Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9)

by C. M. Stunich

  “What's wrong?” she asks, her voice ringing with alarm. I notice she's not wearing the fish ring yet. Guess Dax hasn't gotten it together enough to ask her. “Dax?”

  He looks from her to me, swallowing several times and licking his lower lip like he has to really prepare himself to get the words out.

  “Wake Naomi up,” he whispers as his bassist, Kash, groans and shoves his own curtain back from the bunk above Naomi's.

  “What the fuck is going on now?” he mumbles as I ignore him and gently shake my lover's shoulder. She stirs slightly, beautiful lips parting as she breathes out a comfortable sigh and then cracks her lids. As soon as she sees the expression on my face, she's sitting up and slamming her head into the roof of the bunk.

  “Fuck,” she curses as she puts her feet on the floor. “What is it? What's going on?”

  I step back so Dax can see her and notice that his hands are shaking.

  “Naomi,” he says, voice cracking, “Blair is dead.”

  Surprisingly, there's not a lot of crying.

  Dax and Naomi, even Kash and Wren, just sit at the table and stare at each other. Dax excuses himself a few times to the back to throw up, and I try to be helpful by making everyone a fresh pot of coffee, but nobody drinks it.

  “How did she … what happened?” Kash asks after a while, his hand scratching at his short blonde hair as he leans back against the velvet cushions. Dax just stares at him for a moment, blinking so slowly that I can read the tattoos on the backs of his eyelids. Born Wrong.

  “I have no idea,” Dax admits, voice rough and scratchy and thick with grief.

  “This is my fault,” Naomi says, and this is long before the door to the bus opens and Paulette Washington appears, dressed in a beige pantsuit and diamond earrings. When that happens, my woman rises to her feet, looking fierce in pale holey jeans and a loose white tank with no bra. I can see her nipples through the fabric when the light is right, but I don't make any comment about it. What kind of tool do you think I am?

  “Miss Knox.”

  Paulette pauses in the door, a pair of men in suits standing behind her.

  “I am so sorry to hear about your loss,” she says, with a stupid little pouty moue. “I would've come sooner to offer my condolences, but my husband was robbed at knifepoint last night. Fortunately, the thugs managed not to hit anything major, so he'll be just fine.”

  She drums her perfect nails on the side of the refrigerator and smiles again.

  “You fucking … bitch,” Naomi whispers, sliding underneath the table and coming up on her feet in front of Paulette. The men behind her tense and one moves up the metal steps, but Paulette stays them with an outstretched hand. Me, I just stand there and try not to think how bullies all look the same to me, like how my nasty ass crack addict mother and Paulette really aren't all that different when it comes right down to it. There's this unmistakable darkness around them, this aura of misery that they just can't shake. It strips them of their outer appearances until all I can see is that inner core of hate. “What the fuck did you do to my friend?”

  Paulette gets close to Naomi's face, so I figure she must've shut the cameras off again. Wouldn't want all our adoring fans to see what a monster the show's producer is, right? When she reaches up to swipe some blonde hair away from my woman's forehead, Naomi slaps her hand back.

  “I warned you. I told you that you had to die, and you knew that. Why couldn't you have just stayed honorable and gone along with the tour, with the shows? If you had, I would've left Blair Ashton alone. Really, this is all your fault.”

  “Mark my words: before this is over, I will find a way to end you,” Naomi growls out. Paulette's perfect mouth twists into a wicked smile just a split second before Naomi spits right in her face.

  With a slow, easy movement, the TV producer slides her palm over her nose and lips and then laughs, as easy as that. She's still smiling as she steps back, giving the others a cursory once-over before turning around and slowly, casually meandering down the steps.

  “FUCK!” Naomi screams, spinning in a tight circle with her fingers digging at her scalp. She pauses to punch the wall, so hard that the drywall cracks and the metal exterior of the bus is visible underneath the damage.

  I recognize that rage, tucking my hands in my pockets and just watching for a moment. It's gotta play itself out. I know that better than anyone, even if it kills me to see my one woman going through that shit. I might not've known Blair, but my stupid shitty heart aches for Naomi.

