Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots)

by Stunich, C. M.

  “And no chick fucking either, unless we both agree to it, of course.” Turner pauses and scowls. “Though I can't imagine sharing you with anyone. Makes me fucking sick to my stomach.” I find his nipples, painfully erect and run my palms over them, enjoying the hissing sound he makes in the back of his throat. My eyes stay locked on his face, on a red star tattoo that peeks out of his hair, right near his left eye. I imagine what he looked like with his thick dark hair shaved back from his face. I was never around him personally during that phase in his career, but I had pictures. Dozens of them, cut from magazines, plastered across my notebooks. This man is the reason I started the guitar, the reason I sing. But I hate him. And I don't. I love him, too. I wish everything was as simplified in my head as it is in his. Turner knows what he wants, and he's not afraid to take on a tenacious approach to get it. He doesn't apologize for the things he does, and he always says the wrong thing.

  But he's handsome. And he's honest. His music strums the strings of my soul, and his dedication is unmatched. His mouth is filthy, but his kisses can be sweet. He's hung like a fucking horse, and he rocks my world in the bedroom. So what am I sitting here complaining about? I have to tell Dax the next time I see him. I'm sorry, but I can't. I can't because I need to give this a chance. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes, so I'm going to jump in feet first and let myself sink. After all, you never know when it could all end. I have to take advantage of this, right here, right now.

  I lean up to kiss Turner's moist lips, but he pulls back and smirks down at me, touching the bare skin on my hip with gentle fingers.

  “Are you in?” I roll my eyes and try to kiss him again, but he won't let me. I pinch his nipples, and all he does is wink and growl at me. “Say it.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “We'll get there, Naomi. Be patient. But first, you have to say it.” I keep glaring, but I can feel my body melting, my shields and my walls crashing down in flames. “Say you're mine, tell me that you're my girlfriend.”

  “You're my boyfriend,” I say, and the words nearly kill me. “That's all you get for now. Best I can fucking do.” Turner grins, nice and wide, and then he leans down and licks the side of my face with his tongue ring. My whole body shivers, and my cunt takes over my brain, demanding sacrifice. Ah, man. I am in some serious freaking trouble here. Serious trouble. God. Fucking. Fuck.

  “For now works for me. Let's see what you say when I'm done with you tonight. If you can still resist selling your soul to me, then I'm out of practice.”

  “Go to hell, Turner,” I say when what I really mean is I love you.

  What a fucking perfect night, I think as I sit smirking in a beautician's chair. I made Naomi come like, three fucking times. Granted, she never did say those words I'm yours, but I can wait. It'll happen eventually. I'm not worried about it.

  “Naomi's my girlfriend,” I say aloud, just to test the words, see how they feel fucking across my lips. Ronnie flips a page in an old copy of Rollin' Strong magazine and ignores me.

  “Yeah, we heard. Sixteen times since we came in here,” Josh bitches. Little blonde fucker can't help himself. It's early morning, too early even for me. And we all know Josh is a little fuckwad in the mornings. If Naomi hadn't hugged me between her dirty thighs all night long, I might be pissy, too. Milo let himself into our room when it was still dark outside, eyes shimmering. He should thank his lucky stars he had coffee in hand or I might've fired his ass.

  Get up, get dressed. We have a busy day ahead of us, a busy, busy day.

  Milo was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when he barged in on Naomi and me, but now, he's starting to drag. Not much of a morning person either. I usually try to avoid picking on my manager before nine o'clock. There has been an occasion or two where the sheep's shed his skin and flashed me some wolf. Right now, he's sitting slumped in a chair behind me, getting his wispy blonde locks played with by some beauty school undergrad. She's cute, but I notice that there's no reaction from downstairs. I am a straight up junkie for Naomi Knox now. All I want is more, more, more. All of these other bitches can wait in line for a ride that's never comin' back around. I groan and cup my balls, eliciting a giggle from the woman doing my hair.

  “She's so good in bed. Like, my fucking mind is blown.”

  Josh throws his stupid fantasy novel at the mirror in front of me and spins to face me, knocking the brush out of his stylist's hand as he snarls like a rabid dog. His blonde hair is all frizzy around his face, like he hasn't combed it in days. It looks like that every morning.

