Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots)

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Yeah, Turner. I'm a fucking faggot. Have at me. Make fun.”

  I just stare at him as he turns away and buries his face in his hands again.

  “We're not judging you,” Ronnie says because the stupid asshole always knows what to say. “You know we don't care.”

  “Yeah, but my brothers will. I just … I don't want this tape leaked. They'll never speak to me again. You know how homophobic they are.”

  “Who told you about the tape?” Ronnie asks as I sit there and look back at the TV, at the girl sucking off some uncircumcised dude with way too much foreskin. Explains why he wasn't watching this then. “Did you get a text?”

  “A letter. And a USB drive with the video on it.” Jesse pauses and strips off his dirty shirt, switching it out for a clean one from his bag. Obviously, Milo hasn't been in this room or he'd be throwing a hissy fit. Even with the stress of Trey and this safe house crap, I'm sure his OCD would flip the fuck out over the rigid hot dog bun near my foot. We've been here like a day and already Jesse's managed to fossilize some food near the edge of the bed. Impressive. “Don't ask to see it. I already burned both items.”

  “Trust me, man. The last thing I want to see is you with some guy's cock up your ass.”

  “Turner,” Ronnie says, sounding exasperated. He turns back to Jesse. “What did it say?”

  Jesse moves over to the window in the back of the room and opens it, lifting the heavy, old glass above his head with a grunt. He leans out and lights up a cigarette, letting the smoke trail outside into the wild darkness.

  “Greetings and salutations from a friend of a friend.” He looks back at us and wrinkles up his face, puffing on his cigarette and letting a heavy frown tug at the corners of his lips. “Just that. No instructions, no requests, no threats. But I mean, come on? What was the point of sending that. I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He pauses again and lets his tongue run across his lips in a nervous gesture. His dark hair hangs down over his face, long and dirty. What Jesse needs right now is a fucking shower. “You sure you guys are cool with me … you know.”

  “Sucking dudes' dicks?” I ask, leaning back into the pillows and swinging my legs up onto the bed. “We don't give a fuck who you fuck, right Ronnie?”

  “So eloquently put, Turner. Could not have said it better myself.” He takes a breath and puts his hands on his neck, enveloping his snake tattoos with inked up fingers. I remember him getting each and every tat on his throat like it was yesterday. All the colors, the shapes, the species of snake, the flowers, all symbolic. I don't pretend to understand any of it. “Jesse, it's not a big deal to us, and I don't think most people would care, but I understand about your brothers. If you want this kept secret, I certainly won't be telling anybody.” I roll my eyes to the ceiling. See, here's my deal. If this wasn't a secret to begin with, there'd be no ammo for the enemy to fire with. Secrets hurt; secrets kill. How many fucking times do I have to say this? For Jesse's sake, I keep my mouth shut. What we're about to tell him about Travis is going to hurt bad enough.

  I get the niggling feeling in my belly that says it's time for a new song. It hits at the most random, inopportune times. Fucking creative muse bitch. I stand up quick and grab a pen from the desk in the corner, flipping my arm over and finding a space between the tattoos.

  Oh God, I was wrong. From the moment the words never left my lips, I left you hollow. I ate your soul up and left holes I can never fill. Even the truth can't soothe your wounds. It's been too long, and I know I can't let you follow me into this hell.

  I finish scribbling the last word next to a purple star and pause when someone knocks at the door. I glance over my shoulder and exchange a look with Ronnie. The knocking gets more frenzied.

  “Let me in! I know you're all in there. Hurry up.”

  Milo Terrabotti.

  I sigh and move over to the door, unlocking it but not bothering to open up. Let him do his own heavy lifting. I retreat back to the bed and act nonchalant, eyes half-lidded, mouth bored. In reality, my whole body's alive with the twin ghosts of doubt and fear. My heart is beating so fast I can taste it in my throat, and my brain's already spun and discarded two different scenarios about what Milo might say. Trey's dead. Or he's a vegetable. My mouth fills with stomach acid, and I get punched in the chest with massive heartburn. I groan and clutch at my shirt while I wait for Milo to come in and close the door behind him.

