My Heart's Beat (Hard Love & Dark Rock #2) (4 page)

No.  I couldn't allow myself to sink back into despair, not yet.

It was three in the morning, and Anne was out on the street.  Maybe she'd hailed a cab, maybe she was back in her apartment already.  But what if she hadn't?  What if she'd run out to the darkness without checking to see if she had enough money for cab fare?

San Francisco isn't a particularly dangerous city, but even harmless cities have a sinister contingent, and usually that contingent is most present in the streets at night.

If Anne was out there in trouble, if another girl came to harm because of me, while I slept—I'd never forgive myself.

I swung by my room to make sure she hadn't gone there after all, which she hadn't.  And then I caught the elevator down to the lobby level, and walked out into the cold night air.

Even if Anne had already gotten home, even if my search was unwarranted, I still preferred the night-time streets right then.

The darkness called to me.  It matched my mood.

Chapter 7

Anne

There's something about San Francisco that makes a person feel colder than they ought to feel.  I don't know if it's from the fog thickening the air, or from the wind always blowing off of the ocean, but a normal night anywhere else in the area feels ten degrees colder in the City.

And that night was even worse than normal.  It wasn't just the damp fog across face that chilled me, or the wind turning my tears to icy streaks.  It wasn't even the ridiculous little dress Becca had made me wear, which left more of my skin uncovered than actually clothed.  It was more than that.  I felt chilled deep down in my soul.

Trace's last girlfriend had died in his bed beside him.  And Sara said he looked at me just like he'd looked at her.

Talk about serious relationship baggage.

I'd been listening to the Belletrists since I was twelve.  I used to put my headphones on and go to sleep with Trace LeBeau's voice in my ears.  I'd felt like I was in love with him before I ever even met him.  And now I'd actually met him—the real him, with all of his pains and sorrows—and if anything, I'd felt even more drawn to him, like a moth being pulled toward a flame.

But the flame wasn't just a glittering light.  There was heat there, too, and pain.  I'd felt it radiating out from Trace.  And suddenly I was worried that the pain and the heat would burn me to a crisp.

It's one thing to have a crush on a man you've never met, to listen to his songs of longing and heartbreak, to memorize the beautiful lyrics he's written about his intimate thoughts and feelings, even to be drawn to those songs because of how they resonate with your own life.  But it's another thing entirely to actually get close to the man himself, close enough to feel his pain, and then to learn that something about you connects to the pain he's felt.

For the hundredth time that night, I felt like I was in way over my head.  And, to put it plainly, it scared the shit out of me.

I hardly even noticed the lobby.  It was just a bright golden blur in my tear-filled eyes, all mirrors and marble and gold-leaf molding.  I wouldn't have recognized it even if I hadn't been crying—I'd certainly never been there before.  It wasn't until I'd shoved my way through the revolving door, and ran past the valet station and down the curving drive to the street, that I started to get a sense of where I was.

I was up high, on one of the City's many hills.  The wind whipped by, making the heavy flags on the hotel façade pop and snap.  There was a strange-looking building across the street—reddish stone and curving walls—and rising up into the darkness beyond it was a massive stone church.

I realized where I was.  This was Nob Hill.  The hotel was the Fairmont San Francisco—one of the oldest and most luxurious hotels in the city—and the huge church ahead of me was Grace Cathedral.

Something about the cathedral—the solemn nature of its façade, or the way its massive stone walls soared up toward the sky—something about it called to me.  I crossed the street, wiping the tears from my face, and started walking toward the majestic structure.

The area in front of the Cathedral is a small park, just one square block in size.  I followed a path from the street, making my way amongst the cut hedges and the barren trees, their naked branches tearing the wind into a mournful moaning sound.  A concrete fountain, ringed with benches, marked the center of the park.  I picked a bench with a view of the Cathedral, and then I sat down and tried to pull myself together.

