The Drazen World: LUST (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Lola Darling
than my best friend. She's my other sister. The only one I have left now. I reach for her hand and grip her fingers tightly. "Gabby would definitely approve of a hot priest presiding over her funeral," I murmur.
We share a tiny, weak smile for the first time in days.
Chapter Four
Monica's place is packed. I knew it would be crowded—a hundred people is a lot for a two-bedroom house on the outskirts of town here, tiny as it is—but it's worse than I imagined. I'm pretty sure there are more people than we planned for, too. A few people turn up from the bars where we've played, patrons and servers alike.
"We always loved her music," a pair of girls I've never seen before tell me with a sigh, and I realize that maybe, Gabby wasn't so far off from achieving her dreams as we thought. She never reached national fame, she never got a record recorded and played over the radio the way she dreamed about, or performed concerts in huge, packed venues. But she touched a lot of people in L.A. with her music. Local people, bartenders and waitresses, but also aspiring actors and musicians and screenwriters in their own right.
Gabby was one of the stars of L.A., our own little secret that we never got to share with the wider world. Maybe, in the end, that makes her all the more cherished.
Then I catch sight of Vinny, our insufferable fucking asshole of a manager, and any attempt at feeling better about all of this collapses around me. Who am I fucking kidding? That man stood in the way of her, stomped on her dreams. Sent her away so Monica could audition for her big break solo, not that I blame Mon for taking the audition, but it was the last straw, the push that sent my sister tumbling over the edge.
And I wasn't there to catch her. I let her fall into that dark ocean, so numbed up on alcohol and pills that the seawater filled her lungs in a heartbeat. She never had a chance, my Gabby. And that's down to me, in the end.
She never achieved her dreams because I let her down. She's dead because I let her down.
Who the fuck do I think I am, trying to find peace here? Today, of all days?
I storm through the crowd, suddenly claustrophobic, unable to breathe. My body is all pent-up, vibrating energy, anger white-hot in my veins. But much as I hate Vinny, much as I hate any of the other fake producers or schmoozing talent managers weaving through the thick crowd here, grazing on the free food like the scavengers they are, the person I really hate is me.
And I can't exactly punch myself in the face, now can I?
I muscle my way into the backyard, ignoring a few gasps of protest as I elbow some asshole blocking the door out of my way. I don't give a fuck right now. Just try and stop me.
I'm halfway across the yard, fists balled at my sides, when I hear a gasp. Crying? I slow my pace a little. The yard isn't as crowded as the house—maybe the asshole blocking the door is stemming off the crowd a little bit. There's a couple people dotted here and there, mostly smoking, both cigarettes and some stank-ass weed, from the scent of it. Well, whatever works for them , I think, half debating asking for a hit myself. But weed has never really been my drug of choice. Just makes me pass out, and while that's tempting right now, it doesn't seem fair of me to fall asleep and miss all this fucking knife-sharp pain that I deserve to suffer.
There's another gasp. Coming from around the back of the yard, against a cinderblock wall that half-hid the house from view. In front of the wall was a little row of bushes Gabby planted a couple years ago, I remember with a pang. I wander toward them, ready to ask whoever it is if they need anything, a handkerchief or a drink or maybe a hit of those people on the other side of the yard's weed. There's a little bench behind the bushes, I remember, a quiet corner that Gabby wanted for herself, which was why she planted the bushes in the first place, to give her the illusion of privacy in a world that couldn't stop
We share a tiny, weak smile for the first time in days.
Chapter Four
Monica's place is packed. I knew it would be crowded—a hundred people is a lot for a two-bedroom house on the outskirts of town here, tiny as it is—but it's worse than I imagined. I'm pretty sure there are more people than we planned for, too. A few people turn up from the bars where we've played, patrons and servers alike.
"We always loved her music," a pair of girls I've never seen before tell me with a sigh, and I realize that maybe, Gabby wasn't so far off from achieving her dreams as we thought. She never reached national fame, she never got a record recorded and played over the radio the way she dreamed about, or performed concerts in huge, packed venues. But she touched a lot of people in L.A. with her music. Local people, bartenders and waitresses, but also aspiring actors and musicians and screenwriters in their own right.
Gabby was one of the stars of L.A., our own little secret that we never got to share with the wider world. Maybe, in the end, that makes her all the more cherished.
Then I catch sight of Vinny, our insufferable fucking asshole of a manager, and any attempt at feeling better about all of this collapses around me. Who am I fucking kidding? That man stood in the way of her, stomped on her dreams. Sent her away so Monica could audition for her big break solo, not that I blame Mon for taking the audition, but it was the last straw, the push that sent my sister tumbling over the edge.
And I wasn't there to catch her. I let her fall into that dark ocean, so numbed up on alcohol and pills that the seawater filled her lungs in a heartbeat. She never had a chance, my Gabby. And that's down to me, in the end.
She never achieved her dreams because I let her down. She's dead because I let her down.
Who the fuck do I think I am, trying to find peace here? Today, of all days?
I storm through the crowd, suddenly claustrophobic, unable to breathe. My body is all pent-up, vibrating energy, anger white-hot in my veins. But much as I hate Vinny, much as I hate any of the other fake producers or schmoozing talent managers weaving through the thick crowd here, grazing on the free food like the scavengers they are, the person I really hate is me.
And I can't exactly punch myself in the face, now can I?
I muscle my way into the backyard, ignoring a few gasps of protest as I elbow some asshole blocking the door out of my way. I don't give a fuck right now. Just try and stop me.
I'm halfway across the yard, fists balled at my sides, when I hear a gasp. Crying? I slow my pace a little. The yard isn't as crowded as the house—maybe the asshole blocking the door is stemming off the crowd a little bit. There's a couple people dotted here and there, mostly smoking, both cigarettes and some stank-ass weed, from the scent of it. Well, whatever works for them , I think, half debating asking for a hit myself. But weed has never really been my drug of choice. Just makes me pass out, and while that's tempting right now, it doesn't seem fair of me to fall asleep and miss all this fucking knife-sharp pain that I deserve to suffer.
There's another gasp. Coming from around the back of the yard, against a cinderblock wall that half-hid the house from view. In front of the wall was a little row of bushes Gabby planted a couple years ago, I remember with a pang. I wander toward them, ready to ask whoever it is if they need anything, a handkerchief or a drink or maybe a hit of those people on the other side of the yard's weed. There's a little bench behind the bushes, I remember, a quiet corner that Gabby wanted for herself, which was why she planted the bushes in the first place, to give her the illusion of privacy in a world that couldn't stop
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