Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  “You’re taller, but I’m solid muscle. I’ve knocked out guys twice as tall as you.”

  “But you haven’t knocked me out,” I chuckle.

  “Yet,” he grunts.

  I sigh. The truth is, I don’t want to get all banged up teaching this guy a lesson. I want to meet that Guitar Goddess. I know most chicks usually love a guy who can fight, but there’s too many cops outside on Sunset this time of night. I don’t want to get cuffed and stuffed and miss a chance to chat up the guitar goddess.

  So I ignore Bull Locomotive and continue waddling behind a few hundred people as we inch toward the door.

  What seems like an hour later, I’m finally passing through the front doors. Tony is there with two other bouncers, keeping an eye out for bad behavior.

  I wonder if Bull Breath is going to follow me around the corner or start shit in front of the bouncers. If he starts up in front of Tony and the boys, he’s stupider than I thought. Or he’s having second thoughts about fighting me and he’s hoping the bouncers will jump in before he gets hurt.

  Who knows.

  When I say goodnight to Tony, Bull Breath doesn’t do anything.

  I know if I hang with Tony for awhile, he will be happy to chat, and Bull Breath might get the message and wander off. But then I might miss the Guitar Goddess. For all I know, she’s climbing into some limo right now. Or the band’s van. It’s not like they’re The Rolling Stones.

  Fuck it. I keep walking and head around the side of the building for the back doors.

  And Bull Breath follows.

  Fine. But we’ll have to make it quick.

  Chapter 15

  KELLAN

  “Kick his ass!” someone yells from the crowd of Skin Trade fans circled around me in the alley behind The Cobra Lounge as I dance out of range of Bull Breath’s flying fists.

  The gloomy alley glows orange from all the city lights bouncing off the moisture hanging in the air. One thing about L.A., the only time you ever see stars is when they’re walking the Red Carpet.

  Bull Breath swings on me about twenty times, but every blow misses because I’m dodging with sidewinder steps or deflecting the guy’s meaty hands with carefully timed open-hand blocks.

  No matter what he does, he can’t lay a finger on me.

  I haven’t swung on him once. After half a dozen misdemeanor lock ups for brawling when I was younger, I avoid fights at all costs. My music career is way more important. If the cops show up now, I won’t have a single offensive wound on my hands.

  Bull Breath tries to rush me, but I pivot my hips and squat down, jamming my knee into the bundle of nerves that runs behind the head of Bull Breath’s fibula, just below the outside of his knee. I don’t even take my foot off the ground. It just looks like I’m squatting down and turning my hips.

  Bull Breath’s knee buckles when I hit it with mine, and he stumbles forward, nearly face-planting on the cement before his hands go down to break his fall. He still has forward momentum, so he looks like he’s running on all fours.

  Finally, he has to stop and rest at the far side of the ring of bystanders. He pants heavily in front of two random guys wearing Wild Child concert shirts.

  Bull Breath bends over at the waist and rests his elbows on his knees while he catches his breath.

  He’s getting tired.

  If I wear him out completely, everyone walks away happy.

  Someone yells, “Kill him!”

  I turn and see the yeller is the Metal Up Your Ass kid who got trampled by Bull Breath inside the mosh pit an hour ago. The kid’s eyes gleam with excitement as he shouts, “Kick his ASS!!!”

  That boy wants blood.

  I chuckle to myself. Although it would be nice to teach Bull Breath a lesson about picking on people his own size, I think Metal Up Your Ass can go home and get plenty of blood on his xBox or PS3 and no one’ll be the worse for wear.

  I notice the five Skin Slave babes I talked to inside are part of the circle watching the spectacle.

  One of them shouts, “Hit him, Kellan!”

  Not gonna happen.

  I need to end this quickly and peacefully, not make things worse. I want to go find that Guitar Goddess before she leaves.

  Bull Breath finally stands upright and flexes his fists. He wants more.

  Where are the zookeepers when I need them? I could totally use one of those tranquilizer guns right about now.

  Bull Breath charges and I do the matador dance again, spinning away. I give Bull Breath a boot in the ass for good measure because I’m getting impatient.