  “What did you do?!” Kash asks, sitting up on his knees and turning to look at her. “Don't you know how to leave things well enough alone?”

  Naomi grabs him by the front of his shirt and gets in his face.

  “You have no clue how big this is. No clue. No fucking clue.” She releases him and storms down the hall past me, yanking open the drawer underneath her bunk and then just sitting on the floor. I move down to crouch beside her, the grim feeling of the situation sinking into my bones. I did not escape the trailer park only to find the true love of my life and then watch her get torn away from me.

  “I'm so sorry, baby,” I tell her, but she just gives a tired half-smile and shakes her head, touching the eight ball of coke tucked away in her drawer.

  “Blair was … she had a good heart, Turner. Do you know how rare that is?”

  Naomi looks over at me as the first tear escapes and rolls down her cheek.

  I wrap one arm around her, but I use the other to push the drawer in. Maybe we'll do a line later. But for now, there's this. I can get her through this with a hug. Just don't tell anyone that Turner Campbell's gone soft, okay?

  I was actually looking forward to New Orleans. I mean, here's a city that embraces its own identities, that has quirks and kinks and character, that knows how to persevere through the worst of times. And I'll be spending all of it on a bus.

  The show that night is … weak. The crowd is just so excited to see the now infamous bands play that they don't really notice, but I do. It's really sad to hear Amatory Riot's pain translated into sound, teasing my ears with melancholy and regret, with memories and heartache. Dax is hurting the most, I know that. It scares me, too, because he's already lost so much. Hell, he was the only one that actually liked Hayden Lee. And he lost Tara. He even lost his dad—albeit it in a different sort of way—and had the illusion of his mother shattered.

  I don't want this to be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

  “Hey,” I say, greeting Dax with a small kiss to the cheek when he moves offstage with all the enthusiasm of a wet cat. “You were great up there,” I say and he snorts.

  “Yeah, sure.” Dax pauses and forces a smile for me, the expression about as appealing as the screaming zombie tattoo on his arm. “But thanks for saying so anyway,” he says with a soft sigh, putting an arm around my shoulders and walking me toward the back door.

  Outside, it's warm but there's the crackle of thunder in the distance. It's ominous, kind of eerie. This whole trip's been fraught with omens. I'm sort of done with them at this point. And I think for the first time, I'm scared, too. I always try to look at shit sunny side up, you know? Like the toast will fall butter side up. The glass really is half-full. Dax and I will live through this thing.

  “The club tonight is supposed to be some laid back jazz place,” he says, voice soft as we walk across the damp surface of the parking lot. “I wasn't planning on going, obviously, but …” Dax pauses at the door to the bus and then turns, leaning his back against the metal and digging around in his pocket for a cigarette. “I don't think I can just hang around here either, you know?”

  “You want to tie me up in an alley again? If that'll make you feel better, I am so down.”

  He smiles at me but his hands shake as he struggles to light the cigarette.

  “God, I can't believe Blair is gone,” Dax whispers, slipping his lighter back in his pocket and putting his boot up against the bus. “We've known each other since elementary sch
ool.” He closes his beautiful gray eyes, flashing his Born Wrong tattoo at me. “She was the only person I could make stupid movie jokes with.”

  “You can make stupid movie jokes with me,” I tell him seriously, stepping up close and sliding my palms up his chest, curling my fingers together behind his neck. “I promise to only make fun of you a wee, teensy bit.”

  Dax chuckles, the sound reverberating through me as I lean in close and put my cheek to his chest. I seriously need to kick off these hideous flats and put some heels on. Without them, I'm just too damn short for Dax McCann. It just didn't seem like a heel day, not with everything that happened this morning and last night.

  “I'm so fucking sad, Sydney,” he tells me, sliding slowly to the ground and taking me with him. I end up sitting in his lap, my arms around Dax's neck as he smokes his cigarette and tries to get his emotions under control. “I don't know if I can do this, make it through without her. She's always been there for me—fucking always.”

