Page 70 of Darcy
He’s angry at the cartel. And I’m willing to bet that underneath all that fury is actually a whole bunch of frustration and fear. He’s the only member of the band with a large, close-knit family. That’s a whole lot of targets for them to choose from.
“I can see how that’s frustrating,” I admit. “But do you love it? The music, I mean?”
He stops moving. “Kind of hard to justify loving a career that statistically gives you a shorter lifespan than the average Joe, comes with a two-to-seven times higher rate of suicide, and glorifies promiscuity and dying young.”
I hum, taking care to keep my tone even as I answer, “I didn’t ask about the job. I asked about the music.”
No answer. Slowly, he resumes his workout, retreating behind his usual silence. I’m not surprised. I’m pretty sure that was the most I’ve ever heard Prophet speak in one go.
“What will you do when you leave?” I ask, switching the subject.
“I was working for an old army buddy of my dad’s before the band took off. He was training me to run his gym. It was a good job.”
I try to picture him running a gym, and I’m dismayed when I find it far too easy. Unlike the others, who’ve taken their metal personas to heart with their visible tattoos, leather, and piercings, Prophet could easily put on a polo shirt and walk out of this hotel as a normal guy.
Was that simply his preference, or something more deliberate? A subtler way of keeping his distance from the others?
This time it’s my turn to stay silent. I’m caught between the belief that he should be able to choose his own destiny and the knowledge that watching him give up the stage for some job managing a gym would be like watching a lion willingly be declawed and defanged to fit in amongst the sheep.
Both Slate and Prophet have very convincing arguments, and I don’t see a way for both of them to get what they want.
One of them has to bend.
“I wouldn’t evenneedto work,” Prophet mutters. “The band has earned enough money to retire several times over.”
I’ve never heard someone sound so bitter about being loaded, and I take a reflexive sip of my coffee as he continues his workout below me.
“Off,” he orders, after a few minutes.
I slip from his back, draining the last of my coffee and depositing the mug on a side table before turning back towards Slate’s room. I should probably get dressed and ready for our date. Prophet catches me before I can take more than a step.
“I’m not finished.”
Without any further explanation, he crouches down, slips an arm between my legs, and hauls me onto his back in a fireman’s carry.
“Prophet!” I squeak, embarrassingly loudly.
Fortunately, he says nothing about the noise. “You said you’d help.”
“Yes, with the push ups.” My protests cut off as he starts executing perfect squats with me balanced across his shoulders.
“Man, you’re making the rest of us look weak,” Dodger complains, and I twist my neck to watch as he shuffles out of his room in nothing more than a pair of loose sweats. “Morning, baby girl.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I grumble.
“Did Dark scream?” Arlo’s head pokes out of his own room, brows creased with concern.
Prophet snorts. “She’s fine. Go back to getting ready. We’ve got to leave when Slate gets back.”
In response, the guitarist yawns and retreats back to his room.
Great. No help from him.
“Shouldn’t I be getting ready too? I’m a girl. You know we take ages.”
Prophet doesn’t reply, but Dodger barks out a laugh. “You can’t spend as long as Lo does on his hair. Em’s got him using half a salon’s worth of fancy conditioners and shit.”
Emma knows her stuff, because Arlo’s hair looks so soft that I really want to pet it.
