by Rylee Swann
As I turn down my street, I get this weird tingling sensation at the back of my neck. Laughing it off as the beginnings of frostbite, I lock up my bike and head into my crap apartment.
Opening the front door, two steps in I’m greeted with blinding pain and am down on my ass. Stunned, I look up and barely make out the features of the guy who cleaned my clock.
Dear old Dad.
Fuck.
I loathe him.
“Pussy,” he growls. “Can’t even take a fucking punch. I hardly touched you.”
Ignoring him, I make myself comfortable on the floor. My head and eye hurt like hell. I’m going to have quite the shiner.
“What do you want?” I want to scream but instead automatically revert to the neutral tone that is always necessary in this situation.
“Is that any way to greet your old man, boy?”
I just look at him until he snorts and heads to the refrigerator. Rummaging inside, he pulls out a bottle of beer, twists the cap, and takes a long chug.
“Why the fuck you keep turning down the LAs?” He belches then wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “I didn’t raise you to be no fucking pansy-ass, did I?”
Same tune, different day. I hoist myself back onto my feet and hold on to the doorknob, hoping I’ll be opening it soon to usher his ass out.
“I’m not having this conversation with you. Again.”
He shakes his head in what is obviously disgust. “Too fucking good for the club, eh?”
“Like I said, Dad…” This time I don’t disguise my own disgust. “This topic is closed.”
“Fucking kid.” He shakes his head. “Least you can do is get me a sandwich.”
I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “What?”
“Bread and cheddar.” Smirking at me, he walks closer to the kitchen table like he’s going to have a seat, stay a while. “C’mon, boy, I got bills to pay.”
I sigh and run my hand through my hair, making my head throb more.
“So that’s why you’re really here?”
“Well, I didn’t come for the sparkling company.”
I don’t argue and pull out my wallet. My dad is sixty-something but still built like a brick shithouse. I simply don’t want to take him on. It’s not worth it. Plus, he still has strong ties to the LAs—once in the club, always in the club and all that shit, even though he doesn’t hang with them much anymore. I don’t need the hassle.
“I only have around eighty dollars on me. I’m not a walking fucking bank.” I hold out the bills to him.
“It’ll do.” He grunts and grabs the money. “For now.”
I open the door and wait for him to step through.
“Nice seeing ya, Dad.” My tone is drenched in sarcasm.
At the door, he stops, the harsh light highlights his pockmarked face and pale skin stretched thin over a bulbous nose. “Change your mind about joining up, boy, if you know what’s good for ya.”
I don’t reply and gratefully shut and lock the door—not that it’ll keep him out—once he’s gone. I stand there for a moment, concentrating on my breathing, trying to calm down. He’s not worth it, I tell myself.
In the bathroom, I survey the damage to my face in the mirror. My left eye is bloodshot and the area surrounding it is already turning a nasty shade of purple. My head is pounding, my whole body shaking with impotent rage.
Fuck.
I could use a friend to talk to. Someone who won’t judge, who won’t try to tell me what to do. Who’ll just listen and empathize.
Raven… Dawn.
I grab a bottle of aspirin, open it and shake out a couple. Chewing them, I grimace at the bitter taste and retrace my path back down to my bike. To Dawn.
The cold wind that hits my face as I drive to Dawn’s feels good, seems to freeze away the pain. Even if it’s temporary, I’ll take it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a fight. These days, I mostly just keep my head down and work, keep my nose clean. I’d forgotten what a hard punch feels like. It’s unpleasant, to say the least. The pain of a fight had always been made better by knowing the other guy felt as bad or worse than I did.
Not this time. Sucker punched by a lame-ass coward hurts worse.
Roaring up Dawn’s street, I find a relatively convenient parking spot, pull in, turn off the engine and swing my leg over to dismount. I’m looking forward to seeing her even if she gives me shit. I start walking to her building, turn back to make sure my bike is okay where it is, and collide head-on with someone.