After ten minutes or so, the panic and the sorrow seemed to fade a little, and I started to think.  I'd ran out of the party so quickly that I hadn't even told Becca—or anybody else—where I was going.  If Trace came back to the suite looking for me, he'd probably ask Becca if she'd seen me.   And then she'd probably start to worry.

I should call her, let her know I was gonna go back to the dorms.

That's when I realized that I'd left my purse and my cell phone back in the hotel.  In the bedroom where I'd been with Trace.

Shit.

The last thing I wanted to do right then was go back into that hotel.  But without my cell phone I couldn't call anybody to let them know where I was.  And without my purse I didn't have any money to catch a cab, let alone the keycard I needed to get back into the dorms.

Way to go, Anne.  You're on a roll tonight.

But then things got even worse.

I wasn't alone out there.  Because of the wind moaning through the naked tree branches, I didn't hear them until they were already entering the park—even though they were making plenty of noise.

I looked over my shoulder and saw three guys, all of them dressed in preppie-style, with polo shirts and stonewashed jeans.  They looked like they were close to my age, maybe a few years older, and they looked drunk.  Belligerently drunk.

I turned back around quickly, sinking low on the bench, trying to make myself small and unnoticeable.

"Yeah, man!" one of them shouted.  "That one bitch with the big titties and the Southern accent—the one that danced to the Snoop Dogg song—
she
was a fucking slut, man!"

"Which one?" another, deeper voice said.  "The one you got the lap dance from?"

"Yeah, that one.  Fucking slut bent over in my face and
pulled
her ass cheeks apart.  Bitch had beef curtains, for sure.  She's probably been riding dick since she was thirteen."

"Maybe even younger than that," a third voice said.  "I hear those Southern sluts get broke in early, like as soon they get on the rag for the first time, sometimes when they're only nine or ten.  Those bitches are fucking old-pros by the time they hit thirteen."

"Well, fuck it," the first voice said.  "My dad always told me, if they're old enough to bleed, they're old enough to breed."

If I'd been feeling upset before, now I felt positively revolted.  Hearing these guys talk made something twist in my stomach.

And here I was, in the park all alone with them coming near.

God, what I wouldn't have given for my cell phone right then, or even just a decent outfit that covered me up a little more.  For a second I even considered trying to hide somewhere, maybe in the shadows under the bench.

Too late.  They'd already spotted me.

"Well well well," the first voice said.  "What in the world do we have here?"

I took one look at him—his face pasty white except the cheeks, which were flushed red from booze; his eyes small and too-close together—and my urge to run took over.

I was on my feet, teetering in the high heels, trying to move away.  But the guy was quicker.  He sprinted around in front of me, blocking my way, and thrust his face so close in front of mine that I flinched.

"What's your rush, little lady?" he said.  "It's a beautiful night here in the park.  Why not stay a while?"

"I… I have to go," I said, wishing my voice didn't sound so high and frightened.

Another one of them came up on my side, pressing me in against another bench.  I glanced over at him, almost afraid to face him head on.  He was big, his hair buzzed short, his shoulders sloping down to pudgy hands and sausage fingers.

"Go?" he said.  "Why?"  I recognized his voice as the deeper one of the three.

"I… I have to get back to my friends," I said.  "They're waiting for me at the Fairmont."

"Ooh, the Fairmont," the third guy said, coming up behind me.  "Fancy."

I looked over my shoulder at him.  He was the shortest of the trio, his blond hair slicked down tight against his head, a scattering of pimples marred his cheeks—he'd picked them to little scabbed-over wounds.  His lips looked wet from spit, and he bared his teeth in a sneer.

The three of them had boxed me in against the bench.  It made my heart start beating harder, fear pumping through my veins.

"The Fairmont is one of the most expensive hotels in San Francisco," the first guy said.  "Who do
you
know that could afford to stay there?"

I turned to look at him, but before I could answer, the second guy cut me off.

