Hello Friends,

As you probably already know the new book in the Saving Angels Series, Red Dirt Road, will be out September 24th (click here to add to your goodreads list!)! I’d like to introduce you to the characters and give you the opportunity to start your journey early. I’m going to post the blurb, a note from myself that will be included in the book, and three chapters… this is going to be a long one! And if you haven’t already, I hope you sign up for my Lagniappe Newsletter. You will be the first to know of any new releases and contests. And I’ll also be participating in a cover reveal for Red Dirt Road, and the date will be sent out through the newsletter first. Lots of goodies going through the newsletter!

I’m still working on getting all my pictures together from my time spent back home. It was a beautiful time, ya’ll. I can’t wait to share it!

In the meantime, enjoy your first steps down the old Red Dirt Road!

 

The blurb:

The Saving Angels Series continues…

A new cast is introduced, while journeys already taken start to merge with the present, leading you down the old Red Dirt Road.

Death has always seemed just one step behind Layla Hill, taking almost everyone she’s ever loved. After she loses the love of her life, Layla vows to never love again—how could she, when she’s a death magnet?

Trying to outrun fate traveling with her Uncle Willie and his band, Layla meets Michael Roberts, a beautiful Irish boxer as gentle on the piano as he is brutal in the ring. He proves as relentless in life, fighting for a place in her world even as she pushes him away, trying to protect him from her killer tendencies.

But neither foresees the sinister presence waiting for Layla at the end of the Red Dirt Road.

 

Note From the Author—

 

As you may already know, Red Dirt Road is not a continuing story of Marigny Street. You were left with an uncertain ending for Evangeline and Gabriel, and try as I might to change the path, what Rose had said to Eva was true. It might have been the right time for saving her, but it was not the right time for forever. As I began my journey along the roads of this series, I realized early on that it would not be the conventional kind. Meaning, instead of following just two characters along a journey, it would follow more, and at some point their roads would meet up. I didn’t know in which way they would take me, or how we would eventually get there. I rode along with them too, not sure what was going to happen next, yearning to figure how an entirely different cast of characters were going to lead me back to my first loves. But eventually they did.

Michael and Layla’s story is different, their journey to life and love very much different than Eva and Gabriel’s.

As these things go in life, there are times where not only do circumstances lead us to wherever we are meant to be, but so do people. Life and Fate move in miraculous and strange ways, not always to our liking, but getting us to where we need to be nonetheless. I wanted to explore that simple but extraordinary notion, the series wanted to explore that path, and even though this story doesn’t pick up where Eva and Gabriel left off, you will find them woven throughout this story and the next. And before long, you will be immersed in an entire cast of characters that hopefully you will love and become attached to.

Again, as I did for Marigny Street, I ask you to open your hearts and minds to Layla and Michael and the entire cast of Red Dirt Road, knowing their story, their journey, will lead you to the ending you deserve.

I hope you enjoy your moments along the old… Red Dirt Road.

 

Red Dirt Road

By Annie Rose Welch

Three Years Ago

 

THE SUN WAS BRIGHT, BREAKING THROUGH THE COLD JANUARY MORNING. I watched through the fogged window as its warmth began to melt the ice frozen to the tall pines, the water drip-dripping down to the frost-covered grass, exploding and splashing as it made contact. The grass almost seemed blue, the cold sucking the life straight from its roots. Even though I preferred my temperature a little warmer, I couldn’t help but marvel in the beauty of the day.

 

Such a normal day.

 

I would have woke up early in preparation for work. I would have brushed my teeth, my hair. I would have made a pot of coffee. I would have stopped by Madam’s on the way to work. I would have done everything that I usually did.

 

But instead, I was dressed in my mother’s lace wedding gown and veil, preparing to leave for church. Of all places. It seemed unreal to me that on such a perfect, icy morning, my path would lead me there.

 

A few warm tears trickled down my face. I wiped them away quickly, not wanting to ruin the freshly applied makeup I had just painted on my face. I wanted to make a statement, and black mascara running in puddles down my face wasn’t what I was aiming for. Or maybe it should have been. Maybe that would have made an even bigger statement.

 

But, I promised myself, no tears. Not even one. I would save them for when I was alone, not in the company of others. Others who had urged this and supported it, even. I would not give them one ounce of satisfaction. I would not allow them to see me cry.

 

From a distance I could hear the clanking and wheezing of my Uncle Willie’s old Ford truck, Nelson. It was almost time to go.

 

I grabbed an old stack of letters neatly wrapped in red, white, and blue ribbon from the table beside my bed. Some of the ribbons were starting to shred and tear at the ends. I ran my fingertips along the soft fabric, my mind wandering to places I was too afraid to acknowledge. I directed my thoughts to blank spaces. I wasn’t going to allow myself to be trapped by my own thoughts, to become claustrophobic in the only body I was allowed to have. No, not today. There would be plenty of time for that, another day, another month.

 

I took a deep breath and exhaled, and then walked out into the frost-bitten morning. The cold air cut through me like frigid water seeping through warm clothing.

 

Willie waved me forward and I reluctantly slid into the passenger side of his truck.

 

“Are you ready?” His eyes were wide, taking in the beautiful gown that was once my mother’s.

 

I nodded. The huge lump lodged in my throat stopping me from speaking.

 

He gave a nod and put the truck in gear. With noisy protest from Nelson, we backed out of the driveway and headed down the road that would lead us to church.

 

We sat in silence while the world around me passed in a dizzy blur of shapes and formations. I nervously fidgeted with the stack of letters in my hands, running my finger over and over through the shreds of the ribbon.

 

I’d hoped the ride would take forever. That the minutes would turn into hours and the hours would become days. And before I knew it, it would be years. But time only comes faster when dread is involved.

 

As Willie slid into a parking spot directly in front of the church, I could feel my stomach twisting and turning, and my legs refused to move.

 

I was about to walk into a nightmare.

 

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Willie asked, his eyes bloodshot and puffy.

 

I nodded again. I took a deep breath and entered the church.

 

I could hear the trumpets from the military band playing softly in the background. I clutched the letters in my hands as a symbol, a bouquet of lost wishes and dreams. The doors opened to the sanctuary and the entire congregation gasped.

 

A surge of satisfaction surged through my veins as I watched their eyes widen and their mouths drop in horror. The feeling pushed my legs forward past the gawking crowd, filled with people who looked like they had seen a ghost.

 

Family, friends, people who had encouraged this, they all watched in shock as I took in all of their faces, my eyes relaying the message that I so badly wanted to scream: You wanted this for him! You clapped for him! You patted him on the back, and now this is all that’s left of my husband, my heart, my dreams—my life!

 

 

I walked forward slowly until I reached my husband. I ran my hand along the glossy wooden casket. It was decorated with red flowers and an American flag. Despite myself, a few tears trickled down my face, and suddenly I was numb. My entire body, my mind, my heart were numb. Void of any emotion or any real feeling.

 

I took my place in the front pew and watched as the preacher man stood before the congregation to give his sermon. He was speaking, but I couldn’t hear the words. My eyes were focused on my husband. Just a week ago he was still alive. His heart was beating and there was air in his lungs. He was smiling and laughing. And now he was at the front of the church, lying lifeless in front of me.

 

The preacher continued to walk back and forth, lifting his arms to the heavens. The words were coming faster, but there was no sound. I wanted him to stop moving. To stop speaking without any real words. My breath was becoming shallow and my head light.

 

A choir filled the spaces around my husband’s casket and began to sing. I could hear their voices singing “Amazing Grace.” I could hear them, but their voices were just echoes in an empty space. Afterward, a man in a uniform handed me a folded-up flag. He spoke to me, but the voice was absent again.

 

Suddenly I was hit with crippling pain. My heart was collapsing and I couldn’t breathe.

 

I quickly surged up. Willie tried to stop me, but I pulled away and ran. I ran as fast as my feet would take me. I busted through the two double doors, and the cold air saturated my dress. I could feel the wind ripping and howling around me, stinging my face. I ran even harder toward the beach. I could hear the waves crashing violently against the shore. The water was chanting my name, calling me forward.

 

A loud gunshot rang out, the first of three, and the sound echoed in the distance. I felt like I had been shot in the heart. I could feel the bullet piercing through the beating organ, tearing a hole directly in the middle. I collapsed on the cold, hard sand. Black tears began to stream down my face. I cried into my dress. I cried for the lost dreams. The lost love. The lost future that I was never going to have.

 

I crawled toward the water, the waves crashing around my body. And one by one, I freed the letters that my husband had once written to me. All of the promises, the love, the dreams, floating out into the gulf, sinking deep into the depths of the frigid black water. I held onto two—his first letter and his last. That was all I would allow myself to keep.

 

I opened his last. I began to read the words aloud. I had to give him the voice that he would never have again, and I needed to hear what he had to say. His last words to me. As I read, the aching pain beat in the background of my heart, like an angry and possessed drum, producing the saddest and most heartbreaking song. I couldn’t control my breathing. I was dying slowly, painfully.

