Page 9 of Never To Suffer (The Hollywoodland #4)

VOICES

DAMIANO DAVID

The bar isn’t a dive, or glitzy glam either, which makes it perfect for someone like me.

In-between style bars like this care enough about the money to ensure patrons keep the peace and no one starts shit.

I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, finding myself battered and bruised outside of the skeeviest of joints. And the poshest.

The hypnotic effect of watching the amber liquid swirl in my glass puts me into a state of zen.

Part of that could be from the exhaustion, though.

To my left sits a couple failing on a first date.

To my right is a regular, here to watch the game and talk with the bartender, who’s likely one of his only friends.

My phone buzzes and I glance down at the screen.

New Unread Message From: Marc

He’s worried about me, but trying to give me space.

I always made life more difficult for my big brother, but he always forgave me and never threw pity in my face.

It will take another day before I’m at his place, and I’ve sent him the address of the motel I’m staying at, like I’ve done every stop since Edmonton.

A road trip on a motorcycle when you’re in no hurry takes time.

“Okay, well,” the raised voice from the man next to me piques my interest. There’s a tone to it he needs to watch. “I don’t understand why you think that. I’m a great guy!”

I raise my head, making eye contact with the bartender. He heard that, too, which means he’s already prepared for the outcomes. None of which ends well for him.

“How’s everyone doing over here?” the bartender asks while drying a spot on the bar that didn’t need it.

“We’re fine. In fact, we’re leaving.” The guy stands and drops a pair of fifties on the bar. He’s an arrogant prick, but he’s banking that the bartender would rather take the cash and avoid the headache. That amount of money tells me he’s got more dangerous ideas planned for the night.

“Hey, let go of me,” his date hisses. “You’re hurting me!”

“Okay, buddy. Let her go,” the bartender says, pushing the money back toward the guy. He doesn’t glance around, meaning he’s on his own unless he calls the cops.

Awesome. The downside of these middle-of-the-road bars rears an ugly head—no bouncers and no security. Not even the threat of a gun under the bar.

“Fuck off and mind your own business. Come on, we’re leaving—” The douchebag spins around fast when I tap him on the shoulder. “The fuck is your problem?”

“They’re not interested in leaving with you.”

He checks me up and down, and the confusion puts a grin on my face. “Mind your own fucking business, weirdo.”

Most nights I would, but I’m likely one of the very few lines of defense this woman has before he pulls her into his car.

I let the dark laugh spill out of me before I drain my glass and stand to my full height, unfolding from the safety of the barstool.

For extra flare, I even crunch a piece of ice between my molars and watch him try to hide his reaction.

The dickhead rocks his head all the way back to look me in the eye, but I still catch the way his neck bobs as he swallows hard. I don’t like fights, I never have, but I can defend myself against one dipshit with an incel complex.

“You should leave,” I rumbled, cocking my head to the side. “Alone.”

“Fuck you, man.” What he does next will decide both of our fates, and tonight, either option sounds like the right one to me. He scoffs and steps back. Coward. “She’s not worth my time anyhow.”

He rips his cheap coat from the woman’s shoulders and storms toward the door. I’m happy to sit back on my stool and hunch back over my drink. No fight for me tonight, at least not yet. The night’s still young, and the demons in my head are awake again, ready to dance.

“Uhm, hi.” I nod to my drink instead of her, doing what I can to avoid eye contact. “Thanks for that. I didn’t realize he’d turn into such a creep when I agreed to come here with him. Can I buy you a drink?”

I turn to face her, and of course, she’s gorgeous.

Long, curly blonde hair, big red lips, and a dress that’s not leaving much to the imagination.

My first thought? How much my ex-fiancé, Steve, would like her.

Normally, I’d turn away, not wanting to come across as a creep, but she’s not worried about the way I’m watching her.

She’s too busy drooling over me like I’ve moved to the top of her hit list.

“You have the prettiest eyes.” She holds out a hand, her wrist bent in anticipation that I’m Prince Charming, ready to kiss her knuckles and take her back to my chariot. “I’m Robin.”

