Born Wrong

by C. M. Stunich

  “Um, yes,” Sydney breathes against my neck, breaking my free will in half. I am now currently a slave to my dick. Great. I hope Dad reads my interview.

  “Um, no. How about that? How the fuck about that?” Turner snarls, moving behind the curtain and pushing me back a step. I almost kill him. It's sort of like that. My body is full of testosterone, and my logical brain is already pissed off at him for laughing, so there's really nothing left keeping me back. Good thing Sydney steps between us.

  “Turner, fuck off. This isn't really any of your business.”

  “Uh, yeah, it is. Trey's my brother which makes you kind of my sister, and I'm not going to friggin' stand here and listen to my sister get banged by some douche-y little bitch that wears his hair in his face.”

  “Oh, that's real rich, Turner. You do know that I strip for a living, right?”

  “Yeah, but I don't have to see it.”

  “You don't have to see this if you leave,” Sydney continues, folding her arms over her chest. I try not to look too closely at her ass hanging out of those sexy, little panties. There's fucking lace on the edges. Lace. I take another step back and turn completely around, focusing instead on the brick walls of the building and not on some girl I barely know. I'm not a prude or anything, but I just generally don't sleep around. Once in a while, the urge strikes. I mean, I'm human after all, but that doesn't mean I want a reputation that proceeds me.

  “What the fuck is going on in here?” Crap. Naomi. I glance over my shoulder, reaching down to make sure my pants are back in order. They are, but my cock isn't. It's rock solid. Might as well be made out of diamond. Add a little water and I could cut granite.

  “This angst ridden fuck is trying to show his one eyed monster to my sister.”

  “Oh, for fuck's sake, Turner.” Naomi doesn't sound as irritated as I'd like though. I swear, in there somewhere, is unbridled affection. She might not know it yet, but she likes Turner's annoying … Turner-isms. Or whatever you want to call them. She fucking likes them. Deep down inside of me, a little bit of my feeling for Naomi dies.

  I turn around and hope to God the bulge in my pants is hidden in shadow.

  “That's hilarious, man. Me? Angst ridden? Listen to your fucking music, dude. I might wear twice as much eyeliner as you, but I don't sing about my bloody, broken heart in every Goddamn song.”

  “Oh, oh, oh, shit.” Turner takes a breath, puts his hands in his back pockets and looks away for a second. “You have just dug your grave, Little Drummer Bitch. I am going to beat the man back into your pussy ass.”

  “Bring it on.”

  I don't know why I say that.

  Turner hits me like a freight train, sending me stumbling back and falling to the cement floor. In the background, I can hear Naomi and Sydney yelling, but the noise fades away, and my body switches into fight or flight mode. Flight is not an option, but fight? I'm not trying to make excuses, but I'm still hurting, and the cement floor has knocked the breath from my lungs and drawn me a map of all the bruises on my body. Still, I manage to land a solid hit to Turner's nose, drawing blood that sprays across the front of my black T-shirt, blending into the cotton fabric like it'd never been. It only takes him a second to come back, smashing his hand into my right cheek. I end up biting my tongue, hard, reaching up and smacking him right in the lip ring. That can't feel good, right?

  “You little fuck,” Turner growls, going at me with a vengeance that's been a long time coming. Ever since that night he slunk off of our bus, before he became a constant plague in my life, I was ready for this. And so was he. Just something about Turner and I doesn't mix. Maybe it's all alpha male, mating ritual bullshit, but it doesn't matter. Whatever it is, we can't coexist, not really.

  “Turner!” A split second after I hear his name called, he's being hauled off of me and pulled back by Ronnie and Jesse. They do a good job, too, managing to avoid his wild flails as he attempts to break free. They've done this before, I see. “What the hell?” Ronnie asks, releasing his friend and pushing him gently back into the wall. “This guy got knocked down by a tornado. Can you leave your little spat until after his concussion heals? And what about your bullet wound, hmm? Did you forget about that one?” Turner just looks down at me and grits his teeth. One hand comes up and feels the blood under his nose, and then, then he smiles. What the fuck?

  “Need help up?” Sydney asks, holding out her hand for mine. I look at it and then back up at her. What the hell does she think of me now? I still, still, still have a freaking erection.

