Every second, the ground shifts.
I rip the gun out of his pocket, only to lose it as he smashes my fist, sending the weapon spinning across the floor.
I gain the upper hand again and again, and so does he.
The world drops away until there’s just this blurry chaos.
Just me trying to shove that frothing face full of bared teeth away.
Haydn hurling bleeding fists at my face again and again.
Muffled explosions of pain knifing my body as Haydn gets me on my back and shoves me down with all his might.
“Roland!” Callie cries, and I catch a glimpse of red hair flying toward us.
“Callie, don’t—nngh!”
Haydn’s knuckles plow into my temple.
I ram my knee into his gut.
My vision lurches black and red and soon I taste blood.
My hands grasp a throat I can’t see, straining, determined to bring him the hell down with me if I’m on the brink of passing out.
For a split second, everything goes spinning into this murder-red fog, and the only color I know is pain.
Until I hear a voice like Zeus barking down at mere mortals.
“Get the heck off my brother!”
Followed by Haydn’s yipping pain cut off into dead silence.
I force my eyes open—just in time to see Barry pick up an entire fucking klieg light for the stage in both hands and smash it on top of Haydn’s head so hard there’s a clang! like Haydn’s skull is the clapper in a bell.
Vance Haydn reels, his weight falling just enough.
Just e-fucking-nough for me to lunge up and butt my forehead into his nose hard.
The impact rings his skull a second time, right before I catch him by the front of his ugly floral silk shirt and slam him into the concrete. I muscle him onto his back, rising up on my knees over him.
Somehow, he’s still conscious.
Groaning, bloodied, but awake.
Until I draw my arm back, clench my fist, and hurl the hardest punch I’ve ever thrown in my life.
Smack down the center of that devilish mug—harder than the first time I punched this asshole’s lights out a lifetime ago.
Haydn surges up, rocking for just a second more.
Then he slumps with a muffled snarl, collapsing a second later.
Panting for breath, I sag to my knees. The adrenaline storm powering me drains like I just ran out of rocket fuel.
I shake my aching fist—something feels broken—and press my free hand to my throbbing face.
“Mother fuck. I think he broke my nose.”
“Roland—” Callie screams.
“Rollie!” Barry shouts.
Then I’m swarmed by them on each side, both of them hugging me frantically. Alvin stands over us, bewildered as hell, holding the ruins of his guitar, just the neck and strings and shards of wood.
My ears are ringing.
I can’t make out a single world Callie or Barrett say, but Alvin manages to pitch his voice through the shrill echo in my ears.
“Everybody okay?”
I catch Callie’s hand and squeeze it, giving Barrett’s shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Think so. Hurts like hell, but we’re all in one piece.”
“Great,” Alvin says dryly. “So someone want to explain to me just what the fuck that was all about?”
* * *
The cops are here in fifteen minutes, the paramedics in twenty.
I get to watch from my perch on the bumper of an ambulance as Haydn’s unconscious bulk gets hauled into the back of a patrol car in handcuffs.
They’re not gentle with him.
I can’t say I mind.
I do mind the EMT taping my nose and busted fingers, though. She could be a little more gentle with me. I hiss like a scorned rattlesnake as she seals another strip of rigid plastic splinting against the bridge of my nose.
“Easy!” I grumble.
“Nothing easy about it,” she answers with amusement. “It’s not broken enough to need a doctor right away, but you’ve got dislocated cartilage. If you want it to heal right, hold still.”
“Listen to the smart lady,” Callie says at my side, wearing a smile too sweet for this torture.
She hasn’t let me go since I punched Haydn out, and it’s done more for my state of mind than I thought possible to have her so close, to smell her.
“She’s trying to help you,” she whispers.
Callie’s warmth grounds me as I try to process the brain-shaking realization of what Haydn did to my brother all those years ago.
“Your girlfriend’s wise,” the EMT says—and prods my nose again, making me yelp. “You should hang on to that one, buddy.”
Despite the EMT trying to hold my head straight, I can’t help looking down at Callie.
She’s none the worse for wear—thank God—despite her torn dress and a little bandage over her scraped knee. Those glittering silver eyes stare up at me with such affection that the pain lifts like fog off Lake Michigan.
“I should,” I say softly. “If she still wants to be my girl.”
Callie lets out a shy laugh, ducking her head. “Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t?”