“Skylar,” I nod, but don’t take her hand, hoping she gets the hint that I’m not here to make friends or get my dick wet. That pisses the demons off, which means they’ve noticed something I haven’t picked up on yet.

“Wow, that’s a cool name.” She shifts the stool her date had occupied a few inches closer to me before she climbs onto it.

Her hand fumbles with a straw as she sticks it between her teeth and chews.

It could be nerves, until I find the deep scratches running up her arm, the bruising, and her blown out eyes.

She’s high.

When she reaches for her purse, she moves like she’s in a dream, knocking it over. “I’d say I’m sorry about Dave, but I’m not wasting apologies on him.”

I roll my eyes as she orders herself another drink before asking what I’m having.

She’s too fucking high to notice the whiskey glass.

Her lips pucker as she flips open a compact to reapply the bright red lipstick.

That’s when she notices my hand. She makes a move to touch me, but stops, hand in the small space between us.

“Wow, that’s…I’m sorry, I should know better.” She laughs it off, and I’m not sure if she’s eyeing the tattoos or the scars. “That’s solid work. Almost creepy. What is it?”

“Death’s-head hawkmoth.” The ink is a few years old now, but it’s one I’ve taken more care of than anything else in my life.

“Did it hurt?” I raise an eyebrow but don’t bother answering, considering I can see the ink she has peeking out from between her pushed up tits. “Why am I asking that? I have tattoos, duh.”

I nod and stare forward, pretending to watch the game on TV, thankful that the person behind the camera gives the audience some fantastic shots of the batter’s ass. I may not follow sports, but I love watching the boys play in those tight, unforgiving pants.

“Does it, like, have a meaning or just a cool picture you wanted to get?”

I sigh, realizing she’s chipping away at my armor, and I can either walk away right now, or I’ll be talking to her for the next three hours.

The directions she wants to take this conversation screams danger.

We could keep it cordial, and I try to convince her to get off the drugs and get help.

We could fuck in the bathroom while she convinces me she shouldn’t get high alone.

I could fall for her pity trap and bring her back to the hotel room, where she ODs in my bed.

I turn and face her big green eyes, and she bites her bottom lip. Maybe I already feel bad for her, or maybe I want to tell someone the story I’ve held in for too long. Maybe I do want to get my dick sucked. Whatever the reason, I don’t get up and walk away like I should.

“It’s a reminder. Someone I love. Loved. Whatever it is.” I nod at the bartender for another drink. I’m making mistakes, ignoring the warnings and signs I’ve been told about.

“Oh, did they die? I’m sorry if that brought up lousy memories. I shouldn’t have asked, I guess.” She giggles but catches herself.

My head shakes as the smile creeps over my face. “Nah, she’s alive. She’s nothing but pleasant memories.”

Robin smirks and keeps asking questions. With each one, I loosen up, letting a wall come down a little more. The questions are harmless. Where do you live? What do you do? Safe questions, until she runs out of wine, and circles back to the tattoo.

“So, your girlfriend?”

“No, never got that far. She’s what they call the one that got away.

More like the pair that got away.” I roll the hair tie from my wrist and pull my hair up while she watches.

Even through the jacket, she notices my arms flexing.

She licks her lips, shifting in her chair as her breathing changes.

I’d bet if she stood up, there’d be a wet spot in her chair.

Lucky for me, I’ve already decided the demons aren’t winning tonight.

It’s her own fault. Making me talk about the tattoo puts two people in my mind that I want far more than this temptress, or the score she’d likely share with me.

“Wait, so two girls got away, or like a metaphor or something about her tits?”

“Two people.” I trace my fingers over the bee on my wrist. “He…he was the reason I left my old life. The reason I couldn’t pretend anymore. She’s the one drawing me back, my beacon to find them again.”

“Oh?” Her lip comes up on one side and she tilts her head. “Nope, gonna need more info.”

“You mean you need more wine, and to call yourself a cab?”

“Aww, you can’t give me a lift, big guy? All strong and tall and handsome.” Her fingers slide up my arm, squeezing. “Maybe show me a few more of your tattoos.” She leans over, pushing her chest out. “Or, better yet, I could show you mine.”