  I lean back and look at his beautifully sad face, wishing there was a way for me to wipe it all away. I'd take it on myself if I could, drape that melancholia over my shoulders and bear it for him. Dax's gray eyes bore into mine, capturing my soul the way he's captured my skeptical little heart.

  “I know I'm not Blair,” I tell him, sucking my lower lip into my mouth for a moment and tasting the sweetness of my gloss, “and I wouldn't ever try to replace her, but Dax, I'm here for you.”

  “God,” he says, tossing his cigarette aside, putting his arms around me and hugging me like I haven't been hugged in years. My heart pummels the inside of my rib cage, as loud and raucous and out of control as Dax's drums. “Fuck, you really are, aren't you?”

  He leans back like he's trying to get a good look at me. I keep wondering if he's going to cry, but I haven't seen a tear yet. A lot of puke maybe, but not a tear. But I know that's not a measure of his grief. It cuts deeply into him, this constant drip that, like water through the Grand Canyon, will form a gaping chasm over time. That's how it is with these sorts of things, this slow trickle of pain that eats away at you.

  I won't let this consume him.

  Dax laughs, this low, disbelieving sort of sound.

  “You know, I barely remember those days after Hayden killed Tara. Sydney, if you hadn't been around, I'd be dead right now. I know that for a fucking fact. I'd have OD'd and been just another victim on the list.”

  “You're so much more than that, Dax. I … I couldn't let that happen to you. But fuck, I'm sorry about Blair. I didn't get to spend a lot of time with her, but the way you talk about her, I can tell she was amazing.”

  “She was,” he says, his eyes drifting past me, toward the crowd of roadies and venue staff working to clean up the show. “I know I'm still in shock,” he says with a strained laugh, getting out another cigarette and lighting up again. I'm pleased to see that even now, he hasn't gone back to the dust. Maybe all of this grief chipping away at him is actually just shaping him into a better, stronger person, molding him into the future version of the man that he's to become?

  I want to be there to see it, that man that's emerging from this gray eyed boy.

  “Anyway,” he says, glancing back up at the closed door of the bus, “I don't think I can be here right now. And I have no clue why the hell Brayden would send us to a bunch of clubs and bars, but if it'll help … I don't know, fucking destroy these assholes then I'll do it. You up for some jazz music, Sydney Charell?” he asks me, and his face is so earnest and beautiful that I couldn't possibly say no.

  “Take me dancing, Mr. McCann,” I declare, holding out my hand and shrieking as he scrapes his smoke on the pavement and bundles me up, rising to his feet with just those strong legs of his. And that fucker told me he wouldn't look good in a skirt. Please. Those calves of his are to frigging die for.

  Dax holds me in his arms like it's no big thing, carrying me over to where Brayden Ryker is waiting with the van.

  “I'm sorry about your friend,” he says, but Dax purses his lips and ignores him, setting me on the seat before climbing into the vehicle with me. “Really, I am.”

  “Then why didn't you protect her?” he snaps, raking his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. The look he throws the redhead's way is scathing. “Why wouldn't you fight to protect an innocent, a helpless woman who was no more involved in this than your fucking daughter? You know what, Brayden? Blair was somebody's daughter. She was somebody's sister. She was my best fucking friend. So, whatever you're up to here, however you plan to deal with this, just remember that the price you paid was too fucking high.”

  Dax reaches over, grabs the door handle and slams the metal in Brayden Ryker's surprised face.

  Open Mike's is the name of our destination that night.

  We're the only two people on the tour that come, but I guess that's good enough for Brayden because he doesn't force anyone else to come with us. Maybe he doesn't need everyone for whatever the fuck it is that he's up to? I decide not to dwell too much on the murder mystery stuff right now. Dax needs a distraction, one precious moment where he doesn't have to think about that girl with the feather eyelashes, the skinny bitch with the gun under her chin, the high school sweetheart he left behind.

  “It's like a real date,” I tell him as we step into the easy, comfortable darkness of the jazz club. The atmosphere is relaxed and easy, the walls filled with these retro portraits with rainbow filters on them. The ceiling is a bright buttery yellow and the walls are black. Frankly, the place is a lot smaller, a lot more intimate than the clubs we've been frequenting as a group.

