by Cari Quinn
Maybe two. Depended how long he could go AWOL from the band. They had a show near the end of the month. Which day, he had no idea.
And the fucking funeral. Correction—celebration of life. Jesus, he wished like hell he could get out of that one. He didn’t even own a suit anymore. He’d burned the last one right about the time he’d broken up with Cassalia.
“Listen, smart ass, this one’s for you,” Rain Hat insisted. “I remember your name, since you were so quick to inform me of it before. See, it’s right here. Malachi Shawcross.”
Mal snatched the package before the whole neighborhood heard him and came running. It wasn’t quite that bad, but for all he knew, there could be paps hiding in the bushes with their telescopic lenses trained on the door. “Who the hell would send me something here?”
He was tearing into it before that long-neglected sense of self-preservation reared its head. Then he saw the sheaf of paper sticking out of the top.
Thank you so much for what you did. If you ever want to talk, text me. I’ve been thinking about you.
Little Dicki
He laughed, right out loud. What the hell? Typo of the ages there.
Almost as swiftly, his laughter was replaced with a scowl. What if it wasn’t a typo? If Richelle had felt it polite to send him a note, but had also wanted to give him the middle finger while doing so for all the times he’d called her Little Ricki.
But not just a note. There was something wrapped in silk under the letter.
“Hey there, you need to sign or else you give that back right this instant.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, drop a nut, would you? You gotta be in pain.” Mal took the electronic clipboard and scrawled his signature with his finger before pushing it back at the irritated mailman.
A second later, he got a view of the guy’s backside as he clomped down the steps in his freaking rain boots. His mother called them galoshes. And where had that come from? Christ, he needed a drink.
First, he needed to see what Ricki had sent him. In his head, he didn’t put the Little first. Because she wasn’t. She might be willowy, but she wasn’t small. She was built just right. Long legs, tight curves, smart mouth. Her smart mouth also happened to be full and lush, more than capable of provoking the dream he’d had before waking up to jerk off.
Not the first time either.
He tugged out the silk bundle and tossed aside the box without a thought. Laying the wrapped package on his palm, he unwrapped the layers, swallowing a breath at the intricately carved black drumsticks nestled within. They weren’t cheap. He didn’t know for sure, but if he’d had to guess, they were made from ebony and some other material in a marble pattern. A thin gold filament wrapped around the grips. At the top of each drumstick was a flat stone inscribed with the letter M.
Brushing a fingertip down the length of one, he exhaled roughly. What the hell had these cost? She must’ve spent a mint to get them made and rushed to him. Engraved on top of it all.
He bent to dig out the note again. Text her, sure. He still had her number in his phone. Probably. Ripper had a contact list, and he’d input it from that without ever expecting to use it. But the name in the corner was R. Crandall c/o Teagan Daly. So she wasn’t home? Had she stayed on in the city too?
His phone was out of his back pocket and in his hand before he could question what he was doing. He texted his brother, half expecting not to get a reply. Anyone who knew him and Ricki knew they were like sandpaper and glass. Abrasions right and fucking left.
Is Ricki in LA?
Michael’s response came quickly.
Must you call her that? Still?
Mal rolled his eyes and tapped out a response.
Still? Has something changed and I missed it?
Uh, yeah, something’s changed & you damn well know it. More than ever, we need to stick together as a band.
A moment later, another text came through from Michael.
As a family too.
Sure, the all for one shit. I’m there for it.
Is that why you’re hiding out in NY?
Mal gripped his phone and sucked in a breath before he replied.
I’m not the only one in NY, now am I?
Christ, first her, now you. I feel like I’m back in grade school passing notes. Does he like me? Check yes or no.
What the fuck are you on about?
She texted me for your addy in NY. Now you’re asking for hers. Ever heard of phones?
I don’t want to text, I want to see her in person. You got a problem with that?
Mal scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he waited for a response that was slow in coming. He needed a shower before he went anywhere.
Should I?
“For Christ’s sake.” Mal bent to pick up the discarded box, then carefully set the sticks within before he went inside. He didn’t need to be hanging out on the stoop all day. Especially since a part of him—the part he hated—agreed with Michael.
Him being around her could come to no good for her. It wasn’t any better for him. She was an unwanted reminder of his past, though she and Cassalia couldn’t have been more different. But the substances they chose to rely on were eerily similar.
He didn’t need any more users in his life. Even recovering ones, because that was a slope more slippery than solid.
Mal shot back a quick text.
No, you shouldn’t. We’re in the same damn band. Not any of your business in any case.
Aww, that’s my sweet older bro. So much for tragedy softening u. I thought maybe after u’d be different.
Right, he should be different after, when more than ever he needed to shore up his fucking walls. Fans coming out of the woodwork, wanting a piece of him. Everyone shoving microphones in his face and taking pictures. Last night, he was sure he’d been spotted at the damn Purple Egg, when some reporter from a local paper was in attendance to interview Venus Rising, the band he was sitting in with. They hadn’t told him. Hadn’t said shit about press. But the reporter hadn’t noticed him—thanks to a hoodie pulled low over his brow—and probably didn’t know shit about Warning Sign in any case. There had to be someone left who hadn’t heard about the concert. It sure as hell didn’t seem that way in New York though.
