“Turner,” I warn him, but he just looks up at me from under a fall of wet blue-black hair, brown eyes twinkling.
“I wouldn't do anything you didn't want me to,” he says, sliding his fingers along the pale skin on my inner thighs, opening me up. “Thought you might've figured that out by now, you stupid bitch.” I reach down and grab a handful of hair, lifting his face up, studying Turner with critical eyes. Eventually, he's going to cut and run. Eventually, if I let him in, he's going to destroy me from the inside out. I feel a frown tugging at my mouth. One day, I'm going to walk in and find him balls deep in some bitch with a wannabe rocker do and a small tattoo of a turtle on her fucking ankle that she thinks makes her all hardcore and shit.
“I said I loved you, Turner,” I tell him and my voice catches sharply in my throat. “But I never said I could trust you.” He growls at me and sits up on his knees, looking down at me with a face I can't decipher. All the things I said to him before were true: I do respect him. But I also told him I didn't think he understood love. And I meant that, too. I don't know if he has the skills or the self-discipline to really go through with this something like this. Or maybe I'm just horny and pissed the hell off.
“Why?” he asks, sounding exasperated, running a hand through his hair. I don't really want to get into this, not with the whole Trey thing, not with the giant shit storm swirling above our motherfucking heads. I'd rather not drown in a diarrhea bath of lies and bullshit. I scoot out from underneath him and grab his shoulders. At first he doesn't want to budge, but I push a little, knowing he doesn't have much left in him for today. Seeing his friend, basically his brother, get shot like that was not easy on him.
“Just relax,” I whisper in his hear, guiding his head back down to the pillows. “And we'll talk about this later.”
“Yeah?” he asks, getting smug, even as his eyes droop. “You gonna suck me off, baby? Better get used to that down there. He is all fucking yours.” I roll my eyes and settle down between his knees, watching his face as he relaxes completely, just lets himself go right there beneath me without a single fucking doubt in his tiny pea sized brain.
Frankly, I don't fucking understand it. All I know is that when I get ready to go down on him, I hear him start to snore and know that he's already asleep.
When I wake up, it's dark outside, and it throws me for a fucking loop. I panic momentarily and end up shoving Turner off of me as I stumble out of bed and grab onto the lampshade for support, nearly knocking the whole damn thing to the floor along with the phone and the alarm clock.
“Shit!” I snarl, steadying myself, shoving everything back into place. I flick the light on and glance over at the bed. Turner's still sleeping, lying on his back with his junk wide open for all to see. I think he was snuggling me or some shit. I shiver and touch my hands to my body, to my warm skin and the sudden feeling of cold that's sweeping over and through me. Cuddling. With a man. Not my usual thing. I snatch the cigarettes off the nightstand and light up, turning the digital clock around to face me. Ten in the evening. Jesus and shit fuck. We slept the whole day away. Shouldn't be a surprise, I guess, considering what we went through, but it just feels wrong. Waking up here without the sound of generators and shouting roadies and freaking angst being spread on the wind like a disease.
When I pause and listen carefully, I can hear crickets outside and beyond that, the nearly incomprehensible concept of pure, unadulterated silence. Silence. Silence. No cars, no people, no machinery. Just woods and dirt and empty star filled sky. I shiver and shake my head, making my way over to the door and peeping out. Ronnie's coming out of his room at the exact same time, pausing when he sees my head sticking out from behind the door. He's clean and showered, but he looks a hundred times worse than he did a week ago.
“Bad news?” I ask quickly as he leans down and grabs his bag from the floor in the hallway. Mine's here, too. And Turner's. Good ol' Spencer. I forgot how much I liked having her around. Now if we could just get our blood splattered bus back from evidence, it'd be like home sweet home all over again. Ronnie shakes his head, wet hair slapping against his gaunt face and ashen skin.