 

I concentrated on the sound of the water rushing back and forth. Back and forth. It seemed to be giving me strength. My tears finally ebbed, but I couldn’t move. I rested my head against the sand and covered my body in the flag, which was all I had left of my husband. A symbol of what he died for.

 

My teeth were chattering and my body was convulsing from the cold, but it was keeping me numb, making the horrendous pain nothing but a dull pulse in the background.

 

I closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I woke up, I was lying in a crimson pool of blood that saturated my white lace dress and the flag draped over my body.

 

I locked my eyes with the sky and spoke through clenched teeth, directing all my pain and sorrow at the universe…

 

It’s time that you take me. I’m the one you want! You have my mother, my father, my husband, and now my child! I’m right here! I have no one else to give to you. It’s me that you want—it was always me. Take me! Take me! I screamed.

 

And I realized in that moment that for the rest of my life, I could never love another man. I could never become close to another person, because I was a death magnet. The deaths that I had experienced were all my fault, and no one was safe with me around.

 

I vowed, while lying in a pool of my own blood, that I would never love again.

 

 

Chapter One

Fire of Faith

 

I  WAS SOMWHERE IN TEXAS. Maybe San Antonio or Houston or Fort Worth. I lost track somewhere between Louisiana and New Mexico. We had been to more than a hundred cities and more bars, clubs, and dives than I cared to count. Losing track of what city, which state, the day, the date, the time, night or day is just one of the hazards of traveling for so long. But it had never been a hazard to me. I enjoyed the constant chaotic state that I resided in.

 

I traveled with my Uncle Willie and his band, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jr., a modern-day cover band. There were six of us in total. Willie was the lead singer and guitarist. Earl provided backup vocals and rhythm guitar. Yuma played the drums, and John was on keyboard or bass guitar. MoJoe was our new, faithful bus driver and sometimes bouncer. I say “new” because we had had more than ten bus drivers over two years. For some reason, we seemed to lose them. It was something we never got used to, but in another way expected. MoJoe was breaking records; he had been with us for almost the entire tour, which was the longest in our history.

 

I was a part of this traveling road show, except I was a one-woman show, as Willie liked to call me. I borrowed his band, and with the songs my husband wrote for me, I sang to the usual drunken crowds, night after night. This was one of our last stops before we were homeward bound. I would’ve lived on the road, if that were only possible, but there were responsibilities at home that couldn’t be ignored.

 

Home was a small town on the Gulf of Mexico: Waveland, Mississippi. With a population of six thousand people, it wasn’t much to brag about, but when the road came to an end, it was where I laid my head. Willie, who lived in the same town not far from me, owned a bar and hotel, the Smoked Hog Bar & The Sleeping Hog. And this was where responsibilities came in. I worked for him. I kept his books, hired and fired employees, booked the entertainment, was the entertainment, swept the floors, restocked the bar—you name it, I did it.

 

Being away for longer than six months made him nervous. We’d been away for eight months, and he was just about having a coronary. Lizzy Gaines, a very young but bright and responsible girl I had hired, ran the place while we were gone. Willie liked to oversee the operation, and he had withdrawal because he was away for too long. I didn’t look forward to home, but then again, I always looked forward to seeing Madam Catalina.

 

She was my fill-in Romanian grandmother. After my mother died, she took me under her wing and protected me. She saved me from numerous near-death experiences, countless “almost” accidents, and most important, she saved me from death by embarrassment too many times to count. Being raised by two men, Willie and my father, had its perks, but on the other hand, being raised by two men causes a young girl a lot of unnecessary worry. I was positive I wouldn’t have survived those awkward teenage years with only them to guide me.

 

She knew before I did when that “special” time of the month was on its way. She felt it was coming and warned me ahead of time. She spared me from the inevitable father-daughter talk that was surely coming. And when I got my first crush on a boy in elementary school, she had that “talk” with me as well. She had said she felt the same changes in hormones in my adolescent body. And there was no need to buy a home pregnancy test—she felt it then, too. Long before I did.

 

Some people called her clairvoyant or physic or even a fortuneteller. But she was none of those things. There was no word for what she was. Instead of seeing what your future held or what your past has done to change your future, she felt the changes. Just by standing in the same room with you, she could tell you everything you wanted to know about your past, present, and future.

 

She was also ninety years old but looked more like seventy. I was eager to get home and tell her about this tour. She loved to hear about the road, the different places I’d been, and some of the people I met along the way. Even though she was always a little discouraged when I told her I hadn’t met anyone interesting or really worth talking to. There was no point in endangering an innocent and usually drunken person’s life. She usually shrugged and said in her heavy accent, “One day you are going to find your angel, the one who is strong enough to be near you.” Then she reached out for whatever gift I might have picked up for her from some road-side stop. She had a thing for magnets.

 

Anyway, that night on tour, I looked at the clock. It was almost time to go. I had been waiting for hours on the bus for the band, and they would be there shortly. Before the rush of men crashed the coach, I decided it would be a good idea to wash my face and brush my teeth. I splashed cold water on my pores and watched as droplets skid down, one by one, falling onto the sink. My sharp features, my father’s features, dominated my appearance. The only remnants of my mother’s softness lived on in the shape of my face; it was there that I inherited her beauty.

 

I wiped away what was left of the water and retrieved my toothbrush from the cabinet. Pulling back my hair, I let some of the layers fall around my face while I brushed my teeth. It was essential to keep some kind of schedule while you were on the road, some sort of normalcy, even if it meant brushing your teeth and washing your face at night instead of early morning. I noticed bags starting to form under my eyes. I tried to smooth them away, momentarily diminishing them, but after a moment they just puffed right back to the form they were.

 

The door to the bus opened and light from the bar shined in. “Lotus, are you ready?” Willie’s voice boomed through the large bus, too loudly. You could always tell when he’d been playing—his voice was stuck at high for the rest of the night.

 

“Ready for what?” I refused to play that particular bar because of “Pro-Mature” night.

 

It was pure hell. The bar, wanting to incorporate the crowd, paired us up with them—the customers. And it usually ended with one of us wanting to kill one of them, because it was hard trying to hold your own and theirs, too. And I always, no doubt about it, got the worst-case scenarios. Not long before we ended up here, my guy, the one who swore to the heavens above he could sing, passed out on the stage. Dropped just like a fly being swatted out of mid-air.

 

“Are you ready to sing?” He pointed to me, even though I was alone. “It’s your turn.” He cackled.

 

“No, it’s not!”

 

“It’s your turn—you’re doing it.” He smiled and then ran his fingers through his long, straight brown hair. He was so stuck in the seventies, it was scary.

 

Yuma emerged from the light and smiled. “Come on, Willie. Leave the girl be. She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to. I’m sure the boys won’t mind.”

 

I stood there in shock for a moment. Yuma and I had never spoken a word to each other. We’d never said hello or goodbye, or even excuse me. He was a loner, seemed to be by nature, and the only contact we’d ever had was a passing smile or a nod or two. And he’d been with the band for two years. One of the newest, but still, two years and no verbal contact. This was a first.

 

“Thanks. I guess,” I said.

 

Willie looked at him fiercely and then back at me, like we had somehow plotted this. He shook his head. “You’re playing, Little Lotus, and that’s final. It’s your turn. I’ll wait for you to get ready. Five minutes.” He pushed Yuma back and shut the door behind him, giving me some privacy.

 

The boys usually gave in to me. Whatever I wanted or needed, they were usually more than happy to oblige. Except for Pro-Mature night. No one ever offered to take that dreadful task off the other one’s hands.

 

I slammed my head against the counter, hard, and a loud thud rang throughout the bus. I groaned. Some uncle.

 

I tousled my hair quickly and slipped on my brown suede boots. I was still dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans from the night before—no need to change for these folks. The bar would soon close and that meant only one thing: a lot of drunk people. I could wear a black plastic bag over my body, and they would whoop and whistle just the same as if I was wearing a mini-skirt.

 

I met Willie and Yuma outside the bus. The rain from last night left puddles, and the neon sign from the bar reflected an array of different colors onto the blacktop. Yuma was staring off into space, smoking his cigarette. White puffs of smoke wafted in the air and hung around him. Willie was using his shirt to shine the bus.

 

Big Lotus was his pride and joy. Willie named her after me—she’s “Big Lotus” and I’m “Little Lotus.” Well, Lotus is my nickname. Layla is my given name. Big Lotus was actually bigger than the one-room, one-bathroom home Willie had back in Mississippi. Big Lotus, a double-slide Star coach, was just about 45 feet long and 100 inches wide. The huge coach easily held all six of us, including MoJoe, who needed the extra room. There was a reason they called him MoJoe. Big Lotus was jet black and silver, and a barefoot girl with long, fair hair danced in the moonlight on her side.

 

Yuma threw his cigarette in to one of the murky pools and smiled. He kicked some of the water at me and it landed on my jeans. What was with him all of sudden?