Which begged the question why he’d stayed. Yes, the argument could be made that the media speculation would be even more intense on their home turf, and that was probably true. But it had happened in New York. The bulk of the glare was there.
Yet only a week in, and it was starting to lessen. That was a good thing. Still, it showed exactly how fickle the public was and how short the communal attention span was. Squeeze the juice out of a story, then leave the empty carton on the ground.
Mal’s thumbs raced over the phone. Shit, he hated texting.
Just give me her address and save the sermon for when we’re face to face. Better yet, skip it then too.
It came through a moment later without anything additional from his brother. He’d pissed him off. Shocker there. They’d once been close. More best friends than siblings.
That was a long frigging time ago, and Mal knew better than anyone that the past wasn’t a door you could open again. Step through, and the floor would drop out from beneath your feet.
He tossed his phone on a nearby table and grabbed a handful of his shirt from behind his head, pulling it off. His jeans and boxers were next, and he left them where he stood. What did he care about being tidy? Wasn’t like anyone would be seeing this place while he was there but him.
Not like he had any friends in New York. He didn’t know a blessed soul, which was part of why he’d gravitated there. His grandparents were a few hours upstate, and he’d toyed with going to see them at their orchard. Happy Acres, the family farm run by Lila’s parents, had been a bright spot in his teenage years and beyond, though he was fairly certain no one would believe he still went there. Including Lila.
Especially Lila.
More, that he still thought of
her parents as his grandparents when she’d never been his stepmother as far as he was concerned. To his mind, he didn’t have parents. His dad was a dick, his mom was shallower than a teacup. Lila was Michael’s stepmother, not his. His real grandparents had died years ago, but Lila’s parents had opened their arms to him as if he was truly family. It hadn’t felt fake or as if they were showing him kindness just as a favor to their daughter. They’d taken the time to learn about him, to ask questions. No matter how much of a jerk he’d been, they hadn’t backed away. Every summer, he and Michael had been invited to the orchard, and he’d continued making trips east long after Lila had separated from his father. Pop and Grams were his family as much as Michael.
So, yeah, maybe he’d stop in and see them while he was here. He needed some time with them on the farm. Out there, he could think. The fresh air, the cool nights, hell, even the dopey hayrides went a long way to smoothing him out. They didn’t judge him. Whether he was quiet or snarly, they loved him just the fucking same.
No matter how many issues he’d had with Lila over the years, they were the one reason he would always be in her debt. She’d brought them into his life.
Just like she brought Ricki.
Shaking off that errant—and insane—thought, he padded naked down the hall and straight into the shower in the bathroom. The back of his hand brushed his now thoroughly deflated cock, but he couldn’t be bothered. The last vestiges of the dream were gone now, replaced by the drumsticks he could still feel in his hands if he flexed them. They’d be amazing to play with. Already he couldn’t wait to see the kinds of sounds he could produce with them.
Every set of sticks was different, the ridges, dimension, and weight bringing different sounds to the table. Tonight he was due to sit in Venus Rising again. Possibly tomorrow night too, depending on if their sick drummer ponied up or not. The Craigslist listing had mentioned a portion of the bar tab they netted as pay, but he’d waved off even that, saying he needed the practice.
Hey, M. Cross—the name he’d given them—sure did. Seeing as he was as fictional as the idea that Mal could just have a conversation with Ricki and walk away.
She’d bled on him, for fuck’s sake.
Mal palmed the soap he’d picked up at the drugstore and lathered up. She might not even want to talk to him, despite her note. They’d never had much to say to each other before.
Before and after, the two most meaningful words in the English language.
He used the soap on his head and took a blast of ice cold water to the face. It felt good though, so he did it again, turning under the spray. There wasn’t much room in the shower. It definitely hadn’t been built for a guy a few inches over six feet tall and closer to two hundred pounds than one-fifty. But he made do, running the soap over his skin again and again until his lips were numb from the cold.
Stalling, what?
He finally got out and dried off, then walked into the narrow bedroom to root through his unpacked duffel. He’d taken the bare necessities off the bus. Some T-shirts and jeans, a few pairs of boxers, a strip of condoms he doubted he’d need. But he’d been looking for some normalcy after.
Back to after again.
Always back to after.
Her scream was still in his head. It was a burst of sound, cut off abruptly when he’d touched her, hauling her back. But he heard it again and again on a loop. Could smell the metallic tinge of her blood if he lifted his hand to his face. The sounds and sights of that night were going to be with him forever.
As much as he was glad she’d been unconscious for most of it, he envied her escape. For him, there was none. Barely even sleep. He never managed more than an hour at best these days, and even that had taken the better part of the week. His brain just wouldn’t turn off.
He shouldn’t be going to Randy’s celebration of life in a few weeks. There shouldn’t fucking be one, because Randy should still be alive. The guy had been given everything. An amazing girl and a great guy, a growing fucking family. But the one thing he hadn’t had was time.