“Come down,” he points at himself and shakes his head. “I've been alright the past few days, but I guess it just took awhile to hit this time or whatever.” He rubs at his eyes with a hand covered in tiny, purple hearts, one for each kid or so Turner says. “Or maybe it's not the detox.” Ronnie swallows and slumps against the door frame, staring at me with brown eyes filled to the brim with fear. “Lola won't answer her phone.” I shift, sliding an arm along the wall to brace myself. I'm still buck friggin' naked, so I'm kind of trapped here unless I want Ronnie to get a flash of my tits. Not that I think he'd give a fuck. He's a drummer, remember? Dedicated. Intense. He's got his sights set on Lola now. Doesn't matter if he met her ten years ago or yester-fucking-day. He wants her and that's that. Besides, I think Ronnie McGuire's a big boy. Unlike Turner, he knows what love is like, knows how to be committed. Look at the guy, he spent the last ten or so years of his life pining for the woman he'd lost. It's so romantically tragic, I want to write a song about it.
“One second,” I say, pulling my head back in and closing the door. I move across the floor and pick up the robe, watching Turner's face as he sleeps. He looks angelic again. With those long, dark lashes, those full lips and that body … oh God. That body. I shake my head with a sigh and turn away, stepping out into the hallway and kicking our bags back in the door before shutting it behind me. On second thought, I reach back in, lock it, and close it again. Would Hayden also try to rape Turner? Yeah, yeah I kind of think she might. I turn around and watch as Ronnie deposits his bag on the bed before joining me in the hallway. “America?” I ask, glancing back at the teal door.
“Why not?” Ronnie asks as we move down the hallway. “We can always fill Turner in later. Besides, he … he's not good at handling stuff like this.” Ronnie rubs his hand down his face. He's starting to sweat profusely, drenching his shirt in the few minutes it takes us to get to the stairs.
“So,” I begin, clearing my throat and tucking my hands into the pockets on the robe. “Lola's not picking up?” Ronnie shakes his head, focusing carefully on each step as we descend. The living room is dark and quiet, but somewhere down the hallway I can hear America's voice echoing out to us.
“We need to be back on the road by then. No. No. That is non-negotiable, Mr. Valentine.”
“Nope,” he says on the end of a long sigh. He grabs a handful of fabric on the front of his Ice and Glass tee. It's purple with a broken blue bottle on the bottom, some kind of reference to crystal or some shit. Ronnie squeezes it tight, using the fabric like a stress ball. “And I have no way of knowing why. I tried calling some of the members of Burning the Bleeding and Terre Haute, but nobody's seen her. None of the roadies either. Last thing they saw was her going to her room with that green haired hippie bitch.” Ronnie focuses on the cherry of my cig and swallows hard, digging around in the pockets of his baggy blue jeans for his own. “And then … poof. Nothing. I had a friend of mine break into the room, and she's not there.” We pause on the center landing together, silver light filtering in through the window, highlighting my bare feet and his dirty brown boots. “If she's dead, I'm checking out of this roach motel.” Ronnie pauses and glances towards the window and the spindly limbs of winter dead trees, watching as the wind picks up and swirls the dark branches around like hip hop dancers. “And I'm not talking about the, uh, the 'safe house'.” He makes little quotes with his fingers and rolls his eyes, biting down hard on his cigarette.
“She's not dead,” I say, knowing without really knowing that that's true. Ronnie raises a brow at me. I gesture with my chin and we continue down the stairs. “Doesn't make any sense to just off her behind closed doors like that. Why not take her out by hiring another hit man? Why not while she's onstage? This Tyler Rutledge guy, whoever he is, is obviously fucked in the head, some sort of sociopath or something.”
“Definitely a sociopath, but also definitely not Tyler Rutledge.” America surprises us by coming out of the dark hallway like a ghost, white suit lit up in a silver glow from the moonlight outside. I can't see her face from where I'm standing, but the smoke from her cigarette curls in gentle gray swirls through the blackness. “His name, I mean. It's obviously a pseudonym.” America pauses and waits for us to hit the first floor. “Come with me.” Ronnie and I exchange looks and then shrug, following after her down the hall, past closed doors and the distinct grunting sounds of a man in passion. We exchange yet another look, but it's too dark to see. Not that I give a shit; I don't even want to know.
