CADEN - FOURTEEN HOURS EARLIER

"You have two options," I say as I smash the crowbar across one of their pathetic fucking heads. He groans, I haul him up by the collar and kick him back to the wall.

"One, you can pack your shit and get the fuck out of LA. We know exactly who you all are, and his brother is a cop. I'll give him your ID's, tell them exactly what I know." I hold their licenses in my hand, gesturing to Miles.

A lie. Miles' brother isn't a cop. Miles doesn't even have a fucking brother.

"Or two," I spin the crowbar between my fingers, crouching down. "I'll beat you to fucking death with my own hands. What will it be?"

"We'll go!" one of them coughs. "We swear. Swear it. Please, don't hand us in."

Handing them in right now isn't something I want to have to do, considering I've almost bludgeoned one of them. But, if I see them again, I won't hesitate.

"You'll be wanted for sexual assault, smacked right on the list. Better get moving," I shrug. "I've always enjoyed a chase."

"Look, we're sorry, alright? It was just some fun." Another one of them, who I've identified as Carl from his license, hisses. He's clamping a hand to the side of his head, speaking through gritted teeth.

"Fun?" I repeat, raising my eyebrows. "You thought assaulting and attempting to rape a young woman was fun?"

He diverts his gaze. "Well, Carl. You know what I find fun?" I urge, standing up to tower above them. "Beating the fucking shit out of bastards like you."

I clip him across the head with the bar, and he releases the hand from the side of his face to clutch the back of his worthless skull.

Catching a glimpse of his ear, the blood around St. James' mouth suddenly makes sense. She must have fucking bitten part of it off.

Atta girl.

"We're sorry. We're sorry. We're sorry." One of them chants, covering his pathetic head. Miles knocks his hands away with the hockey stick.

Changed my mind. These bastards can get to fuck.

Callie.

"Shut the fuck up. You pathetic, disgusting excuse of a man," I kick Carl into the ground, hammering the crowbar against his back.

"Stop—" he snaps.

"—I said shut the fuck up. I don't like having to repeat myself, Carl Moritz." I bring it down in the same place with a thud.

Lennie.

"You'll get done for this!" He bites out, and I can't stop the laugh that rips from my throat.

"We'll get done for this? Feel free, but you'll be dragged right the fuck down with us, kicking and screaming. We're not the ones who assaulted a woman tonight." I shake my head, whacking the bar against his arm.

I turn to Miles and Isaac, who are holding the other guys down. Owen is lumbering off to the side, supposedly keeping an eye out.

"Knock them out," I say. They share an uncertain glance before nodding, pressing their arms around the bastards necks.

"You can't do this, you little piece of shit!" Carl spits up into my face as I prepare my hands against the carotid arteries. An old trick. Knocks a person out cold in a few seconds.

"I can, and I can do so much worse," I grin, beginning to apply the pressure. "Lucky for you, you weren't who I was hoping."'

He claws my arms as I push my weight against the sides of his neck. "Touch a woman without her consent again, I'll hunt you down and blow your fucking brains out myself."

His eyes flash and bulge. Eight seconds. Then he's out like a light.

I brush my hands on my pants, standing up from my crouch to face the other guys. Miles is wandering aimlessly, speaking on his cell to somebody. I'm guessing it's Hana, considering they can't go two seconds without being wedged up each other's fucking backsides.

He slides the phone back into his pocket. "Hana just said that Lennie left her cell, and her guitar. Apparently under some trash bags?" He scratches the back of his neck, beginning to shuffle through them with a grimace.

I shine the torch on my own phone and begin to rummage. We don't have long before these fuckers wake up. Not that it would matter, I'd just knock them out again.

"Why did she have her guitar? They didn't have a gig or anything, Hana would've mentioned." Isaac asks.

"Apparently she broke it. Was one the way to some music store called Rockers— aha-! Got her phone!" Miles exclaims, holding her cell up and sliding it in his pocket.

She was on her way to get her guitar fixed, and almost got fucking raped because of it.  

"And I've got the guitar," I say, moving away the rest of the trash-bags covering the case before picking it up and swinging it across my shoulder. "I'll take it to that music place. At least then it's done." I shrug.

"Very out of character for you, Cade," Isaac chuckles. "I'd almost say sweet."

"You can fuck right off with that shit. It's just me being a decent man," I reply with a small grin, casting my eyes across the bastards to make sure they're still out cold.

"Guys, what are we doing with her— uh— clothes?" Miles practically whispers, and I whirl to see him holding up a pair of shorts and a ripped shirt.

The sight makes me want to mutilate these cunts.

"Keep hold of them, but don't give them back unless she asks. She mightn't want them." I reply through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. Fucking sick fucks.

I think of her face. The absolute terror in her eyes when she slammed into me. She probably thought I was one of them.

"Alright," Miles shrugs, folding the tattered clothes into a small heap and putting them into his pocket.

We check the guys are actually breathing before leaving the scene on foot, ditched the crowbar and the old hockey stick in one of the trash bags.

"You're actually going to that music place? Weren't joking?" Owen drawls, leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his lips. He reads my expression and pulls one out of the pack for me.

"Wasn't joking," I shake my head, using his ridiculous 'I heart LA!' lighter to spark up the smoke.

"Guess we'll meet you back at the house?" Isaac rolls his shoulders as we start to walk, coming up to the intersection.

"Yeah, won't be long," I throw over my shoulder, turning to striding the opposite direction. I know exactly where Rockers is. It's on Terrance Street, about a 3 kilometre walk from here.

I've pretty much got a mental map of the city from the amount of rides I take.

After trudging for thirty minutes with St. James' guitar on my back, making me look like some damn groupie, I arrive outside the weird looking shop. Literally just looks like a fucking door.

The neon sign says 'OPEN', so I shove open the door. AC/DC is blaring.

Some guy with a beard down to his fucking dick pokes his head up from the counter. The shop is actually pretty big on the inside.

"Alright, son! Over here!" He waves his hand, as though it's not perfectly fucking obvious I can see him.

I say nothing as I stride towards the glass counter, concealing guitar picks and figurines of heavy-metal bands, and lay the case on top of it.

Doesn't seem like St. James' scene.

"Whad'we have here?" He drawls in a deep southern accent, taking the lead and clicking the case open.

I haven't seen a guitar like it before. A shade of blue I can't place, a wooden effect. Pretty fucking cool.

"It's broken," I shrug. "It's not mine, so I don't know how it's broken. I just know it is."

"I know whose guitar this is. Custom Fender. Lennon's in here a lot," He chuckles, lifting the guitar from its case and analysing it. "Apparently she was named after that guy." He throws a thumb over his shoulder to John Lennon.

Thought it was a strange name.

"Broken tuners," he clicks his teeth. "'Gonna cost a pretty penny to fix a custom. But, because it's Lennon's, I'll knock a bit off. Nice kid." He grins with blackened, crooked teeth.

"How much?" I ask, resting my hands on the counter.

He hums for a few seconds. "Would usually charge a-hundred-and-ten, but I'll do it for eighty."

I thought he said it would cost a pretty fucking penny?

I dip my hand into the back of my pants, hooking out the wedge of cash. His eyes gleam as I flick through the notes, passing him a hundred.

"Keep that, but I want it fixed by Saturday latest," I demand. He blinks a few times before nodding frantically, shoving the money into the cash-register.

"Saturday latest, son." He grins again, and I turn on my heels to leave the store.