 

“Willie, you sure we can’t take Pro-Mature night, just this once? I know—”

 

“Damn it, Yuma. No. Its Layla’s turn and she’s gonna do it.” He started walking toward the bar.

 

I followed, not wanting to stay with Yuma. His sudden rush of friendliness left me feeling uneasy. “So, what’s the weapon of choice tonight?” I asked, following close behind. I could hear Yuma jumping in and out of puddles along the way, splashing.

 

Willie stopped for a moment, smiling, exposing teeth separated by small gaps. “It’s not so bad tonight, kid. The piano.” He began walking again and I followed.

 

Great. I had to sing along while some hammered amateur, if you could even call him that, banged the keys, messing up the song, while the entire bar laughed.

 

“Any volunteers yet?” I asked.

 

“No, Earl’s going to introduce you, and it’s up to you to find the, um, talent.”

 

“Great!”

 

The bar was smoky, crowded, and full of drunk people, slurring and singing along to “Honky Tonk Women.” The usual. And they weren’t lying when they called this place the largest honky tonk—there was actual live bull riding inside the arena. The dance floor was lit up with lights that circled the wooden floor, and the stage was directly in the back.

 

We maneuvered the crowd, Willie shifting carelessly through while Yuma danced his way around the swaying patrons. We met up with the rest of our bandmates, who were all standing around talking behind the stage.

 

Earl was leaning against the wall and clapped his hands together when he saw me. “Look what we have here. Little Lotus is actually going to do it.” He ran his fingers through this thick brown hair and adjusted his round specs.

 

“Actually, shid,” Willie said, fuming again. “It’s her turn and she’s gonna do it.”

 

There were only two rules Willie had for the band: no vulgar vocabulary—afraid they might taint my purity—and no women on the bus, again out of respect for me. So over the years the band had come up with many stand-in words for the ones that were not allowed, like shid, Mother Faroogala, and arsy.

 

Earl shook his head. “Willie, I thought it was our—”

 

“You better stop thinking, Earl. You’re going to blow a gasket. Its Layla’s turn and she’s gonna do it!”

 

“Jesus, Willie, you sound like a parrot. It’s her turn. Squawk. It’s her turn,” Earl said.

 

“Well, it is!” Willie said.

 

“Polly want a cracker.” Everyone laughed. Willie’s face turned a light shade of red.

 

“What’s up with you tonight, Willie? You need to calm your arsy down and have a drink.” John leaned back against the stage.

 

I watched John for a moment, his honey-blonde hair neon yellow in the dim bar. Looking at them all together was like looking through a time capsule; they were the spitting image of the real deal. The only one out of place was Yuma, but I really couldn’t see him fitting in anywhere. He was one-of-a-kind. But not in the good sense. More in the atomic-bomb sense. There should only be one of him, or maybe none at all. Now that he was suddenly being so friendly to me, something about his demeanor bothered me for some unknown reason.

 

“Hey,” I interrupted. “I’m not arguing. I said I was going to do it and I am.”

 

Willie looked disappointed that I injected. He was on edge, being away from the Smoked Hog for so long, and he was looking for any excuse to argue. He blew out a breath loudly and seemed to deflate.

 

“Earl, how much longer till I go on?” I couldn’t wait to see what the universe had in store for me tonight.

 

He looked down at the watch on his thick wrist. “Now.” He pushed away from the wall and started toward the steps that lead to the stage. “I’ll introduce you, and then you can work your magic and do the rest.” He smiled and disappeared behind the curtains.

 

Yuma danced his way in front of Willie. “I can do it tonight. I’ve been wanting to break free and do a solo anyway.”

 

Willie’s face turned a deeper shade of red, and it seemed at any minute, the gasket was going to blow. Full steam ahead. “What is your problem, Yuma? All night, for the past couple hours since you found out Lotus was going to do Pro-Mature hour, you’ve been on my arsy!” His voice changed and he sounded like a whiny child. “‘Willie, I’ll do it. She don’t have to. I want a solo.’” He blew out another breath. “I said she was doing it, and I don’t want any more crap about it. The next one of you that has anything to say about it will have to meet me outside.”

 

Yuma looked at me, I looked at John, and John looked at MoJoe, who turned his attention away from the ladies for a split second, and we all busted into unruly laughter. Willie was a small guy, and most of the fights he had been in during this tour had ended on a sour note. His mouth was bigger than his muscles, and MoJoe had to save him every time he flexed his fleeting powers.

 

“You guys stink!” Willie said with malice. “Lotus, I hope you get stuck with the worst amateur out there. And this time, I hope he or she makes it through the entire song without dropping, just so it’ll be pure hell for you.” He stormed off into the crowd, disappearing with a trail of smoke behind him.

 

Yuma wrapped his arms around my shoulders and a shudder ran down my spine. His arms were cold, even though it was more than warm in here. His mouth reeked of alcohol. “Now, don’t you worry about Willie. He’ll just go and pick another fight with someone as big as MoJoe over there—” we both turned to look at the huge figure standing in the door way, ogling the ladies “—and big boy will have to save his arsy once more.”

 

I moved away from his embrace, feeling awkward. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m starting to learn how to tune them out.” I moved closer to the stage.

 

“I’ll do it for you. What’s he going to do me?” A devilish smile swept across his face.

 

“Enough, Yuma,” John snapped. “You heard what Willie said. Come on, let’s go get a drink and wait for Little Lotus to sing. It will be a beautiful way to end the night and the tour.” He winked at me.

 

John pulled Yuma from the room and I was left with MoJoe as I waited anxiously for Earl to introduce me.

 

I could hear the microphone banging against what I assumed to be Earl’s hand. “Testing, one, two, three…” The crowd became silent.

 

“Good evening, folks!” boomed Earl’s loud voice. “We all know what time it is.” A loud round of applause from the crowd. “It’s Pro-Mature hour, and as always, one of us pro’s will gladly pair ourselves up with one of you amateurs out there. I know somewhere in this large crowd, there is someone who could be a pro. And tonight, our very own Lotus Hill is going to perform. So, if you’re willing and up to the challenge, get ready, because here she comes…” An even louder response from the crowd was my cue.

 

I took a deep breath, exhaling on my way up the stairs, and turned to MoJoe, still gawking from the curtains. “MoJoe,” I whispered, “grab my sheet music, will you?”

 

He nodded and went to retrieve the pages for me.

 

Earl’s voice rang out once more, stalling for time. “Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jr. just wants to thank Fort Worth—” (so we were in Fort Worth; that was good to know) “—for being the best crowd we’ve seen in eight months! We hope to come back some day!” The crowd was whooping, whistling, and cheering.

 

I opened the curtains and the bright light from the stage momentarily blinded me. Earl welcomed me with open arms and kissed my cheek. I took the microphone from him and he retreated from the stage. The band’s gear was removed, and all that remained was a black grand piano.

 

The crowd continued to cheer as my eyes adjusted to the light. It was hard to distinguish face from face, body from body, but still, I could tell the place was packed. It would have helped if I had worn my glasses, but I never wore them while we were on the road. Not being able to distinguish faces was easier—none of them could jump out at me from the crowd. I held the microphone up to my mouth. “Thank you,” I said, moving a strand of hair away from my face.

 

More applause, but after a moment the crowd became quiet, waiting for me to speak.

 

“I hear we may have quite the crowd full of amateurs here tonight.” I tried scanning the crowd for anyone who seemed suitable, but it was foolish to even try.

 

“I have your amateur right here, baby!” someone in the crowd yelled out.

 

I laughed lightly into the mic. “Well, we’ll see about that. Can you play the piano?”

 

“No,” he screamed back, and what seemed like contained laughter in his corner followed.

 

“Well, seeing as it’s just me and this beautiful piano, I need someone who has skills in that particular department. Any takers?” I scanned the crowd again, waiting for flailing arms to shoot up at any second.

 

A few arms waved high in the air, and a few calls of “Me! Me! I can do it!” rang out from different parts of the place. But one voice in particular caught my attention and I zoomed in on the area the voice was shouting from. “Bloody hell, my mate can out-piano anyone! Over here! Over here! Beautiful—over here!” Whoever was yelling had a very thick foreign accent. But I couldn’t automatically place it.

 

“You.” I pointed to the area, not being able to make out any figures. “Do you think your mate can handle this challenge?”

 

“Hell, yeah!” the man screamed back. I could tell there was pushing and shoving going on in their corner, but it was still hard to distinguish faces or bodies. I squinted even harder.

 

“Well, send him up then.” The crowd applauded, making way for the man, who was surely going to make a joke of himself. The crowd wanted it, expected it, but still they all stood around, patting him on the back, encouraging him.

 

I walked to the back of the stage and moved the curtains. MoJoe was there waiting for me and handed me the sheet music. And entering the stage from the dim light of the bar was the mate who had come to accompany me on the piano. I stood, dazed for a moment, staring at him.

