by Mimi Strong
People give me a wide berth. I’m shocked at my own language. I don’t usually swear, but I don’t usually get mugged, either. My vision is blurring, but just on one side. My bruised eye is swelling, already closing against my will. Did the mugger punch me? Or was it just a random elbow from someone in the crowd?
Anger grows in my stomach, like fire.
My face.
My face isn’t worth much, or all that pretty, but it’s mine. I re-open the case and put the guitar inside, on top of the bills and coins. There’s about thirty-five dollars in here, or a tenth of what I had in my wallet.
How could I be so stupid and carry all that money with me? Five days ago, I took all my money out of the bank. I wasn’t sure about finding a branch of my small bank in LA.
Back in the shared house, my bedroom door has a lock, but I don’t know how many people have the key. Until I get the lock changed, I don’t want to leave the money in my room.
Of course now I don’t have any money to worry about.
Gingerly, I touch my fingertips to my swelling eye. What hurts worse, the eye or the lost money? I can’t tell.
Coming here to the west coast was a huge mistake. My anger is pushed away by the powerful emotions of shame and regret. How dare I try to get above my raising and pursue a glamorous life in the city? I should be back home now, feeding chickens.
I don’t belong here. I’m ashamed of myself for dreaming.
My ticket is for a round trip. I can book the next available flight. Would tonight be too soon?
My eyes burn, and I swallow hard to fight back the tears.
Is this how easily I give up on my dreams?
I’m disgusted with myself. I take a seat on the sturdy edge of the closed guitar case and wrap my hands over my knees to stop them from shaking. Okay, I’m just in shock. This FML feeling will pass. All bad things pass. I haven’t even eaten today, and some food will make me feel better… except I’ve got no money to buy food.
Someone hands me a five-dollar bill. It’s the little kid who snatched the money from the guitar case. His angry-looking mother is forcing him to apologize to me.
I accept the money and tell the kid, “No problem.” He looks terrified, probably because of my swelling eye. I offer him a smile to let him know I’m okay.
They walk away. Nobody’s looking, and I could easily slip the five into my pocket, but I stand up and tuck it into the guitar case instead. Being honest isn’t just how I was raised, but what I believe. Do good and good will come to you.
A man’s voice behind me says, “You should keep that as commission.”
I spin around to find the dark-haired singer standing there. His broad shoulders rise and fall with deep, rapid breaths. His black shirt is torn at the neck.
“It’s yours,” I say.
“Keep it as a royalty on the blue shoes.”
He and I aren’t alone on the street. The original tourists are quietly recording us with their phones from a distance.
“Are you hurt?” I ask him, scanning down his body quickly.
I look for signs of blood or other injury. Below the black T-shirt, he wears faded blue jeans, cut tight along the legs and pegged above the top of his boots. The black lace-up boots are military style. I didn’t think I would like that style on a man, but on him, it works. As my eyes move back up, over his muscular thighs, I forget about my worries.
“Yes, I’m hurt,” he says. “Deeply hurt.”
I flick my eyes up to catch him smiling. Deeply hurt. It’s a joke. He’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse.
I get a feeling I should turn around and run.
But I also get a feeling that if I did, he’d just chase me.
He has that look.
He’s a hunter.
Chapter 3
“You’re deeply hurt,” I say. “Where?”
He grins. “I’m deeply hurt my audience didn’t stick around for another song. Typical bunch in this city. Five minute attention span.”
“It’s all my fault.” My hands wave nervously between us.
What am I doing? Am I apologizing for getting mugged? I shut my mouth and stop myself.
He hands me the most wonderful thing: my wallet.
I gasp and clutch it to my heart.
He tips his head to the side, frowning. “Money’s gone, I’m afraid. He tossed the wallet out onto the street two blocks from here. As much as it killed me to not catch the guy and smash him to a pulp, I figured you’d rather have your ID and stuff.”
“Thank you,” I say, still clutching the wallet with both hands.
