Regardless of what I overheard or what theories my mind is intent on venturing into, at present, Axel is still my paragon of heroism. Once I see something to the contrary, there’s no erasing it. Our relationship will be forever tainted, every memory charred with betrayal. And I’m not ready. That probably classifies me as childish and gullible. But we aren’t handed an abundance of treasures in this life. My brothers are mine. I won’t make a flippant decision to bury them.
Back to the investigation into my mother’s past—without the physical history to rely on, I chose to unearth everything I could about where she had grown up via the internet.
Turns out, Giuseppe Balzano and his son lived next door to my mom when she was young. Giuseppe remarried when his son, Giovanni, was a teen. And they relocated with their new family to Las Vegas. That property has long since been sold, and I can’t find much about the boy who would have been my mom’s age, except I did happen upon a Facebook discussion about their high school class, where she was discussed. The conversation eventually devolved into a remembrance of how my mom only had eyes forJohnny, but probably never saw him after he moved to Vegas.
It so happens that Johnny is a common nickname for Giovanni.
I’d be willing to bet this guy was my mother’s slow dance with blueberries and rain. And I’m guessing she saw him at least twotimes after he moved. There are two listings for Giuseppe Balzano in Nevada, but at first glance, they don’t appear to be the correct age. There are also a handful of variations of the name Johnathan Balzano in Vegas, so that could be a possibility.
The thing is, now that I’m here, I’m nervous to dig too deeply, both due to the threat Axel spoke of and because my whole identity is hitched to being a Noire. No matter who this guy is, he’s not that.
So, I guess I’ve exposed my greatest fear—not being a Noire.
When I hashed out my plan back home, detailed that UPS route, conned Jax into taking me shopping, and escaped in the light of day, I felt vindicated and laser-focused on unveiling the truth. But as the minutes ticked by, my tenacious commitment waned.
The journey out here took five days. I settled on a zigzagged path, changing wigs and clothes each time I boarded a bus or train in a random direction. My brothers have endless resources. And that’s aside from Wells’s crew and their expertise. Meticulous scheming was crucial if I wanted to remain hidden.
I’m not expecting to evade them forever because one way or another, they’ll track me down. And I know Jax is probably utterly untethered, which has had me barely able to roll out of bed myself. But that text about needing to breathe that I sent to Ty was the truth.
After being cocooned my entire life, fresh air doesn’t taste as enticing as expected though. It’s rather daunting.
That was why I contacted Ty. Well, that, and the bottom of a chardonnay bottle was goading me to do it. I never back down from a dare.
In my drunken state, I decided it was time for two things to happen: to stop being alone and to determine who I could trust.
Fingers crossed that Ty is a double feature.
If not, fuck it. I’m at a loss for where to go next.
Janis Joplin may have been completely insane.
Nothing left to lose, and I’ve never felt more caged.
Even the freedom of relaxing at a nightclub without the vigilanteye of my brothers is an absolute letdown. Maybe if Ivy and Celeste were here.
Of course, it’s also fueled me with an audacious screw-it mentality regarding Ty. So, we’ll see how that pans out. There could be hope for Joplin yet.
Vic, a bartender at this fine establishment, passes me an appletini—a black olive and three green apple slices speared inside. “You gonna sing for us again tonight, darling?”
“That’s a negative.” I pluck out the fruit and sip the tart cocktail, peering at him over the rim. “Fender tried to schedule me for tomorrow, but I haven’t committed yet. Either way, I’m a simple patron this evening.”
Fender is the entertainment manager—a nice guy in his thirties, who I bonded with over hospitality industry shop talk.
“Nothing simple about you, sweet cheeks.” That nauseating term of endearment springs from the other bartender—the slimy one—Kipper, whose face makeup resembles Gene Simmons from Kiss.
“Ooh.” I set my glass down on the bar top and pin him with a disappointed glower. “Tell me Vegas girls don’t like that. Sweet cheeks? Gross.”
Vic bursts into laughter, the side of his face not covered by his Phantom of the Opera mask lighting up as he whips Kipper’s bicep with a rag. “The lady has a point.”
Kipper scowls at him before bending toward me, his eyes romping in what appears to be his best come-hither ogle. “I think the rest of what I’m offering means I get to call them whatever I want.”
Craning my neck so that I can see past the cocky asshole, I direct my attention back at Vic. “Are they all like this? There were a few loose-lipped egos last night too.” I thrust a hitchhiker thumb toward the stage, where my welcome was even rockier—or more specifically, the exit behind the stage. “In fact, their lines were cringier.”
Vic shoves Kipper to the side, silently instructing him to take someone else’s order. “Fender mentioned that the bouncers had tostep in because a few guys gave you a hard time. Tell me that’s not where that shadow on your cheek is from.”
Fuck.I thought I’d covered that up better. Oh well. I refuse to give those dicks any credit. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
“You see those guys here again or anyone else gives you any more trouble, you report it to Fender, security, or me right away,” he says before he saunters to another customer.