 

He wore a black fedora hat with his deep-brown, almost black hair sticking out from its edges. His scruffy facial hair thinly framed his face with deep-red whiskers. He wore a loose-fitting, black-and-white flannel shirt with worn-down jeans. I could tell from the outline of his shirt that his muscles were well filled out. He wasn’t large, but he wasn’t lanky, either. And the closer he moved toward me, the better I could make out the features of his face.

 

His eyes, bright blue, the color of the ocean, were large and expressive, and they seemed a little worn down, like maybe he had seen a million battles and was keeping them locked somewhere deep inside. His nose was straight but wide. His face was perfectly designed, cut to pure perfection, like I imagined the rest of him to be, his strong cheekbones shadowing and increasing the intense curve of his jawline. And there was something else—I strained to see, even though he was moving closer—a long, thin scar stretched across his face. But even so, he was beautiful. There was no other way of putting it. And that might even have been putting it lightly. He had the face of an angel with a renegade’s body.

 

Something inside of me started to burn.

 

And not only was I burning, but I felt like I had run into a terribly hard object, like a wall or a very large tree. I was momentarily stunned.

 

I had never met this beautiful man in my life. I had never spoken to him or heard his laugh. Or felt his fingers or his body next to mine. I had never seen his face before this moment. But when I looked at him, it was as if I had been staring at him for my entire life.

 

Somehow—somewhere—I knew him. I could feel it.

 

I forced myself to look away, not wanting to draw attention to my gawking. He walked slowly, as if every movement had a purpose, not a moment of his energy wasted, to where I was (staring) standing. He held out his hand for the sheet music that was clenched in my iron grip. I had crumpled the paper absentmindedly.

 

He cleared his throat and grunted, “Music?” And he seemed angry. I assumed those mates he was with had herded him into this. Great. Not only would this be humiliating, but he was going to be uptight in the process. At least the other losers had a sense of humor about it.

 

I straightened out the sheet as best as I could and handed it him. I cleared my throat, not sure if I could speak. My voice barely above a whisper, I started to say, “Do you need me to—”

 

But before I could finish, he barreled past me and onto the stage. The crowd went wild and began to chant “Pro-Mature, Pro-Mature, Pro-Mature.”

 

The burning sensation that had lit fire to my insides was starting to rise.

 

I made my way back to the front of the stage. The lights were dim now, completely shielding the swaying crowd. Their chants were slowing, turning into mutters with an occasional cough. And then from the right side of the room, a deep male voice boomed through the silence. “Will you marry me?” The crowd laughed and I smiled.

 

I walked back over to the piano man, who was sitting on the stool, eyes narrowed into slits, biting his lip, and stuck the microphone in his face. “What is your name and where are you from?”

 

He looked down at the dark stage floor before he spoke. “My name is Michael Roberts and I’m from County Donegal in Northern Ireland.” The only cheers came from his mates across the room. They were yelling, “Hell bloody yes!” And they were starting a chant all their own, “Northern Ireland.”

 

“Well, Michael from County Donegal in Northern Ireland, my name is Layla Hill. You can call me Lotus.” I gave him my free hand to shake, and my skin felt like it had touched a hot plate. The microphone fell out of my hand and made a loud screeching noise as it skidded across the floor.

 

He quickly withdrew his hand and began rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, exposing toned forearms and a large tattoo—a pair of boxing gloves held together by a heart on fire.

 

I was staring at him again as, finger after finger, he slid his long, slender hands across the white keys. A beautiful melody rang out, and from behind him a bluish-purple light illuminated the background. The lights made him seem like he was glowing. The way he worked those keys had my head spinning. I hadn’t heard anyone play like that since Jerry Lee Louis. He looked up at me once, and then he turned his attention back to the keys he steadily worked his magic on. I attempted to compose myself, but the heat that was slowly, steadily rising only seemed to intensify. With every melody, every tune, the burning raged on.

 

I nonchalantly walked over to the dropped mic, picked it up, and cleared my throat once more. The crowd seemed to sparkle. “I’ve always wanted to do this song with just the piano and me. And I’ve never had this opportunity. My husband wrote this song—” the music faltered, unnoticed by anyone but me, but then it was quickly composed, perfect again “—after a fight between him and I late one night. And I thought it would sound perfect. So here it is.”

 

“I love you!” shouted another voice in the crowd.

 

“Thank you—” I laughed a little “—but the music hasn’t even started yet.”

 

The harmony became more intense and I knew that was my marker to begin. But it was so hard with him sitting there, mysteriously sending this burning sensation exploding throughout all parts of my body. I wanted to claw at my skin, to stop it. How do you stop something you can’t control? You can’t, so I began to sing anyway. I had to.

 

My voice deeply penetrated the mic, blaring throughout the crowd. I tried to concentrate, but my mind was burning. The only antidote seemed to be him. He started the fire, and he was the only cure. I pulled a thick strand of hair away from my neck, where it was stuck from the perspiration spilling out of my body.

 

The song continued and the crowd, seemingly unaware of the burning woman on stage, began to sing along. And then it occurred to me. I needed an excuse to halt my singing for just one glimmering second, just to look at him once more.

 

Here was my chance.

 

I sang to the crowd through my harmony. “Sing with me? Will you sing with me?” My voice carried, lightly, as if it were floating. I sang again, lifting my arms toward them. “Oh, everybody sing with me…” I positioned my body toward the man who just a few minutes ago proposed to me. “You, will you sing with me?”

 

Oh, please, I thought to myself. Every one of you, please sing with me so that I can stare at this bizarre, fedora-wearing, tattooed man who is singeing my body on this very stage. Oh, would you please give this girl a break.

 

And by some unknown miracle, the crowd started singing along, proudly, with the words I had just left them with, while I stared in awe at the piano-playing angel.

 

His eyes were sealed tight, his head bopping to the beat of the music. He was graceful, brilliant, muscular, perfection sitting right here before me. I kept the mic down in case something that was not supposed to slip out did. I ran my fingers across my mouth, wanting to make sure I wasn’t drooling. No, not yet.

 

I walked closer to the piano and slid my fingers across the cold, hard, black wood. He looked up for just a moment, and a slight smile crept across his perfect face. Could I even finish the song? My mind, stuck in the burning state that it was in, was having a hard time telling my body, my lips, how to move.

 

The crowd’s applause broke through the trance that engulfed me. I turned away from him, not willingly, and finished the song. As the music died and the applause turned into unruly proportions, I turned once more to find the magical, muscular music maker gone from his seat. Like a ghost in the night, he had disappeared. And my body was still burning, pulsating from the fire he started when he first walked into the room. But my body couldn’t decide if this was an unpleasant burn or a satisfying tingle.

 

I thanked the energetic crowd once more, and I thanked Michael from Northern Ireland for perfectly enhancing my voice with his never-failing skills. The crowd asked for more, but I sheepishly declined and left with an, “I love you, Fort Worth. See you on the next go-round,” before the lights went out.

 

I had no idea what was happening to my body, or my heart, or my mind, but this I did know: I wanted out. I wanted to leave this bar, this state, this city, and for the first time in years, I wanted to be homeward bound and away from this sensation that was wreaking havoc on my steady if chaotic life. I sensed a change, a struggle coming, and I wanted no part of it. I’d had enough change for the past couple of years to last a life-time, and I was tired of the fight.

 

MoJoe was waiting for me with a large grin plastered across his wide face. His heavy hands patted my shoulders. “Good job, baby Lotus!” He never called me Little Lotus, like everyone else. He called everyone “baby.” “Baby Willie said for you to meet him over at the bar.”

 

Yuma danced back into the room. Did he ever get tired of dancing? He was flanked by four women, all scantily dressed and, by the looks of them, too young for him. For the first time in two years, I forced myself to focus on his features. I never had before this moment. He was bald, not a single hair on his shiny head. His face was sallow, a sickly mustard color. One thing I had noticed, which never seemed to change, was the way he influenced people, the way some people followed him without a second thought. He had this easy way about him that most people gravitated to. I had seen it night after night, the young and mostly naïve women who flocked to him. It almost seemed like they were prey and he was the savage, out to claim them.

 

“Oh, Little Lotus,” he sang, “you were excellent, beautiful as always.” I noticed the way the young girls looked at me when he said this. They were burning from something different than I was. Their burn seemed to be nothing but jealousy.

 

“Thanks,” I said, still shocked by how many times he had addressed me tonight.

 

“Listen here, beautiful.” The words rolled off his tongue like sweet honey. “Why don’t you go on out to the bus and wait for us? We won’t be long. I know you’ve had a hard night—” He walked closer to me but suddenly stopped. He seemed shocked, almost like he had run into a wall. He regained his focus, but an unrecognizable look had come across his face.

 

The burning sensation that Michael had started was starting to increase with each step he took closer to me. I took an unconscious step back, my body automatically moving away from his.

 

“I see.” He stopped, his intense dark eyes focusing on me. The girls moved with him; if he moved an inch, they moved two, it seemed.

