his.
“A replacement,” Brenda said again, gently. “If Lola doesn't show... maybe I could convince Sean to play with you guys instead.”
“It might work,” Porter mumbled.
Sean sensed me. He stopped where he was, studying me. His eyes traveled around, pausing on each of us... and then his face knotted in confusion.
He noticed Lola isn't here.
My intuition was a wild shark in the ocean. It crowned upwards, demanding I confront Sean because he clearly knew what the hell was going on. I stomped his way. Behind me, I heard a distressed groan from Brenda.
I shut the band's conversation down with my approach. Barbed Fire turned as one, no love on their faces. “Lola,” I said, and I caught my fear reflecting in Sean's face. “Have you seen her today?”
His jaw straightened. “No. Why, what's wrong?”
Panic boiled through my limbs, making my voice a hiss. “I don't fucking know. Her hotel room was a mess and no one can find her, when did you last see her?”
“Oh,” Shark laughed, elbowing Sean. “Shit, isn't this familiar? Hey, fucker, how does it feel to wonder where—”
“Shut up, Shark,” Sean snapped, not looking away from me. “Have you tried calling her?”
I lifted my phone out, debated throwing it for all the good it had done me. “She won't answer anyone.”
Brenda approached us, saying, “Whatever her reasons, she isn't here. Sean, I need to—this is hard to ask." She gathered herself, and I had the funniest idea that she found talking to him a challenge. I'd never known her to waffle with anyone. "This show tonight is huge. If Headstones don't play, we'll lose money, fans, respect—you name it. But you know some of their songs."
When she said that, Sean's mouth tensed.
It was almost as tight as my own right then. Of course he knew some of our songs, he'd auditioned for my damn band.
She asked, "Would you—worst case—consider filling in for Lola?”
My neck creaked as if I were fighting through drying concrete just to stare in her direction. There was absolutely no way I would play with Sean. Outside of how I felt towards him, the reality was that Lola was missing. If Brenda thought I was capable of playing in any capacity while the girl I loved was missing, she was insane.
“No," Sean said.
I'd have whiplash before the night was over.
Narrowing his eyes, he looked from Brenda to me. “It's not that I wouldn't... fuck. I'd love the chance to headline. Seriously.” He gave his head a quick shake. “But no. How can I do anything but help find my sister?”
I fought down an odd swell of pride for the guy. “You'll help me look?” I asked.
Sean closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. “Of course. It doesn't make sense for her to just run off like this.”
Righteousness fueled my voice. “I've felt that way since I saw her hotel room this morning. There's no way she did all that damage. Broken television, broken table, stuff I can't picture Lola doing. Something happened to her, I just don't have a clue what!”
"I think I do." He glided his fingers through his hair. Sean began to crumple, and when he spoke, it was like his tongue wasn't working right—like he didn't want to say a word but knew it was necessary. “It had to be Johnny Muse.”
Johnny Muse.
My throat was closing.
The ringing in my ears was deafening.
Brenda was speaking frantically beside me. “I'm calling the cops right now.”
“Where?” I licked my lips, feeling the dry cracks. “Where are they?”
He never broke eye contact. “He was staying at Greenmill Motel. We'll take my van.”
“I said I'm calling the cops!” Brenda shouted, realizing we were planning our own form of attack. “Drez, no, stay here. Both of you stay here.”
“Call the police if you want,” I said to her. “If you need to, you can even cancel this whole show. I'm not standing around until someone else fixes this for me.”
Her eyes were glossy as she watched me pass her by. The phone hung limp at her side. “What are you going to do to him?” she whispered.
In my hands, my joints crunched.
I did Brenda the favor of not answering.
- Chapter Twenty-Eight -
Lola
Drezden's hands slid up my sides, his fingertips taking my resistance away with every inch. “Lift your shirt,” he whispered, lips stroking the patch of skin between neck and shoulder. He was the epitome of living seduction, his heat making me drunk and hazy. “You don't look well,” he whispered against me.
In the mirror, I saw