  His face is red, cheeks tinged with the flush of excitement. He doesn't look upset, but I have to ask. The suspense is killing me.

  “Trey?” The word stings like a cut, slicing through my soul and leaving me so tense, I feel like I could snap in half at a single touch.

  “Nothing bad,” Milo says, holding out his hands in that way he does when he's attempting to reassure us that nothing's wrong. “I called Sydney Charell about an hour ago and she assured me that he was doing as well as could be expected. No new changes to report, but at least he hasn't taken a turn for the worse.” Milo takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, reaching up to adjust his green tie before opening them and panning his gaze across the three of us. “However I do have some other news, good news. Great news.” Milo smiles and his face lights up like a fuckin' Christmas tree. “You might want to sit down for this,” he tells Ronnie and Jesse. Neither of them move. They're as paralyzed as I am, wrapped up in what-ifs and wild theories. I cannot even wait until this shit is over. “Or not.” Milo clears his throat and catches on each of our gazes, holding tight for a moment before he moves on. “The police phoned me today. They've found the shooter, and he's confessed.”

  “Awfully fucking quick,” I mumble as I shove my suitcase into the back of the van. “I mean, you'd think a professional sniper might hold out a little longer before running to the cops.”

  “Not when he's been paid to confess, convinced that money will make sure he serves no time at all in the big house.” America smiles tightly at me, pushing her bag in beside mine. “The man comes forward, claiming to be a rabid fan and voilà, no connection between this mess and all the others.”

  “Yeah, but come on, everyone that attacks us gets caught in like a fucking day? Just fesses up to their crimes? This Stephen guy must know he can't keep on this crap forever.”

  “Money, money, money,” America says, stepping back and slamming the doors on our luggage. “It makes the world go round, you know? Besides, the police love an open and shut case.” She moves back towards the house, face falling, emotions tumbling over her skin like an avalanche. Agony. Pain. Regret. I can read them all there, plain as day. The normally stoic America is starting to flash and flicker like a fireworks display, every explosion different, colorful. So unlike her. It's a tad disturbing, won't lie about that. “It kept Stephen out of jail, and Travis's death certificate stamped with the words accidental death.” She smiles, but it isn't pretty, like something out of a Salvador Dalí painting. A dripping, melting horror splattered across a fading face. I shiver. But then she snaps to attention like a solider, spinning on one heel and lifting her chin up. Her gaze follows the road, and a second later, I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching. Who the fuck could that be? “Seems odd that anyone in their right mind would write off a case where a monster ran over somebody's body eighteen times, turned the only man I've ever truly loved into a pulpy mess on the street. But that's money for you. It's like magic. It can do things you never thought imaginable – delete morals like bullet points off a list. Change people. Warp them.” Her 'smile' gets to be too much for me, and I look away, watching as Spencer exits the house dragging a heavy trunk through the leaf litter that's blown across the driveway. Poor girl has way too much work to do on her own here. I feel sorry for her. But America wants out now. She's practically salivating at the thought of getting out of here. Fuck, I thought she was going to rip our asses out of the house last night. Fortunately for us, she couldn't get the vans here at that time. Otherwise we wouldn't have gotten any sleep, and I, for one, am exhausted. Not that last n
ight was restful. Wouldn't call it that either. But at least everyone knows now.

  Blair comes out of the house after Spencer, sucking on a red lollipop, twirling it around in her mouth and smacking it with her teeth. When she sees the black car slinking up the road, she comes down the steps to stand next to me. Even though all of this shit has gone down, I still feel like she and I have a good chance of becoming friends, real friends, not the weird in between acquaintance things we are right now. Her reaction to the news was basically nil. I mean, it's not a surprise to anyone that we're being targeted. But she knows even more of the story than we told the others; she knows about Hayden's picture. If only we could figure out what was going on in that snapshot. That'd give us a whole extra set of ammo to blow through Hayden with. But the good news was that nobody else had experienced anything out of the ordinary – other than what had already happened. No other dead family members, no threats, no attacks. Just that sex tape thing with Turner's friend, Jesse. Doesn't seem like a big deal to me, but hey, everyone has their Achilles' heel and apparently this Tyler Rutledge/Stephen Hammergren guy was smart enough to figure out that that was his. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my holey jeans and lean back against the van.