 

MoJoe stood there motionless, watching us interact. He was sweating, his forehead beading with droplets of perspiration that slid down his face. “Baby Lotus, baby Willie wants to see you. He said to meet him at the bar,” he repeated.

 

“Yes, baby Lotus,” Yuma said, the breath hissing out of his mouth. “You don’t want to keep Willie waiting.”

 

“MoJoe, tell Willie I’m going to the bus. I’m not feeling good. I’m tired and I’m going to call it a night. I may have a fever.”

 

Yuma smiled. He seemed pleased. MoJoe stood there and stared after me as I hurried past the group, trying to get away as quickly as possible. I only had to walk a few yards before my feet could touch the black cement and I could inhale the fresh air that awaited me outside of this place. But—and this was a huge but—I couldn’t get past the images swirling in my head of this Michael, the magic piano man. I was drawn to him. He was interesting and his melody clung to me. The way his fingers worked those keys…

 

I didn’t know what to do.

 

I stopped in the middle of the crowd, hesitating. I started walking again, pushing and dodging shoulders. And then a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the bar.

 

It was Earl. “Where do you think you’re going?”

 

“To the bus,” I answered, a little breathless. “I have a fever. I think.” I was caught in his steel grip, unable to pry myself away from him.

 

He laughed. “Layla, a fever? Come on, kid.” He continued to walk until we arrived at the large bar situated off to the side.

 

Willie was sitting with three men, one of them the guy who called himself Michael, who was steadily burning me. I glared at him, hoping he would stop whatever it was that he was doing to my unwilling limbs. But he wasn’t looking at me; he was concentrating on the large glass of ice-cold beer sitting before him. He was putting his fire out with gold liquid, while my flames were higher and hotter than ever. I almost grabbed the cold drink and threw it on myself to extinguish the fire, but I stopped myself. I didn’t like the smell of it.

 

“Little Lotus!” My uncle’s voice boomed as loud as the noises that surrounded us. “I want you to meet these fellers here.” He pointed to the fedora-wearing, burning-me-to-ashes man. “You met Michael. He’s a boxer from Ireland.”

 

That explained the muscles but left a million other unanswered questions. The first question being, “Will you please stop that burning thing you’re doing to my body? I would rather be in one piece, not some pile of ashes.” And the second was, how was he doing what he was doing? Was he even aware of it?

 

His friends, the two who had presumably volunteered his services, stood next to him. One was tall and lanky with fire-red hair and green eyes. The other was short, with blonde hair and blue eyes. His eyes were dull compared to Michael’s, a deeper blue, but still in the same palette. The three of them standing next to each other were like blocks arranged by size: small, medium, and large.

 

The one with green eyes, the tall one, spoke before Willie had the chance. “No, he’s not just Michael Roberts, he is Michael Nonpareil Roberts. Middle-weight champion of the world.” His voice was slightly slurred as he massaged Michael’s shoulders, as if they were in the ring.

 

Willie stood behind me and started massaging my shoulders, copying Green-Eyes’ moves. “And this here is not just Layla Hill, she’s Layla Lotus Hill. Middle-weight champion of singers.” He started laughing.

 

I rolled my eyes and shrugged away from him. The smaller one held out his hand to me. We shook.

 

“Ma’am, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” They must have spent some time in Texas. “My name is Andrew O’Doyle. I am Michael’s cutman. But sometimes my friends call me J.W.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“Because my idol is John Wayne.” He said his name with a country twang tacked on at the end.

 

That explained a lot.

 

The tall one made his way from around the barstool where Michael sat. “And I am none other than Seamus Rock. I’m Michael’s assistant in the ring. Or you can call me his second or cornerman, even. There are many terms for what I do, but only one me.” His smile lit up his pale, flustered face. He grabbed my hand and planted a wet kiss on it.

 

I smiled back at him and surreptitiously wiped my hand.

 

“Wow, that’s some set of pipes you have there, Lotus.” Seamus shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone sing so pretty. Your voice reminds me of Mavis Staples—so deep and riveting. You touched me here.” He pointed to his heart. “And you and Michael were in perfect harmony—never have I seen that!” He laughed. “Michael is never in harmony with anyone.”

 

“What are you three doing so far from home?” Willie moved toward the bar again to retrieve his beer.

 

Andrew smiled, exposing less than perfect teeth. “Michael had a few fights, and we liked it so much we decided to stick around for a while. We like to keep our options open.” He looked over at Michael. “This is our last night in Texas. We wanted to go out for a while. Celebrate Michael’s birthday.”

 

The two Irishmen cheered and clanked glasses.

 

“How old are you?” Willie asked.

 

Never moving his eyes away from the gold liquid, he answered, “Thirty.”

 

“Hey! You’re almost the same age as Lotus!” Willie said. “She’s twenty-nine. How about that!”

 

I looked at Willie like he had lost his mind. What was he trying to do?

 

He shrugged his wimpy shoulders in response.

 

“Michael, I’m no expert on boxing, just a novice, but don’t you have a trainer, son?” Earl asked.

 

He shook his head, for a moment taking his eyes away from the beer to glance at Earl.

 

Seamus cut in again. “Michael needs no trainer. He is a solitary fighter. Only fights for himself.” He slapped Michael on the shoulder. The fedora almost fell off, exposing a short, cropped hair cut.

 

I laughed a little.

 

And for the first time since we met on stage, his eyes locked on mine. He was staring intently at me, almost like he was seeing something that wasn’t there, something more than just my face, my eyes, my body. He was glaring straight through me.

 

The crowd around us continued their banter, their talk about boxers, fighting, matches, Ireland, music, pianos, and singers. I could hear them, but I couldn’t focus on them. I couldn’t force my eyes away from his. It was intense but also comforting, because with this intense glare, the fuel that fed the fire was somehow diminished and nothing was left but the two of us.

 

Until Yuma danced into the crowd. Michael’s intense gaze shifted and moved to Yuma. Their eyes met and I could feel pressure, like it was tangible, forming around the three of us. Michael’s bright blue eyes were glaring into Yuma’s, and those onyx holes were returning the glare.

 

It seemed from first sight that their eyes were at war. One of Yuma’s girls rubbed his arm and his glare shifted, toward me this time. This glare was different. This glare was empty, cold and alone, a sad and desolate black hole of nothing. I wanted the blue, warm, fire-raging sensation that Michael’s eyes brought. Another shiver ripped through my body, and the hairs on my arm shot up.

 

I heard the stool streaking across the floor, but Yuma’s gaze was so strong, I couldn’t peel my eyes away. I was locked, like a bird in the eyes of a snake. Michael stood in front of me and I was able to shake my head, gaining back the warm sensation.

 

Yuma started laughing, and so did the girls who hovered around him. I noticed the way the crowd had finally picked up on what I had been well aware of: that these two together, Michael and Yuma, meant trouble. They were two forces, each pulling away from the other, yet not able to break free from the power each seemed to hold. And not only was the tension seeping from them, but from everyone around us. We were one big group of nothing but unsteady nerves.

 

“Lookie what we have here,” Yuma said. “It seems we ran into a few leprechauns. What, did you find your wee pot o’ gold somewhere in the lone-star state?” Evil laughter rolled from his mouth.

 

Andrew and Seamus moved to Michael’s side. Earl and Willie moved to my side. And from out of the blue, big old MoJoe moved me out of the way. I watched Michael, and the tendons in his arms were tense, flexing. He turned his eyes to me for just a moment, and they seemed troubled.

 

“Yuma, I think you should leave and wait for us back at the bus,” Willie said.

 

“Oh, come on, baby Willie,” Yuma said. “I didn’t mean any harm. These leprechauns understand. I’m just playing.” Yuma attempted to slap Seamus on his back, but Seamus moved away before he could.

 

“Enough, Yuma!” Earl said.

 

Yuma laughed again. “Party poopers.” He turned his glare back on Michael once more. He seemed to be daring him.

 

Michael quickly looked at me again before the glaring contest resumed.

 

“Come on, baby Lotus, let’s get you to the bus.” MoJoe tried to move me from the spot where I stood as if glued.

 

“No,” I stuttered. Suddenly a feeling of panic overtook my body. I was worried, not for myself or Yuma or anyone else, but for Michael. I wanted him to leave first, him and his friends, because I felt the effects of Yuma’s glare, and it was the most unpleasant feeling I had ever felt. It was unnerving, sinful almost. And now that he was in my presence, Michael’s was pleasant, a simmering sensation that made me feel bubbly.

 

Willie and Earl both looked at me, confused. They knew this was a much different reaction from me. After my husband’s death, any type of fight or commotion was too much for me. And this time, I was demanding to stay.

 

MoJoe moved away from me and stood between the men. “Enough.” But the men stood, vigilant, defying the other.

 

Yuma took another step forward, and four things happened at once: my body, along with Michael’s, Seamus’s, and Andrew’s, shivered. The contrast from the cold Yuma seemed to bring and the warm air that emanated from their bodies was lethal. So lethal, it caused a physical reaction.