Dawn.
A smile automatically pulls at my lips but the look of horror on her face freezes it midway.
“Fringe, oh no. What happened?” She reaches her hand out toward the left side of my face but stops.
As always, she’s gorgeous. Her flame red hair blows in the breeze, her green eyes bright and dancing though clouding now with concern that brings out my alpha male bravado.
I lift a shoulder. “Nothing, really. No big deal.”
Why am I being an ass? I came here to talk to her about this.
“Looks like a big deal to me. Looks like it hurts, too. What happened?”
I force myself to ratchet down the stupid macho gene, and relent. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”
“Of course. Let’s go upstairs.” She means to the penthouse, where she lives with her parents. I’m not up for a confrontation like that and hesitate. “They’re not home.” Her tiny fist lays a light jab on my arm. “We’ll have the place to ourselves. C’mon.”
Apparently, Dawn can read me as easily as I read Harley maintenance manuals. I nod and follow her to her apartment building. It’s a fancy place. Her parents are not the only famous people in residence. By the looks of the man-wall of a doorman, I’d say he’s a former cop. That or a linebacker.
“Hey, Matt,” Dawn says as he opens the door for her.
He gives her a little mock salute and gestures to me. “He with you?”
“Yeah, he’s cool.”
“Hell of a shiner, kid.” He’s still holding the door open.
I step through, offering only a nod. I’m not a kid. When will people stop calling me that? Or boy. I fucking hate that, but try not to let my anger that’s been rolling just beneath the surface since my dad surprised me boil over.
“Hello, again, Miss Fahr. That didn’t take long,” the weathered front desk clerk says with a smile, his military precision obvious in the way he sits. He’s probably retired army.
Whoever manages this building takes the security of their tenants seriously.
Good. I know how much Dawn hates the paparazzi and even though they’re not as demanding here as they are in the States, they still manage to pester her to distraction. I’m glad she’s safe here.
“Change of plans, Henry. Ran into my friend on the way out.” She jerks her thumb at me.
“Hey.” I try to keep my head averted and hide the ugly bruise on my face. He probably saw anyway and is too polite to make mention of it. Not like the grunt at the door.
“Good day to you, sir.” He picks up a pen and smooths down a page in the large open book on the desk in front of him. “I’ll just note that you have a guest.” He looks at me. “Name…?”
Dawn giggles. “Go on, tell him your name.”
A wry smile forms on my lips and I turn to face Henry. “You can put down that Fringe Shaw is visiting Raven Dawn Fahr.” I wait for the third degree about my name to start.
“Fringe. Heck of a name you were saddled with. Go right along. Elevator should be here, Miss Fahr. Haven’t seen a soul since you came down in it a few minutes ago.”
Dawn giggles harder and we say “thanks” in unison.
“That was so funny!” Dawn explodes once we’re in the elevator. “Heck of a name you were saddled with,” she mimics.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” I try to keep a straight face but I’m amused too, and pleasantly surprised. “Which floor?” I hover my finger over the buttons, waiting.
“Top f
loor, of course. Penthouse.” She sneaks in and presses the button before I have a chance to find it. “Hey, haven’t you ever been here before?”
I shake my head no, and she looks stunned, her big green eyes wide and shiny.
“In six years you’ve never been here? Wait, so that means you’ve never met my parents?”
I shake my head again. “No, never met them. Never been to your place. How do you not know this?” I lean back against the elevator wall and smile. “Just how fried is your brain?” I’m teasing her and she knows it.
She laughs. “I never thought about it. We’re always at Lucifer’s or your shop or your craptastic apartment.” Now she’s teasing me back and a warm, comfortable feeling spreads through me. “Hell, I’d think you’d want to spend all your time here instead of there.”
I know she’s teasing. The less than elegant state of my apartment has always been fair game.
“Hey, I prefer my crap over all this glitz and glamor.”
