Page 9 of Anthem of Love and Loathing

His gaze is beyond concerned. It’s like he’s seeing a friend hit rock bottom. It drops to my bare legs.

“Oh my God.” I would laugh if I wasn’t mortified. “Do you think I’m a prostitute now?”

He shrugs. “No judgment. I would totally pay you to take a nap in my bed if I thought you would take me up on the offer.”

“Wow.” I sit back. “I ought to be insulted.”

Except that he’s always been a flirt.

My stomach growls and I press a hand to my abdomen in the hopes it will quieten. All that running on empty and then running for my life has left me starving. “No, I’m not a prostitute.”

“No. You look like you could sleep for a thousand years.” He grabs the front of his shirt and tugs it away from his neck. “That’s what I meant.”

“Yes, things are shit lately.” I drop my attention to the coaster under my beer. It’s bronze with a black frame and the name of the place in the middle. “That’s what happens when you’re blacklisted from your industry.”

And then your apartment burns down a couple of months later. And some asshole bumps into you, knocking you into traffic a couple of months after that, causing you to end up in the hospital for weeks while you physically recover from a trauma you can never mentally or emotionally recover from. Leaving you with a stack of hospital bills you can’t pay.

I lost everything. All of it gone in what felt like the blink of an eye. Each new loss breaking me worse than the last.

Every job I’ve managed to land since then has only lasted a few weeks. Then the job I was hired for or the shifts I was assigned dry up. Almost as if someone is actively working to make sure my life is still hell.

At this point I’m not sure why I don’t lie down and die. Only that I’ve always been too stubborn to quit. Would it have been the worst thing if Marco had pulled the trigger tonight?

“So, what were you doing in your underwear in the middle of the street? And who was that creep in the car?” Bronx reminds me of his presence. I have to believe there’s a reason for it.

The server comes back with a loaded tray. He places two plates on the table in front of us. Artful dishes that smell like heaven and make me salivate.

“You’re too skinny,” he says. “I can see your bones, and I’m worried. Eat. Tell me about your troubles.”

I cut a tiny bite and pop it between my teeth. It melts on my tongue and happy chemicals release into my blood stream. The chill deep in my bones starts to recede as the warmth of the speakeasy and the food in my belly heats me through.

“I witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.” I speak with my mouth full. Disgusting habit, but hunger trumps manners. “Or maybe I was.”

Gary had ordered me into that room, and he seemed to know Marco well. Either he figured out our relationship somehow, which is unlikely, or he decided I was expendable. Prick.

“That man was—”

“Was my foster brother, actually.”

Bronx’s brows lift in a straight line. The guys didn’t know much when I was managing L.A. Riot. Except Riot. He knew how much I hated going back to that house. How I’d avoid it for as long as possible. What he knew he kept close to his chest. And even he wasn’t aware what Marco was truly capable of.

“My foster brother is a thug.” I pick up my beer and bury my emotions in another swig. He’s also the type of guy I would wake up to find in my bed despite having locked the door before I went to sleep. I never wanted to rehash those experiences.

“Should you speak to the cops?” Bronx asks.

“You just told me you thought I was a prostitute. Do you think the cops are really going to care what I have to say?” I start to tremble and the food threatens to come back up. The cops didn’t believe me the last time I called them on Marco. Fifteen and a troublemaker. Drama creator; that’s what Marco’s father called me. The cops chose to believe him. Later I realized it was because of the business they were in.

I was collateral damage.

I cover my mouth with my hand and squeeze my nose between finger and thumb. “He knows where I live now, Bronx. He’s not going to stop hunting for me. And I have nowhere to go.”

I don’t want to fall apart. Not from the shock. Or the fear. I have tried too hard to stay strong and get back on my feet. Does it even matter? Everything keeps getting ripped away from me. How much more can I fight?

“Yes. You do.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’ll come stay with me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. Whatever your life is now. It’s not where you’re meant to be.”