Page 23 of Deliverance

Santiago straightens up and cracks his knuckles. “Last one to get to the top buys breakfast.”

I grin at him. “You’re on, swagger.”

We head over to the fork at the bottom of the hill and take the path that winds along the steeper side of the mountain. Behind us, the hum of an engine sounds as another car pulls into the lot.

“I’m in the mood for some pancakes,” Santiago says with a smug smile, then takes off. “You’ve got an hour to decide where you’re taking me, babe.”

I roll my eyes and follow his lead, not overly upset that he’s got at least a thirty-foot head start. None of those self-defense and boxing classes I used to attend during my first year in L.A. have gone to waste. It was an odd period in my life when I was determined to learn how to defend myself and how to hit back. For the first time since I’d met Rhys, I was bruised of my own volition, muscles sore and skin tender. Yet in a sick way, the pain was welcome becauseIchose it.

To preserve our breathing and our energy, we don’t talk during the hike. The trail’s narrow and snakes through the dry bushes like a corkscrew, which only makes our bodies work harder. I break a sweat within the first ten minutes of our climb. Slick moisture pools between my breasts and coats my forehead, and my T-shirt starts to stick to my back.

Santiago is now jogging lightly and I lose him for a little while when the trail curves and disappears behind the slope of the hill. Solitude doesn’t scare me in most cases, but it does after nights like last night. Warily, I reach for my neck and rub my throat, checking for any sign of damage, but there is none.

It was just a nightmare, I reassure myself and pump my legs harder, determined to catch up with Santiago.

My mind veers in a thousand different directions. The unfinished canvas waiting for me back in my loft, the unveiling ofScars, the interviews Tina set up in light of the upcoming event.

Then my conversation with Zander Shaw at the barbeque derails my train of thought. Did I make a mistake? Was inviting him to my studio smart? I don’t tend to befriend people who buy my artwork, but most who do aren’t friends of my friends, nor are they as humble as The Deviant’s drummer.

The landscape around me turns into a muddy blur once I pick up my pace to round the side of the hill, dust swirling around my ankles. A pleasant ache in my muscles reminds me of my first boxing lesson and I feel my adrenaline taking over. The sun has fully emerged from below the horizon and its heat beats against my back, promising another hot day.

Ahead of me, Santiago’s drenched T-shirt finally comes into focus.

I shake off the Saturday barbeque memories and concentrate on the task at hand—getting to the top of the mountain first.

We race each other the rest of the way, and to my dismay, I lose by just a few feet.

“So—” Santiago drawls, sucking in a lungful of oxygen. “Where are you taking me?” He bends down and rests both palms on his knees, his chest heaving loudly.

I shake my head and spin on my heels to take in the view of the city and the roaring freeway down below. My heart hammers away, and for a few long moments, I forget about the dream and the stubborn canvas awaiting me at home. It’s peaceful and clear inside my head.

But then the tension returns slowly, crawling like a spider along the curve of my spine and wrapping around my shoulders. And I suppose my body language betrays me after all, because Santiago moves closer, concern twisting his features.

“You okay, babe?” He tilts his head to the side to study my face.

“I’m good.” I nod but avoid looking at him. Instead, my eyes rake over the summery landscape as if my salvation is somewhere out there, waiting for me.

He doesn’t push. “All right. I’m here if you need to talk.” A flash of a smile touches his lips.

“I know.”

We stand atop the mountain for a little while, savoring the view of the sunrise, orange flames licking the glass buildings and the windshields of the cars that cram the freeway.

“How about we eat at Susie’s?” I blurt out. It’s a nice place in Toluca Lake we used to frequent. Their breakfast is probably the best in the Valley. Suddenly, I’m craving waffles with extra whipped cream, and my stomach rumbles at the thought.

“Susie’s it is.” Santiago grins. “Race you back to the parking lot?”

“Aren’t you an asshole?!” I stick out my tongue, but he’s already sprinting down the mountain. “I’m not paying for the extra serving!” I shout, charging after him.

5 Zander

“What do you use?”I ask Leo, eyeing his face and looking for any signs that he’s rolling. He did back in the day and it’s one of the reasons doubt still eats through me. “Ableton?”

“I switched to DP a couple of years back.” He shifts forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His gaze, sharp and clear, is trained on me. “It’s gonna be fucking killer once we track everything.”

His enthusiasm is endearing, but I’ve been around long enough to know that just because someone claims they shit gold, doesn’t mean it’s true. Fifteen years ago, I boasted like a teenager too, but the idealist in me is long gone. There’s no room for fantasies in the world of showbiz if you expect to make serious dough. And at some point, you have to let go of those dreams and become a slave to the grind, hoping one day your fans will trust you enough to accept something different from you.

Yes, I’m a fucking cynic, because I’m of the opinion that the music industry is a vicious machine that chews you up and spits you out if you’re not following the trends. There’s a reason so many bands descend into obscurity after a banging debut album backed up by a massive PR campaign. They don’t know how to ride the wave of success.

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