 

I could feel the stress levels in my body start to rise. “Enough!” I said, coming in between the two of them. MoJoe, Earl, and Willie in unison tried stopping me, but I put my hand up to stop them. They backed away, eyeing the situation nervously.

 

This seemed to work. Michael’s body relaxed, and so did Andrew’s and Seamus’s, even though Yuma was holding steady. His body never seemed to tense, though. It was almost like he was waiting for it.

 

“Party-pooping leprechauns,” Yuma said. “That’s what these guys are. Can’t take a joke.” He grabbed the women and started walking away from us.

 

“Yuma.” Willie’s voice cracked. It was no longer loud—he was still stinging from the change in atmosphere that left all of us reeling. “You remember the rules. No women allowed on the bus.”

 

Yuma tipped his shiny, bald head, and with his best Irish accent, said, “Sure, me remember,” before dancing away, the women following his every step.

Chapter Two

Blaze of Glory

 

 AFTER EVERYONE SAID THEIR GOODBYES TO THE GOOD GUYS FROM IRELAND, WE LEFT THE BAR, NOTHING BUT HOME ON OUR MINDS. It was early morning, even though the night sky still sheltered us. The crisp September air felt cold and frigid against my skin, especially after the warmth that just seemed to surround me. The burning was still as strong as ever, but it was pleasant—warm water to aching bones.

 

We waited over an hour for Yuma to make his way back to the bus from wherever he was. And it was quite easy to tell what he had been up to. An array of colors stained his collar, and large pink bruises patched his skin. I was thankful that Willie was nice enough to allow me to have the master bedroom while we were on the road. Being a woman in the midst of all men definitely had its perks. I had the most room, while they were stuck bunking one on top of the other.

 

I didn’t even bother changing my clothes. I was much too tired. I slipped my boots off and collapsed across the bed. It was hard to think of anything except the fedora-wearing boxer man that I just met. And the burn, which at first was almost excruciating, was now comforting me. How did he do that? Perhaps it wasn’t him. I wondered if I was actually getting sick and had a fever. I had been around hundreds of people, so it was a possibility. But I had felt fine earlier. It wasn’t until he came storming through the curtains that this fever I seemed to be experiencing caught fire.

 

My stomach rumbled lightly. I needed something to chew on while I chewed this over in my head.

 

I glided past the bunks, where Earl and Willie was snoring, and made my way in to the main cabin. Yuma was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling, just lounging across the white sofa, while John strummed his guitar, removed from reality. I opened the fridge to find absolutely nothing. Usually it was packed, but since Fort Worth was only ten hours away from Waveland, Willie was a little stingy with the groceries.

 

I ransacked the cabinets, hoping to find more than just hollow shelves—I had my heart set on chips. I wanted something salty and crunchy to drown out the thoughts racing through my head, and I didn’t know what it was, but after the burning had subsided, I felt famished. It appeared that I had the munchies.

 

“Hey, John,” Yuma called.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ve been thinking.”

 

A moment of silence passed between the two of them, while I continued my search for the gold goodness.

 

“Miracles do happen.” John laughed.

 

“What do you think the secret of life is? Do you think it’s a beautiful woman? Or love? Or a banging piece of sweet potato pie? What do you think?” Yuma said.

 

I stopped for a moment, caught off guard by his questions.

 

John grunted and put his guitar down. “I think there is no secret at all. I believe we all work and do our best, and in that rests the secret of life.”

 

Another moment of silence passed. When I didn’t hear anything in particular that I found interesting, I began searching again, making too much noise.

 

“Quiet down out there,” Willie yelled from his bunk, at the very top. He was afraid if Earl had the top bed, he would collapse the small space, and he was paranoid about being squashed in his sleep.

 

“You know, you could have bought some food. I’m starving out here,” I yelled back.

 

“Go to sleep, Lotus,” Willie mumbled before he started snoring like a wild beast.

 

“Well, I have to disagree with you, John, on that,” Yuma continued. “I believe the secret of life is finding your weakness and making it stronger.” When he said the word stronger, it came out as a hiss.

 

I halted my search and moved toward MoJoe. Beef jerky hung from his mouth as he bounced up and down in the driver’s seat, the rebel sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd playing low on the radio.

 

“MoJoe.” I put my arm on his back but then quickly withdrew.

 

He smiled, still bouncing, concentrating on the road.

 

“Can you do me a favor? I would owe you big time.”

 

“Why do I have the feeling I have no choice but to say yes?”

 

“Good. At the next stop, can you pretty please stop for me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because baby Willie said no stops, not even one. And if I do, he is going to kick my arsy.”

 

Yuma started cackling. “Now that I would love to see—baby Willie up against the iron man. My money is on iron man. Just saying.”

 

I ignored him. All of a sudden he was so pleasant, it was unnerving. And after the way he glared at me, my opinion of him had drastically changed. I realized there was more to him than met the eyes.

 

“Come on, MoJoe, I’m starving! And there isn’t anything to eat in this contraption.” I pouted.

 

“Come on, baby MoJoe,” Yuma added, making his way toward me. “Willie’s sleeping anyway. No harm done if you feed Lotus. She has to eat.”

 

“Okay,” MoJoe said.

 

I stared out the window, searching for any signs of life. But this part of the interstate was dead, and having Yuma there almost felt like a really bad horror movie. I continued to keep my attention forward, watching lights pass and fade into the distance. And then, after a couple minutes of driving, MoJoe took a detour and exited the interstate, dropping me right in front of the green, red, and white lights of a road-side 7-Eleven.

 

It was heaven right there on this earth. Not long, and those tasty chips I was longing for would be in my ever-appreciative hands.

 

The lights were much too bright after I’d been in the dark for so long. And it smelled like coffee and donuts. I walked over to the glass doors that housed an array of different beverages and grabbed chocolate milk. I shook it, listening to the milk swooshing back and forth as I turned to the isle of chips and found what I had been so hell-bent on having: Muncho’s. I opened the bag, and the fresh aroma made my stomach cramp.

 

“Give me all your money!” I heard a deep voice yell from the front of the store. “Everyone hit the floor!” The voice was angry, hatred penetrating every word.

 

I tilted my body to the side, trying to see what was going on. A tall man wearing a blue ski mask held a small gun to the cashier’s temple. He moved the gun away from the frightened man and waved it at the crowd of frozen people—shock and fear written all over their faces—before all of them slowly hit the floor.

 

I stepped back, calmly, until my back touched the cold cases of drinks, and then slid down to the ground. My back against the glass made a light squeaking noise.

 

I thought for a moment. I could run and try to make it out of here alive, or I could sit, eat my chips, drink my milk, and meet my fate head on. I knew it was only a matter of time before my fate caught up with me. I was sick of spreading untimely demise on everyone around me—on everyone I loved.

 

Michael’s face and his music played across my mind. I was only glad that he hadn’t had the chance to get attached, not that he seemed to care. I still couldn’t help but think of how protectively he positioned himself in front of me when Yuma turned his glare on me. I could tell he was trying to shield me from some unknown threat, but from what? The only person I seemed to need protection from was me.

 

For a moment, I allowed my mind to wonder to pleasant things. Such as, what was on his mind? What was he about? So many unanswered questions plagued me. Maybe heaven, if that’s where I was headed, would be able to answer them for me.

 

“Stay down or I’ll blow each and every one of your heads completely off your bodies. Do you understand?” No one answered. There were hushed cries among the people.

 

It was only a matter of time now before he found me, hiding like a coward, crunching my potatoes, guzzling my chocolate bliss. I looked forward, trying to find an open space between the chips, to see if anyone else was hiding between the aisles. Then, like a ghost, the shadow of a large figure, moving swiftly across the wall, caught my attention. What was that shape? I squinted, opened my eyes, and squinted again, trying to make out the odd figure. It seemed to be…angel wings. I checked my head—no liquid. I wasn’t dead. Yet.

 

“What are you doing?” a strange, accented voice said to me. But even though it was strange, I instinctively knew who it was. Michael. The fedora-wearing, music-playing, muscular angel. The hat was still on his head.

 

I must have cursed him when he captured my attention back at the bar. I felt a huge amount of guilt as he sat before me, the magnet for demise.

 

“I’m sitting here, waiting for my death.” I took another sip of my drink.

 

“I see that.”

 

“I wouldn’t sit there, if I were you. I’m a hazard to your health. If you want to get out of this alive, you might want to go and sit with the oodles of noodles.” I took a chip and popped it in my mouth, trying to crunch quietly so I wouldn’t draw attention to Michael.

 

He was much too beautiful to die, of this I was sure. Especially to die this way. If there was any way for him to go, which was hard for me to imagine, it would be in a blaze of glory. Fire exploding around him while he marched through smoke rings to some unknown sphere reserved for people who were that beautiful and perfect. I couldn’t see it any other way.

 

“Have you lost your bloody mind!”

 

“Oh, sorry.” I didn’t mean to be rude. I offered him the bag. “Muncho?”

