I don't stop playing; I can't. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't stop the burst of fucking power that's just taken hold of me. I'm both a victim and a master to it as it draws my hands along the neck and plucks strings with a violent fervor that both scares and amazes me. Hot wet heat takes over my mouth and pulls the rest of the inner me out, and then I'm kissing Turner back hard and fast and furious while the world's most intense riffs are just pulled straight through me, cutting me up and bleeding me over the stage.
When he pulls away, our eyes lock tight, and I know he can see right through my shades, through my head, and straight down into me. It's a trick; it's gotta be. I want to remember the way he spoke to me on the phone, the way he left that poor girl half-naked over the PA speaker, but I can't seem to grab any memories that haven't been made right here, on this stage. What else is there? my soul asks me as Turner uses the cord of the mic to spin it in a circle and snatch it back in one tattooed hand.
My solo comes to a natural end, and I fall right back where I left off, taking the band with me, opening my ears up to Turner's voice as it slides into the microphone. It's unbelievable – my words from his lips. I step back and Hayden moves up beside him, doing her best to out sex her colleague.
It doesn't work.
I don't think it's even possible to out sex Turner Campbell.
He grabs the hem of his shirt and slides it up, flashing his taut belly and a sea of tattoos against pale, sweaty flesh. His fingers rub the dark hair above his jeans and then drop the fabric back into place, much to the dismay of the crowd.
“Tearing me up, shredding me inside; my walls are coming down in flames.” Hayden's voice slides in alongside Turner's and for a split second there, I'm jealous. Of what and who and why, I have no idea, because I fucking hate them both, and they deserve each other, but … I brush the feeling aside and slam my axe to bits with my pick. “If you break me, baby, be prepared to pick up the pieces.”
Three. Two. One. And the song is over, and my pick is flying out across the crowd and landing in greedy hands. Sweat pours down my face in sheets and my body is wracked with violent trembles. Turner spins around and grins at me as the crowd explodes into a riotous fervor that makes the bouncers nervous. And they have every right to be. It is crazy hot up in here, and there's this primal vibe in the air that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I wet my dry lips and watch as Turner slides my mic back into place and snatches up a water bottle from the side of the stage. He takes a swig and then hands it over to me.
My hands drop down and take hold of it, even though I'm not thirsty, even though I can't imagine anything as earthly as hydration. When he reaches out and plucks the shades from my face, I don't stop him.
“That was tight, Knox,” he growls as he uses his middle finger to slide them up his nose. “Real fucking ugly.”
Show time.
I swipe my hand through my already sweaty hair and stalk onto the stage, listening with an inner smirk to the sound of the crowd going bat shit crazy for me. I pause behind the mic and slide one hand up the stand while I rest the other around the grip.
I wish Naomi were offstage watching me, but I already saw her make a run for it. As soon as Amatory Riot's set was done, she took off like a bat outta hell, bursting through the door backstage; she didn't even ask for her shades back. I wonder if she'll take me up on my offer for drinks tonight. She better after that little impromptu show we put together. Didn't expect that, but it was fucking hot. My cock tingles at the thought and my tongue slides across my lips, boiling the crowd into a wild frenzy.
I thought Milo was going to wring my neck for that shit, but listening to him bitch was worth it. I can still taste Naomi on my mouth, hot and sweaty and perfect.
I have to have her.
My itch for info has become an all consuming burn, one that's eating me up from the inside out. I need to know who she is and where she comes from and then I have to make her mine for a little while. If I don't, I think I'll go fucking crazy. I've never felt this way before, and it's scaring the shit out of me. Mystery Girl's got me interested.
“Good evening, San Diego,” I growl over the roaring voices below me. I feel like a fucking king up here, like I'm being worshipped. A smile crawls across my face. “Looking fucking beautiful tonight.” I point to the prettiest girl I can find and tilt my head to the side. “I hope you liked my little prelude earlier.” I pause and slide the mic slowly out of the stand. “But I'm fucking warning you because that was just a taste. I hope you've had a lot to drink because this is gonna hurt.” I grin. “This is my hour to destroy you.”