I look up into his dark eyes, which are even more mysterious now. The sun is directly behind his head, turning the edges of his dark hair into a copper halo.
“What shall I call you?” he asks. “How about Bruiser, on account of that shiner you’re going to have on your eye?”
“I’m Jessica. Everyone calls me Jess. Or Jessie. Or just J.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“I dunno. Jess, I think. Jessie sounds like a tomboy.”
His smile turns into a knowing smirk. “Are you saying you’re not a tomboy? I saw your face when you got knocked down. You looked like you were ready to shit-kick anyone who got in your way.”
I let out my first laugh of the day—possibly my first laugh since arriving in LA.
“Must be the black eye,” I say, smiling. “Makes me look tougher than I am.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” he teases. “We can’t discover how tough we are without getting knocked on our asses a time or two. Only when we’re down do we find out who our true friends are, and how much strength is within us.”
I take a step away, dropping my head forward so my hair swings forward to cover part of my face. This is what I do when I feel uncomfortable in a social situation, which means this is something I do all the time. Especially when a cute guy is talking to me.
“Thanks again for the wallet,” I say.
“Wait. You have no money, and you look like you need lunch.”
“I should get home. People are waiting for me at home.” I lift my head enough to meet his eyes. People aren’t waiting for me. Why am I lying again?
“By people, you mean boyfriend?” he asks.
I press my lips together tightly and nod.
“Jess, that guy’s no good for you, whoever he is. You wouldn’t be wearing those blue shoes if he was. Those are sad shoes.”
I laugh again. I slip my wallet back into my pocket and put my hands on my hips as I lean back to lift the toes of my shoes.
“These are great shoes,” I tell him.
“How so?”
“They’re blue, and they’re suede. Think about it. Elvis. Blue suede shoes. Don’t mess with ‘em.”
He bobs his head from side to side in a subtle, but unmistakable movement. His upper lip curls skyward into an Elvis-like sneer, and his body posture changes to a swagger. He’s channeling The King.
“Thank you, little lady,” he says in an Elvis voice. “Thank you very much.”
I shake my finger at him. “This is good. Now you need to grow out the sideburns, and you’ll have it made as an Elvis impersonator. You just need a sassy white jumpsuit, with rhinestones.” I squint my eye—the one that isn’t swollen shut yet, unlike the other—and pretend to be seeing him in the suit.
He fakes being wounded by my words, covering his heart with his hands. “You didn’t like my original material?”
I’m at a loss for words. Of course I liked his original material. I’ve never heard a voice as rugged and sensual as his. He sounded like so many popular singers, yet completely and distinctively himself.
He lowers his head, peering past his eyebrows at me as he moves closer. His boots clomp on the sidewalk with each step as he comes at me.
I bite my lower lip and back up until my butt hits the boarded up window of the building behind me. Ugh. He’s so cute. I’m acting like such a dork.
He gets closer sti
ll, raising his arms to trap me within his embrace. Both of his palms land on the wall with soft smacks on either side of me.
Here in the shadow of the building, the air is cooler. My scalp tightens, the thin coat of damp sweat on the back of my neck making my skin contract.
Holy crap, this guy is intense. We don’t even know each other, and he’s so close to me, I could practically kiss him.
“We should get some ice,” he says.
My voice squeaks out. “For what?” My eyes go to his lips, and I imagine rubbing an ice cube across the pink skin of his lips, so welcoming within the spiky dark facial hairs dotting his upper lip and chin. Would it scratch my face to kiss someone with stubble? What would the kiss feel like?
“For your eyeball,” he murmurs.
“I’ll be fine. I was raised on a farm, so I’ve been hurt before.”
His expression clouds over with worry. “Who hurt you?”
