Page 6 of Hurt

One day Noah would inherit his uncle Luter’s position. He would be the leader of the third largest gang in the country. Power and money would be at his fingertips, but all he wanted was to pour beer in a shitty bar with his maternal aunt and uncle.

Looking back, Willow wondered just how long Kurt had been planning things. Sending Noah away right before Willow’s audition for college, right before he almost died. The timing was too coincidental.

Noah might not understand his uncle's distance, but Willow did. She knew that Kurt couldn’t give him the love he wanted. Willow just didn’t know why.

Unfolding herself from the bean bag, she padded barefoot across the rough wooden floor and into the bedroom. Kurt was still in his clothes, wet from the rain. Curled up as tightly as possible, he was hiding his head under his hands. Willow plucked the bottle from his limp grasp, swirling the contents around before drinking the last bit. The whiskey was terrible. Like liquified wood and smoke. But it burned a hot trail into her stomach.

She set the bottle onto the card table they used as a catch-all and went to the front door, opening it and sitting in the doorway. The apartment had no windows, and the only way they got any sort of natural light or air was to open the door. Resting her head on the door frame, she watched the rain patter onto the metal stairs. It made a zinging sound that cut through the night.

Closing her eyes, she could feel the rhythm of the rain. Willow could always find a rhythm. It was a gift, one she was innately born with. Music had been easy for her. It wasn’t like she was learning something new--it was more like something was being awoken in her. Something that was already there, embedded in her very DNA. She wasn’t sure why. As far as she knew, her biological parents weren’t musicians. She didn’t even begin learning until she was five, years after Kurt started. But it always came easier to her.

Kurt’s mom hated it. His dad was enamored with it. Willow was just doing what felt right to her.

Music made the transition to dancing easy. At first, she had tried working at the bar, but she was a terrible server. Willow was born to perform, and even the small stage at The Sunspot was enough. The tips were lousy. But she was content. The customers were usually harmless, and when they did get rowdy, she knew Sid or her brother were only a few moments away. She never really minded the loud customers.

What she hated were the quiet ones.

The ones that sat in their chair with the same stony expression on their face. Never saying a word or throwing ones onto the stage. Faces giving nothing away. Just those piercing amber eyes following her every movement, boring into her.

It was just the one customer.

Roland Weaver. Even his name sounded pompous. Originally, Willow thought he might be coming to The Sunspot as a joke. Or for business purposes. But all the man did was sit there and stare. Not watch, stare. Without a hint of lust, irritation, or anything. Like a living statue.

What the hell was Willow supposed to do with that?

Twice now, she had been in the middle of a dance, pole between her legs and back arched, only to look over and see those eyes pinning her to the stage. She faltered. Willow had tripped. Something completely unheard of.

Evan had not let her live it down.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at the callouses on her hands. Touching her fingertips together, she could feel the hardened pads that had been formed over years of holding down the strings on her violin. She still practiced every night. There was a stubborn part of her who still wanted to be the best, even if she couldn’t show the world. She would know.

Kurt did, too. He played. Not as vigorously as he used to, and not the same music he was used to. Sometimes Willow would hide behind the bar, listening to the mournful way Kurt played, and her heart would break

They used to play together. Hazel would sing sometimes, too. They would sit outside on the porch and annoy their neighbors until the wee hours of the morning, then they would collapse into the bunkbeds they slept in for far longer than was socially acceptable and fall asleep dreaming of music.

Her heart ached for those days. Maybe if she knew why they had been ripped from her, she would be okay. If she could just have a little bit of that back, just for an afternoon, she would be happy.

Back when music was fun. When Hazel made them dinner, and they argued over whose name should come first on their album.

Willow watched the rain until she fell asleep leaning against the door frame. With the rain on the metal, she wouldn’t hear Kurt crying in his sleep. Or hear her heart breaking.

Grant leaned against the wall and watched the room with lips pursed. He hated this part. The guy in the chair had been hysterically crying for twenty minutes now. His hiccupping sobs were borderline pathetic. Twice now, Roland had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep him from hyperventilating into unconsciousness.

Jamie came into the room, dragging another guy by his collar. His leg was mangled and bleeding.

“Sorry, boss,” Jamie said with a bright grin. “Took off like a fucking jack rabbit.” He deposited the man onto the floor. The man’s right knee was gone. Jamie had blasted a hole through it, most likely as the guy was running away.

“Language,” Grant half-heartedly scolded.

Jamie dipped his head and withdrew one of his guns. It was a slick-looking, smoke-gray thing. “Chicken Nugget took care of it.”

Grant raised an eyebrow. “Did you name your gun Chicken Nugget?”

“Yeah,” Jamie answered as he happily stroked the weapon. He ejected the magazine and slapped in a fresh one. He never wore a suit jacket, preferring to just wear a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Where he kept all his extra magazines and guns hidden, Grant didn’t know. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if the kid had extra bullets shoved into his hair.

“Is that the .44 Magnum?” Elijah asked as he walked into the room. His hands were awash with red. From the elbows down, he was stained with the stuff, a byproduct of his preferred weapons.

If Jamie had guns stashed about his person, then Elijah had knives. At any given moment, there was an entire armory stashed between the young men.