"Maybe it's a client," he said, leaning in a little closer.  "Maybe she's a call girl.  Just look at how slutty she's dressed."

A little flare of anger cut through me at that.  Anger at these guys for being such assholes, but anger at Becca too.  It was her fault I was dressed like this.

In the end, though, the anger wasn't enough to overcome my growing fear.

"She's too fat to be a call girl," the third guy said.  "Just look how thick her legs are."

He reached out a hand and poked my naked thigh.

I tried to pull my leg away, but that made me bump up against the chest of the red-faced guy.

"You're probably right," he said, catching a lock of my hair between his finger and thumb, rubbing it as he was judging an animal's pelt.  "She's just a hooker, a street-whore who wandered up here thinking she'd try to pull a high-class john."

"Hey!" I said, snatching my hair out of his grip.

"Watch yourself, little whore," the big one said.  He leaned in closer, his hulking figure forcing me to back up until the bench pressed against the back of my legs.  "Don't get sassy with potential customers, or we won't give you a tip."

Finally, a surge of rage swept through my fear.

"I'm not a hooker!" I said.  "I was at a party in the Fairmont with a band—the Belletrists.  I just stepped outside to get some air.  They're probably already starting to wonder where I am."

"The Belletrists, huh?" the first guy said.  "Yeah, right.  Everybody knows that band broke up."

"Yeah," the short one chimed in.  "I heard the faggot lead singer tried to kill himself.  Cut his own limp wrist, just like a little bitch."

Before I had time to think about it, my hand came up and smacked his face, hard, the sound sharper and louder than the howling of the wind.

"Shut your mouth you fucking prick!" I said, spitting each word out.

For a moment his face blanched so white that his scabby red pimples looked like flecks of blood.  And then his eyes went small and wet, and he looked like he might cry.

"I'm not a prostitute," I said, "and even if I was, I'd never have sex with assholes like you.  So back off!  I've got to get back to the Fairmont before my friends start to worry."

I tried to step between the big guy and the little one.  But before I could slip through, I felt a meaty paw on my naked shoulder, gripping me hard enough to hurt.

The big guy pulled me back and shoved me down on the bench.

He leaned in so close I could smell his foul breath, his ice-blue eyes boring into mine unblinking, his heavy hand still on my shoulder, pinning me down.

"You may not be whore," he said.  "But that doesn't mean you're not going to get fucked."

"Yeah, you bitch," the little one said.  "And maybe you'll do some sucking too.  I know you fat bitches like to put things in your mouths."

"If it makes you feel any better, though," the red-faced guy on my left said.  "We won't give you any money, since you're not a whore after all."

All three of them loomed over me, reaching for me with their grubby hands.

Sudden terror came flooding into my heart, overwhelming me.  I opened my mouth and screamed with all of my might.

Chapter 8

Trace

The lobby of the hotel was bright, the lights just outside the entrance so glaring they hurt my eyes.  But just a few steps beyond that, I left the circle of light, and the darkness of the night enveloped me.

It was cold outside, the wind pushing the wet air against my bare skin.  I hunched my shoulders up, crossed my arms and tucked my hands under my biceps, trying to stay warm.

But just a moment later, I stopped myself.  I made myself relax my shoulders, uncross my arms.  There was no point in huddling in the cold—it wouldn't really make me any warmer.  Better to try to ignore it.

For most of the past year I'd relied on avoidance and denial.  The guilt and the despair I felt over Lucy's death—I learned to deal with it by
not
dealing with it, escaping from the pain by training myself to not feel at all.

And it had worked, in its way.  It had gotten me through those first months of nearly continual self-hatred, in which I'd been seized again and again by a desperate, nearly frantic urge to end it all, to slip free from this life of suffering, to escape into the true and permanent apathy of death, of ceasing to exist.  It had gotten me through that dark age of my soul, and brought me to a new life—shallow and passionless, but stable enough to convince Bernstein that maybe the band could get back on the road.