  “Who's that?” Blair asks America, letting the stick of her lollipop jiggle around as she talks. It's clenched tight between her red lips while she reaches up and plays with her black and blonde hair, adjusting the high ponytail she's pulled it into. With the sucker and the hair and the frilly polka dotted dress, Blair looks like she just stepped out of an old black and white movie, something sultry but classic.

  “Do you know what money can't buy, Blair?” America asks, continuing on our previous conversation with a twisted smirk crawling across her face.

  “Love?” Blair asks which seems like a pretty good fucking answer to me. America's face falters for a second, but recovers quickly.

  “Not entirely true.” America moves forward, her navy suit perfectly pressed and free of lint. Her hair's back in its severe bun and her neutral eyeshadow is applied just so, subtle but perfect. “Money cannot buy this man.” She points at the car with a rigid finger and then curls her hand into a wave, beckoning at the tinted windows and the driver inside. “Money cannot buy Brayden Ryker or his services.” I watch as her blue eyes sparkle mischievously, following the vehicle to its resting place at the end of the driveway. “Ladies, get ready to meet your guardian angel. And be nice. This is the man that's going to save all our asses. Stephen can hire whoever he wants, but unless he's got an army ready to march on us, Brayden can handle it.” Her eyebrows rise up as the car door opens and out steps a black boot, polished, clean, perfect. Blair and I exchange a look. “Mr. Ryker,” America coos, smoothing across the driveway in her nude pumps, gliding like a ghost over the debris. “So glad you could make it.”

  The leg that follows the boot is dressed in plain jeans, nothing special, something you'd find in any shopping mall. Then comes the torso – and oh, what a fucking torso – this fucker is ripped. Blair and I exchange another glance, but it doesn't last long. Just because I'm dealing with … this Turner thing doesn't mean I can't appreciate good eye candy.

  “Holy sweet mother of Mary baby Jesus. My body's just called my pussy, and it wants its H20 back. Only place I'm wet right now is between my thighs. Mmm mmm mmm.” I roll my eyes, but I can't say I blame her much. Mr. Ryker is fucking hot. Thick, bulging muscles worthy of a romance novel cover, long legs, big hands, a whole sleeve of floral tattoos. Yeah. Flowers. Fucking flowers on this man's massive bicep. He looks like he could crush a tree trunk with those long fingers. And hey, the head that's attached isn't bad either. This guy's got thick, red hair – not usually my style but it works on him – a strong face, full lips, and when he takes off his sunglasses, moss green eyes that take in everything all at once. A single sweep of that gaze, and I feel like the man probably knows all my measurements. That, and my deepest hopes and dreams.

  “Fucking fuck.” That's all I've got.

  “America,” he says and his voice kills. There's a hint of an accent in there. I'm not a hundred percent sure what it us, but it's a panty wetter, that's for fucking sure. Irish? English? Ah, shit. I'm from the Midwest, how the fuck should I know? But it's foreign, and that's all I give a crap about. “Thanks for giving me a call. I know how hard that was for you.” The two of them hug, but it's clinical, no heat there. I elbow Blair in the side.

  “Please tell me you're considering tapping this.”

  “Tapping what?”

  Turner's voice makes me jump, and I spin in a quick circle just in time to catch his expression when he spies Brayden Ryker. Let's just say, he's not all that happy about it.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “I'm not entirely sure, but I am more than willing to find out,” Blair says, moving away from us and towards the mystery man. I don't know if he's a security guard, an ex-army operative, a kung fu expert. Who the fuck cares? But he definitely looks like he could live up to America's promises. Though I'm fairly fucking certain that one man is not going to be sufficient to protect us, no matter how bad ass he may be.

  “That's our new … head of security,” I say lamely. Head of security. I have a security team. I need a security team. How the fuck did that happen? “Somebody America knows. She says he's fucking boss.”

  “Huh,” Turner grumbles, getting out a cigarette and lighting up with a sneer plastered across his lips. I'm not sure if he's pissed because he's having some sort of alpha male reaction to the new guy, or if it's because we didn't fuck last night. I couldn't. The last two times nearly saw me dead in the water, drowned in my own emotions. I've got to puzzle some shit out before I go there again.

