London girl.
Last hope in a world without none.
Once I reached the park, I sat on the wet grass beneath Shakespeare’s tree. The scent of fresh earth and growing things made me haul in a deep breath as I searched for my matchbook at the bottom of my knapsack. I was an infrequent smoker, using it only to commemorate important moments mostly. A successful performance. A line on a gig.
A really good fuck.
The last instance didn’t happen nearly enough. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last occasion I’d been properly laid. Last night did not count, since I’d been wasted for most or all of it and had doubts of what had actually occurred in any case.
I found the matches and struck one, taking a heady drag on my cig until I couldn’t smell the soil and rain on the breeze any longer. The smoke swam in my head, a little more potent because I hadn’t eaten since…when? Christ, I didn’t know. But now that I’d thought of it, a hole opened up in my gut. My belly roared as I braced my hands on the soaked ground behind me and blew smoke rings into the air.
The cigarette was gone too quickly, and now my throat was dry. Should’ve bummed a drink too. Or perhaps a club sandwich. The pretty brunette probably hadn’t had that stowed away in her cute little clasp of a purse.
I eyed the cig’s burning tip with fascination. I didn’t have a lot of tattoos, but now and then, I branded my skin in a different way. I lifted my arm, searching for the circle of puckered skin on the inside of my forearm. The original mark hadn’t been my choice, but the ones since had been. So I never, ever forgot.
“Thanks, Mum,” I murmured, before pressing the lit tip to that exact spot.
The pain made me curse a streak loud enough that a few teenagers making out nearby stopped their clandestine activities and hurried away. My arm throbbed, and I had to count backward to keep my already hollowed-out stomach from betraying me.
Idiot. As if you don’t have enough people taking their shots at you, you have to join in.
I didn’t expect anyone to understand why I did it. Why I needed to burn that exact spot when my resolve weakened. It wasn’t for anyone else to comprehend.
Hey, I was an artist, right? Being messed up was a badge of pride.
As was having big fucking stones. And I was just about to show the size of mine.
When the agony had dulled to an almost manageable ache, I dragged out my mobile phone and hit the number I’d saved months ago. I hadn’t fully made the decision to use it until tonight, when Mitchell Scott had made up my mind for me.
One Direction reboot, was it? We’d just see about that.
And then there was Jerry, with his boot on my throat.
I had to get to LA. Fast.
A polite female voice came on the other end of the line and asked where I would like my call directed.
Finally, an easy answer.
“This is Ian Kagan, calling at the behest of my brother, Simon. Put me through to Donovan Lewis, please.”
Eleven
Ripper Records was one hell of an imposing place.
The building behind the more modest one I’d been directed to in the Ripper Records complex speared up into the sky like an obsidian fist, with hints of gold threaded through the black. Gold for money. For albums.
For what I’d sell my soul for, just to get a taste of the big time.
Success.
Power.
Most of all, respect.
I gripped my knapsack. I refused to be the kid from the slums anymore. The forgotten Kagan. The one who didn’t exist to the rest of the world.
No fucking way. I pressed against the bandage over the ruined flesh under the long sleeve of my shirt. The flash of pain centered me, brought everything into sharp focus—as it always did. My stage gear made me feel less like the poor kid I was, but the unsealed back of my shoe flapping against the concrete was as effective a reminder as a bucket of ice. I might put on the finery that would set me apart, but at my roots, I was from the streets.