  “I think I'm okay,” I say as blood dribbles down my chin and joins Turner's on my shirt. Great. I run my hand down my mouth and pull it away, gazing at the red shimmer with a frown.

  “Not bad, for an emo bitch,” Turner says and then he moves away, strutting through the curtain, wearing his bloody nose like a badge of pride. Ronnie rolls his eyes and follows after, taking the Jesse guy with him. Naomi stays though and looks down at me with a sour expression on her face.

  “Are you okay?” she asks me as I wave Sydney's hand away and struggle to my feet. The room spins and their faces crack and blur, but I nod anyway. It's dumb as hell, not my MO at fucking all, but here I am trying to act all macho and shit. That's not me.

  “I'll be okay if I sit down,” I admit, watching the curtain blur as another face pops through it. It's Hayden. She looks me up and down with a sneer, tilting her chin up and putting a hand on her hip. She's got on these ridiculously tight, hot pink leather pants that Naomi almost flipped shit over. Her thong is hanging out the back, and she's paired it with a black crop top that doesn't look a fucking thing like rock 'n' roll. Hayden looks more like a Britney Spears wannabe at this point. I don't ever want to tell her that, but it's true. I push last night out of my mind. I don't even want to go there.

  “There are some chairs behind the water cooler. Come on, I'll take you over there.”

  “Thank you, Sydney,” I say as I meet Hayden's blue eyes. I can imagine what this probably looks like to her, like I just picked another woman at random, like she doesn't mean a damn thing to me.

  “You're fucking pathetic, Dax, you know that?” Hayden quips, and then she's gone, disappearing in a sea of laughter and false greetings. I alienated her and she's dealing the best way she knows how. Crap. I've gotta spill what I know to Naomi and whoever else, Ronnie, Lola, Turner. I feel like everything is spinning out of control, and if I don't take charge soon, my ticket will be up and I'll be finding out really fucking fast what secrets of mine Stephen has come up with.

  I snag a ride back to the hotel with Milo and practically race up to my brother's room. I'm going so fast that one of the security guards actually grabs me and does a full pat down. No surface left untouched, I'll tell you that. So by the time I actually do get in Trey's room, I'm fuming. And so sopping friggin' wet downstairs that I'm considering installing a sump pump.

  “You will not believe what just happened to me,” I whisper, but only because I know he's asleep. His alert moments are few and far between, but he's gonna make it. Of course he is. It would take a lot more than a sniper rifle to kill my asshole of a brother. The nurse gives me a rude once-over, but she doesn't leave. Fine. I don't really give a shit anyway. What I'm going to talk about – no, no, what I need to talk about – will be plastered all over the Internet tomorrow anyway. “I went Crazy Sydney on some guy's ass.” The nurse raises one of her drawn on brows, but keeps fiddling with Trey's equipment. “Like, super Crazy Sydney. I fucking French kissed the man in front of a reporter. Or interviewer. Or whatever it is that they're called when they're sitting there looking twice as smug as a bartender on St. Patty's Day. I wanted to slap the pretty off that bitch.”

  I reach into my purse and fumble around for a cigarette, slipping it into my mouth and moving over to the balcony doors before the nurse can burst a coronary.

  “You'd have done the same thing if you'd been there, bitch,” I say as I push the glass aside and step out into the warm afternoon breez
e. I have to say, the temperature here is a lot more pleasant than it was back in Detroit. Ugh. So glad that phase of my life is over. I deal with this; I deal with my photo shoot; I find a new place to live. In that order. I light up my cigarette and take a few drags on it. “There is no room in there for a sexy boy with blizzard kisses,” I tell myself as I lean over the balcony railing, fake tits smashing against the metal. It almost feels good though. They're so sensitive, I can hardly take the pressure of my dress laying across them. Besides, the railing's warm, and Dax, Dax was like a cold burn, turning my fingers and toes to ice, giving me frostbite in all the worst ways. I could hardly move when he was touching me, definitely couldn't think. I've never felt that way before. Never. Normally, sex, or at least sexy stuff, is supposed to be hot. You know, he's sweaty, you're sweaty, hot groping hands and heated mouths. But this was like … like I was being soothed by his touch, brought down from that realm into a whole other ballpark. It might still be baseball, but the rules have changed.

