“Miss Charell?” he asks, very polite. He's got a nice accent too, but his breath stinks like bullshit. I'm used to pushy guys like this from the club. What I'm not used to is a 9mm pressed into my stomach while Mr. Freaky Reek-y there casts his glance down the line and smiles. “I'm going to be needing your assistance here shortly.” I figure if the man's crazy enough to bring a gun into a hospital, he's crazy enough to use it, so I don't give lip. Even though I want to. Even though I really, really want to.
Turner takes care of that for me.
“The fuck are you?” he snarls, fists curling tight at his sides. I hope he doesn't explode on tall, dark, and screwed the eff up. I don't want to die here, not surrounded by linoleum and white, white walls. I want to die in a waterfall, curled up in a barrel and laughing while I go over the edge. Niagara. It'd be nice if I died in Niagara. “And what's stopping us from screaming bloody murder and getting your ass hauled off to jail?”
I grunt as the man pulls me into a violent hug, digging the gun even further into my side and breathing hot breath down the back of my neck. My skin twitches and my mouth goes dry. Bad News Dude does not get the blood pumping. He's fit, and he's got a nice face, but his aura stinks. I stand stiff as a board, disoriented from seeing Trey, surprised because the first thing that happens to me when I step off the elevator is this. Why the fuck am I even here? I keep a disappointed groan to myself. I'm all Trey has. That's it. It's just me and him now. Even an overhyped rock star needs family.
“Because if you scream, she dies, and everything else around you falls apart.” The Tyler guy pulls back from me and withdraws his weapon, just enough that it's hidden in the folds of his voluminous coat, not so much that I can pretend it's not there. I've got a $20,000 check from Trey sitting in my glove compartment. Might just cash it this one time. Little Brother kind of owes me for pain and suffering. “Lola,” he states, like the name should mean something other than a simple address.
Ronnie's lady makes eye contact with the man and then takes a step forward. Ronnie tenses and squeezes his hands by his sides, but he doesn't move to stop her. What in the frigid depths of hell is going on here?
“Tyler, this is … unexpected.” Lola looks nervous, like somebody just punched her in the twat. I've had it happen before and let me just say, it makes the mind go wobbly and the legs turn to dust. Lady bits are not punching bags. “What in the bloody fuck of fuck are you doing here?” Tyler just smiles with big teeth and says nothing, turning and sliding his arm around my waist. Kind of wish I wasn't wearing a halter top at the moment. The places where his bare fingers touch my skin feel hot, like I've just developed a nasty rash. Major fucking eww, dude. I look up at the ceiling and try to stay calm. Nothing bad can happen to me right now. It just can't. I'm finally getting my life together. I've got the photo shoot coming up, a fat ass paycheck in the works, and the spark of a career – a proper one this time. No more scraping up dollar bills and shaking my tits for fatties with garlic breath. I get to say goodbye to lap dances and hellooooo to photo shoots and pampering, from an apartment to a house. So things are going to be alright because it just has to be that way. It's my turn now and I've earned it.
“If you're going to kill someone,” I say, using humor to lighten the mood. “Make it be Turner.”
“The fuck is wrong with you Sydney?” he growls as he shuffles along behind us. Without even being asked, everyone's trailing along, sweaty and silent. Nobody's calling the cops or motioning for hospital security. Why? Why can't we bust this crazy ass mofo right here and now? Who the hell is he?
“Sir, I think you'd best rethink this plan. You can walk away now and we'll keep it quiet. We won't press any charges.” Trey's manager, Milo Terrabotti, has a good voice, calm like the sea. He's a nice person, this Milo guy. He sent me flowers on my birthday, in Trey's name, of course. Called me occasionally to let me know how things were going. I like him. I like him, but I don't think Tyler does.
“Shut your fucking mouth or your head will be the first one I blow off.” I glance over my shoulder and watch Milo's pale face get even paler. Meanwhile, Turner and Ronnie exchange some knowing glances. Jesse and the new guy, the bassist-what's-his-face, stumble along in between. Lola takes up the rear, like a guard.
I'm so confused.
“Why are we not fighting back?” The bassist kid asks, giving Turner a flesh melting glare. “Are you going to tell us what's going on? Why we're following after this ass weed?”
