Page 31 of Reverb
Yeah, he should have expected that. The venue had to deal with insurance and all that. Technically, so did he. David let go of the guy completely. “All we want is Mish’s property.”
“I don’t have it.” The guy sat up to kneeling and shook out his hands. “Gave it to some other dude.”
Fuck. This had been coordinated.
The venue security guards looked confused.
“To who?” Adrian asked. Standing there, uphill from the ring snatcher, he looked like the broad, intimidatingly big guy he was.
The thief shook his head. “Called himself Stan, but that can’t be a real name, can it?” Dude spread his hands out. “Said he collected souvenirs from stars. Shit they leave around. Paid me to stand in the line and snatch something of that chick’s. Anything she left unguarded.”
“You’re not even a fan.” Adrian raked his hand through his hair and looked at the venue security people. “You ever hear of anything like that before?”
One of them, a woman, shrugged. “People try to steal shit from the bands, sure. But they’re usually super-collectors or overenthusiastic fans.” She rubbed her chin and looked at the thief. “Not some random guy.”
“Tell me about this Stan.” David folded his hands over his chest. But it was too late, because from the entrance strolled in two uniformed police officers.
Dude saw them and shook his head. “I didn’t do a damn thing. I don’t have anything. You can’t keep me.”
He was, as it turned out, right about that. Once the cops took over, the thief clammed up. Even though plenty of people saw the ring being snatched and could point at the dude as the perpetrator, the actual cost of the ring was minimal. Maybe thirty bucks, if that. Petty theft,ifMish wanted to press charges. The guy got a ride to the station from the cops for the night.
No more about Stan, the man who’d bought the guy’s services. And no ring to return to Mish.
Fuckingshit.
And now that the cops were here, that meant a mountain of paperwork. Going over the event only drove home how David had screwed up, how much he should have seen and didn’t. The man’s nervousness, the way he didn’t fit into the scene. Everything.
This was the first concert and he’d been too damn wrapped up with the client, too willing to be her friend and fall into this group of wonderfully supportive queer people. He longed for community, and they’d sucked him right in where he didn’t—shouldn’t belong.
That was bad for business. They weren’t hisfriends, they were hisjob, and the sooner he got that through his head, the better for all of them.
The tale of the ring snatching must have been passed down the line or over social media, because by the time the signing was over, Mish’s insides were scrambled, her mind a mess, her eyes way the fuck too wet—and she had a pile of beautiful rings of all sizes, shapes, and materials from so many fans, she couldn’t keep count.
One of the crew collected them up. “We’ll take care of these.”
It was Zavier who touched her shoulder and helped her out of her chair—she hated how much her legs shook. “I need a fucking drink,” she said.
“I think we all do. Let’s get on the bus and I’ll get you a glass of wine,” Zavier said. He fell in step next to her.
“Fucking want something stronger.” Because she would not break down, not at the loss, not at the incredible generosity of their fans. Even though it hurt and hurt and hurt and all she wanted to do was rage and scream and let the tears fall.
“I’ll find something stronger,” Zavier said.
The trip to the bus was a blur, but true to Zavier’s word, he brought her something other than wine. Into her hand, he placed a white Twisted Wishes coffee mug with at least an inch and a half of amber liquid that smelled gloriously like the lack of regret with a hint of oblivion.
She blinked down at it. “It’s the color of Ray’s eyes.”
Zavier huffed a laugh and did something so uncharacteristic that it froze Mish into place: he kissed her on the forehead. When she met his gaze, his smile was full of depth and affection. “We care for you, too, Mish.”
Fucking Zav was gonna make her cry, that asshole. She took a sip of the booze—bourbon, it turned out—and let the warmth slide down her throat. Zavier fell onto the couch across from her, next to Ray.
Tears still pricked at Mish’s eyes, but they were contained. “Adrian back yet?”
Dom answered. “No. There was some paperwork to do with the police.” He stood close to the bus entrance, clutching his phone, still in most of his makeup and leather, though he had thrown a clean geeky T-shirt on.
She had no idea what that meant—not in terms of catching the guy or finding her ring. “It’s gone, isn’t it?”
Dom turned his phone over in his hand. “They caught the guy, but he didn’t have the ring anymore. Said he give it to another dude.”