  I shiver and toss my cig over the railing. Probably not supposed to do that, but there are a lot of things in life you're not supposed to do. Those are always the most fun.

  “Syd?” Trey croaks as I come back inside and pause with my back against the warm window. “You okay?”

  “Everything's fine,” I tell him, moving over to the bed and gazing down on his pathetic ass. My baby bro has never been the smartest tack in the box, and he is annoying, but I still love him, even if we don't see much of each other. I touch a hand to his sweaty forehead. His brown hair is tousled and tangled, lying across part of his face and nearly obscuring his eyes. “You don't worry about any of the bullshit or the drama. Let me figure that out, okay?” He stares at me, but he doesn't make any indication that he's either heard me or that he'll listen to what I'm saying. Could be the drugs or could be his stubborn ass nature. I bend down and press a small kiss to his cheek before standing up and turning towards the door.

  “Who?” Trey whispers as I reach out for the handle, pausing just a moment to glance over my shoulder at him.

  “Who what?” I ask, watching the nurse out of the corner of my eye. Dumb bitch. She's giving me a woman once-over. The kind where other chicks check you out, just to see who's prettier. I'm definitely prettier.

  “Who'd you go Crazy Sydney on?”

  I watch my brother's expression carefully as I answer.

  “Dax McCann?” I say, more as a question and less as an answer. His groan is enough for me. I grab the handle and move out of there before I get any Turner-esque comments from the peanut gallery. I get it. They don't like Dax, but not because he's ever really done anything to them. They've just decided not to.

  “How was the interview?” Lola Saints asks me, appearing out of her room like a shadow. She looks high as fuck and twice as sad. I wish I could help her, but we've only just met. Still, you never know when a kind word or two could change someone else's life. I decide she's worth the time and move a bit closer, reaching out and brushing some dark hair from her forehead.

  “Fine. Overly dramatic, but fine. Honey, you don't look so good.”

  “I feel like a sack of shite that's been dipped in hot piss and barbequed.”

  I smile.

  “Vodka then?”

  “Liters of it. I'm still half-cut and I stopped actually drinking it hours ago.”

  “Anything else?” Lola shrugs, her small body swimming in a loose shirt that I'm pretty fucking sure belongs to Ronnie. It says I love you, Daddy across the garish orange cotton fabric. Ronnie's the only dad in the bunch that I'm aware of. Lola either senses I'm here to help or just desperately wants some company, scooting back so I can step into her room. It's exactly the same as the one I stayed in last night: double bed with white linens, a single nightstand, a dresser, and a small table with one chair. I take the chair and watch as Lola sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Nothing else yet. Glass doesn't mix too well with the booze, you know?” she says, laying on her side and propping herself up against the headboard. The position is awkward, but I don't think she cares. I watch sympathetically as Lola pushes a needle and some cotton balls around on the nightstand.

  “I used to be a serious crack addict,” I tell her honestly. “Like father like daughter, I guess. Though you'd have thought I'd have learned my lesson from him, right?” Lola rolls her blue eyes over to me. They're absolutely gorgeous, big and round and bright, even in her hungover state.

  “Are you trying to teach me a valuable life lesson here?” Lola asks, adjusting the shirt as it rides up her thighs, getting dangerously close to a certain off limits sort of area. “Because I don't like being preached at.” I lean back and cross my legs, examining the paleness of my calves and the bright splosh of color at my ankles. There's a black and yellow fish on each side, a French Angelfish. They mate for life, you know? Pretty impressive considering most humans are incapable of that sort of commitment.

  “I'm just shooting the breeze. I'm the stripper with a heart of gold, remember?” Lola gives me a look, but I wave her away. Fucking reporter slut. I didn't mean to jump Dax's bones, just spice things up a little, teach that loud-mouthed hussy skank a lesson. But then his lips touched mine and I couldn't think clearly. Fuck, I couldn't think at all. When I close my eyes, I can feel each and every spot on my body where his bare skin touched mine. I could draw you a map. I swallow hard and make sure to keep my eyes wide open. “I'm just saying, it's not that difficult to cut the hard stuff, that's all.”

