Page 83 of Darcy
“Fuck,” Slate curses, but the word is broken. Hoarse.
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. I’m not sure there are words for the hollowness in my chest.
Tomorrow, when we step off that plane in another damned city and perform like the circus animals we are, there will be no Sully cheering us on. No one to keep our spirits up before the performance, or tell it to us straight when things go to our heads.
The anchor that kept us all sane in this messy hell of an existence is gone.
Forever.
My skin is too tight. My thoughts are so fucking erratic I can’t grab hold of them for more than a few seconds. A heavy emotional haze settles over me, obscuring the real world. For the first time since I was a teenager, I honestly consider whether pain would help me think clearly.
Only it didn’t work back then, not really. I just focused on the physical hurt and let the emotional one rot inside me until my friends helped me find the strength to man up and face it.
Right now, I’m not alone. No matter how it feels. The rest of the band is hurting too.
“Get off the street,” Prophet mutters, marching us forwards.
He’s right. We’re attracting attention. I’m sure it looks like the whole band has just been in a fight, and a camera flashes to my right before we can duck beyond the safety of the doors.
Fucking cameras. Can’t we even lose Sully without our grief being plastered on the internet?
The four of us take the elevator up to our floor in silence, only to freeze when we step out into the suite. The light is on.
There, on the sofa before us, looking like a dishevelled angel, is Darcy. Dressed in black cargos and a matching tank top that don’t match her usual colourful style, she has a ruthless air about her I’ve never noticed before. On the table before her is a bunch of wires and even a… clock?
“We need to talk,” she says, uncrossing her arms and resting her elbows on her knees as she leans forward.
“Rubia,” Slate murmurs, recovering quickest. “What the hell happened to you?”
She frowns, then glances down, eyes widening as she realises she’s covered in soot and blood. That quickly, the hard, stoic mask she’s wearing dissipates, replaced with the softer version of Darcy I’m used to.
My shoulders slump. Was this another part of the cartel’s revenge? Sully wasn’t enough? Guilt and anger battle inside me, finally winning over the hollowness.
“Oh. Shit.” Her head falls back and she groans. “I’m fine. My clothes are fire-retardant, but getting Sully free was more difficult than I’d hoped.”
All four of us stiffen at the mention of his name.
“Sit.” She tilts her head towards the sofas. “I think it’s time we’re honest with each other.”
Arlo does as she says without hesitating, taking the spot beside her. There’s a slight pause, and then he gives in, dragging her onto his lap, where he holds her like she might disappear at any moment. Prophet is slightly slower, heading for the kitchen first and returning with a bowl of water, a cloth, and a first aid kit that he puts on the table.
“Let me clean you up,” he grunts, kneeling on the floor beside them.
“You should hear what I have to say first,” she counters, only to sigh in defeat when he doesn’t budge. “Fine.”
“We broke up with you,” Slate says, reluctantly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Darcy pins him with a glare. “Yes, that was a real dick move.” She takes a deep breath, letting it out with a hiss as Prophet starts to mop at her soot-covered face with his cloth. “Anyway, first, you should know that Sully is in the hospital under a fake name. He’s alive, but they’ve got him on a ventilator in the burns unit—Ouch! Arlo, stop squeezing me.”
Our guitarist mumbles an apology, and his hands move to her hair instead, undoing her messy ponytail so his fingers can diligently tease out all of the knots.
I follow the movement until what she said finally processes. “How—?”
“You really think I just turned up working for you by coincidence?” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “I was sent here to kill the Rosales brothers. I’m an assassin, and if you boys hadn’t been there tonight, this would all have been over by now.”
Her words sink in slowly. Too slowly. By the time I’ve put it all together, Slate has slumped onto the armchair in disbelief and the water Prophet is using to clean her has turned a murky grey colour.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Slate mumbles, rubbing his temples.
