Page 26 of Anthem of Love and Loathing

“We had some great times together, didn’t we?” I pat Golden’s cheek.

Walking away from them is hard, perhaps harder than it was two years ago, because my anger is tempered by sadness and loneliness.

Kodiak, who I’ve gotten a little familiar with tonight, sits up straighter when he sees me. He watches me cross the room to the doors that will take me into the foyer and away from this mess.

He gets up and strides toward the others. Everyone else in the party is unaware of the turmoil. They’re all having a great time.

One of the bodyguards—he must be new because I don’t recognize him—opens the door and shuts it once I’m on the other side.

The foyer is empty. The elevator stands open. The bass from inside makes the walls shake. But otherwise, it’s quiet.

I am alone.

I used to wish for this. To be alone. Every night that I woke up to Marco on top of me. His—I fight the urge to puke—cock shoved between my thighs. Not necessarily inside me, every time...

They are the last memories I want to recall. I don’t want the lingering scent of the overpowering body spray mixed with his dirty, musky body odor. Or to remember how scratchy the sheet on my single bed was under my back. I’d count the twenty-three knots in the exposed beams above me while I wished I was anywhere but the nightmare I’d been thrown into.

Not the first time—I’d fought like my life depended on it that time—but every time after that I lay there. Frozen. There was no escape. So I gritted my teeth and waited him out with as little life in me as possible. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

My back hits the wall. My knees buckle. The room closes in on me.

But after these last two years... and with Marco out there somewhere...

Heaven’s blank eyes staring up at nothing is so vivid to me. An image of Loverboi’s crumpled body follows in quick succession. The slimy rubbery sensation of a used condom stuck to my shoulder blade assaults me. Gary and Marco heading to the backroom together to look for me comes next.

The idea of being alone no longer brings comfort. Quite the opposite. Alone is dangerous. Alone is one step away from a missing person file in some cold case drawer.

I drag out the phone Bronx had given me when I first arrived. It’s fully charged and ready to make calls. That is if I had anyone to call.

Someone who would notice if I went missing.

Two years ago, they might have, but now...

I black out the phone screen and put it on the floor. There’s really no point in having the device when there’s no one waiting to hear from me.

The doors to the suite open. The chaos inside grows louder then muted when the doors are shut again.

“You’re leaving?” Kodiak’s deep timbre isn’t surprising. But its effect on my nervous system is. It switches off the panic welling inside me. We only met tonight—other than the two seconds we crossed paths as I was dashing out this morning—but he makes me comfortable in a way I haven’t been in a very long time. If ever.

I crane my neck to glance up at the bassist. He’s tall and wide and all muscle in faded blue jeans. Kodiak... kind of reminds me of the bear in that psych question about who a woman would be better off meeting in the woods. “I can’t stay.”

He lowers himself to the floor next to me. Bringing his knees up to his chest he wraps his black, white, and gray flannel covered arms loosely around them. He turns his aqua gaze my way. They narrow in on my throat long enough it’s obvious he notices the bruising, but then he focuses on my face. “Pity.”

“You don’t even know me.” I turn my attention to the shoes Golden gave me and put them on. They’re warm and at least three sizes too big. Clown shoes. But I can make them work.

“That’s true. But I’d like to. The girl that can make L.A. Riot’s lead singer lose his freaking mind is definitely someone I’d like to know.”

The way he says that catches my attention. I stop tying my laces to look at him. His mouth is turned up gently, and there’s a glint.

That glint must be trouble. Girls would swoon even if he wasn’t a famous rockstar. Why would Riot losing his mind bring that kind of glint to his eye?

“Yeah. He hates me.” I shrug and go back to tying my shoes.

“Yeah. He kind of does.” Again, there’s something in his tone that’s amused by Riot’s behavior.

I mentally roll my eyes. He’s not as safe as I thought. Does that really surprise me? I clearly have no idea what makes a good man. Except when it comes to Bronx. I thought Riot was... Until he proved he’s like so many other toxic men. “It’s okay. I hate him too.”

“Yeah. Maybe you both hate each other. There’s clearly history. But he spent this morning writing a song about it.”