  The crowd suddenly parts and Bull Breath stumbles headlong into a telephone pole beside the building. He doesn’t hit with his head, but his shoulder connects with a loud CRACK!

  He sags against the pole and slides down, his neck grinding along the coarse wood. He’s gonna have neck slivers. Serves him right. He gets up slowly, shaking it off. Then his face shrinks down to a pinhole of pain and he grunts. His shoulder that hit the pole looks weird. He touches it gingerly with his other hand.

  I think he broke his collarbone, that’s why it looks wrong. He’s not moving the injured arm at all.

  “Fuck,” he hisses.

  Excellent.

  My work is done.

  Oh, wait. Not quite.

  Bull Breath glares at me with his pinhole eyes. His heavy browed face is dark with anger, “I’m gonna fuck your shit up, motherfucker.”

  I gotta give the guy credit, he’s got a lot of heart. Not much in the way of brains. But plenty of heart.

  I smile at him, “Any time you’re ready.” This should be easy. He’s already out of commission, but he’s too stupid to realize it.

  He charges me, pumping his arms, but as soon as the injured arm goes up, he drops to his knees in agony. The whole shoulder on that side dangles six inches lower than it should. I think he tore some cartilage. A lot of cartilage. That’s gonna take forever to heal. I hope he has good insurance.

  Not my problem.

  Do I play Good Samaritan and call 911?

  Naw, he can find someone else to help him. I’ve wasted enough of my time on him already.

  At that moment, good fortune smiles upon me, which it usually does, and one of the back doors of The Cobra Lounge opens up.

  Destiny walks right out, in all her tight leather heavy metal glory.

  Chapter 16

  VICTORY

  I open the back door of The Cobra Lounge and walk right into Brown Eyes. More precisely, the headstock of my Fender hits him in the stomach.

  “Oof!” he laugh grunts. “I knew you were dangerous with that thing!”

  “Sorry!” I blurt. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he grins.

  We stand there staring at each other like dumb teenagers.

  Wow, he’s really hot now that I’m standing toe to toe with him. Tall, athletic, rugged, and leading man handsome. His muscled arms are covered in sexy tattoos.

  He runs a hand through his hair, his biceps and triceps flexing like he’s posing for a photo shoot for “Sexiest Man Alive” only he’s not. He sounds bashful when he says, “You were awesome back there.”

  “Back where?” I’m suddenly flustered. I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  “Onstage?” he says uncertainly. “With your band?” He raises his eyebrows “Playing guitar?”

  “Oh,” I smile. Wow, I sound like an idiot. I feel my cheeks heat. I know I’m blushing. What’s wrong with me? I have a boyfriend. He’s inside the green room of The Cobra Lounge, twenty feet behind me. An image of Suit Guy flashes in my head and my flush fades as I go cold. Something is wrong with Scott, I know it.

  “Love the Strat,” Brown Eyes says.

  “What?” I’m totally confused.

  He flicks his eyes at my guitar, “Your Strat?”

  “Oh, uh, thanks.”

  “I take it you’re a Hendrix fan? You dropped that Purple Haze lick into your song onstage.”

  “You caught that?
” I say skeptically.

  “Totally,” he smiles. He has really nice teeth.

  A voice in my head says, Hello! You have a boyfriend!

  I grin stupidly at Brown Eyes. I’m going to get into trouble if I keep talking to him.

  He says, “You’re a big fan of Yngwie, aren’t you?”

  He sure asks a lot of questions. Usually guys as hot as him are dumber than doorknobs. He’s way too cute to know who Yngwie is.

  “Yeah,” I say nervously. I need to get away from him. Now. I look around for the best escape route. Down the alley behind The Cobra, or out to the side street? I’ll be alone in the alley with Brown Eyes if I go that way. Not a good idea. Bad things might happen. The kind of bad things I like.

  To the side street!

  My heels click-clack across the bumpy asphalt in the alley.

  Brown Eyes falls into step beside me and says, “Your Marshall sounds awesome. Did you have it modified, or is it a stock head?”