Your fault. Choices, man. You made yours.
He got dressed in whatever came to hand and pulled on his boots. Not having hair made it easy to get ready, though the shit was growing in. Time for a buzz soon.
Halfway out the door, he remembered he hadn’t brushed his teeth, so took care of that and grabbed his phone on the way back through. He reached the hulking black rented SUV parked up the block and was on the way to Ricki’s in under five minutes.
In another fifteen, he was cursing Google’s GPS and Ricki’s choice to stay in Brooklyn. She couldn’t have stayed in Queens like he had. Blonds were always trouble.
It took far too long to find her place. Or Teagan Daly’s place, the woman he assumed she was staying with. His hands clenched around the wheel. Maybe a man. Nowadays just about every name was unisex it seemed, and Ricki never lacked for companionship from the opposite sex.
If he’d wanted to draw parallels, he might’ve said they were alike that way. Only difference was he wasn’t searching for love, and Ricki’s eyes were full of hearts every damn time he turned around. Her taste just royally sucked. And men as a rule were assholes.
Him included.
He parked a ways down the block from her temporary digs and got out, already scoping out the neighborhood. Decent enough area, it seemed. Groups of friends congregated on stoops of brownstones, though it was midday. Kids skateboarded up and down the sidewalks, and people called greetings across the congested street. Busy place, but it didn’t seem dangerous. That was good.
There was a steady stream of foot traffic in and out of the bodega on the corner, and he debated briefly stopping for something to bring her. Like maybe those flowers in a can by the door with a big cardboard sale sign propped in front.
He’d never sent her any in the hospital. He’d thought of it. Too much. But he hadn’t wanted to make things weird. He wasn’t the kind of guy who sent flowers, and she wasn’t the kind of woman who would want him to. Other guys, sure. She was definitely a flowers sort of chick. But she’d never want them from him.
Couldn’t say he blamed her for that either.
In the end, he just went to her brownstone and knocked on what he hoped was the right door. No answer. He stepped back and checked out the windows, noting the lacy curtains pulled tight to block any view inside. Another knock got the same results as the first.
His gaze dropped to the doorknob. Eh, what the hell. If it was locked—
It wasn’t.
He stepped into the church-silent building and shut the door behind him. The faded antique rug that ran in front of the stairs looked as if it had been beat into submission by dozens of feet. He crossed it to the narrow flight of stairs and climbed, unsure where the hell he was going. And what he’d do if he figured it out.
At the top of the stairs, he faced a row of closed doors. He checked them one by one, his body braced for the sounds of someone coming home. Or any sounds at all. He was getting a creepy vibe in this place. His shoulder blades itched, and he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder with every step.
Then he heard a soft moan.
He didn’t think. He opened the second to last door in a hurry, her name forming on his lips until he glimpsed her shifting restlessly in a small bed.
She wasn’t a blond anymore.
Dark hair spilled over the pillow, slipping and sliding with every movement she made. The sling on her arm made him swallow hard, as did the old sleepshirt pulled tight over her tits. He tried not to look, but it was like trying to drag his gaze away from the sun. Even when he glanced somewhere else, the image of them had been burned into his damn retinas.
Little Ricki was fucking built.
She wore tiny panties, and her legs were insanely long. Fuck, they looked soft. He’d seen her rub lotion into them enough times to know he was probably right. That plum shit that was dark and sweet and he’d caught himself sniffing it in the tour bus bathroom like a damn lech when h
e couldn’t help himself.
He wanted to do the same fucking thing with her panties. Just ease them off her and take off before she was any the wiser.
You want to pay me back? Start there.
And end there, because he wasn’t even going to get that much from her. But it was a nice fantasy. His dick definitely agreed, waking up to stretch against the denim in a way it hadn’t even in the aftermath of the dream.
No imaginary Ricki could compare with the flesh and blood version. Especially when she’d parted her legs just enough for him to see the tiny little bow not at the top of her mound, but right between her thighs.
Open this present, why don’t you?
Christ. He rubbed a hand over his scalp and realized it was damp. He was actually sweating.
He never should have come here.
She whimpered and his vision sharpened. He didn’t see the snug shirt or the little bikini panties or her silken skin anymore. All he could see was the panicked shape of her lips, and the dance of electricity under her eyelids. She was having a nightmare.
Fuck, what should he do?
Get your ass out of here before she realizes you broke in to watch her sleep, stalker.
Without warning, she shot straight up in bed, a scream ripping from her throat. Her eyes flashed open and latched on his, terrified blue to probably equally manic brown.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Or moved. He watched as her shoulders tensed and relaxed, her lids lowering as she sucked in air. Then she glanced down at herself and back up at him, her lips drawing as tight as the pale brown nipples he could just glimpse through her threadbare nightshirt.
“You.”
He swallowed, completely at a loss for words. This was where he was supposed to sit at her side and comfort her. Soothe her with soft platitudes while he rubbed her back and did not wonder if her panties were wet.