  “And you've said that at least a dozen times. Shut up and let everyone process for God's sake! And stop fondling your junk. Nobody wants to see that.”

  “Speak for yourself, honey,” says Ronnie's hairdresser. He's this big ass dude with a long blonde wig and a skirt. I smile and flip Josh off, putting my finger in my mouth and giving it a nice, firm suck.

  “You're just jealous, pretty boy,” I whisper, wishing I wasn't thinking about that night I caught him and Naomi dry humping on our bus. “That I snagged what you could only dream of.”

  “Snagged. That's a nice word, real classy. Thanks a lot, Turner.” I look up to find Naomi standing in the doorway to our dressing room, pink curlers in her hair, a black smock wrapped around her shoulders. She doesn't look happy about any of it.

  “Come on, sexy. It's just a word. It doesn't mean anything.” She keeps staring at me. I smile and toss her a wink which she doesn't return. I lean back in my chair and try to enjoy the primping. This is one of maybe three times in our entire career we've had people doing our hair and makeup, pulling out outfits, styling us. That's part of rock 'n' roll, you know? Setting trends, dictating to the world what they should wear, not the other way around. But I let this slide. This interview was scheduled in a hurry and I know we're all a little off our games lately. This morning, Jesse came out of the hotel wearing red flannel pants with snowmen on them. Not exactly the image we want to present to the world. Good thing the press hasn't found our new hotel yet. Oh, but they will, I'm sure. Even Brayden Ryker, super guard with the cinnamon stick in his pants, can't keep them away forever. Especially not after Friday night. I try not to squeal with anticipation. One, because that's kind of fucking gay, and two, because not everybody knows about that yet. The secret I don't mind keeping, at least until the interview. But first, first I get to do a fucking photo shoot. How you like that, Mom? You stupid fucking cunt. I sure came a long way since emerging from that diseased hell hole you call your womb. Look at me now, bitch.

  “Hayden disappeared again. Even America doesn't know where she is. Have you seen her?”

  “No,” Ronnie says, looking up from his magazine to meet Naomi's eyes. His dark hair is pulled back with a pink clip on one side while the stylist cleans up the split ends with a pair of zebra patterned scissors. “When did you last see her?” Naomi sighs and leans against the wall, fingering the plastic smock with distaste.

  “About a half hour ago. I don't like that I keep losing track of her like this.”

  “Why don't you ask that Brayden guy?” I suggest as Jesse slinks out of the bathroom behind Ronnie and settles back in his chair with a sigh. They want to cut all his hair off; I think he's going to let them, but it's definitely going to be an adjustment. He's had shoulder length hair since we graduated high school. “He's supposed to be some mystical, magical white knight with a flaming sword?”

  “I'd prefer to use the power of earth in my weapon if you don't mind.” We all jump, even Milo, when the man appears behind Naomi like a cloud floating over the sun, and nobody notices until the light disappears. “Maybe a pair of nunchakus made of vines?” he asks with a ridiculously broad smile. I wrinkle my lip at his accent, well aware that the attention of the women in the room has shifted. “Hayden Lee is currently outside, talking on her cell phone.” This, too, he says with a smile, casting a glance over at Milo, and then around at the gawping, twittering beauticians. The man isn't that attractive, is he? “
Her safety is of my utmost concern, so there's no need for any of you to worry after her.” This next sentence is punctuated by a wink, and a roomful of giggling. I try my best not to snarl. “You worry about your interview; I'll take care of everything else.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Naomi says as the man nods his chin at us and swirls away like leaves on the wind. You'd think I'd feel reassured having someone like that on my side, but I'm not. The guy kind of freaks me out. Naomi looks at me, her orange-brown eyes rimmed in dark shadow flecked with silver sparkles. All of that darkness around the pop of color in her irises makes them seem huge, like two sunsets floating in a night sky. I smirk again. There I go getting all poetic; good for me. I do my best not to think about Trey. He's still alive, that's all that matters right now. One day at a time. “I guess that solves that problem.” She pauses, and I hear her muttering under her breath. “I guess.”