  He’s talking about my amplifier, the one I use on stage. I say, “It’s stock, but I use a DOD Overdrive pedal for my leads, sometimes a Tube Screamer, just like—”

  “—Yngwie,” he finishes.

  I smile at him. How did he know that?

  My head shouts at me, What are you thinking, girl! B-O-Y-F-R-I-E-N-D! His name is Scott? Remember him!!!! Back in the green room? Wake up, Wendy Wandering Eyes!

  I start walking again, willing Brown Eyes to leave me alone. Not that I want him to. But he needs to go before I do something as stupid as I’m feeling right now.

  To distract myself, I examine the black stains dotting the cement beneath my feet. I believe the stains are old bubble gum. They’re everywhere in L.A. I wonder idly how many billions of pieces of gum have been spit out of people’s mouths all over L.A. in the past thirty years. Doesn’t anybody use the trash? Heathens.

  I nervously notice Brown Eyes hasn’t disappeared. We’re walking down the sloped sidewalk toward Sunset Boulevard, through a crowd of people who’ve obviously just come out of The Cobra from seeing my show.

  “That’s her!” someone shouts and points at me.

  “Victory!” another guy hollers.

  I might have gone unnoticed walking amongst this rock and roll crowd in my black leather stage costume, but the creamy white Fender Strat in my hands is a dead giveaway I’m with the band. Now everyone is circling around me like I’m famous, which I’m totally not. This is too weird. I turn on my heel and head back up the sidewalk, trying to escape.

  “You’ve got fans,” Brown Eyes chuckles beside me.

  “Don’t you have some place to be?” He’s totally creeping me out. But every time I look at him, I don’t want him to go anywhere. He’s too beautiful to be creepy.

  I need to get back inside the Cobra and hide from him and everybody else.

  “Kellan!” a group of girls in Skin Slave t-shirts squeal as they surround Brown Eyes.

  Talk about fans. The five rocker girls are fawning all over Brown Eyes like he’s a movie star. Maybe he is. This is Hollywood. I don’t really care either way. I’m just happy they’ve intercepted him and I don’t have to worry about him following me.

  He grins at the girls like it’s Christmas and Santa left a bunch of slutty women under the tree for him.

  I roll my eyes.

  Men.

  I turn the corner and walk behind The Cobra Lounge and head toward the back door.

  When I reach it, I discover it has no knob. I didn’t think to check for one on my way out five minutes ago because doors usually have knobs on both sides. Duh. Oh well, last time I make that mistake. I pound on the steel door with the bottom of my fist.

  “Hey! Wait up!” Brown Eyes hollers as he trots around the corner of the building.

  Someone needs to open the back door and let me in. But nobody does. I glance at Brown Eyes and say, “Don’t you have your fangirls to attend to?”

  “Huh?”

  “Those Skin Slaves back there? The ones worshipping you?”

  He frowns, then a cocky grin settles onto his luscious lips. “Jealous?”

  My eyes flick between his lips and his smoldering eyes. Lips, eyes, lips, eyes, lips, eyes…Snap out of it!

  He nods confidently, “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  I shake my head and give him my best standoffish look. “No,” I say dismissively.

  He’s not buying it.

  “What?” I scoff. “You need to check your ego, buddy.” Pretending like I’m bored of him, I pound on the door again and tap my foot impatiently. Nobody answers.

  Brown Eyes asks, “Want me to hold your guitar?”

  “Huh?” I shake my head. “I can hold my own guitar.”

  “Just offering,” he shrugs.

  The back door is not opening. I’d kick it, but I don’t want to scuff my spiked platforms. I paid good money for them.

  “So, uh…” Brown Eyes stammers into silence. He sounds slightly nervous. He doesn’t seem like the type, not when he has all those ladies chasing him.

  “Don’t you have some place to be?” I ask a second time.

  “Nope.”

  Sigh. He’s not making this easy on me. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. Even in my peripheral vision, he’s a sight to behold. Pretending I don’t want to ogle him is becoming increasingly difficult.

  He suddenly leans against the steel door of the Cobra with his elbow, causing his arm muscles to bulge impressively and his torso to curve languorously. His t-shirt lifts above his jeans, revealing a row of chiseled abs.

