Ignite (The Disciples 4)

“I need to handle something. Call Rip to fill you in on the last couple of days.” Before either of them can say anything, I’m out the door. I’m already aggravated that I haven’t been able to put this woman out of my mind since she Flashdanced her way into my life, so I don’t need any more shit.

I hate drama, and so far she’s been nothing but. So why the fuck am I grabbing my wallet and keys?

No wonder Blade is looking at me like I’m insane. Then again, it’s more like pity, which is worse.

I walk straight to my silver Harley, but something makes me hesitate. And before I can even try to reason with myself, I’m sitting inside my GTO.

“Fuck it.” I start her up and she rumbles to life, causing my cock to get hard. I bought Luscious in high school and have pretty much rebuilt her with stock parts.

She’s my baby.

I don’t let anyone drive her and not many get to ride in her. In fact, I don’t think a woman has ever sat in the passenger seat. I’ve fucked plenty in the back and driver’s seat, but not one woman has yet to sit next to me. So, why I’m taking her pisses me off. It’s not like I’ll let Cookie sit there.

I should have told Crystal to handle it or texted Rip. Instead, I’m gunning it down our long gravel driveway listening to Stevie Ray Vaughan. My sound system is the only thing custom. Vaughan was a guitar master, a musical genius. Music calms me, centers me. My hands tighten on the leather steering wheel as I turn it up louder, letting the magic of Vaughan’s guitar try to distract me.

I should turn back.

I don’t. My foot stays on the accelerator as I take the Cahuenga Pass all the way to Hollywood.AXELIt must be my lucky day because I get rock star parking. Either that or the universe has decided to fuck with me since it’s a twenty-four seven bitch to find parking in Hollywood. Yet tonight, I somehow slide right in as someone pulls out.

Two cop cars are parked in the middle of the street. A bit excessive, but whatever. A baby cries while people yell.

A large moving truck is double-parked with the rolling door open. Some blankets and a dolly lie on the curb, but there’s not a mover in sight. It’s gorgeous out, so they have that going for them. I look down at my phone to see her apartment number, ignoring the three missed calls from Rip.

A few girls walk by, smiling as they try to control their little rat dogs. Her building is covered in vines and flanked by two large palm trees, but whoever is trying to move in has made it easy for me to enter since a potted plant is holding the glass entrance door open. The hallway is a dirty cream color, reminding me of my sister’s dorm when I used to visit her.

“Excuse me, young man. Do you think something illegal is going on?” An old lady reaches her hand out her door.

I smile at her. “I think everything is okay. Can you point me in the direction of 6D?”

“Oh my, you’re such a handsome one.” She smiles. Her front teeth are missing. “It’s up the stairs, down the hall. I called the police because of the screaming and crying.” She pulls her bathrobe tighter around her neck.

“Well, the police are already here. I saw them as I pulled up.” I nod at her and follow the screaming. The carpet smells slightly of mildew, but that’s Hollywood for you. I rarely spend much time over here anymore. When I was in my twenties and had my band, I spent a lot of time in Hollywood. But now, unless I’m going to hear live music, I pretty much stay away.

Taking the stairs, I see the two cops immediately, along with a woman holding a baby and a man who seems very agitated. His eyes widen as he spots me.

“Great, who are you?” He waves his hands. This guy’s average in every way—one of those people you could talk to for hours yet turn around and not be able to pick him out of a police line-up.

The two cops turn to look at me and rest their hands on their holsters. Should it bother me? Probably, but honestly? The cops are the least of my worries. I should be getting my head examined for even being here.

“You Axel Fontaine?”

“I am.”

The one who’s shorter holds up his hand to the man, trying to calm him. He steps back and bites his nails. Hollywood might not be the place for him if his sweating is any indication.

“I’m Officer Ortega. We spoke on the phone. You’re her employer?”

“What difference does that make? You called. I’m here.”