Page 7 of Anthem of Love and Loathing

I struggle to my feet, searching for an escape route. Wrapping my arms around my icy middle.

“Atta girl,” Marco croons, making my skin crawl. “Hurry up and get in the car.”

The sky flickers—bright, black, bright.

In the sudden illumination Riot Maddox’s image stares at me from the brick wall on the next building. Another line of L.A. Riot World Tour posters covers the promo space.

Are you happy? This is all your fault. If you wouldn’t have ruined everything I wouldn’t be about to go missing at the hands of my foster brother.

A fear that I had thought I’d been able to put behind me. Left in my teen years. Shit, I was such a fool. Both in falling in love and in believing I was actually safe. What am I supposed to do now?

“Whoa, no way!” a familiar drawl stops and restarts my heart. “Kelsey Peterson, is that you?”

Lungs tight, gaze locked with Marco, I reply to the man I have yet to look at. “Drummer Boy?”

“Yeah, girl. What the hell are you doing out here in your underwear?” His concern grows as he nears.

Marco’s dead eyes tell me he’ll be back for me. He shuts the door and the Escalade rolls on.

Whatever strength has been holding me upright deserts me. I crumple, shoulders shaking.

“Rough night?” Bronx’s jacket falls around my shoulders, covering me from neck to knee.

Rough couple of years.

Unable to speak, I gawk at the giant man I haven’t seen since everything went down between his buddy and I two years ago. Riot, the arrogant prick kept the band, his friends, and the family I always wanted. I got all the heartbreak.

The L.A. Riot drummer tugs the zipper up on the jacket. He’s wearing one of his signature sleeveless singlets, his muscular, inked arms and shoulders taking a beating from the rain.

“You’re terrified.” He winds an arm around my shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get out of this rain and you can tell me what the hell has you freaked.”

It’s over for now. Marco is gone. The adrenaline is wearing off. My teeth are chattering. I yelp at the excruciating pain with the first step.

Bronx checks me over, notices my damaged ankle. “Damn. That’s got to hurt.”

Putting an arm behind my knees, he swings me up and carries me. I could argue. I want to argue. Order him to put me down and let me disappear into the night. I used to be the one bossing this big guy around. I could make him promise not to ever tell Riot he saw me like this. Drenched, in my underwear. A total wreck.

My ex would probably get a kick out of it. The way he did when he screwed the record label head’s daughter, Sonatina Savant, while lying to my face about how he wanted me to be his one and only. Cheating on me, at his brother’s wedding no less.

But I’m exhausted. Lightheaded. The pain in my ankle is radiating to my toes and up to my knee. And it’s nice to see his face. I reach up and touch his cheeks, making sure I’m not bleeding out on the pavement, hallucinating a familiar face to keep me company in my final moments. “You’re real.”

He’s solid and warm, and he chuckles. “Yes, I’m real. And I’m taking you to the emergency department.”

“No.” Shaking my head, I shove at his chest. “I can’t go to the hospital.”

“That ankle seems bad, Kelsey.”

“I lost my purse.” I don’t have any insurance. I already have hospital bills I have no way to pay. “Put me down. I’m fine, really. I can take care of myself. I’m not going to the hospital.”

His brow tightens. “I’ll give you a ride home then.”

“No.” Marco left because he knows where I live thanks to having my bag. He’s probably already sent an associate to wait for me to return. I can’t go home.

Not that it matters. That eviction notice pinned on my door made me homeless. It happened quicker than I expected; that’s all. I was meant to have time to gather my measly belongings. My hopelessness threatens to overwhelm me again.

“You’re not going to argue with me.” He carries me inside a darkly lit building. A woman croons on stage. She’s dancing in lingerie, huge feather fans fluttering from her hands. It’s a burlesque show, and a very different vibe from Scarlet.

No one stares at me, my appearance that of a drowned rat. They’re all infatuated with the woman on the stage. She is beautiful. Her moves an artistic lesson in seduction. Her lingerie exquisite, classy pieces.