  “Naomi,” America says, appearing next to my girlfriend. My girlfriend, baby. Mine, mine, fucking mine. I want to snarl and take a piss near her feet, just so everybody knows, but I doubt she'd let that fly. “What are you doing out here? Get your butt back in that chair. We're on a time schedule. The whole word doesn't run on your personal clock.” Naomi's manager turns to smile sharply at us, before spinning on her heel and dragging a groaning Naomi after her.

  “Love you, babe,” I call out, but she just flips me off. “I thought chicks were supposed to like getting their hair and makeup done?” I ask when I'm sure she's out of earshot. Every time we cross a new bridge, I get all giddy like a Catholic school girl at a frat party. But Naomi … she gets pissed off. I don't get it all. I wonder if Travis had these kinds of problems with America? Other than Naomi, she's probably the most guarded person I've ever met. Travis, though, he had a way of soothing ruffled feathers and keeping the peace. He was also a super diva. Got his hair done once a fucking week, and it was like an inch long. I chuckle.

  “I thought dudes weren't supposed to talk so much?” Josh snarls wickedly, curling in on himself when his hairdresser switches out for a woman with a suitcase full of cosmetics. “Can you be quiet for five minutes?”

  “Not a chance, squirt,” I say, getting out a cigarette and lighting up. Josh continues to glare at me, but I let it go. When we told him about Travis, he was apologetic and good mannered. Nice to see him actually be cool about something. For awhile there, I thought he was going to be like all the other bassists we tried after Travis. Here for a few months and then gone. I don't blame them, not really. It isn't easy to try and integrate yourself into a group like ours. We have history and friendship on our side, that and a slew of bad habits we're so used to we don't even see them anymore. Josh has been with us for, what, two years now? And he's still holding strong. I have a feeling he might be around for awhile longer. “I am in too good of a mood to stop talkin' now.”

  “That's good then,” Milo says, standing up and moving over to the mirror to check his suit and hair. He's not even going to be on camera, but he's obsessed with looking perfect. I try not to make fun of him; his OCD does keep this band together after all. “Because we don't want any awkward silences during the live interviews. Should we go over the schedule again?” I'm not the only one that rolls my eyes. We've been over the fucking schedule three times already this morning. Milo rubs at what he perceives to be black circles under his eyes. I don't see a fucking thing. “Turner, you have your shoot for the cover. Then we move onto portraits, the group shots, and then the magazine interview. After that, we're live on LMTV. Performance first, interview after. Once that's all done, Rockersbloodpills.com has us for however long they want. Is everyone clear on what we can and cannot say in front of a camera?”

  “They bleep that shit out, you know,” I say, kicking my boot up onto the counter. The stylists better put me in an outfit that's at least half as tits as the one I've got on. I highly doubt that though.

  “I'm talking about the shooting, the murders, the kidnappings. We keep things as vague as we can. Focus on the music, on the new album, any relationship material that we discussed on the van ride over this morning.”

  “Dish out authorized dirt only?” I ask. “No hidden affairs or secret love children. We fucking get it, Milo. You need to relax.” When he looks at me, sweat already starting to bead on his throat, I almost get nervous, too. The man needs to light up a bowl and get trashed. But he doesn't even drink. Imagine that?

  “I'll be alright, Turner. This is just … this is big. And then Friday night … ” he trails off because none of the people in this room save our band can know what we have planned for Friday night. When I heard what America and Milo had been working on while we slept, I just about damn near creamed my pants. Tyler Rutledge or Stephen Hammergren, whatever the fuck his name is won't like this, not one little bit. I push back the icy cold stab of fear in my gut. I can't be afraid of this douche nugget forever, or I'll end up jumping at all the shadows. I have to shine a fucking flashlight on those bitches and banish them forever. Or at least try. At least try. But this should pull him out of the woodwork, especially if he's planning on hurting one of us. Like Lola said, he likes to watch. He's there for the pain. He won't let something as big as this slip by him. This could be our chance to end it all.

  Or if worse comes to worst, get snuffed out like a freaking candle flame.

  I look fucking sick. Won't lie about that. I'm friggin' boss today.

