Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(2)

f-uck it.

“You want another?” I ask, approaching the girl.

“No. Thanks.”

I wait for the parted lip, moment of realisation at who I am but it doesn’t come. Instead, she scans the room, ignoring me. Do I have to f-ucking introduce myself?

She smells of flowers, roses maybe, which is odd because she doesn’t look like a flowery girl. In her boots and with those legs, she’s almost to my eye height and her face is close enough to see the ‘back off me’ purse of her lips. Now I’m closer, I’m struck she could be younger than she looks under all the make-up and my neck prickles as an image of Liv trips into my head.

“What’s the band like?” I ask.

She turns her black-painted eyes toward me. “Yeah, they’re okay. Do you know much about Ruby Riot?”

“No, I heard good things so came to check them out.”

“Why ask? You’ll see them soon, make your own mind up.”

“I want to know people’s opinions.”

Does she really not recognise me? There isn’t a glimmer of anything apart from a disinterested girl being hit on by some guy in a bar.

A new track filters from the speakers and through the room. I smirk when I hear Blue Phoenix; this should prompt her memory. I watch and wait but her expression remains detached, no flicker of recognition. For f-uck’s sake.

“Hmm. Okay, I gotta go.” The girl pulls herself away from the bar.

“Leaving? The band are due onstage soon.”

She fixes me with a curious look. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

This I’m not used to. I almost utter the cliché ‘don’t you know who I am’ but she’ll laugh at me. Nah, she must have a boyfriend. That’s who she’s looking for. Damn shame.

“I hope you like the band, Jem Jones,” she says and stalks away.

Okay. That was unexpected. I stretch out my neck and consider my next move. Drunk Jem would’ve ignored the rejection by picking up some chick who’d love to get her hands on me. Sober Jem can’t be bothered. I shuffle back into the shadows before someone spots me, but the crowd is jammed tight and not looking at anyone but each other.

When I was younger and went to clubs, we smoked. Now it’s banned. At most places in my Blue Phoenix life, this makes no difference. I do it anyway, but here it’s a no go. Shaking my head, I disappear out of the bar to indulge the one vice I’ve not weaned myself off yet. So? I can’t stop every drug in the space of three months.

I head to the back of the club, staying to the shadows and edging around the sweaty crowd. Security knows who I am; they were pre-warned in case I attracted attention. No hassle from anyone so far and the niggling feeling I’m a ‘has-been’ edges around. I’m paranoid - I don’t go from top of the world to nothing. The location I’m in is the reason I look like just another grungy dude in the corner. Suits me.

I duck out through the room filled with empty crates and fresh kegs, then out of the propped open fire door. The warmth of the summer evening surprises me but you can never tell with English summers. It’s pissing it down one minute, bright, sunny days the next. I pull the pack of cigs from my pocket and light one, gratefully inhaling the nicotine. Good thing I can’t do this by the bar; reckon I’d have ordered a beer by now. Filling my lungs with the harsh smoke, I close my eyes and rest my head against the cool bricks. The nicotine buzzes into my system. Yeah, I’ll give up. Eventually.

A scuffling sound and a woman’s voice alerts me. The alleyway is narrow, brick walls overhanging the space between. The sound carries from around the corner.

“I f-ucking saw you, you stupid bitch!” The man’s voice alerts me. I have zero tolerance of this shit thrown at women. Peeling myself from the wall, I approach the corner.

A woman’s voice, low and placating, travels toward me; I quietly step out of where I am.

And see red.

Literally, because against the wall, partially illuminated by the car park streetlight, is a girl with red hair. What makes me see red in the other sense - of wanting to rip the f*cker’s head off - is a man with his hands around the girl’s throat, pressing her into the wall. The worst part is she’s not fighting back.

The man slams the girl’s head against the bricks and trips a primal anger in my brain. Striding toward him, I yank him by the back of his jacket, and he loosens his grip in surprise. The guy draws himself to his full height, but he’s still a few inches shorter than me. He has close-cropped hair, and the muscles barely covered by his t-shirt suggest he works out. A lot.

“What the f-uck?” he growls.

“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” I say in a low voice.

“I’m fine; it’s okay.” The girl’s panicked voice confuses me, as if my interference is unwarranted.

I stare back at the girl from the bar, but she rubs her head, keeps her gaze to the floor, and doesn’t meet mine. “A guy has his hands around your throat and you say it’s fine?”

“None of your f-ucking business, mate.” The man curls his hand around the girl’s arm and she winces.

Assault charge. Do not get an assault charge. I close my eyes and fight the urge to smash my fist into his face. My history with chicks isn’t the best, but I sure as hell never beat a woman.

“Please leave us alone,” says the girl quietly.