  Mmmm, muscles. Scott doesn’t have muscles like this. Most men don’t have muscles like this.

  Stop looking!, my head shouts.

  I clear my throat, which is now filled with frogs, and I start coughing.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yuh-yes,” I hack, trying to smile my way through the frogs.

  He grins.

  I melt.

  This is bad. I pound on the steel door. There’s a reason it doesn’t have a knob on the outside. Because it wants to make a fool of me. It’s working. Stupid door.

  I realize the cold fear that had chilled me when Scott practically shoved me out of the green room minutes ago is now completely gone. I’m on the verge of a hot flash, and not because of the warm L.A. weather. It’s the hot heap of man meat standing next to me.

  “Can I play your guitar?” Brown Eyes asks suddenly.

  “No! You can’t play my guitar!” Nobody plays my guitar, except me. Or my dad, who owned it for years before officially giving it to me one Christmas when I was a kid.

  Brown Eyes wraps his fingers around the neck like he’s going to take it.

  I tighten my grip.

  He says, “I want to see what the action is like.”

  I growl defensively, “Excuse me?” Then I remember that “action” refers to how high the strings float above the fretboard. I thought he meant something else. Silly me.

  My fingers relax against my will and he takes the guitar from my hands. This is a momentous event. I can’t believe I’m letting him hold my guitar.

  He slings the strap over his shoulder and the guitar hangs just below his neck, comically too high.

  I giggle, “You look like a dork!”

  “I look like a jazz player,” he laughs.

  “Same thing,” I laugh.

  “Pretty much,” he chuckles.

  “Do you even know how to play?”

  He gives me that cocksure grin again and says, “Of course I know how to play.”

  “Smoke On The Water, maybe,” I say derisively. It’s probably the easiest rock song ever written.

  He plucks out the opening chords from the Deep Purple classic with his fingers: G, B-flat, C.

  “Ooh,” I coo, “he can play! You’re a regular virtuoso!” With the guitar up around his neck, I can’t help but laugh at him.

  He doesn’t seem to care, he’s all smiles. It’s a good look for him. Who am I kidding? Ever
y look is a good look on him.

  He lifts the guitar off his shoulders and lowers it to his side.

  That’s what I thought. He’s a total poser. A crappy guitar serenade might get other women to take their pants off for him, but it’s not going to work on me. I make a pouty face, “That all you got?”

  “You got a pick?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  He points at my hand, which still grasps the yellow Tortex guitar pick I used during the show. I forgot it was there. I’m always holding guitar picks without realizing it. It’s a habit.

  I hold it up, “You mean this?”

  He takes it from my fingers, squats down on the ground and squeezes the guitar between his legs, so it’s held at a comfortable playing position for him.

  I’d like to squeeze him between my legs.

  SHUT UP!

  I’m such a bad girl.

  My guitar isn’t plugged into an amp, but in the relative quiet of the alley behind The Cobra, I can hear just fine as he picks out a pearl necklace of juicy notes from my Fender in the form of an E minor arpeggio. The strings sing and I nod appreciatively.

  Then he starts sweep picking again, his fingers flying across all six strings in an elegant dance as his left hand works up and down the neck.

  Wow, he’s really good.

  He looks up and gives me a smarmy smile.

  “Showboater,” I say.

  “Yup,” he grins, stands, and offers me my guitar.

  “Aren’t you gonna serenade me some more?”

  “Only if you pay extra,” he says with an insinuating grin.

  I actually want to see what all he knows after that display. I bet we could trade licks and teach each other a thing or two. “My purse is inside. I don’t have any cash on me.”

  “There’s other ways to pay…” he says suggestively.

  My head shouts at me, STOP! YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND!

  I clamp my teeth shut in a wide smile, keeping the objection to myself.

  The next thing I know, Brown Eyes is leaning toward me, leading with his lusciously lickable lips. His glimmering eyes burn into mine.

  I press back against the steel door behind me, willing myself to pass through it like a ghost, but it’s solid metal. I’m stuck! No escape!