America pauses next to a cracked door and pushes it open, letting warm light spill out over her, softening her hard edges for a moment before she turns to us with a wicked tight smile.
“Come in, please.”
Ronnie and I move inside the room, a sunken den area with a fold out couch, a desk, and a flat screen TV looking strangely out of place in the early 90's décor. I wrinkle my nose and watch as Ronnie flops into a pink cushioned chair near the door. Me, I just lean against the wall and study the room with narrowed eyes. America's got her workstation up and running, computer and iPad complete with absolutely zero Wi-Fi. Apparently, she's uh, immune to the whole 'they could track us with our digital dildo devices' bull. I roll my eyes at the thought and focus on a ficus tree opposite Ronnie's chair.
“Where's your little illustrious rocker God boyfriend?” America asks, getting squinty eyed at me like she does when she's trying not to flip her switch and tear out my throat. I think she's capable of it, oh yeah. “Or Dax. I thought he was in on 'all of this'?” America sits down in the computer chair and rolls herself forward, smashing her fingers across the keys in a blur I can't follow.
“Sleeping. And also, probably sleeping.” I pause. “And he's not my boyfriend. Turner, I mean.” America stays silent, but her perfectly rounded brows slide up her forehead. “Hey, fuck you, bitch.” I sigh and shake my head. “I so did not miss your ass.” America turns around and slaps her hands on her knees, giving Ronnie her full attention.
“Pray tell, how on earth did you get pulled into the inner circle? Aren't you some kind of junkie or something?” She waves her hand around in the air for emphasis. Ronnie just stares straight back at her.
“I had two dead women delivered to my hotel,” is his response. They stare at each other for a moment and America waves him off. She's never liked Indecency, never. She always claimed it was their irresponsibility that was going to bring them down. Now, I'm starting to wonder if there's something else beyond that, something that she knew that we didn't. She sure seems to have a personal hatred for the boys in that band.
“Anyway,” she says, looking down at her finger and rubbing at the tan line there. The silver wedding band is missing. I never did remember to ask if the police had it in their custody. I wonder if she ever found out about that? “Since you're here, I suppose I don't have much of a choice but to include you.” America looks up at the door, rises to her feet and moves over to it, peeking out into the hallway. “Are you quite done masturbating over the house's single phone line?” I hear a murmured response. “You can quit eavesdropping then and get your ass back to bed. I won't have my band torn away by inconsequentialities. You need your sleep.” She snaps her fingers and turns back around, slamming the door and moving back over to her computer. A few seconds later, a video of us in San Francisco pops up on her screen. She cranks the volume and turns back around to face us.
“You want me to talk about what I know? Without your little friends here?” She looks between Ronnie and me. He shrugs and I nod my head.
“I'm tired of beating around the bush. You flipped shit on us when we tried to talk to you before about what Lola said. Obviously, you know something extra. Just spill it and get it over with.” I make an obscene masturbation gesture that she doesn't like and watch as the edge of her red lip curls up in a slight sneer.
“I'm only going to say what I have to say once. That's it. Do you understand me?” I shrug, but America gets pissy, standing up and moving close to me, touching the toes of her red heels against my bare ones. “One. Time. Only.” I stare her in the eyes, pushing back everything she's trying to serve me with. I am done taking shit from anyone. My life has been nothing but shit all these years, and I am so fucking over it.
“Get out of my face and just say it!” I scream, surprising her. The robe gapes open at the top, revealing my broken heart tattoo like some sort of bizarre foreshadowing technique. I don't like it, not one fucking bit. I snatch the fabric closed and slide away from America, moving past the computer and catching a glimpse of Turner Campbell taking the stage.
