The Revenge Games Duet

Chapter Six

There’s a loud thump, thump, thump against the wall.

The room is filled with the beautiful, warm sunlight that California is known for. I appreciate the small things in life, just not the loud banging against my wall. Stumbling out of bed in my sleep shorts and worn-out KISS t-shirt, I make it out to the living room to see Flynn passed out on the sofa surrounded by bags of chips and empty bottles of cola. It suddenly dawns on me that the sound is coming from the wall I share with my elderly neighbors.

Oh, dear God, no.

I ignore the mental images. Never in my wildest dreams did I picture myself living in a run-down apartment block surrounded by neighbors who were one step away from a grave yet having more sex that I am at this point of my life.

The universe works in mysterious ways.

The empty coffee pot that sits on our old countertop is the only thing I want right now, distracting me from my wandering thoughts and desperate need to check in on Liam because sex is on my brain. With a pot brewing and some cereal in a bowl, I sit at the table with my planner instead.

My first week on the job was chaotic. Emerson introduced me to many of the staff who work for her which meant driving around Los Angeles and being stuck in traffic for most of the day. My to-do list is a mile long, but I’m determined. I will do this and do a damn fine job. The busy workload distracts me from being homesick and the ill-feeling that constantly sits in the pit of my stomach.

On today’s agenda, I will be accompanying Emerson to the studios. To be honest, I’m rather excited. I don’t consider myself a star-struck fan-type person, but something about this place brings it out of me. That, and Phoebe is relentless, texting me a thousand times a day with celebrity sightings. It’s the reason I haven’t mentioned that my boss is Emerson Chase.

“Grrr…”

The groan interrupts my thought process. Flynn sits up on the sofa, rubbing his eyes and coughing out what sounds like a furball. I feel terrible that I have been so busy with work the past week, never getting a proper chance to spend time with him and see what he’s up to.

“Big night with a bag of potato chips?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, eyes closed, half asleep. “What time is it?”

I pick up my phone to see the time. “A little after six.”

“In the morning?”

“Uh, yeah.” Pointing out the obvious, I notice his eyes are red and very tired looking.

People say that Flynn looks nothing like me. His features are similar to my grandpapa. His light eyes bordering on green and mousy-brown hair with honey highlights, make him look more Russian. He wears it long, the strands falling past his eyes and almost touching his chin. For a growing young man who eats absolute rubbish all the time, his skin is as flawless as a baby’s bottom. Though of late, he appears to be growing a slight beard, which makes him look more mature.

It’s often asked if we are a couple because we don’t appear related. Stupid people with narrow-minded opinions that completely gross us both out. Mama always finds it amusing how two children can be so different. You only have to look at me to see I’m of mixed race. My almond-shaped eyes are a dead giveaway.

“What time did you get home last night?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay, so what are your plans for today?”

“Don’t know.”

My frustration comes out quickly. “Flynn, I get it. I really do. You don’t want to be here. But making it impossible to live won’t make it easier.”

I pour a cup of coffee and bring it to him, setting it on the coffee table that I bought from a cheap second-hand store a block from the apartment. It’s shaped like an old trunk, made from a combination of hardwood and leather. Flynn hates it.

“If we both work hard, the quicker we can—”

“Yeah, I get it, all right?” He jumps to his feet, almost crashing into me. “I need a shower.”

“Flynn,” I call his name, trying to reign in my frustration. He stops just shy of the bathroom door. “How about we go out for dinner tonight? Your pick.”

“Can’t. Got a gig.”

“A gig? As in you’re playing in a band?”

“Kinda, sorta.”