  I turn back around and watch Blair greet the new guy.

  Turner comes up behind me, sliding his hand under my shirt and along the flesh of my belly, teasing the silver skull piercing in my belly button with his warm fingers. I pretend I don't give a shit, but inside, I'm quivering. How fucking lame is that?

  “You think he's hot or something? You keep staring.”

  “He's gorgeous,” I say and when Turner makes a huffing noise, I smile. “You said honesty was the best fucking policy. So yeah, he is hot. Got a problem with that?” Warm breath scrapes over my ear, burning me up and making my hands curl into fists at my sides.

  “I can't even look at another woman and you're checking out this ginger prick? Yeah, I'm pissed as hell. Should I take a piss to prove it to you? Mark my fucking territory?”

  “You do and I'll cut your nuts off,” I say, pretending his words have no effect on me. None at all. Like it's not a fucking miracle from heaven that this playboy piece of shit is stuck like glue to me. It's something I've always wanted, but never believed was possible. Not even now. I still feel like it has to be a lie. That's the only logical explanation anyway. But I don't think Turner Campbell lies. I really don't. He has no reason to. No shame, no fear, no self-doubt. I'm pretty sure he's the most fucking honest man on this earth. I look over my shoulder at him, catching a glimpse of Ronnie and Dax exiting the house, bags in hand. I ignore them. I can't deal with Dax right now anyway. That conversation about Hayden yesterday was intense. That, and the fact that every look he gives me is filled with longing. Can't handle that shit right now. There are more important plot points afoot.

  “Separate vans?” Ronnie asks when he comes up behind his friend. Turner and I are still staring at each other. He, I think, is just looking at me for the sake of staring. It's unnerving. Me, I'm trying to fucking figure this out. It might seem simple from the outside, but most things are, right? It's the conflicted love/hate inside of me that's making this difficult. That and the fear. If I give myself to Turner, I'm taking a huge risk, a gamble. I tell myself that it's because I know he'll fail, that it's a risk not worth taking. In reality, I think it's because I'm sure he won't, that I'll dive in and drown deep, enter an underwater world where everything looks different, tastes different, sounds different. Can't say
I'm ready for that.

  “Yep,” I say, pulling my eyes from Turner's, wishing I was behind a guitar instead of standing here in the nippy friggin' breeze with my heart hanging from precarious blood vessels, swinging in the breeze like a metaphorical piñata. “You guys up front, us in the back.”

  “Sounds like a good time,” Ronnie says with a wink and a smile. I guess the thought of seeing Lola again is tickling his fancy. Good for them. Ronnie's a nice guy, and he deserves a happy ending. Turner … jury's still out on that one. I watch as he moves away and Dax takes his place, limping over to me with a gentle smile on his face. His eyes move over to Turner and drop down to his bandaged thigh. Idiot wears the gauze over the top of his pants half the time because – surprise, surprise – they're too tucking tight to fit it underneath. Pretty genius solution, huh? He hasn't really been complaining about it, but I can tell it still hurts. Physical pain pales in comparison to emotional pain, so I figure he's just got other things on his mind.

  “Who's the redhead?” Dax asks, blinking stupidly in a flash of bright sunshine that cuts through the clouds like a knife, highlighting the words on the backs of his eyelids. Born Wrong. Now that I know what it means, I respect him more for it. It's not easy to take a memory like that and own it.

  “Naomi's wet dream,” Turner growls, moving away from me. The absence of him bothers me too much to mention, like I'm some clingy high school girl. The feeling puts me into a pissy mood, and I scowl at his back at the same time I check out the way the hunter green fabric stretches over his muscles. Nice, real nice.

  “Some bodyguard America hired,” I reply and jump when a voice comes from behind me.

  “Not just a bodyguard. Consider me an expert on personal safety.” I turn around and look up at Brayden Ryker's face. He has a nice smile, friendly, open. Kind of the opposite of Turner's. It makes me question his veracity. Yep. That's me, the ultimate cynic. “Naomi Knox, I presume?”