Treyjan starts up our most popular song, 'Breaking Pretty', and trashes the stage with his guitar. Jesse isn't far behind him, cutting up the crowd while I bounce on my toes and swing my head in time to the music. The bass line sneaks in strong from Josh's side of the stage and punches the venue hard when Ronnie smashes his kit into the mix.
Instead of pushing Naomi out of my mind, I think about her hard. I imagine my body slamming into hers, imagine her back pressed up against a cold cement wall and her hot heat gripping me. I put that fire into my voice and snarl out the lyrics to the song, lacing them with sexual tension, with intensity, biting the words off and pissing all over that goddamn stage.
I don't care who graced it before me or who will stand here after; it's fucking mine.
“You're body's soft enough to break and your pussy's hot enough to melt.” I lift up my fingers and make an obscene ass fucking gesture that probably has Milo biting off his prissy, manicured little nails. “That breaking pretty is leaving me blue, baby.”
I spin in a circle and swing the mic around with me, tossing it up into the air, so I can catch it with my opposite hand. When my fingers wrap around it, the crowd starts to scream these blood curdling cries that make me hard as a rock and send chills down my spine.
“And when you're gone, I'll still be left in pieces, scattered across the face of this motherfucking, godforsaken earth.” The words are mine, right, because I fucking wrote 'em, but they're being stolen from me by Naomi friggin' Knox. I don't expect her to show up, but suddenly she's there and she's snarling onto Jesse's mic and eating up my lyrics.
Her blonde hair's stuck to her face and her lips are moist with sweat as she steps up beside me and tries to steal the friggin' show.
Fuck me.
I turn to face her, and I grin big, reaching out a hand for her waist. She pulls away and the people go nuts. A few even try to climb up the front of the stage in their frenzy and have to be picked up and hauled off by the bouncers in the black T-shirts. Nice to know they're useful for something.
“So put me back together, back to-fucking-gether, baby.” Naomi's voice is crawling all over mine and she's marking the shit out of the stage, tearing it up and shredding it to pieces. White hot rage boils up inside of me and my harmonies blend into growls and then all out screams as we try to sing over one another.
My heart is thumping like crazy in my chest and feels like it's going to explode along with my cock. She turns and looks straight at me as her full lips mouth the words and beads of moisture drip down her bare belly. When she moves towards me, I reach out my arm again and manage to sneak it around her waist, drawing our foreheads together, clashing our mics with a shrill shriek. Her hand finds my ass and draws the sunglasses out of my back pocket, hovering there way too fucking long to be played off as an accident. She's feeling me up onstage. I think I'm in love with this girl. Holy shit. Who the hell is she?
And then with our foreheads pressed together and our mouths nearly touching, I get this flash of memory that flickers like a bolt of lightning through my head and out the back of my skull. It's not there long enough that I can actually grasp it, but at least it's confirmation that I'm right. I know her. I do. I just don't know when or where or how.
Our bodies grind together, hips pressing close, denim against denim, and our free hands wander up and down, molten hot fingers pressing against bare ski
n, touching, hovering, absorbing. When Ronnie's solo rolls around, Naomi pulls the mic from my hands and slides my shirt up and off, tossing it to the wild-eyed monsters below.
They're circling and screaming, begging for blood, praying for us to fuck right then and there.
I see Milo at the edge of the stage, ready to move forward and put a stop to it all, and take my chance before it's too late, grabbing the mics back and literally tearing Naomi's shirt off her shoulders. Hell, it's ripped anyway, so it comes off easy and ends up sailing into the hands of a dude in the mosh pit.
She looks so fucking fierce standing there in a red lace bra, tattoos winking at me from her chest and her belly in her too tight jeans and her fucking sick ass boots. I want her so bad it hurts, but when I move forward, she snatches the microphone from my hand and eats up the last words to my song, throwing the lyrics down so hard that I almost lose it. She's stealing the stage from me, taking it hard and riding it.