We’re both laughing as the elevator doors open. I’m expecting a hallway but all I see is a door and a smallish space in front of it.
“What is this?” My forehead creases. It looks like a private foyer.
“We have the entire top floor. I think there used to be, like, four or five suites up here but Mom and Dad bought it all and remodeled to make it one gigantic penthouse.”
She unlocks the door, throws it open, and bids me entry with a mock flourish.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rebecca Dawn
“Follow me to the bathroom,” I say as Fringe enters the apartment. “That eye must hurt like a mofo.”
“Wait. I want to look around.”
“Later.”
“Now.” He laughs. “I’m a big boy. I can handle a little pain. ‘Sides, it’s not the first time.”
I shrug and step back, letting him go where he wants. He’s all wide-eyed and staring at everything. It’s annoying. He’s acting like some starstruck fan boy.
“So, what did happen to your eye?” I trail after him as he moves down the hallway.
“Where are they?” he asks like he didn’t even hear me.
“Huh? Where are what?”
He looks back at me with a devilish little smile. “The Icarus trilogy paintings. I’ve always wanted to see them.” He heads off again and I stop him. “What? Where are they? I mean, c’mon. Who wouldn’t want to see them? They’re famous. Brandon Fahr and three unnamed models rolling around in the act while covered in paint? Brilliant. He’s a genius.”
“Ummm, that’s my dad you’re talking about so… ewww.” I cover my eyes. “I don’t want to think about him like that, you know… fucking.”
Fringe laughs. “Like you haven’t seen them.”
“Yeah, well, duh. I wish I hadn’t seen them.”
“So show me.”
“You know,” I try to distract him, “Rachel St. Claire has a recording studio here.”
That stops him cold. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s not that big but it works for her when she’s practicing or doing demos and stuff.”
“Okay, that you have got to show me.” His eyes are lit up like sparklers on Canada Day and I’m reminded again of just how stunningly dreamy he is.
“Follow me.” I dash off, looking back at him and grinning.
“Oh, baby doll, you better not be screwing with me.” He laughs, amused, and runs after me.
Because Mom and Dad combined so many apartments into this one huge one, the place is kind of like a jigsaw puzzle. If you don’t know where you’re going, you can get turned around, maybe even lost. There’s even more than one way to get to some of the rooms. I think Dad worked with the architects and did it this way on purpose, the artist in him making our home a work of art.
I take Fringe through the twists and turns—Mom’s studio is all the way at the back—and he pokes his head into some of the rooms as we pass. I’m thankful that my parents’ bedroom door is closed—that’s where the Icarus paintings are.
“Stop dawdling.” I disappear around a corner and he sprints to catch up. “Here it is.” I stop and point to the glass-enclosed studio.
His mouth drops open.
“Don’t you look intelligent like that,” I tease.
He snaps his trap shut, slowly opens the door and steps inside.
He doesn’t waste any time and picks up one of several guitars on a large stand. It’s an acoustic, an older one of Mom’s. He holds it reverently for a moment, then tentatively strums it and winces.
“It’s out of tune.”
I’m kind of amazed he could tell so quickly. He seems distressed by this and I laugh. “So tune it.”
A slow smile spreads across his face and he pulls up a stool Mom sometimes sits on when singing. Leaning an ass cheek against it, he brings the guitar up and fiddles with the tuning pegs while the fingers of his other hand press on the strings. His forehead is creased in concentration. I’ve never seen him so, I don’t know, happy. He looks at home. I’ve seen that look a million times on Uncle Milo and Uncle David, countless other studio musicians, and even Mom.
“Can you see through that shiner?” I’m concerned that he’s letting his passion overrule common sense about that eye.
He nods absently, then answers in a quiet, almost singsong voice. “Sure can, baby doll. It’s all good.”
When he finishes tuning, the old acoustic sounds amazing.
“Play something.”
He doesn’t need a second invitation and adjusts his fingers on the strings. In only a few chords I recognize the song—one of Mom’s early megahits—and snort at his choice. I know the words and break into song.