“Because if you don't, I'll drop your scum dog ass a split second before I cap your friends.”
Apparently I'm not the only one shocked as shit to hear this come out of Lola's mouth. Or to see that she has a gun. Where on earth was she packing that heat? I exchange a nervous glance with Jesse and get a slight shrug of the shoulders. Armed trench coat wearing weirdos, snipers with grudges against my brother, and a girlfriend for Turner. Weird things are happening around here, impossible things, and now I'm somehow caught up in the middle of it.
“Turner Dakota Campbell,” I hiss as Tyler pulls me aside and presses the button for the elevator with his pale knuckles. The black roses are still clutched in his fingers, a morbid stain against the white-white of the hospital walls. “You owe me an explanation, a big one.” Tyler jerks me hard against his side and speaks straight into my ear, his dry lips brushing my earrings and making me shake with the rush of adrenaline. This is a flight or fight situation if I've ever seen one, but I know how to control my instincts. I stay very calm and very still.
“This is not a conversation that we're having here. This is not a game. I don't find your doe-eyed innocence amusing.” Tyler smiles as the elevator pings down towards us. “Nor does Miss Saints here. Miss Saints would like to keep her sister alive, so she'd appreciate your cooperation.” He smacks his teeth together and there's this sound, like porcelain clinking, that makes my head hurt. Tyler has a nice, deep, Southern drawl that should be a guaranteed panty wetter, but the crazy laced in his words poisons the sound and keeps Lady Twat dry as the Sahara desert.
“You going to tell me what's what, or am I going to wallow around here like a fuckin' bastard at a buck's party?” Lola asks, gritting her teeth and staring hard at Tyler's face. She keeps her gaze pointedly away from Ronnie's.
“Oh, baby, we're just here to celebrate Treyjan's miraculous return.” Lola's muscles tense and her spine goes rigid as a man throws his arm around her shoulders and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek. “And to talk about the killer show these guys just put on.” I have no idea who this guy is, but Ronnie does. The skin on his face tightens and his mouth goes flat. His eyes are sparkling with a hint of violence. It scares me because I've seen it before, when we were kids. You piss Ronnie McGuire off, you get wrecked.
“What in the flipping fuck are you doing here, Cohen?” Lola growls as Ronnie's eyes flutter shut and his fingers curl into tight fists at his sides. This whole situation smells like shit. We're all floating in a fucking toilet right now. I swear, I can hear the sound of a flush as the elevator doors open and out spills a bunch of screaming kids, breaking around us like rapids over rocks. Get Well balloons float around and slap me in the face as they scatter down the halls with a saggy-eyed woman trailing along behind them.
Cohen doesn't answer Lola, just shrugs and saunters up to me, raking his gaze down my body before letting his lips melt into a malformed grin. I pretend I don't notice him, always works best this way. He's got that rape-y look about him that makes me nervous. Best not to add any fodder to the cannon.
“Get in,” Tyler suggests lightly and our group shuffles through the metal doors, like a herd of tattooed sheep surrounded by wolves. I lick my lips and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of breathing around me. Since I don't have a flying fuck as to what's going on, I get to stand here and keep my mouth shut. Hopefully, my boys have something in mind. I've never seen them fail before. I let my lashes flicker open and examine my brother's friends. Turner, Ronnie, and Jesse have been around as long as I ca
n remember. They all went to the same shit elementary school, all fucked up in the same high school. And they've always managed to claw their way out of the worst of the worst.
I squeeze my hands once, pierce my palms with my nails and try to breathe.
“This is fucking bullshit, dude,” Turner growls, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead. His brown eyes are lit up from within and his skin is peppered with dots of sweat, perfectly round balls of moisture clinging to his tattoos like raindrops. Beside him, Ronnie's as pale as a ghost, and still, too. Well, everything except for his right fist which twists in the fabric of his shirt. “I thought you were too grandiose for all of this. Where are your bitches now?”