I don’t understand what people see in me, but someone once told me it had to do with the bad boy image I exude, and that I’m a soft teddy bear on the inside.

I don’t claim any image. I put on clothes and go through life like anyone else.

Sure, I go through it with long hair, tight pants, painted nails, and a motorcycle.

Apparently, I’m the rough around the edges guy everyone wants to save.

Dani never wanted to save me. She said I didn’t need saving; I needed to stop forcing myself to believe the lies.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s my sponsor.

“Excuse me, Robin. I should take this.” She pouts as I stand up and walk to the back of the bar and out onto the patio. I light a cigarette and lean against the wall as I answer. “Shawn.”

“Hey, Skylar. How’s it going?”

“I’m not dead yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not. I’m worried about you. Driving from here to your brother’s place in San Luis Obispo? Then to Hollywood? All on a motorcycle? You’re a special kind of nuts.”

“I told you; I’m making amends or whatever the fuck that step is.” I tuck the phone against my shoulder and flex my hand to work out the soreness along the scar tissue and joints. I glance across the parking lot, watching the first mist from the coming rain dance around the streetlights.

“Alright, I get it. So, it’s been a week since you left. How are things going?”

“I’ve had two…no, three whiskeys, and nothing else. I can see the hotel from where I’m standing, so I won’t drive.” I take a drag. “Met a girl named Robin at the bar. She’s flying, but also wants to ride my dick.”

“Okay, I’m pretty okay with that. Except, maybe?—”

“Nah, no worries there, buddy. As soon as I go back in, I’m getting her ass in a rideshare and out of my life. I don’t have time for that.”

There’s a silence and I don’t interrupt his note taking. We planned for this when I told him I wanted to go back south, back home. I enjoyed Canada, but something about Los Angeles pulls me back no matter how far I run, or how hard I claw. I can make it work with the right people beside me.

“Skylar, are you going back to make amends with your ex, or to try to get them back?”

The darkness in my laugh even scares me a little.

“Fuck, can’t it be both? No, wait, can you accuse me of trying to get the two of them back if I’ve never actually had them?

” I blow a series of smoke rings toward the giant light overhead, watching the mist turn to drizzle and growing to rain.

“If you break it down to the finer points, I can’t have one without the other.

That goes for both the need to make things right with my ex and trying to get the people to accept me again. ”

“And if it doesn’t work out?”

“I take my brother’s offer and work for his auto body shop. I’m going there tomorrow so he can show me the place and try to tempt me away from Los Angeles.”

“Good, call him, though. He’s called me twice to check in on you. And think of it as a backup plan, like you said, not a lesser option.”

“You know me, Shawn. Always down for a temptation or three.”

“Skylar!”

“I’m kidding. G’night, Shawn.”

After we hang up, I plan a way to deal with Robin while I burn through another cigarette. When I open the door, though, she’s already moved on. Good for her. I pay the bartender and do the same, walking back to my motel room alone and in the rain.

I peel off the jacket and hang it in the shower to dry before I crash down onto the bouncing bed.

The lights are all off, so I fish my earbuds out of my pocket, pull up my playlist, and close my eyes.

The tune fills my ears seconds before her voice does, and it’s not long before my fingers are moving across an invisible instrument, playing along with them.

My night-after-night routine.

Same thing every night for the last two years; since I picked up the bass again—listening and learning each new song they play.

The only things that change are the rooms I’m in and the random order I play the songs.

Shuffling between them makes learning the music a little harder and takes more concentration.

More brain power into this means less room for another trip to the bar, a phone call, a dealer, and my life slipping away again.

The darkness of the room and the steady rain on the tin roof outside take over, pushing sleep and heavy eyes over me like a blanket. That’s when my second routine begins.

“Please. Let it be her in my dreams, and not the nightmares.”

I’m asking my brain more than I’m asking some god; I don’t believe in higher powers.

If anything, there’s a handful of Loki replicas up there running this place.

Nothing else makes sense, at least not to me.

Why should I pray to a god that causes so much pain?

Oh, and that whole bit about him only giving you what you can take?

That’s not a god I care to give my time to.

Too many damn Lokis.

As hard as I try, and as much as I beg, I don’t dream about her.