 

“Put the damn chips down, woman, and get behind me.”

 

“Sorry, no can do.” I stared at his face for a moment, anticipating the big pop. At least if I was going out of this world, his face would be the last thing I saw on this earth. Heaven before heaven.

 

He grunted. “I am aiming for heaven, but I’m going to wind up in hell dealing with you.” He shook his head and sat next to me with a deflated look plastered to his face.

 

The man with the hidden face found us and pointed the gun toward me. I sat, dazed, again—helpless prey locked in the snake’s eyes—unable to make a noise. I took Michael’s hand, warm and blissful, and for a moment, I couldn’t imagine anyone else being next to me. But he pulled away from my embrace and locked eyes with the masked man. Slowly rising from the floor, his shoulders squared, he seemed bigger than his medium build in this moment. Carefully, with his hands held high, he moved toward the man, never withdrawing his blue eyes from the gunman’s face. Suddenly he stopped, right between Diet Coke and Pepsi, and the two just eyed each other.

 

I waited for the fire, for the smoke rings to appear, but nothing happened. Minutes trickled on, dragging out the intense showdown.

 

The angry man lifted the gun and took a step toward Michael, pointing the weapon directly at his head. I couldn’t look away. I could hear my heart screaming, my mind begging, “Please! God no! Not him!” I wanted to look away, but I was paralyzed.

 

The fedora flew off Michael’s head, followed immediately by a large, popping, crunching noise behind my head. Glass shattered to the floor, covering me in tiny, diamond-like pieces of crystal, and cold liquid seeped through my jeans.

 

My frozen brain finally started to work again. I realized the man had shot the fedora right off Michael’s head, the bullet continuing on through the glass doors.

 

The gun dropped to the floor, and as fast as his feet could take him, the gunman ran from the store and disappeared into the night.

 

Michael shook his shoulders like he was shaking off the experience and nonchalantly walked back to where I was sitting. He sat next to me and, without saying a word, grabbed my hand and held it tightly. He picked up the lost bag of chips and began putting them in his mouth, one by one, making loud crunching noises.

 

I stared at him in awe. What had just happened? I couldn’t process it all. I shook some of the glass off. It was everywhere, shimmering brightly in the orange liquid that saturated the floor and me. It smelled like orange juice and gun powder. I couldn’t believe how calm I was and how peaceful he seemed. Just sitting there, enjoying his chips and now my milk, like we were having a picnic instead of just barely dodging death.

 

I had no anxiety, no adrenaline rush, no tremors or shakes. But the crunching noises coming from his mouth suddenly seemed unnerving.

 

He put the bag down, like he could read my mind. “Are you okay?” he asked, not a hint of worry in his carefree tone.

 

I nodded my head. “I think so,” I muttered, surprised by how gorgeous the sound of his voice was to me. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but still, I was. “Are you okay?” It was lame. I knew I should have been saying something along the lines of, “Oh my God! Your head—it was almost just blown off trying to protect me!” But it was all I could get out.

 

“I’m fine,” he said, blushing a little.

 

I looked around. His fedora was now nothing but a ball of black, tattered shreds, soaking up the juice on the floor.

 

“I can’t say the same about my hat.” He ran his free hand through his hair, combing it down. I noticed, now that his hat was blown to smithereens, that it was longer on top, shorter around the back.

 

He seemed truly upset about it. “I’m sorry, um, about your hat. It was a really nice hat.”

 

“My father gave it to me. It was his.” His eyes seemed to be tearing up.

 

Something pulled at my heart and for a second, I thought I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Something about him automatically made me feel for him, and I couldn’t help myself. But my tears had dried up a long time ago.

 

I tried to change the subject before he started bawling. “Thank you for saving my life. That was way beyond generous.”

 

“You’re worth saving. You’re worth dying for.” He gently took my head in his hands and started picking out the pieces of glass that were tangled in my hair, throwing them to the floor.

 

And somewhere in the vicinity of my heart, in that very moment, something hit me hard, like a Mack truck colliding with a wall of bricks. And it took my breath away. I wanted to tell him to run. To get as far away from me as possible, but without my breath, I couldn’t talk.

 

“Ma’am! Sir!” The young clerk ran to us and fell to the floor beside where we sat. “Are you both okay? You—” he pointed to Michael “—are a hero. You saved our lives,” he said with awe and a heavy dose of gratitude.

 

Michael just shook his head. “He was a coward. He would’ve run even if I wouldn’t have been here.”

 

“No, I don’t believe so, mister. He was going to take my head off. He almost took yours off.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I pressed the panic button. The police should be here shortly.” Suddenly the man’s tan complexion turned pale, like the blood had been drained from his face. The enormity of the situation had finally sunk in. He started to stutter, not forming coherent sentences, and his body started to jerk and heave itself in awkward positions.

 

Michael released my hand and scooted to the man’s side. I sat and watched in horror as the man convulsed, his body thrashing against the floor, the orange juice saturating his light hair.

 

“He’s having a seizure,” Michael said as he tried to steady the man in his arms.

 

But then, just as quickly as the episode started, it ended. The man’s eyes opened, but there were no signs of life in his eyes. He stared blankly at the ceiling.

 

“He must be in shock,” Michael said.

 

I was hit with a wave of panic. Once again I had put these people in danger. And my heart longed for one of them. This was my fault. I could feel the guilt eating away at my insides, causing my body to shudder.

 

“Lotus, are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine. I’m just worried about him.” I nodded toward the poor young man.

 

“He should be fine.” Once again, he turned his intense stare on me. I was sure he could see right through me. I wondered what he saw.

 

I could hear sirens in the distance. And when the police finally arrived, all fifty of them it seemed, the place was turned into a scene from one of those forensic TV shows. After they secured the area, they encircled the road-side mart with bright-yellow caution tape. An ambulance was called for those who were injured or in shock. I declined any help; I was fine, with just a piece of glass or two in my arms. One by one, the men in blue took statements from each of the witnesses, including Michael and I. I assumed they asked us exactly the same questions: how tall, what color, what sex, what was he wearing. And the most important question, what exactly happened.

 

While I rested my back against one of the cruisers, answering the many questions that were being hurled at me, Michael watched vigilantly from under the awning of the store, answering one of the policemen but staring off in my direction.

 

Willie and Earl were standing next to me. MoJoe felt so guilty, he was sick and refused to leave the bus. John stood with Mojoe to try and calm him down. Yuma was aberrantly absent from the flurry of people, activity, and drama. I was thankful, because the last thing I wanted was another show-down at the 7-Eleven.

 

As two detectives passed, they turned to look at me and both were laughing. Both were wearing suits, one grey, one black.

 

The one in black stopped and pointed to me. “You’re one strong woman. Just amazing.”

 

“Why? What did she do?” Willie asked.

 

I was curious, too. Maybe they could sense I was a magnet for death—they were detectives, after all—and knew I should be locked up for the rest of my life. And for safe measures, have the key burned and melted so there was no way for me to escape. I hung my head in shame.

 

Black-suit started laughing again. “My partner and I, we couldn’t get over it. We went over the tape of the robbery, and the entire time, your girl there sat, ate her chips and drank her milk, just like nothing was going on around her.” He shook his head.

 

“And your boy there, young gun—” Grey-suit pointed to Michael “—saved her life. The gun-man had the gun pointed toward her, right at her head, and he gets up, lifts his arms in the air and stops it.” He shook his head. “It seemed like the robber was in pain as he ran away.”

 

They both started walking away from us toward more witnesses who littered the parking lot.

 

“You did what!” Willie yelled.

 

I flinched.

 

He started pacing in a circle. “I can’t believe you, Lotus! You have no self-preservation skills whatsoever. You were eating chips! Chips! For mother faroogala’s sake! And milk…” He looked at Earl. “She was drinking milk.” He looked at me, his round eyes bulging from their sockets. “Your father, my brother, asked me to take care of you, to try and protect you! Huh!” He grunted. “I can’t save you, I can’t protect you. You—” he pointed toward me, shaking his finger “—you need an angel. One that can protect your soul. One that can protect you from your own weaknesses.”

 

Earl put a hand on his shoulder. “Willie, it’s not her fault. Try to calm down. She’s fine. Michael was here. He protected her and it worked out.”

 

Even though my uncle had a bad temper, he was easy to read. He was worried about me. I was the only person he had left in this world, the only other person on this earth that he shared blood ties with. And he was my only living relative. We valued each other, and ever since I directed the universe to take me out instead of my loved ones—he was going insane with worry.

 

Michael hurried over to us after the police finished documenting his statement. He rubbed my back gently, and I smiled at him, but then I casually pulled away. I didn’t want to tempt fate any more than necessary. If anything happened to him, I didn’t think—I knew—I couldn’t take it. My heart couldn’t take it.

 

Earl and Willie both held their hands out to him, wanting to shake the man’s hand that saved their feeble little Lotus.

 

“Thank you,” Willie said as he went in for a hug.

