Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(4)

“Why would I leave?”

“Can’t see Jem Jones scouting out a band with a girl as lead singer.”

“Why not?”

She wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Dunno. Just never seen Blue Phoenix with a female support band.”

“You’re not all chicks.”

She pulls a sour face. “That’s okay then, only one of the band members is the weaker sex.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“What do you want, Jem Jones?”

“You.”

Her eyebrows rise along with her tone. “And you think I’ll f-uck you because you’re the famous Jem Jones? We’re good. I don’t need to sleep with anyone to get Ruby Riot on the map. We’ll get there.”

I laugh at her, at her presumption and the hovering meaning behind. She thinks either I’m a complete * or she’s considering me in a f*ckable light. Funny. Closing the door, I lean against it and cross my legs at the ankles.

The girl stiffens.

“I meant the band,” I say in a low voice. “Not your delightful self.”

“Oh. Shit.” Despite her bravado, the girl’s hands shake. She roots around in a large bag and pulls out a small bottle of whiskey.

This time when she drinks straight from the bottle, I lick my lips imagining my mouth around the bottle instead.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Ruby.”

“Ruby from Ruby Riot. Cute.” I flick my fingers at her. “You dyed your hair to match your name?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s not my real name.”

“What’s your real name?”

“What does it matter?”

Our staccato conversation is accompanied by much more beneath the words. Ruby’s pale blue eyes get me. Completely freak me out. Why is she so lost?

“You guys are good,” I tell her.

“Thanks, I know.”

“Wow, you’re hard to talk to.” I pull out one of Steve’s business cards and wave it at Ruby. “This is my manager. I’m helping him find a support act for the next Blue Phoenix tour, send him a demo.”

Ruby looks at the card as if I’m handing her a bomb. “Blue Phoenix split.”

I huff. “No, we’re taking time out. We’re touring again early next year.” I step forward, still holding out the card. “Gonna take it?”

I’m close enough to inhale Ruby - her scent, her warmth, her loneliness - and close enough to see the fading bruise beneath the make-up on her cheek. For a split second, I want to reach out and touch Ruby’s face, stroke away the mark. One hand goes to her cheek, eyes warning me not to speak.

Ruby snatches the card. “I’ll ask the guys. Jax - the guitarist - makes the big decisions.”

Somehow, I can’t see anyone telling this chick what to do. “Sure.”

Turning away, Ruby sits on the table and places her feet on the chair. Damn those boots are sexy, half way up those amazing legs. “And you can leave now.”

“You can’t be found alone in a room with Jem Jones, huh?”

“Yeah, exactly. Mind you, I always preferred Dylan. I might not have said no to him given the chance,” she shoots back.

Burned. “It’s always Dylan.”

Ruby parts her lips, as if she had an afterthought, but she doesn’t speak.

I head to the door and open it, the buzz of voices and music from the bar enter the quiet space.

No. Wait. I turn back. “Don’t waste the opportunity. You guys are good. Really, f-ucking good.”

Ruby nods slowly, the curious look still on her face. “I was lying by the way.”

“About the guitarist making the decisions for the band?”

“No, about preferring Dylan.”

When our gazes lock again, I’m dragged back to the place we belong; the one I saw behind her eyes earlier.

But I’m not going there again, not for anybody. I can’t fix people. I only kill them, don’t I?

“Sure,” I say and close the door on my way out.





Chapter Two



Ruby



I’m late.

I run from the bus stop toward my small terraced house, heart heaving, short of breath. Not because I’m unfit, but because I’m shit scared. He warned me. I’ve been late three times this week and it’s not my fault. Ben, who runs the cafe, asks me to stay and clean up later and later each night, attempting to persuade me to go out with him somewhere. I know why. He wants to talk to me about the bruises from last week.

Dan’s slipping, leaving visible marks on my skin where before they were hidden. I’m slipping too, away from what’s left of myself.

When the lights are off in the house, my breath rushes from my lungs in relief. Dan’s not home yet. He doesn’t realise I’m late. I unhook my black messenger bag from over my shoulders and dump it on the floor, pulling my phone from my pocket with shaking hands. What if Dan’s texted me, telling me to be somewhere else? The only message is from Nate, asking if I can make rehearsals this weekend. I don’t know if I can yet.

I walk toward the lounge room and when Dan steps out of the kitchen as I pass, I stifle a scream and drop my phone. The hallway is dark, Dan’s face shadowed and his bulky frame between the lounge and me.