Page 115 of Heartfelt Pain
“Think about my dad,” Abe says, throwing a hand despondently toward the kitchen. “Think about what you’re doing to him. He has all these followers on social media now. People watch his videos every day to see what song he plays on the jukebox.”
“The jukebox I had to fucking fight you for?” I hiss.
Abe stomps his foot again. “The jukebox you forced on us, only for you to abandon it!”
“I’m not abandoning it! Your dad’s going to continue to be a social media sensation. Whoever buys my business isn’t going to make you get rid of it.”
I’ll have Ben write it into the contract if I have to.
“Did we ever discover where the jukebox came from?” Ben asks.
Abe recoils. “Did those British fucks try to bribe you with a jukebox.”
“They killed my boyfriends. I doubt they fucking gave me a jukebox just so I could annoy the shit out of you,” I say.
I fought Abe tooth and nail for it. It arrived last New Year’s out of the blue. Occasionally, people send gifts which we normally decline. This time I let it lie. In fact, I kind of assumed Elijah might have gotten it as a thank-you after the shoot-out with Leopold.
Ben tips his chin up, eyes glinting as he follows my train of thought.
A Zimin did buy the jukebox. But it wasn’t Elijah.
Heat unfurls in my chest, spreading across my skin.
The jukebox arrived months ago. Roma didn’t approach me until a couple of weeks ago.
“Babe, let it go,” Ben says to Abe. He rubs at his eye, resigned. “I suppose, I’ll be the one helping you gather bids?”
My hair sticks to the back of my neck. “Yes, please,” I murmur.
An air of desolation swirls around Abe. “Seriously?”
Ben grabs his hand, pulling the knuckles to his lips.
Jane meets my eye from the hostess stand. She heard enough to know what’s going on. She focuses on customers and I ignore the stab of guilt as I turn back to the kitchen.
I wash my coffee cup and hand it to Abe’s dad, who patiently waits nearby.
“You know I look forward to seeing what song you’re going to play too,” I tell him.
He gets giddy like a kid. Abe started filming him in the mornings, picking out the song he wanted to play that day. He posted them on social media and kept at it because of the marketing. But now people on the internet just like Abe’s dad for being Abe’s dad.
It’s cute and heartfelt and I make myself believe that my leaving won’t harm his status as an influencer.
He smiles softly, taking the cup from me.
“Really?” I ask Trevino. The man leans up against a steel worktop eating from a bowl of ramen. The remains of a sushiplatter are on the table next to him. “So you do actually eat carbs?”
“Everybody’s got to get their carbs.” He straightens, setting the dish aside. “You okay?”
I nod and exit through the back alley. Trevino—making sure to thank Abe’s dad—follows me after a beat.
It’s still early and though Luis has the car, I walk down the sidewalk. The last time I went walking around, I’d followed Isolde to Trevino’s place. Or rather the weird warehouse he uses.
I’m caught up in my thoughts, pulling my blazer tighter to my body. I need a jacket, but rage had fueled me when I ran off to meet Joan Stuart.
“Do you have eyes on Isolde?” I ask. I sent her a text and she’s yet to respond.
There’s an aggrieved sigh from Trevino. “Don’t worry about her.”