I do my best to take it back, but it's too late. The song ends. Naomi drops the mic to the floor and kicks it hard. I grab her wrist in one hand, but I don't know what to do with it, so I just watch as she slides her shades back on and smiles at me.
“Did you send it?” she whispers over the screaming fans, clamoring at the walls like soldiers in the midst of a fierce as fuck battle.
“Send what?” I growl at her, gripping too hard, squeezing too tight. I want to shake her and hug her and scream at her and fuck her, all at the same time. Goddamn it, my head is freaking killing me. What is with this chick and who the hell does she think she is? Why doesn't she worship me like everybody else? I'm so torn up inside that I feel like I'm going to split in half.
“Good,” she says. “That's what I fucking thought.”
And then she walks off stage and leaves me trembling with rage and lust both.
She never shows up for drinks.
After every high comes a horrible fucking low.
I have mine on the bus the day after the San Diego show, lying on my side in the dark of my bunk with the curtain drawn and my iPod destroying my eardrums, playing Turner's music over and over and over again in my head. Somehow, I've got it in my mind that if I listen to it enough, the longing will go away.
It doesn't.
Instead, tears stream down my face, and I find myself obsessing over the date I'd promised I'd never obsess about.
March 15th.
Oh, how I hate March 15th.
It's three days away, and I can't stop thinking about it. Six years. It's been six years, and the pain is still as fresh as ever. And it's all his fault. Him. Turner Campbell. Might as well change his name to Satan or Beelzebub or Lucifer or something.
I touch a hand to my belly and roll away from the wall, so I'm facing the black curtain. My fingers play across the stitches while my mind tries to convince me to get up and take ownership over what happened on that stage. I should be proud; everyone else is. Except maybe Hayden. I mean, she says she's glad that we got some hot press, but I think she's jealous that I stole the spotlight from her. Hayden really, really doesn't like to share. I wonder, maybe, if it has something to do with Turner Campbell, too. If maybe she remembers she slept with him, and if she's jealous about the kiss.
Fuck.
How am I going to look him in the eyes again? If I do, he'll see things there that I don't want anyone to see. I'm not a sixteen year old girl with idol fantasies; I'm a grown ass woman, and I need to let up on this Turner obsession that I've been nursing. Shit. But I know deep down that I'm on his radar now. My mistake. I should've never returned his jacket to him. I'm such a fucking idiot.
I sit up suddenly and tear my headphones off, tossing them to the foot of the bunk and climbing out and into the bright sunshine that's streaming through the windows. The door to the front is open, and I see the band sitting around and eating one of America's rare but admittedly delicious home cooked meals. Blows my fucking mind that the woman can whip up a five star dish on a bus. In-freaking-credible.
Everyone looks up as I walk in, and Spencer smiles at me in the rearview mirror. There's no doubt in my mind that they can see the tear streaks down my cheeks or the redness in my eyes. But fuck 'em. I don't care. Tears or no tears, I could still kick all their asses.
America assumes my expression has something to do with the video and gives me a sympathetic look. Good, but she has no idea how much worse this is. It's a scar that'll never heal, but one that I thought would at least scab over. Thanks a lot, Turner. You're ripping it off, piece by piece.
“I need to stop at a store,” I say, and America's soft expression hardens.
“No problem, lemme just stop the caravan and tell all five bands and their staff to wait while you run in for some tampons.” I flip her off and roll my eyes as I grab a plate and slap some food onto it. I'm not hungry and my stomach feels like it's full of lead, but I'm going to go through the motions, damn it.
“Fuck you,” I tell her as I scoot in beside Hayden and try not to touch her skin. You never know where it's been. “You know what I meant. When we get to Phoenix, I need cigs. Jesus Christ, who put a stick up your ass this morning?”
“You did,” Hayden says, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her cheek against her hands. She stares at me with her blue eyes and smiles an evil smile that makes my already aching belly feel like it's being pulled in two directions. God, I might throw up. “Turner's been calling all night and all day.” Hayden nods her chin at the counter, and I look up to see my phone resting there next to America's. Oops. Guess I forgot to drag it in my cave with me.
