“I’m good, thanks,” I ground out.
“Don’t sell yourself short. A better bra, some proper clothing and you’ll be just fine.”
My eyes popped wide. A gurgle escaped my throat when I realized her sparkling fingers were reaching straight for my chest.
If she made contact, she was going to catch these hands. With her face.
I slapped her hands away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Poor Ashley.” She reached for me again, not quite understanding I had no reservations about punching her in the face at my mother’s funeral—it’s what mom would’ve wanted, honestly. “You just need a mother’s touch.”
The words struck like lightning, razor-edged with grief.
How dare this sack of plastic cobras try and replace my mother. Near blind with rage, I shoved her into her daughter. “Get the hell out of my apartment.”
As if in slow motion Mrs. Beauford stumbled backward—straight into the Jell-O monster lurking on the side table. She shrieked. Purple globs sprayed across the small front room, landing in drinks, on all the black-wearing people, and speckling the tan wall with irregular purple pimples.
“Mummy!” Alison yelped.
Everyone stared at me. I didn’t care. I was too mad to care. My arms locked tight against my sides, hands clenched into fists.
“Alison, I believe it’s time we left,” Mrs. Beauford said stiffly, peeling purple chunks from her tasteful black skirt-suit. “I think Ashley and her father need some time alone.”
The comment served to command the room.
One by one, the strangers began exiting, silently picking up raincoats before stepping out into the hallway. In five minutes, the apartment went from cramped to empty, the only sound the November downpour beating against the window. Not until Reverend James slid out the door with an apologetic nod did I realize my massive mistake.
I was alone with Jim.
My knees shook as I faced the strange, soulless man who was technically my father. I hoped now wasn’t the time to start reciting prayers because I didn’t know any and, if I was honest, I didn’t believe anyone cared to answer them anyway.
He regarded me for a long moment before starting to clear away half-eaten mini quiches.
“Pack your bags, Ashley,” he said quietly. “We’re moving.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“We’re moving to Las Vegas. I have…” He paused for a long moment and the silence made the hairs on my arms rise. “A job there. It comes with an apartment, and a place in a prestigious academy for you. So we’re moving.”
A job, a place, and a fancy school? No fucking way. I hadn’t been out in the world on my own, but I knew enough to understand that Las Vegas only made things worthwhile for people who had some kind of currency to offer in return. Jim didn’t have any money, and as of today, he didn’t have a soul…
I froze.
A foul, awful awareness squirmed in the back of my brain.
Yesterday he’d had a soul and hadn’t breathed a word of moving or jobs. And there certainly hadn’t been an academy position with my name on it. Today…today all those things existed—except for his soul.
Jim. What have you done?
Chapter Two
Jim and I faced each other across the folding table like gunslingers in an old western movie.
He held onto the platter of mini quiches.
I dug my hands into the folds of my black dress, wishing they concealed some kind of protection. Or at least a fork that wasn’t plastic.
Words sat awkwardly on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to hurl accusations at him; shout and scream and tell him I could see his dirty secret. But did I want to admit I knew? Did I want confirmation? If I got it, I’d have to ask about the other thing that sat heavy and wet in the back of my head.
“Why?” I whispered, even though I didn’t actually want to know.
“I told you, I have a job. And you’re going to school.” Flat eyes stared at me; strange blue orbs in the face of a man who was nothing more than a stranger. “You should go pack,” he said. “We leave tomorrow.”
“But I… we can’t…”
“Just pack.” For a moment, I thought I saw sympathy flicker in his gaze, then it was gone. And so was he. Disappearing into the kitchen and leaving me alone in the small living room.
Deciding Jim could clean up the mess, I dropped listlessly onto the worn sofa Mom and I had salvaged from the local thrift store. My fingers curled into the cushion, folding yellow and green leaves into a fabric bouquet. It still smelled of the special Febreeze we’d covered it in, exorcising the spirits of cigarettes past, she had called it.
The scent lodged in my chest, a heavy lump of the past.
For some reason, it made me think of a play I’d studied for my lit class. It was about witches and one of the accused was pressed to death under a heavy stone. That was me, right now. A weight sat on my chest, and it wanted to crush the life out of me. And why not. All the parts of my life that mattered lay six feet underground, where they’d never hug me again.
Tears burned behind my eyes.
Damn it.
I lurched off the couch and raced from the room, still clutching the couch pillow to my chest. I didn’t pause until the door to my room was closed and locked behind me. I couldn’t let Jim see me cry.
Not now. Not ever.
With both arms wrapped around the old cushion and my back pressed firmly to the door, I slid to the ground. Sobs wracked my body, silent tremors shaking me all the way to my toes.
It wasn’t fair!
I punched a fist into the cushion. Once, twice, until I feared the padding couldn’t muffle the sound of knuckles striking wooden boards through the thin gray carpet that covered every inch of the apartment. Bending forward, I screamed soundlessly into the floor.
How could the world do this? Take my mother and leave me with—with him?
Only one thing would let me breathe. One thing could drill a hole in that weight on my chest.
My music.
Fingers trembling, I pulled the cheap, used, and beat up electric guitar Mom had gotten for me at a garage sale into my lap and strummed my fingers over the strings.
