my crush on him. Sure as hell wasn’t when he was cheating on me with Sonatina. I can handle it. “Don’t be too confident, dickhead. I’m going to make your life hell too.”

And maybe, this is the perfect time to get some closure. That way when I move on after the tour, I can finally put my life back together.

A man comes into the bus shelter, his backpack slung over his jacket shoulder. He stands at the far end, side-eyeing me like he can’t decide whether to be concerned for himself or for me.

I must look a fright.

“Could I borrow your phone?” I ask.

His mouth tightens, but then he fishes the device from his pocket and hands it over.

“Thank you.” I type in Bronx’s number and hit call. It rings a few times before the other end picks up. “Hey, it’s Kelsey.”

“I was hoping you’d call,” Bronx’s warm tone is exactly what I needed to hear.

I gulp down the emotion that wells up as the tension I’ve been using to keep me going all day finally eases. “Can you come and get me? We need to talk about how this babysitting job and tour is going to work.”

7

Kelsey

Atown car pulls up in front of the bus stop. When the back door opens, Bronx steps out. The man who lent me his phone gasps at the six-foot-six man whose face he recognizes from the poster above my head. He does a double take to be certain and his eyes round. “That’s Bronx Halverson.”

Bronx carries an extra jacket. His gaze roves over my outfit. “I thought you might be cold since you didn’t take it, but I see you found one of your own.”

“I got lucky.” I’d left his folded and over the end of the bed where I draped it last night. I couldn’t take it with me this morning. I’d stuck to the clothes he’d given me to sleep in, my heels, and the change that had been left haphazardly on one of the bedside tables.

“You know Bronx Halverson.” The man beside me has his mouth hanging open. He looks like the hundreds of groupies I’ve watched ogle my boys from behind concert barricades. Struck dumb by their mojo.

“Who is this guy?” Bronx asks, towering over us both. His striking green eyes, ginger three-day growth, and wicked looking tatts make him appear threatening. He posts himself like my own personal barrier.

“I…I’m a drummer too,” the man says. “Well, I practice... in my mom’s basement. I know all…” he narrows his gaze, really studies me “…L.A. Riot’s songs. You’re Kelsey Peterson, aren’t you?”

“Get in the car,” Bronx orders me.

“You were with Riot Maddox.”

No. Not again.

“You broke our boy’s heart,” he says like he has ownership over the band while Bronx escorts me quickly toward the back seat.

When I hobble, he tucks a hand under my elbow supportively.

“And now you’re... with Bronx Halverson?” the man continues. “You’re a groupie slut.”

I crawl across the back seat into the furthest corner. It’s not the first time I’ve been on the hot side of a fan’s ire. But it hits different after last night.

“You could do better, man,” the guy tells Bronx as he scrambles with his phone.

“Get back.” Bronx growls at the fan, while he slides in next to me. His wide shoulders shield me from the man’s attempt to take our photo.