Rock Chick Revolution (Rock Chick #8)(27)

My head whipped around to the hall, and at her tone, my body went tight.

She went on screeching.

“You deserve better than me, Hector Chavez! You’re a good man from a good family surrounded by good people. My father was a Drug King. He kills people! It’s what I am, he made me. And Ricky Balducci raped and brutalized me. You know it. You saw it. You were even there! You saw me! You told me you’d never forget. You saw me! You’re better than that and I know it. You deserve more than that. You don’t think you do but you’ve got a tattoo on you that reminds you to think with your head, not your body. I don’t want to be the next tattoo you get when you learn your lesson one day and realize what you’ve done. That you could have had better. That you could have had more. That you could have someone good and clean and right. Someone who belongs at your side. Not someone vile and ugly and tawdry and used that you should have never, ever, ever settled for!”

I watched, my heart bleeding at her words, as she yanked free of Hector and started running.

“Don’t follow me,” she shouted over her shoulder. She stopped and turned. “Don’t!” she shrieked in a voice so shrill, it lacerated me.

My throat closed and I was weirdly paralyzed as others sprung into action when Sadie made a desperate dash through the gallery, grabbed something from a drawer and took off.

God, I f**king hated it when the Rock Chick Drama entered this stage. When the raw thing the Rock Chick was hiding was exposed in all its hideousness and we got to see inside to what we were actually battling.

Not that something like that happened every time. Not that I was there to witness it every time it happened. But I still hated it, whether I saw it or heard about it.

I was good at giving one-liners, making people laugh, giving support in my way. I could be gentle with the honesty. And I was always there, no matter what, no matter when, if they needed me.

But I had no healing hand, like Jules did (because she was a cool chick, but also a social worker). Or like Jet did (because she was shy, quiet and sweet and had a way about her). Or like Daisy did (because she had so much love, it leaked out of her pores and you couldn’t help but feel better if it leaked on you).

So I had not only not made amends for being a bitch to Sadie, I had nothing to give to her right now. I didn’t have the skills to get in there and make her see she was not even close to the things she saw in herself.

And that killed me.

“Ally.”

My head jerked at that familiar, deep, sweet voice and I looked up at Ren.

He was staring down at me looking gorgeous and worried.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” I whispered.

He lifted a hand, and it seemed like he was going to touch me but I moved before he could.

Fast.

As quick as my four inch stiletto heels could take me, I dashed to the counter where Sadie had her cash register.

I grabbed my bag.

And I got the f**k out of there.

* * * * *

Three hours later…

I sat in the dark on my ass in my living room. My back was to the wall, my knees up. I was still in my killer dress, but I’d taken off my heels.

The Rock Chick phone tree had been engaged so I’d learned that Sadie was okay. She had her thing, let it out, and then Duke had done his thing.

Duke worked at Fortnum’s with us. In fact, Duke had been working at Fortnum’s way before Indy inherited it from Grandma Ellen, so he was the veteran.

He was a Harley guy with a gray beard, long gray hair and a rough voice that somehow felt smooth on your soul whenever he used it (even if he was tearing you a new one while using it; I know it sounds crazy but it’s true, trust me). He wore Harley tees (always), leather vests (occasionally) and rolled bandanas around his forehead (without fail).

And he was wise. Very much so.

Therefore, when the Rock Chicks came to the point in their drama where it was clear everyone needed to quit f**king around because they needed their shit sorted—tough love or gentle and sweet (as the case may be)—Duke stepped in.

So it was Duke who stepped in with Sadie and sorted her shit.

Duke could do that.

But not me.

I closed my eyes, shook my head to get my mind off that path, and opened my eyes, pointing my thoughts in a new direction.

I stared into the dark at the shadowy shapes in my apartment and commenced trying to figure out what the f**k was up with me.

And not why Sadie’s outburst that night so deeply affected me.

I sensed I wasn’t ready to face that.

No, I thought about where my life was leading me.

I gazed at the shadows.

I liked my apartment. That said, it wasn’t much to write home about, but since I wasn’t there often, it didn’t need to be.

The building was two-story and built in the fifties. The rooms were not spacious and there was no personality. Though, the last couple of years, the landlord had pulled out all the dull, uninspired bathrooms and kitchens and put in new dull, uninspired bathrooms and kitchens.

Not much, but it was something.

He’d also jacked up the rent.

Annoying but not surprising.

Recently, though, my unit had been getting a facelift that came all from me.

I had new cushiony, awesome furniture that invited you to sink in and stay forever (major discount from a person who used my services who knew a person who owned a furniture store). I had a new flat screen TV (ditto on the discount, as you know). Due to gift certificates from other “clients”, I had new kitchen implements (not that I cooked much, seeing as I was never home; still, gadgets were gadgets, and everyone needed as many gadgets as they could get), new bathroom towels and sheets (total lush—I should so totally have gone the way of expensive towels and sheets ages ago; alas, a bartender/barista couldn’t usually afford luxury).