I didn’t have an amp. It sounded like shit.
But with every pass of my fingers, each tug of the strings against my calluses, I was more part of the world. Breathing came easier, deeper, and when I exhaled, feelings of helplessness left with my breath.
I played an old punk song my mother had loved.
In that moment, I felt close to her again. She wasn’t so far away when the discordant sounds filled the room.
I stopped playing and clutched the guitar neck like a life preserver.
If I was honest, that’s what it was.
I couldn’t go to Vegas with my soulless father—no job would give that deadbeat so many incentives. And an academy spot? Once I’d thought I wanted that. To go to college, study music, and learn the art of production. A future where I was more than a band frontwoman with a few hit tracks. I’d seen before me the next step on the path to becoming an icon, where I’d learn how to wield music as a weapon for change. Then we’d needed the college fund for treatment, for rent, and I made a choice. And by the time my mother realized what I’d done, it was too late.
There were some fantastic music programs in Vegas—but none of them had the word “academy” attached to their names.
And none of them had been on my list.
Hell with it. I was seventeen-and-a-half-years old. I’d been running a household for two years. So what if it was six months until the world considered me an adult? I was already on my own—already a nobody. Why not go where I wanted? Make the best of a shitty situation.
My gaze latched onto the blue canvas of my backpack.
If I was nobody then I could go be nobody wherever I wanted, however I wanted. I’d just throw what I could into my pack, grab my guitar and hit the road.
I started s
hoving clothes into the bag: a couple pairs of jeans, make-up bag, songbook.
Why had I even wanted to bother with college? This was how musical greats started. I’d hitch to Los Angeles, claim to be eighteen, get a job. I’d be a Grammy-winning artist before I turned twenty.
I had no one to say goodbye to and nothing to stay for.
My hand hovered over the small framed picture of Mom and me at Christmas—we were wearing reindeer antlers and stupid sweaters. Taken two years ago, it was as if all the good times had been frozen in that single moment. The good times had ended pretty soon after that.
Snatching up the picture, I packed it carefully alongside my songwriting notebook, Mom’s journal I’d yet to open, and the bits of cash I’d hidden in socks for safekeeping.
Cracking open the door, I listened carefully. The sound of the TV buzzed faintly from the main room. I jumped back as Soulless-Jim’s voice suddenly carried down the hallway. He was talking to someone. A shadow flickered in time to his comments as it moved back and forth. Air rushed silently out of me, he wasn’t coming to my room, he was talking on the phone.
I caught the word Vegas and my spine stiffened.
Creeping out, I pulled the door quietly closed, taking care to keep the handle turned until it was shut and then gently easing it around to avoid a loudly telling snick of the catch sliding back into place.
Had it been Regular-Jim, I’d have marched out in front of him and happily flipped the bird while dancing out the front door. But Soulless-Jim? Would he spit blood or climb backwards up a wall to stop me?
I’d rather not find out.
On tiptoes, I avoided the squeaky discolored patch where a previous tenant had maintained their fish tank and made my way into the kitchen. Slipping my jacket off the wall hook, I painstakingly opened the back door and stepped onto the fire exit.
Mom hated it when I came out here.
The fire exit clung to the back of the apartment complex like the neighborhood drunk to his bottle of discount gin—great determination mixed with the potential for it to slide between his fingers at any moment. Pausing to make sure my guitar was securely strapped across my back, I held onto the metal rails as I made my way down the listing, rusted stairs. We were only on the second floor, so it wasn’t too far to the ground. But Mom and I had both welcomed the extra height when we’d moved in—no more being burgled just because it was easy. We’d toasted each other with celebratory cheeseburgers and vanilla shakes.
Rain bounced and chimed off the iron railings and metal dumpster lids. Dropping the last few feet, I landed next to a pile of soggy newspapers that were slowly dissolving into a badly formed paper-mȃché sculpture.
Tugging up my hood I turned away from the lines of text.
They might have written about hard times, but all I could hear was soft reminders of the importance of education. I could self-educate. Why not? Just because she’d devoted her life to education and a small publishing firm didn’t mean I had to do the same. Besides, look where all that caring got her.
The thought made me feel dirty on the inside, but I stuck out my chin and marched from the alley.
The full force of November’s fury caught me as I stepped from the sheltering gap and straight into the slanted, freezing rain the west coast was famous for. I walked face-first into the gale. It was appropriately dramatic, I decided. I was fleeing an evil father and running off to seek my fortune. It should be at night in the pouring rain.
Honestly, the world really needed to toss in a little thunder and lightning.
My previously glorious spikes were drooping into a soggy halo around my head as I trudged through streets that better resembled urban rivers, heading for the train station.
The persistent gray and wet ate away at my fragile enthusiasm. Tears mixed with rain as I walked. I missed our old neighborhood in Four Corners, Salem. We’d needed to move north to Portland for Oregon’s specialty hospital center. We were close to that medical center, tucked away in a corner that most people never noticed they passed, without any of the neighbors we used to know. Same state—different worlds.
Northwest Portland was an awkward mix of the up and coming and the broken-down.