Tonight I'd let down that guarded stance, I'd opened myself back up to feeling, to passion, for the first time in nearly a year.  And in just a few hours, despair had found me and claimed me as its own once again.

And so, as I willed myself to relax my shoulders and uncross my arms and just
ignore
the cold, it wasn't just the cold I wanted to ignore.  It was the pain and self-disgust, too.

I walked along the darkened street, mentally rebuilding the apathetic mind-state that had protected me for so long.

At the corner of the block I paused, looking down the hill toward the bright lights of North Beach and Chinatown.  I remembered the area from previous trips—Broadway, the street running between these two neighborhoods, was the center of one of San Francisco's main red-light districts, and Joey had dragged me along to the strip clubs and bars on more than one occasion.  Now—as I watched tendrils of fog blowing by, glowing in the garish light of the signs—I asked myself if Anne had gone in that direction.  And even though I'd only met her a few hours before, the answer seemed clear to me: no, she hadn't.  I knew in my heart that Anne wouldn't seek the crowds or the lights.

I turned left, feeling the cold blow over me, waking me up to the night and bringing me out of my thoughts.  A little farther than a block ahead, I saw a massive Gothic church, its rose window darkened like a blinded eye.  I started walking toward it, feeling drawn to its dramatic beauty, wondering if Anne had been drawn to it too, and thinking maybe she had.

Where is she?
, I wondered.

And then, as if in answer to my thoughts, I heard her voice.  Screaming.

Instantly, I was in motion, sprinting toward the sound.  There was a park up ahead, in front of the cathedral.  I leapt the curb and raced down a walkway, my boots flying over the red bricks.

In the center of the park there was large fountain, the wind scattering its water across the bricks in a wide spray.  And to the left of the fountain, a group of figures struggled with someone on a bench.

"Hey!" I shouted.  "Hey!  Stop!"

I was there in seconds.  I didn't stop running until I was close enough to grab the shoulder of the nearest man.  As soon as I had a grip on his polo shirt, I jerked him back from the bench.

It was Anne on the bench.  It was Anne they were struggling with.  Her long hair had fallen over her face, but her beautiful brown eyes looked out at me, huge and full of fear.  The top of her dress had been torn on the side, revealing the lace of her bra.

Her eyes met mine, her lips mouthed "help."  And in that moment, for the second time that night, her look made the blanket of numbness fall away from me.

But this time, it was rage that came surging up in its place.

My head whipped toward the guy I'd spun around.  His eyes went wide like he recognized me.

"Hey, you're Trace—"

Before he could finish the sentence, I hammered my fist straight into his mouth.  He flopped to the bricks like a broken doll.  I started to turn toward his buddies, but a pair of hands caught hold of me first, thick arms wrapping around me from behind, trapping me in a bear hug.

He was strong and he was big.  He hauled me right off the ground, crushing the air out of me, and spun me toward his red-cheeked friend, who promptly punched me in the face.

I saw a flash of light that faded to a dozen sparkling points.

Anne screamed again, the sound of her voice wild and angry now.  The man who held me lurched forward.  His breath hissed through his gritted teeth, and my feet reached the ground.

His friend stepped in with his fist raised up, trying to hit me again.  I ducked my head and shoved back with my hips, unbalancing the big guy who held me, tipping him even farther forward.  Red Face missed me, and his fist caught the big guy on the ear instead.

The shock of the blow made the big guy lurch back, his hands coming off of me.  I took the chance to slam the toe of my boot up between his friend's legs.  Instantly, the red flush on his face drained to white.  Half a second later, he dropped to his knees with his hands clutching at his crotch.

I heard a yelp, turned and saw Anne sprawled on her hands and knees on the bricks, with the big guy looming over her.

Another flare of rage seized me, my vision going red.

I kicked the side of his knee with all of my strength.  He went down howling, his hands pressed against the red floor.

