Page 35 of Of Flame and Fate
“Of course,” I purr at him. He leans back on his heels, watching me peel off my left glove, his stare dragging down the length of the bare skin. The music shifts, growing louder and more obnoxious, not that it distracts the guard. He smiles, approvingly, his expression eager for more. His smile vanishes as I unveil my right arm, the stark white skin and bright blue veins branching across giving him one hell of a pause.
He coughs into his fist, quickly averting his gaze. “You can step through.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, playing dumb. “Don’t like what you see?”
He doesn’t answer. I’m not the perfect woman he mistook me for. I’m deeply flawed and now he knows it. I sashay by him as I slip my gloves back in place. How quickly women go from beautiful to shit in a lowly man’s eyes, and how little he cares who it harms.
I reach for my cell phone waiting for me in the small plastic bin, my fingers sliding over the pretty sparkly case a few times before I think to lift it. I toss the guard a smile over my shoulder. “It’s okay, big guy. My boyfriend loves me, no matter what I look like.”
If he hears me, he doesn’t show it, resuming his wand waving duties. There were several men behind me. I hadn’t noticed them. They noticed me. One guy shrugs, speaking to his buddy and not bothering to censor his remarks. “Her ass is nice and so is her body, just have to keep that other shit covered.”
Nice.
I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and march toward my sisters, trying not to stomp my tall heels against the walkway. I don’t want these assholes to know they hit a nerve. But my feelings aren’t as impenetrable as people think. Anger fills me, as does humiliation, and a little bit of shame although I try to beat all three away. I’m still human after all, and sometimes shit hurts no matter how much you wish it didn’t.
I fiddle with my silver hoop earrings and run my hand down my sleeveless black tiered top, pausing at the way Shayna eyes those men. The wolf side she was gifted with probably wants to fight and protect. That’s understandable. If roles were reversed, I’d fry anyone who treated Shayna this way. Except this was directed at me, making the hug Emme greets me with more difficult to take.
“They don’t know anything about you,” she tells me. “Including your heart.”
I give her squeeze, but don’t allow the embrace to linger. I hate feeling sorry for myself. For better and often worse, me and Sparky have worked things out. We know we’re stuck together and I think we’re both determined to see our lives through.
I hop onto the cement base where a brass statue of a musician has been erected, using the arm to help me balance. Although I examined the map of the venue prior to my arrival, I want to make sure I know where we are and familiarize myself with possible escape routes.
The sunken arena is outdoors, and very unlike the sport complexes where most concerts are held. A circular concourse makes up the upper level where I’m standing, the beer and food stands positioned every few yards quickly filling with attendants making their way from the security checkpoint.
From my position, I can see the multiple tiers leading down to the stage where an immense, rectangular flat screen takes up the expanse. Several other large screens are perched on either side, showcasing the members of Write My Name in Blood as they bang their heads to noise they’ve convinced themselves is music. Don’t get me wrong, I like rock. I just don’t like feeling like my skull is being beaten with one.
I ease my way back to the concrete walkway, taking Shayna’s hand when she offers it. “Are we good, T?” she asks.
“The eagle is in the nest and laying eggs,” I agree.
“It’s all about the eggs,” she says, laughing.
Despite my sarcasm, and all my bitching, I’m taking the assignment seriously. In the off chance something should happen, I want to be ready.
“Let’s find our seats,” I tell her. “I don’t want to miss a moment of Johnny.”
“Yes, you do,” she says, her voice practically inaudible over the music. She points to her ears. “I’m already wearing the plugs. This music, it’s too much, my hearing can’t take it.”
“Myhearing can’t take it,” I add, and it’s no way as sensitive as Shayna’s. Our wolves probably couldn’t get within a mile of this place without their eardrums rupturing.
Destiny, doesn’t have that problem. I groan when I turn and find her dancing in place, offbeat to Write My Name in Blood’s rendition ofEnter Sandman. The best way I can describe this band is loud. Seriously, that’s all I have. According to Bren, Metallica inspired them and Skid Row gave them a voice. Metallica, could have inspired them I suppose, they inspired a great number of metal bands. But any voice Skid Row gave them was quickly butchered and sent screaming.
The screaming continues as the lead singer reaches a crescendo. “Motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrr.”
Everyone around us loses it. Me and Emme mostly cover our ears. Destiny, she’s part of the “give me more” crowd, the teal feathers she wrapped around the tight-as-sin bun on top of her head bouncing as she head bangs, or jogs in place. I’m not quite sure what she’s doing. It could go either way.
“Woo-hoo!” Shayna yells, her fist in the air. “Go, Destiny!”
That’s Shayna, always encouraging no matter what’s happening, or how bad things look. “She’s going to lose all her feathers before we make it to our seats,” Emme says.
“Is that such a bad thing?” I ask, taking in the teal plumage already covering her zebra striped boots with green pompoms, and no, the poms don’t match the feathers.
We talked her out of wearing a hat and that’s about it. Polka dot black and white booty shorts hug her petite hips. And because that’s not sexy enough, a tiny lime green bustier is currently cutting off the circulation in her tiny rack.
“It’s going to be a warm night in Santa Barbara,” I told her. In other words, “For the love of Christ, please wear something else.”
“I know,” she gleefully responded. “That’s why I’m wearing shorts.”