Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(3)
“Then why are we here? This place is creeping me out. I see why they call them cities of the dead.” Dark sunglasses shielded Zane’s eyes and his long black hair was tucked up into a ball cap, his standard disguise when he went out in public even though Mike always jokingly tried to assure him he wasn’t that famous. Fact was, though, with hit singles on the radio and smack in the middle of a sold-out US–Canadian tour, the kid might very well get taken down by fangirls anywhere he went.
“I don’t know.”
“Then can we go?”
Might as well. Mike should have known he’d get all the way out here and punk out. Facing Tommy in the fighting cage had been one thing. There, Mike was in control of his fate and no one else. Facing Tommy’s grieving family was another matter entirely. Words had never been his strong point. “Go sing your songs. I didn’t ask you to come here.” Zane’s tour stop happened to be in New Orleans tonight, but when Mike had called him to tell him he was flying over from Houston, his brother insisted on coming along to the cemetery . . . mostly to talk him out of whatever he was going to do.
What am I going to do? Apparently, he wasn’t going to do shit.
Zane checked his watch. “I do need to go for sound check. You staying over?”
It wasn’t like he had anything else to do. “Might as well.”
“Cool. Let’s go.” Zane turned to lead Mike back to the black Escalade they’d commandeered back at the concert venue. “I might even let you have one of my groupies. You look keyed up.”
“You know that’s not my style.” If he was keyed up, it was because he’d come all the way out here just to lose his nerve. But what did you say to the family you’d destroyed? I’m sorry? Jesus.
Just as they were about to round a corner and lose sight of Tommy’s mourners, though, Mike noticed two women break away from the others—one of them practically holding the other up—and disappear between two glaringly white aboveground crypts. He was a good distance from them and he’d only caught a glimpse, but he thought he remembered them both from front row at the fight. The one who had barely been able to walk was petite and blond, the other tall, willowy, and dark haired. “Hey, just a minute,” he told his brother, not even waiting for Zane’s response. He trotted in the direction the girls had gone, but of course Zane was right on his heels. Such had been the case ever since the little shit was born.
“What is it?”
“Two girls who were at the service. I think they were at the fight too. They might be leaving.”
“Then it’s not anyone who’d relish seeing your face right now.”
Maybe not, but facing two was less daunting than facing many, and maybe he could get a feel for the situation. He had to try, damn it; he felt a responsibility to be here. To see the anguish he’d caused up close. Didn’t he deserve that much, at least? If all those girls wanted to do was rage and curse at him, didn’t he deserve that too?
As usual, Zane seemed to read his mind. “Don’t let your guilt goad you into doing something you’ll regret, dude. You’re punishing yourself enough, don’t let them punish you on top of it. It wasn’t your fault and you know it. It was just shit luck.”
Shit luck was all he’d ever known, and apparently he couldn’t shake it. When he’d made a name for himself in the MMA cage, he’d thought maybe he’d finally left the bad times behind, that fortune would smile on him at last. But shit luck hadn’t forgotten his name after all, and whatever happened when he came face-to-face with those women, Zane didn’t need to witness it too.
“I don’t need backup,” he snapped at his brother.
“Well, you’ve got it.”
Great. He couldn’t worry about him right now, though; his target had reappeared. They were sitting on a bench, and as he watched, the blonde leaned into the other one, laying her head on the brunette’s shoulder. She tipped her head back to look searchingly at the sky, revealing the long, graceful lines of her neck, and the closer he got, the more entranced he became. A week ago she been nothing more than another stricken face amid the chaos, but now he saw she had a lovely, classic profile, and her chestnut hair shimmered in the sunlight in a way it hadn’t under the stadium lights. Shit, she was beautiful. He almost forgot why he was there . . . but then her gaze flickered to him.
Eyes widening, she shot up from the bench, apparently forgetting the other girl who’d been leaning on her. Her jaw worked but no sounds came out.
The blonde didn’t have that problem. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, struggling to her feet. “How dare you—”
“Rowan, please,” the dark-haired woman said. Her voice was soft, somehow as warm as the sunlight even in this terrible, awkward situation, and it quieted Rowan immediately. God, who are you? Mike wondered.
“Ladies,” he ventured, noticing the tear-stained cheeks, the sad eyes, the down-turned mouths. All his fault. “I just needed to come tell you, your family . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I . . . Savannah, I can’t.” The woman named Rowan put a hand to her mouth and stalked away. Mike watched her until she was gone, feeling desolate, and noticed that Zane had been busy watching her go, too. Helplessly, he swung his gaze back to the other one. Savannah.