He burst out laughing, surprising even himself, and then convulsed harder, pulling me in as if it were contagious.
“Get out!” Chance thundered.
We turned and ran for the door, both laughing like idiots while Frankie screamed impotent threats behind us. We raced down the front steps, and the musician stumbled and crashed hard on the front lawn. I followed, and we lay on our backs, laughing between wheezing breaths.
“I don’t believe we’ve officially met.” I offered my hand. “Holden Parish.”
“Miller Stratton.”
We shook, and then a menacing sex-on-a-stick shadow fell over us.
“And who’s the Brute Squad?”
Miller clutched his sides, barely able to speak. “R-Ronan Wentz.”
I thrust my hand straight up. “A pleasure.”
Ronan crossed his arms, one of which had blood smeared down to his wrist. “Crazy bastards.”
“How did you do that?” I asked Miller, wiping my eyes.
“Do what?”
“Play and sing like you did. Like…a fucking miracle.”
He shook his head, though I could see my words had touched him. “Nah. Everyone’s heard that song. It’s a million years old.”
“They’ve heard the song, but you put your soul out there. That’s not something people hear every day.”
Chance slammed open the front door. “I said, get the fuck off my property!”
He charged down the stairs toward us, River following after, his expression still hard and carefully composed.
I did that. I sucked his smile away like the vampire I am.
A blond girl brought Miller’s guitar case to him, and then it was time to go. He and Ronan and I raced for the refuge of James and his Mafia-looking sedan.
“Good evening, James,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to remove my friends and me from the immediate area?”
James didn’t ask questions but did as I asked, which was what I loved best about him. That and he drove like Harvey Keitel inPulp Fiction.
“Home, sir?” he asked, calmly weaving the sedan down darkened streets at breakneck speeds.
“Fuck no.” I turned to my new companions. “Thoughts, gentlemen?”
Miller and Ronan exchanged glances, and then the big guy nodded once.
“My place,” Miller said. “The Lighthouse Apartments.”
James navigated tree-lined streets to a poorer neighborhood called the Cliffs. It was a ten-minute drive. He made it in five, then parked the car in a crappy parking lot with cracked pavement and carports made of aluminum siding.
“Cozy,” I said. “After-party at Chez Stratton?”
“Not quite.” Miller jerked his chin at James. “How long will he wait?”
“As long as I need him to.” I lit a clove cigarette and waved away the smoke and their curious stares. “Fear not. James is being well compensated for his time.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