 

I was surprised—Michael hugged him back.

 

“I can never repay you for…” Willie started choking and couldn’t finish.

 

“Michael, son, you’ve saved this family from a lot of heartache. We can never repay you for what you’ve done tonight. Sincerely, we thank you,” Earl said.

 

“You have repaid me. You’re doing us a great service, as well.”

 

I was confused. What did he mean? I was definitely missing something.

 

“What are you guys talking about?” I looked to each of them, trying to read their faces.

 

Willie cleared the frog in his throat “Lotus, you see—”

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Roberts,” one of the police officers interrupted. “You forgot to give us an address where you can be contacted.” He retrieved a pen from his pocket and swirled it around his palm, preparing to write.

 

I stared at Michael. I had no idea where he lived. I was interested, but I was also hoping that he lived far from me. I wasn’t sure Ireland was far enough, but I wished he was heading that way. As much as my heart ached to stay with him, as much as my body enjoyed the slow, bubbling burning he brought into my life, I valued his life too much to jeopardize his future.

 

Michael looked at Willie.

 

“Ten-Twenty-Seven Edna Street, Waveland, Mississippi…” Willie continued to speak, giving the police the rest of the information, but my mind was numb. I was dazed. He was giving the officer my information.

 

“No!” I shouted, not conscious that I had spoken out loud.

 

The policeman stopped writing and the four men eyed me, worry in their eyes.

 

Michael put his hand on my shoulder. “Lotus, are you all right?”

 

I shook my head. “Willie, can I have a word with your arsy over there?” I pointed to an uninhibited spot in the parking lot, away from the crowd and out of hearing distance. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

 

He shrugged his shoulders, and I grabbed him tightly by his skinny arm as I dragged him away. Earl, Michael, and the cop stared after us.

 

When I was sure no one could hear, I yelled, “What the hell were you thinking?”

 

“What did I do?”

 

“You gave my address! Why?”

 

“Because the boys, well, they needed a job. Michael is training for another fight and they needed a place to go until then. It’s just temporary. Don’t blow a gasket, Lotus.”

 

“You didn’t even tell me!” I screamed, panting. “You know, it’s my job to hire! What could they possibly do? The small one is a cutman, which one could only assume means something to do with boxing wounds. The tall one calls himself an assistant—” I paused, trying to figure out exactly what that meant besides the obvious meaning of the word. When nothing came to mind, I continued, “—and Michael, well, he’s a boxer. Not sure if that qualifies him for bar-room maid.”

 

“They all have experience working in pubs and bars. Michael was a bartender, and the other two did odd jobs at various pubs, back where they’re from. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work in a bar, Layla.” He called me Layla only when he was frustrated with me.

 

“But you didn’t even consult me! Ask me if we needed any help!” My face and ears felt like they were on fire.

 

“Listen here. First off, it’s my bar—”

 

“Well, that’s obvious—” I began, but Willie stopped me short.

 

“You know, Layla, this has nothing to do with whether or not I asked you if we needed help in the bar. This has to do with you. You love that young fella’, and he loves you, too.”

 

“I do! He does?”

 

“Yes, and you’re afraid of losing him, just like you lost the rest of your family. I know—I’ve been around you your entire life. Don’t be afraid, little—”

 

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I can’t do it again, Willie. I can’t bury another person. Look—” I nodded toward the CSI scene in the parking lot “—look at what I’ve caused. I can’t lose another person, and I refuse to lose him. He’s special. Much more special than any of us know. I feel it. He…burns me—in a good way.” I looked down at the ground, embarrassed by my confession, but it felt nice to get it off my chest, all the same. “I don’t have the fight in me anymore.”

 

To my surprise, Willie started laughing. My feelings were hurt. Here I was, pouring my guts out to him, since Madam Catalina was hours away, and he had the audacity to laugh at me. I was about to start yelling again when he spoke.

 

“Well, Little Lotus, you may not think you have any fight left in you, neither did I, but all of a sudden—you do. You just chewed me out for the first time in…in years!” He sighed and started laughing again.

 

I realized, suddenly, that he was right. This was the first time in ages that I actually had a real argument. Sure, people tried arguing with me many times, but it takes two to argue, and I refused. Too tired to fuel their rage. Most of the time, the other party ended up only more frustrated because, if there is one thing that bothers someone, it’s a one-sided argument. Where’s the fun in that? And Willie was getting a real big kick out of the whole thing. Years of frustration drained from his face.

 

“When this all goes bad, it’s on your hands.” I started walking away from him and back toward the bus.

 

Willie yelled, “I don’t think it will! That boy had his hat blown off his head and he’s still walking, talking, breathing. Don’t get any stronger than that.”

 

I ignored him and continued walking toward the bus until Michael stopped me.

 

“You’re unhappy?” he asked, taking my arm in his hands.

 

“A little.”

 

“Why?”

 

I almost became speechless. His face, even with the large scar branding his skin, was devastatingly beautiful. His eyes danced with the artificial light that was casting shadows on the black top.

 

“Because—” I paused “—I have a really bad history. You get too close to me and look what happens.” I jerked my head toward the still-bustling crime scene. “I don’t want to put you in any more danger. You’re a nice guy—” (with a perfect face, beautiful voice, toned body, and I might love you) “—and I don’t want to bring death to you.”

 

He paused for a moment, seemingly going over my confession in his head, trying to make some kind of sense of…me. Most people did. I was always a little different.

 

Finally, when I thought he was about to take off running, he answered. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself. I’m a fighter by nature. I’ll take my chances.” He smiled, a big, beautiful smile.

 

“You don’t understand what you’re up against. This isn’t some boxing match. This is a fight to stay alive, the opponent being the one and only Mother Nature.”

 

“Ah, I’ve had worse.” He shrugged his shoulders, brushing off the threat like it was a mean old pussy cat instead of a force stronger than anything in this world.

 

“It’s your funeral.” And I meant that in the literal sense of the word.

 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You seem quite peaceful to me. Look at the way you handled yourself back there—eating chips while a crazed gunman stuck a .38 in your face. You’re a tyrant of the evil souls of this world.” He started laughing and a warm sensation, this time quick, washed over me. His laughter was sizzling.

 

Beautiful and a sense of humor. I was definitely in a heap of trouble.

 

 

A loud horn blared from across the parking lot, and we both turned to look. His friends, Seamus and Andrew, were waiting in a bright-red, vintage Chevy Nova, both of them waving out of the window, big smiles across their faces.

 

“So, I guess I’ll see you soon?”

 

“I guess,” I said, still hesitant. Fear and happiness both raged through my body. I had hoped the burn would diminish some of the fear, but it hung around. Fear seemed to be one of those feelings that would need a broiler to disintegrate.

 

“Hey,” Yuma said. I jumped, not expecting him.

 

I just stared at him, my fear now tenfold, worrying about Michael. Yuma went to grab my arm, but Michael quickly tucked me behind his body, putting up another wall between the two of us, situating his body in the line of fire. Tension once again filled the space between us, and my knees started to buckle. I had to rest some of my weight on Michael to stay upright.

 

I forced myself to think, to shove the words in my head out of my mouth. “What do you need, Yuma?”

 

He stared at Michael while he answered, cold, calculating. “MoJoe passed out on the bus. He’s not breathing.” He almost seemed to enjoy the news.

 

“What!” I gasped. Sharp, stabbing pains jabbed me in the pit of my stomach.

 

John screamed from the bus. “What are you doing, Yuma! Get help! Get help! Hurry!” and then he disappeared back into the bus.

 

Michael grabbed my hand tightly and started running toward the coach, dragging me along the way. I jerked back when we made it to the step.

 

“Go ahead,” I said.

 

Michaels face was serious. “Don’t go near him.” He turned his face toward Yuma, watching Willie and Earl running our away, along with a group of paramedics. They must have heard John calling.

 

And before I could turn back, Michael disappeared into the darkness. Willie, Earl, and the medical team flew past, all crowding on the bus. And Yuma stood there staring at me with an evil grin plastered to his face.

 

I sat on the step, dazed, confused, my head swirling. The change had started, the wheels of conversion locked into place. Another person, another life, gone because my life came in contact with theirs. Would this ever stop? I looked up at the sky once more, daring, taunting the universe to take its prize—me. It was me the universe was after, and somehow I confused it, because it continued to take all the wrong people.

 

I put my head in my hands and waited. Please, please, I begged, let Michael be strong enough to survive me. Because, deep down, I knew if something were to happen to him, there would be no me. I would be stuck on this earth, once again, the lone, desperate survivor, facing the same fate that had found me time and time again. Death on earth, a black hole of nothing—the same thing I saw in Yuma’s eyes.

 

Please, please, I begged again, take me…take me.

 

There was no one strong enough to protect my soul or the people that I loved.

 

I was a tyrant—yes, a tyrant of souls on this earth. I locked them away, oppressing them and eventually causing them to die before their time.

 

Michael had no idea what he was up against.