“Oh, Mr. Campbell, you misunderstand,” Tyler says in that sultry Southern accent. I know a hundred women that would go crazy for that voice. Still, I think the guy's creep factor far outweighs a little sugar in his sound. I shift, uncomfortable with the way Cohen's gaze is stuck on my tits. Where the hell are the stupid bodyguards? Isn't this what they're supposed to be for? “I've never felt like I was above the action. I simply didn't have the luxury of revealing myself.” I feel him smile behind me. Imagine that, feeling somebody smile. Now you know how intense this motherfucker is. Woo wee. “But you see,” he begins and his voice rises an octave, like somebody's down there squeezin' his nuts. “This little stunt America decided to pull,” Tyler continues, grinding out the words between his teeth. A second later, I feel the metallic pinch of a gun barrel against my skull. There's a gun to my head. I swallow and keep my gaze focused on Jesse's new haircut. Short hair on Jesse. That's a new one. I don't think about the fact that I could die at any moment, in an elevator on the way to see my dying brother. “Forced my hand. Do you see, do you?” he says and his tone gets a little rougher. “This is America's fault. Blame her for this, not me. I'm simply reacting.”
“You killed Travis.” These words come from Ronnie's lips, pushed out into the air, heavy as a ton of bricks. They float to the floor and sit there, teasing us all with the implications. Tyler's the one that hit Travis? I wonder, thinking back to the hit and run accident. How could Ronnie possibly know that? Who the fuck is America, and how the hell does this all tie together? I imagine someone owes me an explanation as soon as we get out of this situation. I am not afraid to grab either Turner or Ronnie by the ear and force them to dish the dirt.
Tyler laughs at this which actually bothers the freaking shit out of me. Like, really, dude? You're going to laugh at the death of a good guy? A guy who was always there for me and my brother, treated us like family. Travis' death was a frigging travesty, and here this fucker is laughing at him. Makes me sick.
“Lola,” Tyler says as the doors open onto the next floor. The gun is promptly removed from my skull and hidden back into the folds of his jacket. “Take Mr. McGuire down the other elevator. Go all the way to the basement and meet with Honesty there. She'll let you know what you need to do. Go on now.”
I look at Lola at the same moment Ronnie does. Their eyes meet, and even I can see that they're on the same side. This weirdo behind me, he seems crazy but competent. He knows they are, too. If she leaves with Ronnie, bad things are bound to happen. I lick my lips and take a second to steady myself, talk myself into doing what I already know I need to do. When the villains are in control, the situation never turns out well. I mean, think about it. He's got the gun, the leverage, so what choice do we have except to make his wildest dreams come true? I look back at that Cohen guy again and know I'm probably his wettest dream at the moment. Shivers travel up and down my spine as I slide my foot back. I'm wearing five inch stilettos in a hospital. It might not seem like a logical choice to you, but these bitches have come in handy more than a time or two.
“Yes sir, Mr. Rutledge,” Lola grinds out in her pretty, little accent. She nods her chin at Ronnie, a pall of melancholy sliding over her features as he grudgingly steps out of the elevator.
“You mean Mr. Hammergren,” Ronnie says which only makes the Tyler guy laugh. Glad he finds that funny because he isn't going to like this. And people think strippers are all brainless bimbos?
From across the elevator, Milo catches my gaze. He's perceptive, that guy. I give him a slight smile, and then slam the heel of my shoe into Tyler's instep. If you think that's a pussy move, then you've never been stabbed with a stiletto. To his credit, the man hardly makes a sound. Instead, he sucks in a massive breath, and I can feel violence coiling behind me. For a second there though, the gun moves away from my flesh, and I dive forward, straight past Turner, rolling onto the hospital floor and coming to my feet just in time to pass a wink on to two elderly ladies with canes. There are positives to being a stripper, you know. I mean, I never thought I'd be using my gymnastic training to give guys blue balls, but at least I can still pull off a pretty mean cartwheel.
Turner doesn't wait around for breakfast, if you know what I mean. He shoves his other friends off the elevator and stumbles along after them, spinning around just in time to catch Mr. Milo there using his can of mace to spray the two men in the face. The Cohen guy screeches like a little bitch, but that other dude, the mega freak, he just squinches up his features and glares straight through our souls. Holy fuck, this man is insane, like clinically.
The doors scrape closed behind Milo as he sidesteps onto the linoleum floor and brushes at the arm of his suit jacket with a sigh, glancing back at our two little friends inside, scrubbing at their eyes with a slurry of curses. Well, Cohen's cursing anyway. Tyler is just standing there with tears running down his face, eyes still open. I wave goodbye to them as the metal cuts off my view, praying to God the doors don't open right back up and leave me with a bullet in the breast.
