A second later, the phone in my pocket starts to buzz. Nobody ever really calls me. After all, my family hates me, and my friends are all on tour with me. So who would? The only time anyone ever calls is if my dad is mad at me. I might be twenty-three, but I still dread the disappointment in his voice. Sure enough, when I pull it from my pocket, it's him.
“You may want to wait to answer that,” Brayden says, and I really don't like the tone in his voice. My eyes slide past America's bitchy face and over to Sydney. She looks concerned for me, her blue eyes like two pools of calm in this rapidly shrinking room. All of a sudden I get this desperate urge to just be with someone, to have somebody to run to when I have problems, to hold at night. It's such a slap in the face, that I almost back pedal. Even more reason for me to stay away from that girl. The last thing I need to do right now is turn a lusty fling into a relationship just for the sake of having one.
“Fine,” I say as I steel myself for something bad. I can get through this. I was birthed in blood, born into murder and hate. This is cake. This is frosted fucking cake. “What's the damage?”
“Come with me, please,” Brayden says, waving his hand for his guys to open the glass doors. I slide past Naomi's questioning gaze and out onto the hot pavement. I have this eerie feeling that this area's getting ready for another storm. I can't wait to get out of Oklahoma. “And please try to understand that this is simply a scare tactic.” Brayden pauses at the bumper of the delivery truck and his men move back without a word, all of their gazes trained on me. All of their gazes full of sympathy. “Stephen likes to put on productions. He wants to see a reaction from you. That's the whole point of this. If he simply wanted you all dead, you probably would be.”
America has this twisted scowl on her face that quickly fades when she sees that I'm staring at her. But she doesn't apologize or make excuses. If she did, she wouldn't be America Harding.
“Just remember, he wants you to freak out. Try and stay calm here and we'll get through this together.” Brayden grabs the handle on the left side of the truck and hauls himself up and into the cool, dark space. There are boxes of tomatoes on one side and cans of coke on the other. In the middle of all the food, there's a long, wooden crate with the top off. I can smell the dirt from here. Right away, I know that this is going to be worse than I thought. I take a step back and swallow hard. Brayden watches me from inside the truck, waiting patiently for me to join him. I wish I could just have him tell me what's in there, but I know I'll never forgive myself if I don't look.
Moving forward, I push this aura of calm down over my shoulders, locking away my emotions in a sheet of ice. My hand curls around the metal, and I pull myself up. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, to get past the clutter around me. The scent of overly ripe melons hangs cloyingly in the air, thick and heavy like rotten flesh. I blink a few times and look down into the box.
My heart stops beating and my phone keeps buzzing. My breath starts to come in small hiccups and the world around me spins.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, trying my best not to fall over. If I do, if I topple forward and touch … touch that … touch her, I'll never recover. Never. Never. “Oh. My. Fucking. God.”
“Don't take it personally,” Brayden whispers, keeping one hand on a metal shelf full of produce. My gaze snaps up from the box to his face and then back again. Personally? Personally? How can I not take this personally? A moment later, I hear the hotel doors opening behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, I see Hayden Lee staring right at me. Her face is sorrowful, but her look is clear. I gave you a chance and you blew it. You're either with me or against me. I turn back to the box. To the skeleton inside. I turn back and look straight into the empty eye sockets of my mother.
“Dad, I'm sorry.”
My back hits the wall of the bathroom and down I slide, until I'm sitting on the blue tile floor with one hand grasping my face, the other has the phone clutched tight. Thank God I wore gloves today. The plastic's so hot in my hand, it feels like it could scald. The silence on the other end of the line is absolutely deafening, making me wish like hell that he was screaming at me instead.
“I don't know that I have anything to say to you, boy.” I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him either. Honestly, I think I might be in shock right now. Stephen had somebody dig up my mother's body? Or Hayden. It might've been Hayden. I squeeze the phone so hard, I hear a sharp crack and have to force my fingers to relax. The skeleton's dark eyes keep staring at me from the recesses of my brain. The bones, they might've belonged to anyone, but not that dress. It was decaying, sure, but I could recognize the gown from a single scrap. My dead mother was buried in her wedding dress. I know that because it was one of the hot topics in my family. That, and half the photos my dad kept around were from that day. “All I want is my wife back in her resting place.” Arnold McCann's voice cracks a bit on the word wife, but his anger never falters. This is my fault, according to him. I did this. I brought this on myself. And I thought we might have a chance to regain some sort of relationship? Hah.
“Of course I'll figure out a way to get her back to you, Dad. And I hope you know that I didn't mean for this to happen.” Arnold laughs at me, never a good sign. He's the type of man that's always red faced and stern. I've never seen him smile, and he only laughs when he's this fucking close to breaking.