  And the vibe … the vibe is slick as hell.

  “I feel like a real cool cat when I'm in here,” I tell Dax, pretending to adjust the brim of an imaginary fedora on my head. He laughs at me which is good, and I can tell that for the moment, he's distracted.

  There's a live band on the stage, their groovy rhythms making me want to dance. The man that's singing sounds a little like George Benson, and there are already couples swaying in front of the stage, hands clasped, most of the women wearing fabulous fucking heels.

  I glance down at the pink sequin flats on my feet.

  “You look gorgeous,” Dax assures me, drawing my attention up by putting his fingertips under my chin and lifting my gaze to his. The sadness in his face is unmistakable, but there's a gentle burn underneath it all that's just for me.

  Shit.

  I feel like a teenager when he looks at me like that.

  “I never wear flats,” I tell him and he laughs, taking me by the arm and snatching a table near the stage up as soon as another couple gets up to leave. Dax pulls me down and into his lap, and although the move is flirtatious, I get the idea that maybe he just needs the comfort of human touch right now.

  “I like you in flats,” he tells me as he brushes some pink hair back from my face. I curled it today, big loose ringlets that fall around my face and make me look a little younger, a little closer to Dax's age. My dress is black and white with giant polka dots and a halter top with a low, low back that flashes my ass crack when I move the right way. Plus, it's got some killer side boob. I figure if I paid for these tits of mine, I may as well show 'em off.

  Still, I feel a little underdressed. My makeup is minimal—usually I don't go out unless I've got full face on—and I'm not wearing any jewelry. To some people, I might look dressed up, but hey, I'm Sydney Charell, okay? I like to look a little glamorous.

  “You're so cute and short without flats on,” Dax tells as I lean back and give him a nasty little once-over.

  “Excuse me,” I say, taking hold of his face in my hands, “but I am not short. I am made-to-order. The universe decided this was all the square footage I needed to be fabulous.”

  “Oh, I agree,” he says, a slight sideways smirk on his face. That, too, is tinged with sadness, but Dax at least puts up a good front, bobbing his head and shoulders to the music as a waitress approaches and tosses us some stained, wrinkled old
menus. But damn, it smells good in here and it's so cozy and tucked away. I can't even believe one of those nasty families owns this place. I bet they sauntered in here once upon a time, liked it, and decided that to appreciate it, they had to own it. I notice rich folks do that a lot. Like, something can't be beautiful unless its tamed and corralled and branded. “You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen for sure.”

  “Oh, stop,” I tell him, studying his mussy dark hair, his lack of makeup, the gray Amatory Riot tee and jeans he threw on earlier. Dax was in a such a serious daze this morning that he didn't notice he was barefoot until he was heading for the backstage entrance. I had to run back and grab him some boots. “Order me some food and a few stiff drinks and then let's kick it. You can prove to me how much you like me by taking control of the dance floor.”

  “You've got yourself a deal,” he tells me, letting his voice roll into a purr.

  Dax waves the waitress back over and we order cocktails named after famous musicians—mine's got Maker's Mark Bourbon, passion fruit, grapefruit, honey, and mint in it—along with a whole shit ton of appetizers. We've got Creole gumbo, chargrilled oysters, crab cakes, a whole host of other stuff that smells good but looks foreign as hell to me. I'm not a very worldly woman, alright? First I was a crack addict's daughter, then a crack addict myself, then a straight and narrow stripper. This is the first time in my life that I've actually had the ability or the means to travel and experience new things.

  And it all has to be tainted by this bullshit war between two stupidly rich families.

  I hope they all choke on horse dick and die.

  “I have no fucking clue what that was that I just ate, but Dax, I think I'm in love.”

  “That,” he tells me, squinting at the menu, “is jumbo shrimp remoulade with fried green tomatoes.”

  “You lost me at remou-whatever-the-fuck,” I tell him and he laughs, a nice flush in his cheeks from the endless stream of cocktails his rockstar credit card can buy us. As soon as I decide he's good and warm from the booze, I take Dax by the hands and yank him onto the dance floor.