Page 63

Riot concentrates on lifting a corner of the label on his beer.

Kodiak joins us and we all fall into our usual easy conversation. Only Riot stays quiet. His fingers work the label off one tiny millimeter at a time.

His gaze flicks to mine. Returns to the label. I focus on the conversation. Try to. I can feel him staring. It’s burning a hole in my senses.

He almost has the label off when I look again. His eyes drag me in. They hold me hostage. They tell me he’s far from giving up.

Or maybe that’s what I want to see in them.

20

Kelsey

I’m stretched out on the couch in the green room when the guys file in. Three of them anyway.

Riot isn’t among them. He’s no doubt off somewhere with Sonatina. Pandering to her every whim. Adjusting L.A. Riot’s show for her benefit. Or acting the lovesick fucking fool for some radio station or media outlet.

“Sit up,” Bronx tells me, and when I press up on my elbows, he slides into the spot where my head was.

I rest my head on his arm as Kodiak drops down on the other end of the couch. Bending my knees, I dig my toes under his thigh. He wraps a hand around my ankle.

I love that he’s tactile. I need that touch to ground me.

Riot loved touching me too. When we were pretending nothing was going on between us, he was always finding reasons to touch me. That didn’t really change when we hated each other. It’s like we’re each other’s air, and touch allows us to breathe.

I press a hand to my belly. I’m hollow inside. When will it stop feeling like I’m suffocating? When will he stop being what I need? When will telling people I don’t want him start to sound true to my own ears?

“Doing okay, Kels?” Bronx places his hand on my belly. “Not feeling well?”

“I’m good.” Riot’s not here. He’s not mine. He can be all over Sonatina if that’s what he wants. Kissing... touching... leaving hickeys on her neck and lying about it. I really don’t care.

Not when my needs are being met by Kodiak, Bronx, and Golden. My heart tries to chime in with an ache that says I might be lying to myself a little bit.

“Water?” Golden asks from the refreshment table.

The rest of us give a chorus of “yes.”

Snagging four bottles, he brings them over and hands them out before sinking onto the other couch by himself. He stretches out and takes a drink before holding the open bottle on his knee. “I’m so sick of that bitch.”

There’s grumbled assent from Bronx and Kodiak.

“What’s she done now?” I drink a portion of water and close the cap. Tossing it up in the air, I catch it like a ball. My hands just need something to do. Otherwise, they’ll form fists that want to target her face. And I don’t have my rings on.

“Rearranged the setlist,” Bronx says.

“Added a couple of her hits.” Golden sneers. “Like we’re her fucking opening act.”

The bottle spins end over end. The water inside sloshing up the clear sides of the bottle with each turn. She’s messing with my guys. My band. My setlists. “Witches melt, right? What happens when you douse a bitch in a clear liquid? Say... gasoline?”

“Third degree burns,” Kodiak says, staring at his fingernails. “Almost guaranteed death in the long term.”

That was very Dizzy-toned of him.

“We can handle her,” Bronx says. “It’s one tour.”

“One long tour,” Golden says.

I flip the bottle back up. Catch it when it comes down.