  “So you don't get fried anymore? Congratulations. You must live a charmed life.” Lola opens the drawer on the nightstand and pulls out another bottle of vodka, sliding down the bed until she's lying on her back. But at least she doesn't put the alcohol to her lips. I'm no saint, and I'm not afraid to party, I just don't like to see people using substances to get by. They're not there to get by; they're supposed to be fun. Some people might even argue with that, but hey, that's how I feel and I live in the United fucking States of goddamn America, so I can think and do and say whatever the hell I want. Supposedly anyway. Nothing's stopped me before.

  “Hardly,” I say, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward, examining Lola's tattoos with a critical eye. They're beautiful – lots of brightly colored birds, a cat, some cheetah print. They're like mine, alive and teeming with energy, crawling across her skin like an invitation. I want to see this bitch get up and fight. “But whatever. Are you worried about your sister?”

  “Fuck her,” Lola groans. “Stupid scrag. She got herself into this mess; she can get herself out. I'm done with her. Done. Bitch always thought with her ham wallet instead of her brain anyway.” Lola sits up and she looks, at least for a second there, more alive. That's good. Really good. Because Ronnie needs her. Honestly, I thought he was a goner. We all did. So whether Lola is his future wife or just a fling, she's important. She's Ronnie's life vest in the ocean of shit he's been adrift in these past few years. “Did you know she married a Frenchman who makes flipping cheese? The bloke makes cheese for a living? Who does that? Who the fuck wants to do that? One Gouda's the same as the next anyway.”

  “Gouda's a Dutch cheese,” I tell her, just because I'm a smart ass, and I'm full of useless facts. Lola tosses her arms up in the air and rolls her eyes dramatically.

  “Brie then, is that better?”

  “Much,” I say with a grin. She narrows her eyes on me for a moment.

  “Why the fuck are you here anyway? Why aren't you at the interview? They kick you out?”

  “I made out with Dax, caused a fistfight between him and Turner, and then I just panicked.” Lola's brows raise and her face relaxes a bit. I watch as she crosses her legs and tucks the vodka bottle between her knees.

  “Dax? The drummer?” she asks, but I can already tell she knows exactly who he is. Sunlight streams through the window and cuts across the rumpled sheets, shining off the glass of the bottle and sending flickering lights across the walls. Isn't it amazing how a bit of sunshine can turn the u
gly, pretty? “He seems like an okay bloke, I guess.”

  “Anything special I should know about dating drummers?” I ask her, but only as a joke. I don't see this going anywhere. Why should it? Why am I even thinking about that? My God. And it's only been maybe a week since I last got laid, so it's not like I'm totally desperate, but wow. Just wow. The downstairs really wants Dax to move in and set up some furniture. Or at least just stop by for a visit. I cross my legs and pretend I don't see the slight smirk on Lola's lips.

  “Be prepared for intensity,” she says, snatching a cigarette from the bedside table and lighting up. I like the way the cherry illuminates the apples of her cheeks. It'd make a nice photograph. Or so I think. My only real talent with pictures lies in picking the right filter on my phone. I lean back and wish for a martini. It just seems like an appropriate moment to have one.

  “Is this coming from Lola, the drummer? Or from Lola, dating Ronnie, the drummer?” I ask as I push myself to my feet. I'm satisfied that at least for the moment, I've stopped Lola from descending into whatever black hole's been haunting her. She shrugs and holds her cigarette out to the side, clutched between two fingers.

  “Does it matter?” she asks, but I can tell she knows it does. “If you're dippin' your feet into that lake, be prepared to take a swim.” She holds up her finger and waggles it at me. I know right then that we're going to be friends. It's sort of a given. “Remember though, drummers spend all day handling sticks, so they know how to use them. They bang and pound for a living, and they know their rhythm.” She swings her feet over the side of the bed, smashes her cigarette out in an ashtray and stands up. “That there's a bit of advice from Ronnie's … girlfriend.” She chokes the word out like it's poisonous and squinches up her face. “Don't ask Lola, the drummer. She'll tell you to steer clear of the fuckers. Nothin' but trouble to be found there.” I laugh as she slips on a pair of white shorts and a set of fuzzy orange stilettos.