Page 22 of Wes

“Nothing. I respect her wish not to meet again. I’ve just got to move on.”

Nick scoffs, “Yeah, right. How many times have you even thought about getting laid in the last month since you returned?”

Not once, but I’m not ready to concede.

Instead, I snort and punch his upper arm. “Fuck off.”

He snickers. “A personal record, I’m sure. I’m no prude. I believe an active libido is a gift. But you toe the line of sex addiction.”

I toss my head to down the rest of my drink and my stomach drops. Maria’s face pops up on a screen mounted on the wall, streaming the evening news of a local TV station. Although her anger isn’t directed at me, my skin pricks as the fine hairs covering it stands on end.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, under my breath.

“What’s the matter?” Although my band mate has never met Maria, he murmurs, “Oh, I see. That must be her. The graphic says people are protesting. Someone wants to shut down her foundation, Welcoming Hills.”

Bile churns deep inside me as anger spreads faster than wildfire. I face Nick. “Who the hell would do such a thing?”

Before he can reply, a man occupying the stool on my right blurts, “That’s rich. The easiest lay in the Bay Area hailed as a saint because of a bunch of down-on-their-luck kids.”

Everyone around the counter turns their eyes to the insensitive son of a bitch, including me. I crease my brow when I recognize the former member of a one-hit-wonder boy band. They fell off the radar over a decade ago, but he hasn’t aged well.

He goes on with the disparaging commentary, “Celebrities didn’t even need to bother with a first date before Maria got on her knees. They just had to be famous.”

“Show some respect for the lady.” I don’t know enough about her to dispute his version of the story. Still, I grit my teeth and growl, “The past is over. What matters is that she’s doing a great job now.”

He cackles. “Oh, you’ve got that right. She’s a pro. I’ve been told she delivers the best hand jobs and blow jobs.”

His chef’s kiss has me seeing red, jumping to my feet, and balling my hands.

“He’s not worth it,” Nick states as he grabs my forearm and forces me to sit back down.

Emboldened, the man eyeballs us, shakes his head, and elbows a mountain of a man sitting by his side. “Hey, Bolt. Check out these fucking rock stars!”

The bald middle-aged Bolt, wearing a leather vest with the patch of a local motorcycle club, slants his head to size up me and Nick. Not impressed, he returns his gaze to Clueless Asshole and shrugs. His deep voice matches his massive body. “What about them?”

Alarms blare inside my head when the man on my right grins like the Cheshire cat. I burrow my nails into my palms to control the urge to scratch the leer off his wrinkled face.

“My band wasn’t top-chart enough for Maria. But I bet these guys just need to wink for her to spread her legs for both of them.”

“Motherfucker!” I howl, landing a right jab on the guy’s chin before Nick can react.

When Nick grabs my upper arm, I wriggle my way out of his grip. My movements cause him to lose his footing. As I snatch my target by the collar of his shirt and shove him to the ground, Nick’s body crushes against Bolt, knocking the biker off his stool.

All hell breaks loose as other patrons join the brawl.

Straddling the former entertainer, I pin him to the stone-covered floor and beat the shit out of him. That gives me an outlet for a month’s worth of frustration. Until someone snatches me up by the belt loops on the waistband of my jeans. Before I can stand straight, a fist connects with my jaw, sending me reeling toward the counter. Dazed, I wrap my fingers around the top of a nearby chair for support, but another man steals it from me to hit somebody’s legs. A punch to the left side of my abdomen, over my spleen, makes me double over. Heaving, I groan as air scorches my lungs.

I sigh in relief when a dozen police officers barge into the lounge and start cuffing us before anyone gets seriously hurt. They drag us out and into the squad cars parked outside. Nick and I end up in the same one.

“You look like shit,” he states, describing how I feel. “Your face is swelling.”

The skin covering my left cheek has heated up and extended since we stopped throwing punches. I work my jaw to find out half my face is numb. I glide my tongue along my bottom lip. The tang of copper confirms it’s bleeding where it split.

With a shrug, I assess Nick’s injuries. His short, red curls cling to his forehead where a purple bump has formed above his right eye. His left eyelid has swollen closed and blood stains his front teeth.

“Man, what a pair we make.” I chortle before returning the compliment. “You look like you’ve literally been through the wringer.”

Our belly laughs die down as the car pulls up in front of the police station. A throng of people line the sidewalk while bright lights and TV cameras point to us.

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