“Hey there, San Fran! Are you ready for some complete and utter fucking CHAOS!” He slams the stage with his boot and Trey starts up on the guitar. “Are you ready to be eaten alive and shit out? I want to hear you scream, you broken hearted cock suckers. Scream for me, baby!” I look away and back over at Ronnie who's staring at the screen with a blank expression, like he doesn't even see it. The insides of his arms are facing up, tattoos glowing from the lamp next to his chair. If I squint hard, I'm pretty sure I can see track marks buried in there somewhere.
“So much has happened, America. And you know more than you're letting on. It took Lola Saints risking her and her sister's ass to reveal this shit to us. When you knew all along, didn't you?” I move forward and get close enough to America to see that she's quivering, just a little, but enough that I know there's something going on deep down in there. I mean, obviously something's up with her. What kind of woman works their ass off for something and then just gives it up? She went to Harvard for fuck's sake and now here she is working for me, for a middle of the road rock band. Why? Why? Why?
“I knew of this man currently going by the pseudonym Tyler Rutledge, if that's what you mean.” America takes a step back, turning around and kicking her heels off into the sunken part of the room, heading down the three carpeted stairs and over to the window seat. She sits down there and peels the curtains apart, looking for what I don't know. But it scares me. Really scares me. America's checking for someone or something out there. “Did I know he was going to try to beat me to death? Kill a roadie? Kidnap you? No, I didn't expect that.” She lets the curtains fall closed and reaches up to remove the clip from her hair, letting the blonde waves fall down around her shoulders. She looks ten years younger like that, at least. I'd always pegged her to be in her late thirties, but now I'm not so sure about that. The look on her face, the way she's staring at the wall wrapped in memories and pain, I figure I just overestimated. Life will do that to a person, you know. “And I … ” She pauses with a harsh laugh. “Did not think he would continue to spread his poison to others. Those women, Treyjan, I didn't think they were in immediate danger. Not until you told me what Lola Saints had said. Even then, I didn't get it. Now I do.” America stands up suddenly and moves over to a door I'd overlooked before, next to the TV. When she opens it and turns on the light, I catch a glimpse of brown tiles and a navy blue shower curtain.
“So, what the fuck does that mean?” I ask her, glancing over at Ronnie. He's staring at the bathroom door, but he looks focused, like he's absorbing every subtle nuance in the air. The Gossip King strikes again. Bully for us.
America fumbles around in the bathroom for a few moments before coming back out with absolutely zero makeup on her face. First time I have ever seen her that bare and open. And I don't like it. I take a step back as she stares at me, focusing hard on my face.
“If you tell the police what I'm about to say to you, you'll be very, very sorry.”
“Why's that?” This from Ronnie. America turns to look at him, the lamplight sliding across her skin, making dark caverns in her cheeks, a slash of black shadow across her lips.
“Because nobody will believe you. Worse then actually, if they do.” America sighs and lets her head fall back, rocking gently back and forth to the s
ong on the computer. One of Indecency's, actually. What the fuck is up with that? When she stops and lowers her head, I see slight tears in her eyes. Real tears. Wet ones. I take a step back. Now I'm not just scared shitless; I am fucking terrified, blinded by blood. American can't cry. America doesn't cry. This is a woman made of steel and forged in Hell. If she cries, the world weeps with her. Chills break out across my skin. “Tyler Rutledge is actually a man by the name of Stephen Hammergren.” I register nothing, but Ronnie shifts uncomfortably and leans forward in his seat.
“Stephen … Hammergren. Like, Spin Fast Music Group's Stephen Hammergren.” America smiles her shark smile and slams the top on her computer closed.
“I hear his associate Ken Clapton was at the show in Denver? Milo tells me he's quite eager to sign you. It'd be a much better deal than the one you've got pending with Heartstrings. After all, Spin Fast Music Group is the world's largest privately owned record label. They have resources we couldn't even dream of.” America is smiling so wide, it looks like her face is about to break off. I see her eyes shift towards the door and my frown grows deeper. I move towards the knob. “Don't,” she snaps sharply, but it's too late. I'm flinging the door open and coming face to face with Hayden Lee.
Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) Page 5