Fringe looks up at me, startled, then smiles and joins me on the chorus. Together, we finish the song.
“Damn, baby doll, you got a set of pipes on you.”
I smile at the praise but shrug it off. “I sound too much like my mom.”
“Yeah, a little, but you definitely have your own sound. Your own unique voice.” He nods. “I like it.”
“Anyway…” I’m getting a little embarrassed and want to change the subject. “What’s the other guy look like?”
“Huh?”
“Who’d you get in a fight with?”
“Ohhh… it was nothing, really.”
Slapping my hand against my thigh, I whirl on him. I’ve had about enough of his sidestepping and keeping secrets.
“What the fuck, Fringe? Stop keeping all these secrets from me! I thought we shared everything!” I pause to take a breath and he’s too stunned to speak. “Do you know how stupid I felt when Divine told me how you performed like a rock star at Lucifer’s the other night? How the fuck did I not know that you write songs and can perform like that!”
“Whoa, where is this coming from?” He stands and settles the guitar back in its spot. Turning to me, he shrugs. “My dad sucker punched me when I opened the door to my apartment.”
“Aren’t we best friends? Don’t we tell each other every—” What he’s just said registers and diffuses all my anger. “Your dad did that?”
He sighs. “Yeah. Can we get out of here? I feel like I’m trespassing. Where’s your room?”
I nod and lead him quickly to my bedroom. It feels weird. He’s the first guy I’ve brought here and I have to remind myself he’s not my boyfriend. Besides, I don’t even know what the rules are about having a boy in my bedroom. It’s never come up. Surprise, Mom and Dad. I hold in a delicious giggle.
Fringe looks around and then flops down onto my twin bed with a smirk. “You know, for a tomboy, your room looks like it belongs to a girly princess.”
“Shut up,” I squeal in a high-pitched voice. “It does not!” But he’s right. I don’t do dresses or tea parties but my room is frilly, with lots of pink.
He reaches around, pulls a pink teddy bear out from under him and holds it out toward me. “Say again?” Laughing, he tosses it at me.
It drops to the floor and I sco
op it up and flop onto the bed next to Fringe. “No, not Snugaboo!” I settle myself beside him and hold the bear out. “Apologize.”
He bursts into laughter. “Baby doll, I’m crazy in so many ways but I’m not crazy enough to apologize to a stuffed bear.”
I laugh and whack him with it. “I wasn’t serious, doofus.” I gently place Snugaboo on the floor. “Why’d your dad do that to you?”
He runs a hand through his sexy mess of hair and shrugs. “Why the fuck’s that prick do anything? He comes around once in a while looking for money. I give him some and he goes away.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly and lay a hand on his arm.
“S’okay. It’s not your fault.”
“I still don’t get why he punched you, though.”
“Because he’s an asshole.”
“You’re not telling me something.”
His eyes look tired and there’s tiny lines around them I haven’t noticed before. “And we’re not supposed to keep secrets, huh?” I nod and his expression says that he’s resigned himself to giving up the deets. “He’s in the club and he’s pissed at me for turning down the invite to join the Angels.” He frowns and his foot taps out a nervous beat on the bed. “No way in hell am I joining a dumbass motorcycle club. It’s not what I fucking want out of life.”
My heart breaks for him. What a crappy life, especially compared to mine. I complain… a lot, but I know my parents love me and would do anything in the world for me. I can’t imagine having a dad like Fringe’s.
“Change your lock, or move. He can’t force you.”
Fringe chuckles without enthusiasm. “If only it was that simple. No, he can’t force me but he can make my life miserable. I make my living fixing bikes. He might have enough clout to turn away all my business. Then what would I do?”
I know he’s not looking to me for the answers but I wish I had one for him anyway. Instead of offering him useless solutions, I just pat his arm and rest my head against his shoulder.
That’s when Mom’s head appears at the doorway.