A shy smile creeps onto my face. “Mostly horses, when they swing their big heads around and knock you over. But plenty of animals will knock you down if you get between them and their food. They don’t mean to. It’s just…”
I pause, because he’s so close to me now, I can smell the scent he’s wearing. The smell could be aftershave, from the smooth part of his neck, or a scented body wash. Or maybe it’s just him. Maybe he smells like that, all over.
“Just what?” he prompts.
I forgot what I was talking about. Horses and pigs? Why am I discussing livestock with this gorgeous man only inches from my face? I finish my sentence anyway. “Just instincts.”
“Humans have instincts, too,” he says, his arms still stretched out on either side of my face, trapping me within the cage of his body. His eyes flick down to my mouth, and he bites his lower lip to mimic me. I grin, and he matches my grin. His dark, mysterious, sparkling eyes move down again, dragging their way down my body. My clothes do nothing to hide me from him.
I’m nervous as hell, but this is the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me. I don’t want the moment to end, so I say nothing.
He smirks at my blue shoes and then his gaze strokes back up my legs, bare under my shorts. I’m thankful I took a moment to put lotion on my legs before I left the house this morning, so they aren’t too shiny. His eyes rove up further, and the expression on his face says that he approves of what he sees. So, maybe I can breathe now.
“My instinct is to protect you,” he says.
“That’s nice, but honestly, I’m tougher than I look. People underestimate me.”
He raises his eyebrows, looking even sexier, which I didn’t think could be possible.
“I’ll take that as a warning,” he says. The sound of his voice is gruff, and reaches down deep inside me, just like when he was singing. “So, Jess, what’s a country girl like you doing here in the City of Angels? Don’t tell me you’re an actress, one of those sad-eyed girls with daddy issues who’s two stiff drinks away from a career in adult entertainment.”
My body stiffens. How dare he be so rude?
“No,” I spit, hurling my answer at his smug face.
“That’s what they all say.” He laughs. A mean laugh.
He might think this is fun teasing, but I was raised to know that even teasing has a kernel of truth. This guy is underestimating me, even though I warned him not to.
I spit more words at him. “I’ve got an internship in the music industry, if you must know. I just got to LA yesterday, and I start my new job tomorrow at the music label.”
He stops laughing and leans back suddenly, dropping his arms and looking awkward. “Which one?”
Now it’s my turn to smirk. “Not one of the big three, but not the smallest of the indies, either. Starts with the letter M.”
“Fucking hell.”
Now I can’t stop grinning. I’m shaking, still jittery from the attack, plus this conversation, but I’m feeling brave and lippy.
“I’m just a lowly intern, but maybe I can put in a good word for you. I liked your song, and you have a good voice.”
“A good voice?” Anger flashes across his face, and this time it’s not anger at someone else, but at me. I’ve insulted him.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “You’re a good guitar player, too. I’m sure you have lots of potential.”
He glowers at me, stepping back to where his guitar case sits on the sidewalk. “You don’t know who I am,” he says.
I felt bad for a minute, but now I’m pissed. How the hell am I supposed to know who this guy is?
He grabs his guitar case, his tattooed bicep bulging as he flexes his arm to adjust the grip. He looks down at the olive green jacket on the sidewalk. He kicks the jacket with the toe of his boot rather than pick it up.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I offer.
He turns his back to me, pausing to peer back over his shoulder. “Take care of that eye. Put some ice on it when you get home.”
He walks away, his boots loud on the sidewalk. After a few paces, he begins to whistle to himself.
I feel the urge to chase after him, but I just stand with my back to the building, my eyes memorizing his angles.
“What’s your name?” I call out after him. He doesn’t answer. “You forgot your jacket!” I yell.
He slows down for a moment, like he’s thinking about coming back, but then he keeps going. His hand flips up. For an instant it looks like he’s waving at someone, but he isn’t. He’s giving me the finger.
I think.
Yes, that’s definitely his middle finger.
What an asshole.
Chapter 4
I pick up the olive green jacket he left behind.