“Who the hell knew that fucking man purse would come in handy, huh?” Turner says, backing away from the doors and casting a glance at Ronnie.
“What the fuck was that about?” Blonde Kid, Jake or Joe or Josh or whatever his name is, snarls, getting up close to Turner's face. “What have you done now?” When Turner doesn't answer him, he just spins away, grabbing at his hair. “I knew this opportunity was too good to be true. I just knew it. Fuck this band. Fuck it.”
“Quiet, Mr. Drake,” Milo snaps, taking control of the situation with an admirable amount of self-control. His face is stoic, and he doesn't seem overly fazed. My guess? My boys have put him through worse shit than this. A guy with a gun? No big deal. An angry father or a pissed off fan girl? Now that's a clusterfuck-fuckity-fuck. “They could return to this floor at any moment.” Milo pauses and glances up at a security camera near the elevator doors. “Or perhaps, the authorities could become involved.” He turns to look at Turner, hands on his hips, mouth twisted in a scowl, and Ronnie who's got his arm around Lola's waist, squeezing her tight. Her gun has mysteriously disappeared. And she's wearing a halter and some tight as fuck jean shorts. Need to beg this chick for some life skills. I've been trying to figure out how to hide a gun onstage for like, ever. “Let's find Treyjan and while we have the opportunity, you two can fill me in on this … situation. If you don't, I'll be forced to get the police on the phone. If there's a real reason why I shouldn't, let me know now.”
“Poppet,” Lola whispers, face as white as a ghost's. “Poppet's as good as dead.” Her knees buckle, and she sags down like the air's been let out of her. Ronnie keeps her propped up for a second before deciding it'd be better to act all chivalrous and shit. He swings her up in his arms like she weighs nothing, and my heart flutters a bit. It's been a long, long time since I've seen him happy. Not that he's exactly glowing right now, but I see the promise of happy buried in there somewhere and that's all that counts. Without a word, he starts carrying her down the hall, following after Milo's brisk steps. “What am I going to do about Poppet?”
“Well,” Ronnie starts, thinking carefully. His eyes are glowing, shifting information around, trying to determine the best course of action. He's always been good at figuring out tough situations. Or at least he was until Asuka died. It w
as like he died that day, too. Like the air had been suctioned from his lungs, his heart torn from his chest. I've never seen anything as terrifying as Ronnie's face the day she died. I'd rather be tortured in the depths of Hell for eternity than ever experience the feeling that gave him that look, that broken, bitter, torn up and fucked up despair. I shiver.
Turner cuts in, gesturing wildly, slamming his fist into the wall at random intervals. The hospital staff looks at him funny at first, but then they get a better view of who exactly is roaming their halls and everyone gets all fluttery. I swear, I think I see a male nurse jumping up and down in excitement.
“It's not like that crazy Southern fuck can see what we're doing right now. You can always pretend you're still on his side or whatever, that you fought all valiant and shit.”
“Oh, he knows,” I say. I could tell; the look on his face when he commanded her out of the elevator gave me all the information I needed. “You were already on his shit list, sweetheart.”
“Shut the fuck up, Sydney!” Turner screams at me, getting up in my face and forcing me a step back. Everybody stops when Turner stops because well, that's just how things have always been. I squeeze my fists at my sides, but I don't hit him. I want to, but I can't. He started third grade with no teeth. Turner might be an arrogant piece of shit, but he's been pummeled around enough. Besides, I slapped him once the other day. Doubt I could get away with it again. “You don't know crap about crap, okay?” He backs away from me almost immediately, running his hand through his dark hair and glancing up at the ceiling like he's praying for some divine miracle.
“You're right,” I say as I move forward and get ahead of the pack. I'm the only one who knows where we're going anyway. “I don't, but I will. As soon as you tell me everything.”
“Agreed,” Milo concurs, nodding his chin at Ronnie who squeezes his eyes shut like he's in pain. “A man just … ” Milo gets quiet and leans in conspiratorially. “Pulled a gun on us and we're not pressing charges. That, and … ” He pauses again and looks around. “Our security team seems to have mysteriously disappeared. Is there a reason I shouldn't be alarmed?”
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