“So?”
“So, you know how I feel about him,” America says as she switches off the stove and dumps whatever it is she's cooking onto a plate. “And I don't want Amatory Riot too closely associated with Indecency. It's only a matter of time before somebody dies or fucks up, and they'll be screwed. We don't need to be attached to a sinking ship.” She punches the faucet on hard and starts to scrub, splattering her fancy suit with soap bubbles and droplets of dirty water.
“I had no idea you two were so into each other,” Hayden continues, doing her damnedest to take my bad mood and bring it up to a whole new level. “Let's just hope he's better in bed than I remember.” Her smile remains stuck to her lips as she drags a bite of food up to her mouth and chews it slowly, like a fucking cow. My fingers clench around my fork, but I manage to resist the urge to stab her in the thigh with it.
“Interesting,” I say, letting a smirk twitch on my lips. “That you remember fucking him at all. Glad you got your memory back though. Now you can owe me and Blair one for cleaning up your vomit and refraining from posting pictures of your puke covered ass online.”
Hayden frowns, but before she can say anything else, Dax is sliding a box of cigarettes across the table at me.
“I know they're not your favorite, but it's better than nothing, right?” I clamp my hand over the carton and drag it back, feeling Hayden's eyes boring into my cheek. Good. Let her think that Dax and I have something going on. I think he's the only guy she's ever truly had feelings for. Hmm. Maybe I should start dating him just to fuck with her? I consider it for a moment. Anything that hurts Hayden makes me happy. Call me cold, but it's true. Misery loves company.
I light up and start smoking.
Dax watches me with gray eyes and then slides a cig of his own into his mouth. Soon, the whole table is lit up, even Hayden. Hey, you know what they say – the band that smokes together, stays together. It's a scientific fact that cigarette smoking is a bonding exercise. Look it up.
“You really into that stupid fuck?” Wren asks, grinning at me and nibbling on the end of his cigarette like it's a stick of gum. A pair of black studs wink at me from between his brows, bouncing light across the ceiling. I doubt he even really cares about the answer to that question. More than likely, he's just trying to stir shit up. That's Wren for ya.
“I don't even know him,” I admit, figuring the truth is better than any lie. �
�I slapped him in the face, so he's into me now. I think he just wants his balls back.”
Wren and Kash laugh, but Dax narrows his eyes, like he can smell a secret hidden somewhere in my words. Turner could; I know that's why he spoke to me like that on the phone. He knows I've got secrets, and he'll do anything to pry them out. I've got to figure out a way to make myself a lot less interesting and fast. No more onstage stunts. Period.
I stab my cigarette out in an ashtray and stand up, dumping the rest of my food into the trash and tossing my plate onto the counter for America to clean up. One bonus of having a manager with OCD is that she'll clean shit up, if only to soothe her own anxieties. I snatch her tablet on the way out of my room and hold it up for confirmation. She nods at me and lets me disappear into the bathroom where I sit bare assed on the toilet and take a piss. Flicking my fingers across the screen until I find the video of me covered head to toe in blood.
It's kind of hard to watch, but I make myself do it over and over and over again until my eyes hurt and the seat starts to dig into my butt. I'm trying to play Nancy fucking Drew here, searching for clues as to who could've filmed this. They would've been standing in the hallway with the camera or phone or whatever it was about waist high. This makes it even harder for me to make any deductions about height.
I stand up and fasten my pants with one hand while I continue to hold the tablet in the other.
Picture's a bit shaky, like whoever it was was scared – or excited. I mean, they didn't say anything, didn't try to stop me. The shot ends with me crumpled over the bed, sobbing. The scissors fall to the floor and stain it crimson. So ominous. So, so ominous, the sound of that blade falling. I don't think I'll ever forget it.
When I exit the bathroom, America shoves my phone in my face and snatches back the tablet.
“Deal with your shit,” she tells me as I stare at the incoming call. Blocked number. Turner.
Real Ugly Page 5