What a weird guy. First he gets my wallet back from a mugger, then he acts like a jerk. Why would he care that I work at a record label? You’d think he’d be nicer if he wants to make it as a singer.
I look around to make sure nobody’s watching. Holding the soft, well-worn fabric to my nose, I take a tentative sniff.
Mmm. The jacket smells like him.
I’ve always wanted a cool army-surplus jacket, but Nan doesn’t approve of girls wearing men’s clothing. She doesn’t mean anything by it. That’s just how her generation is. She likes everything to match, from head to toe. Nan says the only good color of underwear for a lady is white. I don’t ever buy underwear unless it’s white and cotton, because she’ll just throw it out.
Now that I’m living on my own, though, I can wear anything.
I shake the sidewalk dirt from the green jacket and slip one arm into a sleeve tentatively. The jacket is enormous on me. Pulling it on, I stroll down the street until I find a reflective window to use as a mirror.
The cuffs reach down past my fingertips. I like this feeling of smallness, of fitting so neatly inside the shape of the jacket’s owner, like a nesting doll.
This is a good look for me, too. I scruff up my hair, trying to look tougher. With my one eye swelling up, I resemble one of those street kids I’ve seen around, trying to hustle money for a hostel. I shiver at the thought of being homeless. I might have become one of those kids, if I hadn’t had two people looking out for me. Only one of those people is still alive in this world. One day I’ll be completely alone.
The first pangs of a powerful emotion hit me. What am I feeling? I’m not that worried about my eye, because it will heal. Even the roommate situation isn’t so bad, as long as I think of it as an adventure.
I guess what I’m feeling is homesickness. I’ve never been away from home before, so this is new to me. I miss my best friend, even though it’s because of my best friend that I’m here. I wouldn’t have made the trip without the encouragement.
I feel so sad, like I’ve just broken something. And there’s also the feeling of too much wide open space all around me.
Eating some food will help.
My pockets hold a bit of spare change, so I duck into the first coffee shop I come across. I check around for the musician, and I’m both r
elieved and disappointed he’s not here.
After counting up my change carefully, I order a pastry plus a small coffee. I take the small mug and doctor the coffee with cream, sugar, and vanilla powder. Nobody sitting in the cafe acknowledges I’m here. This is so different from back home.
A guy comes in the door. Is it him? My heart jumps up.
No, it’s not my mysterious singer.
I take a seat in the corner and read someone’s discarded newspaper. I pull out my phone a few times to check for messages, but none of my friends have messaged me since the last time I checked. I have a sinking, suspicious feeling they’re all hanging out somewhere. I bet they’re gossiping about me and taking bets about how soon I’ll come home. They’d laugh at me if they knew I was already thinking about that return ticket, not even an hour ago.
They’d laugh, and that’s exactly why I can’t use the ticket. Not yet.
I sit and eat my pastry, pretending I fit in here.
After an hour, I walk back home again.
Back at the house, I fidget with my keys trying to figure out which one is for the top lock. The door swings open.
A skinny guy with long, brown hair blinks at me.
“Hi Caleb, I’m Jess,” I say, extending my hand.
He met me this morning in the bathroom, but we didn’t do introductions. I was too busy running out before he got naked.
He shakes my hand. His fingers are clammy, his handshake weak. “You’re the new girl. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
That’s right. The last time he saw me, I was desperately trying to cover myself with a towel.
“Nice to meet you.” I push my way past him, into the house.
“What the hell!” he says.
Shaking my head, I mutter, “Sorry for pushing. I just want to be alone.”
“Not that. I mean your eye,” he says, jogging to catch up with me. “What happened? Did you call the police yet?”
My homesickness rises up like a tide of anguish. I want to hate Caleb, because he’s just some random creep passing through, but his sympathy is hard to resist.
He follows me into the kitchen, where I open the cupboard with my name scribbled across the door in thick marker. Below my name is the name Diane, crossed out with the same thick marker. The people whose names are on the lease have obviously given up on getting the damage deposit back.