I kicked him again, this time aiming for his chin, slamming his mouth shut.  His head whipped back, and then he toppled forward, face down on the bricks.  He didn't move after that.

"Are you alright?" I said, kneeling near Anne.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide and stunned.

"Anne, are you okay?  Please tell me you're okay."

"I'm okay," she said.

She tried to stand, but winced instead, her eyes shining with pain.

"I might have twisted my ankle," she said.  "And I skinned my knees pretty bad."

"Bernstein's doctor friend is still at the hotel," I said.  "Hold onto me.  I'll carry you."

"But you can't.  I'm too big."

"Now you're just being ridiculous."

I wrapped one arm around her back, the other under her legs, and scooped her up off the ground.

Anne wrapped an arm around my shoulders, laid her other hand against my chest.  There was blood running down her beautiful legs, bright red against her pale skin.  It made me angry all over again.

A groan from somewhere near my feet reminded me of the three assholes that had done this to her.  I looked down at the guy I'd kicked in the balls.  He was still clutching himself with both hands, and he looked up at me with a face grey from agony.  Of the three of them, he was the only one still conscious, and the only one that hadn't taken a blow to the head.

"You better help your friends," I said.  "Head trauma is no joke."

And then I turned toward the park exit, and started walking back to the hotel.

As I reached the first intersection, Anne spoke again.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?"

I looked down at her.

"Like what?"

"Like
that
.  You just took out three guys, and one of them was a lot bigger than you."

"Well,
all
of them were a lot drunker than me, too.  Or at least that's what I'd guess by the way they smelled: booze fumes and stripper perfume."  I smiled.  "And besides, I had some help."

She shook her head.  "Seriously, though.  That was kind of amazing.  You're not some sort of secret agent disguised as a sexy rock star, are you Trace?"

"Actually, call me Bond," I said.  "Trace Bond."

She smiled at me, her eyes lighting up with it.  It sent a giddy rush of pleasure straight to my head.

"I love it when you smile," I said.

Her lips closed a little, as if she were suddenly shy.  But in her eyes, that smile kept shining.

"If you really want to know," I said, "I grew up in a pretty rough neighborhood.  When the Belletristes were first starting out, we were more of a screamo band, and we played a lot of punk shows.  Some of those shows were pretty macho affairs—a lot of tough-guy jocks coming around, looking to fight.  And because we played songs about love, and because I wore eye-liner sometimes, we had to deal with more aggression than most."

"You still wear eyeliner," she said.

"Sometimes," I nodded.  "It helps to bring out my eyes."

I fluttered my lashes at her, and she laughed.

"In all honesty, though, we used to get in fights every week, but tonight was the first time I've had to fight in years."

"And not just you," Anne said, sounding thoughtful.  "Joey and Micah got into it with Becca's friend Ronnie, too."

"Well, if I recall correctly, the bartender started that.  Though I won't deny that Joey does seem to attract more than his fair share of trouble."

She was quiet for a moment, and I glanced down at her again, worried.

To my surprise, she was smiling.

"It's just," she whispered.  "This is almost like a movie or something.  But if it was a movie, that'd make me the female lead, and I've never seen myself as the leading lady type."

We were just across the street from the hotel now, the lights of the entrance glaring bright.  I knew I had to take her in there, to get Bernstein's doctor friend to check her ankle.  But for a moment, a sudden, powerful desire came surging up in me.

I didn't want to take her back in there, into the bright lights and the noise and the commotion of the hotel.  I wanted to keep her away from that.  I wanted her to be alone with me.

"Trace," she said.

I paused on the corner, and looked down at her.

"Yes, Anne?"

She had her palm pressed flat against my chest.

"Your heart," she said.  "I can feel it beating.  It's really going."

"For you, Anne.  It's beating for you."

Her dark eyes were shining in the moonlight, her lips looked soft and sweet.  She was absolutely breathtaking, and for a moment there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that I wanted more than to kiss her.

So I did.