Bastard spent the next few weeks convincing himself he didn’t give a fuck. It was normally an easy thing to do, something like turning off a switch and being done with it.
But Kit wouldn’t leave his mind. No matter what he did, no matter how many runs he went on…she lurked in the back of his mind like a goddamned shadow.
How is she? Is she still in LA? Did they find the stalker? Questions popped up despite trying to keep them squashed. He wondered about her, nearly every day. And he hated every day that he’d never gotten her number.
So you could do what? Text her a smiley face and never see her again anyway? Like he was capable of something stable with a woman. Not with his life. Not with his role as a nomad.
He’d do well to remember that, too.
When club business sent him back up to Olympia a few weeks after he’d dropped off Kit at Andi’s house, it was hard not to relive every moment of their trip down the Pacific Highway. Kit had been a firecracker in his life. She lit him up even though he’d thought every last bit of himself had been burnt away, completely spent.
Convincing himself he shouldn’t reach out to her was the hard part though. He had a rationalization for every excuse. And just when he thought he’d stamped out the last dying embers of his interest, a new wave flared up. It was like she’d burrowed down into bone.
Bastard’s stint in Olympia was short and to the point: drop off a brick of product in exchange for cash. He spent one night in town, and went back to the Cat’s Claw as if on auto pilot. Pushing into the bar, he held his breath, desperate to see Kit’s wavy black locks, the sultry makeup, her luscious mouth.
But she wasn’t there. Not even a band scheduled. Dipper was curiously absent as well. It was like he’d imagined them all. Maybe he’d never even met her. Maybe she’d just been a wild fantasy, like a dream that felt too real and haunted for days afterward.
There was nothing to do but continue his life. Memories of Kit would fade. They had to. With enough time, he’d forget about her. He tried to trust it, even though he didn’t believe it.
It just felt more and more like a miserable mistake.
One Wednesday night, the LA chapter of Damned Devils sent him to one of their regular drop off points, a mostly okay night club with occasional bands and an owner who loved to snort. One of their steady, smaller clients, Bastard was almost always tasked with this club on his city rounds. When he stepped inside, the air was humid and dense. Fog clung to the sides of the hallway. Conversation roared through the small club as he stepped inside, pushing against people to make his way in.
The owner spotted him immediately, sidling up to him. “Bastard! Over here!”
He elbowed his way to Gary. “You having a drink special tonight or something? I’ve never seen so many people in here.”
Gary laughed, clapping him on the back. “No, friend. We have a new act.”
Bastard nodded, surveying the room for other cuts. Gary usually kept the place Damned Devils territory only. “Good for you. Business must be picking up.”
“It sure is. That’s why I doubled my order this month.” Gary smiled out at the sea of people in front of them, a certain gleam in his eye.
Bastard jerked his chin toward the back hallway where Gary’s office was, the sign to finish the deal. They headed for the back office, the music and conversation fading to a dull roar through the concrete walls. Once Gary had tested the latest shipment and was more than satisfied with the quality, they wound their way back out to the clamor of the bar.
“Stay for a drink. It’s on me.” Gary nodded toward the bar. “You gotta get a load of this new singer.”
Bastard was just about to feed Gary an excuse when the lights dimmed a little. The noise of the bar pulled back, like making way for the singer.
“Here she goes,” Gary said, a knowing smile on his face. “You want a whiskey?”
Something fluttered in Bastard’s gut. He usually left on nights like these. But this was his last stop. And if Gary was buying… “Sure.”
And then the microphone rustled. The show was about to start. Bastard slid onto the bar chair Gary offered him, drumming his fingers against the tabletop.
“Is this thing on?”
A familiar sultry voice pierced the air, followed by a giggle. A bass drum tapped once, then again. Bastard furrowed a brow, turning toward the speakers.
“Hellooooo everyone,” the singer half cooed, half drawled. Chills raced up his spine. He knew that voice. It was more than familiar.
Bastard leaned toward Gary, still struggling to see past heads to the stage. “What’s the singer’s name?”
Gary stroked his jaw. “Darla and the Devils. Stage name, of course. Hotter than sin. You know her?”
Bastard swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Darla and the Devils. It seemed like a nod to the Damned Devils. If it was Kit…his vision went blurry for a second, heart pounding like he’d just run up a few flights of stairs.
“Never heard of them,” Bastard said, just as the band sprang to life. Plucky guitar chords wafted through the air, a smooth, jazzy beat filling the club. Men hollered, whistles pierced the air. Bastard snatched up the drink the bartender offered him and downed half of it at once.
“You’ll really like her,” Gary shouted over the music, pointing toward the stage. Bastard’s stomach knotted as he slid off the chair, intent on solving this mystery. If it wasn’t Kit, then she had a voice twin in LA. Or maybe he was just that desperate to see her again. But if it wasn’t Kit…then he needed to seriously confront the fact that he was starting to lose his mind.