  I turn sideways and examine myself in the mirror, adjusting my black suit jacket. It's definitely something Trey would approve of, especially since I'm not wearing anything underneath it. I turn back to the mirror and touch my fingers to the waistband of my black slacks. My tattoos peek out, waving at the crowd from my rock hard abs. I curl my fingers into a fist and knock on the muscle there. Why lie? I'm proud of it. Damn proud. Nothing wrong with that.

  I twirl the cluster of black bracelets at my wrist and take another look at my shoes. The combat books looked fucking terrible with this outfit, so I went for the dress shoes. Not my usual style, but I think it works with this outfit and this day, the day I turn a new leaf on my career, open up a fresh page and scribble down the first lines of new life. Naomi and I are officially an item; I've got my biggest break yet; and for the first time since Naomi threw that leather jacket at my chest, I feel like I'm in control. Can't say I'm fond of Brayden, but he has a plan for Friday night, and I respect that. If a wave of his magic cinnamon stick can fix everything, put us back on the road we're supposed to be traveling, then I'll take it. Trey will still be in the hospital, and Travis will still be dead, but at least we all know the truth. That's the most important part. This is for you guys, since you can't be here. Since you can't, but you should.

  I look up at the ceiling and close my eyes, taking in a deep breath. The air smells like hairspray, but it feels fresher somehow. I send up a prayer to Travis since there ain't anybody else on the other side worth praying to. Please let Trey be okay. Let him be alright, and let us get through this. Save Lola's sister, so she and Ronnie can be happy. Let us fuck this mystery dude up, so we can get on with our lives. And in return, I'll make sure America's okay, that she moves on with her life. That's all I've really got, buddy. I pause and put my palms together in a prayer position, kissing them and lifting them up towards the ceiling. “Oh,” I whisper aloud. “And I miss your fucking ass. I hope you're in a better place right now.” I drop my head back down to my chest and reach inside the pocket of my suit jacket for my new shades.

  I slip them on my face and push them up with a middle finger.

  “Turner Campbell?” A woman pops in the side door with an iPad in her hand and a headful of messy, dirty blonde hair. “We're ready for you.”

  “Baby,” I begin, turning to face her with the squeak of my shoes against the pavement. “You sure about that?”

  We start with the lights off, like lovers who've never met, entering the bedroom on tiptoes and hushed whispers. Somewhere out in front of us is a crowd, a huge crowd, a massive ass fucking crow
d. Bigger than anything we've seen yet, jammed into this auditorium with its spinning cameras and cast of crew members larger than my entire high school class put together.

  And it's only a fraction of what we're going to get on Friday, at our re-opening night in Los Angeles, Indecency's hometown. America, you marketing guru, you. Fuck. Now that I've been branded with that horrible g-word, I have to up my game. I have to remind everyone here that I not Turner Campbell's bitch.

  I smile.

  If anything I have to show them that he's mine.

  The crowd titters and chirps, like a flock of birds with a cloth thrown over their cage. Until we remove it, flood them with light, they'll stay calm, domesticated. As soon as the darkness dissipates and the stage lights burn our skulls with bright as fuck light, they'll start to curl over, spines twisted, and then they'll raise their muzzles to the sky and howl. We'll make them forget they were ever human, and have them crawling back for more.

  I force myself to take a deep breath, drawing hot air into my throat, doing my best not to suffocate myself with panic and worry and future fears. I can't think about any of that right now. All I can do is deal with this, right here, right now. America knew if she got us here quick, that Stephen wouldn't have time to plan anything. I think she was right. The atmosphere doesn't have that desperate bite that it did in Little Rock. Tonight, we're going to be okay. Tonight, we're going to continue on in the direction we started that night and run with it. That was our make or break moment. This here is our fuck-the-world moment.

  “Hello, St. Louis,” Turner whispers, the S slithering out of his mouth in a hiss. The crowd rumbles like the ground before an earthquake. They don't know who we are or why we're here; they don't know anything. The studio simply opened the gates and welcomed as many people in as they could. No tickets, no anticipation, no expectations. Just people, sex, and rock 'n' roll. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, his voice smooth and perfect, all devil, no angel. Wicked. Sinful. Pernicious. This poor crowd has no idea they're about to be blindsided.