Tromping along Johnson Street, I did my best to look calm, cool and collected. If you looked like you knew what you were doing, no one would bother you, Mom had always advised. Well, I knew exactly where I was going. I was going to Union Station, and then I was going to LA.
By the time I approached the scaffolding-covered station, I was starting to appreciate the saying “drowned rat.” There was a train with my name on it leaving in half an hour. Stomping off as much of the wet as I could, the scent of fast food and damp humanity washed over me. The station always made me think of a strange church, where people lined up beneath the latticed wooden ceiling to pray to trains and buses. Which was odd, since at least half of them were probably going somewhere they didn’t want to go.
At least I wasn’t one of them.
I hurried to stand in the ticket line up and attempted to look like I did this all the time.
Fifty-five dollars and I’d be on my way to the future. I swallowed hard and gripped the wallet in my pocket. Fifty-five dollars was a fortune when all you had to your name was two-hundred and change. But it was fine, I told myself, moving up when the next person stepped up to the ticket window.
Awareness tickled the back of my neck.
I spun round to find a man watching me from behind mirrored sunglasses. I nearly informed him that ten o’clock in November wasn’t sunglasses time, but something told me I didn’t want to see behind those glasses.
“Aren’t you a little young to be on your own so late at night?” His voice was soft, with a melodic European accent, and gave me a serious case of the Get the Hell Away From Me’s.
No gray strands wrapped around him, but he still set off every alarm bell in my head. Like when I realized Jim had sold his soul, but worse.
“It’s called being petite,” I said.
Why had I answered? Why hadn’t I brought my mace? I could’ve sprayed him up under those glasses and… Yeah, maybe not. I got the feeling that it would take a very special spray to incapacitate this guy.
One side of his mouth curled upwards in obvious amusement as he let his eyes sweep up and down my body. “Of course you are.”
Why, I wondered, could I tell Jim had sold his soul, but I had no idea whether the man before me was even human? The fact that I could easily imagine him as something other wasn’t comforting.
My imagination revved into overdrive, picturing all manner of awful things crawling under his skin. Stop it. Don’t think about that.
“Whatever.” I turned around and hoped the stranger would simply go away.
A finger tapped my shoulder.
I jumped, guitar case rattling against my pack. “Geez, what?”
“I think the ticket vendor is under a similar…” He gave me another of those disturbing smiles, “…misperception as I was, Petite. I do believe he thinks you’re causing trouble.”
“What?” Spinning, I caught the ticket vendor speaking quietly into a microphone while the person on the other side of the glass waited impatiently. Looking around, I caught sight of a man in a blue and black security uniform trying to unobtrusively walk my way. “Shit.”
“No problem,” the man behind me murmured. “We’ll say you’re with me.”
I really didn’t like the sound of that. Creeps were something I’d have to deal with on my own—especially once I hit the scene in LA. Strange men approaching me, trying to corner me. As a female-presenting person, it was just a fact of life. If I didn’t stand up for myself now, I’d never get rid of him. “Or not. I’m an adult and can travel on my own. Leave me alone.”
A guard appeared at my right. “Miss, we don’t allow buskers to harass travelers.”
I sighed. If it wasn’t drugs it was busking. Which was at least fair—I’d made some good money playing on street corners. “I’m not pla
ying. I’m buying. Or I will soon as this slow-assed line moves.”
“Is there a problem, officer?” The sunglass-wearing man asked, moving up to stand at my shoulder as if he had a right to be there.
His presence made my skin crawl.
“Nothing the matter, sir.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just making sure this one isn’t giving you any trouble.”
I glared at the guard. I was right there, after all, it’s not like whispering meant I couldn’t hear. “I told you. I’m buying a ticket. And he’s harassing me, not the other way around.”
“Is that so, Miss?” He paused, partway through a chuckle, and gave the man an assessing glance.
“As much as I enjoy you reminding this one to mind her manners, there’s no need to waste your time.” The stranger stepped in, as if realizing the tide of opinion was about to turn against him. “This is my niece. She was supposed to meet me an hour ago, but you know how kids are.”
“Miss?” The security guard waited for my response.
I was impressed. This security guard wasn’t as dumb as the shows made them out to be. Nor was he totally immune to the stranger’s darkness. Good thing, because I was pretty sure it wasn’t my cold, wet feet making me shiver.
What an insane thought. His darkness? Where had I gotten that? Like this guy had magic powers or something?
Or something, a voice whispered in my head.
I swallowed hard.
“Er… I…” The words I wanted to say weren’t coming. They’d formed in my brain, been sent to my mouth, but my tongue refused to obey me.
Almost as if the stranger wouldn’t let me speak.
That was crazy. I should go back home, take one of Dr. Bartlett’s pills and assume everything would be better in the morning.
The stranger touched my shoulder. “Come now, time to fess up.”
“Uncle Rob,” the words exploded from my mouth, “I’m supposed to be in a rock band. I had practice, you know.” I drew out the last few words with all the stereotypical petulance of a spoiled teenager.
My insides froze. Where had that come from? I hadn’t meant to say that.
Rock and Ruin Page 2