Over a fucking girl he’d known for four days.
Bastard made his way through the crowd, elbowing drunk guys as needed to part the masses. As he neared, he caught slivers of the stage. An upright bass. Musicians decked out in black suits. And then…
Kit. Or Darla. Whoever she was now. Pure curves and sexy sounds, ruby lips shining, her tits huge and round in a low cut sequin dress that hugged every inch of her like she’d been born in it. Bastard stilled, unable to rip his eyes from her as she sang, gesturing at the crowd with long gloved hands, like beckoning every single man to seek her. Heat prickled at his neck. She looked fucking fantastic. Like maybe she’d even put on a little weight. He swallowed hard, gobbling her up for what felt like the hundredth time in five minutes. Her boobs looked bigger too. Could she have gotten them done already, after barely a month in LA?
Bastard couldn’t move while she sang, that throaty rasp holding him captive until the final notes of the guitar faded and the crowd around him erupted in applause. When the music broke it was like clarity returned to him. He looked around, unsure where to go from here. Staying seemed impossible. Sit through a whole set, for what?
Staying after to talk to her was out of the question. She’d hate him for the way he left, because it had been by design. If she even agreed to see him. Bastard turned, downing the rest of his drink. It was time to leave. You got your fix. That needs to be enough.
He had his important questions answered: where she was, how she was, what she was doing. He couldn’t press for more. It just wouldn’t be right.
He set the tumbler down on the bar, nodding toward Gary as he made his way out of the bar. Kit crooned another song as he stepped out of the bar into the cool, dry night. He could hear her voice the whole way back to the clubhouse, like it had punctured his ear drums.
***
Bastard lasted another week before he went back to the night club. There was no delivery this time. He just needed to see Kit, even if it was from afar.
He showed up around the same time on the same night. Figured that replicating the conditions would be the smartest bet. And it paid off. The bar was packed and noisy, just like last time. His heart rate picked up as soon as he crossed the threshold, like his body went on high alert when he knew Kit was near.
This time, he ordered a whiskey neat and took a seat near the far wall at a high table. Men and women crowded near the stage while Kit sang, and on occasion he caught a sliver of her through the swaying heads. Each time he saw those sparkling lips or her creamy skin in the off the shoulder dress, his chest tightened. It should be easier by now. But it wasn’t.
Bastard nursed the whiskey, letting each one of Kit’s songs wash over him like a balm. Her voice held medicinal properties, or something. Often times her voice made his eyes drift closed, encasing him completely in the moment. He forgot about any tension in his life, his shitty mom, his less than savory childhood. He forgot about beef with other clubs, the quiet fear that lurked whenever he had to go on border runs. All of it melted away when Kit sang.
And in his mind’s eye, he imagined her singing to him. Could see her approaching him, welcoming him into her arms, telling him that she forgave him, but they needed to be together.
Bastard’s eyes snapped open as applause filled the club. Kit’s husky laugh preceded a coy goodbye. Was it over so soon? He checked his phone. She’d been singing for over an hour, yet it had felt like minutes to him. He could listen to her for a year and still want more.
Bastard popped an ice cube from his empty drink into his mouth and watched as the crowd loosened a bit. People headed out for smoke breaks while regular music sprang to life in the bar, filling the brief void. On the stage, the band worked to disassemble their set. Kit was nowhere to be seen.
Bastard wandered over to the bar, where Gary stood taking orders along with his bartenders. When he saw him, he came over immediately.
“Not a bad show, eh?” Gary lifted a brow.
“She’s great.” Bastard set his empty glass down. “She got a dressing room back there?”
Gary’s eyes narrowed. “Now, Bastard—”
“I just want to give her my congratulations.” He tightened his grip on the tumbler. “She’s got talent.”
“I don’t normally let anyone back to talk to her. It’s our agreement.”
Bastard cleared his throat. “Well, I was hoping you could make an exception for me. See, she and I have a little history.”
Gary’s jaw tensed. “Good or bad?”
“Both.”
Gary studied the bar top. He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know. If I let you back there and she gets pissed—”
“Trust me. It’ll be fine.” Now that was a blatant lie, but he had to get back there any way possible. Not seeing her, not talking to her, tonight would be a tragedy. Every cell of his body was desperate to give it a shot. Even if he knew it was the worst idea of his life.
“I swear on our business relationship,” Bastard added when Gary didn’t answer. “And there will be extra in the next drop.”
“Fine.” Gary slapped the countertop. “But make it quick. Go back there, like you’re heading to my office.” He pointed toward the familiar hallway they always used to hand over the product. “The dressing room is just two doors beyond. I’ll be watching.”
Bastard rapped his knuckles on the bartop before pushing through the crowds, heading for the back hall. This went against every rule in the book, both personal and professional. He couldn’t wager cocaine for personal shit. Hell, he shouldn’t even be trying to talk to Kit again after the way he ditched her.
But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered in the addictive pull of Kit.