“If I find out this was part of some sick Satanic ritual, I swear to God, son, I will make you wish you were buried with your mother.” I stare at the door to the stall directly in front of me, focusing my attention on the silver lock, so I can stay sane. If I keep my mind on the mundane, the extraordinary will fade away, right? I drop one arm to my lap and stare at the skeleton tattoo near my elbow. I like horror, dark movies, twisted books, but when it comes to the real thing? I could definitely do with leaving the dead six feet under.
I moisten my lips and try to figure out what to say in response to that. No, I don't worship the devil, believe it or not. Just because I wear black doesn't make me a psychotic animal slicer who's always on the lookout for his next victim. But it'd be pointless to try and tell my father that.
“I could drive her back to you. You're only about an hour and a half from where we're at right now.” The thought of going back to Tulsa makes me sick to my stomach. I don't want to see my family, not right now. Maybe not ever. They won't forgive me for this shit. Just like they never forgave me for my mother's death.
“You get her back here in one piece, Dax. Do you understand me? If I find out she's been desecrated in any way, I swear on my soul, I will kill you.”
And then he hangs up on me.
“Fuck.” I look at my phone for a minute, spin it around in my gloved hand, and then throw it as hard as I can against the back wall. It shatters against the tile and falls in pieces, most of which land right in the toilet bowl. Blair pops her head in, biting her lip and looking like she'd rather be anywhere but here. I don't blame her. What's next? Is Stephen or one of his cronies going to take her cousin off life support? Deliver the body with a note to our next show? Or is that not creative enough?
“Dax?” she asks tentatively, her voice echoing around the empty bathroom. “Are you okay?”
I don't answer the question. Why should I? It's a ridiculous one anyway. Am I okay? Of course I'm not okay. My mother's body is outside in a food delivery truck, one shelf down from the fucking pickles. And what's worse? My father knows it. And he blames me for it. I can't tell him all of the shit that's going down here, so that's it. This lands on my shoulders. And why? Because I told Hayden no when she asked if I wanted a sex slave? This is all on her. I know it is. I fucking know it.
I'm not mad at Blair, so I just step out of the bathroom, pushing past her and storming down the short hallway until I'm back in the foyer. Hayden Lee is sitting there, innocent as the day is long, eyelashes batting gently, mouth slightly parted.
“I gave you a chance when nobody else would,” I tell her, watching her expression for some sign,
any sign that she's listening to me. She turns to face me, but all I see is an act. Her expression remains neutral and her fingers reach up to tangle in her brunette hair. It doesn't help that she's wearing a white maxi dress that flows around her ankles when she stands up. It adds to the illusion of innocence.
“Dax? I don't know what you're talking about,” she begins, but I cut her off. I point my finger at Hayden and I don't like that my entire arm is shaking.
“I felt sorry for you,” I say, forgetting there's anybody else in the room but us. I can't even see past the violet haze of my anger. It's clouding everything, obscuring rational thought, taking control of me in a way that's actually kind of scary. I don't know what I'm going to do or how to stop myself. My initial reaction is to implode. I was taught from a young age that an outward expression of disapproval is like asking to be hurt, hit, abused. But I've been on the reverse lately, moving out of that cycle of abuse and onto another path, a more dangerous one. Now I want to explode.
Apparently, so does Hayden.
“Sorry for me?” she begins, her voice rising in pitch with each syllable, using those full lungs to capacity. “You felt sorry for me? Dax, you couldn't handle me, not in your wildest fucking dreams. The only reason you're not eating out of the palm of my hand is because I let you go. You're lucky this is all you've gotten so far. I could've made things worse, a whole lot worse.”
“Are we dropping pretenses here?” America asks, stepping forward. I notice though that she doesn't come between Hayden and me. “Is it time to talk turkey?” We both ignore her.
“I stood by you, even though it was hard. Even though I took shit for it. I believed you, even when I knew I shouldn't. So tell me, Hayden, what's true and what's not?” I keep staring at her, hoping the arrogant act will fade and her true colors will show. She just sold me up the creek, and here I am, still praying she's going to change. Hoping for the best doesn't always work out though, does it?
“It doesn't matter, Dax,” she whines, bending at the knees, slapping one hand into the other. Her face is strained and her mouth is sagging, pulling down her face like it's been weighted. “It doesn't. It's too late, and I loved you, and I tried. I really, really tried.”
“Well, you didn't try hard enough,” I snap at her. She was tricked, manipulated into joining the enemy and instead of fighting, she embraced it. It's a survival technique, I understand. Trust me, I get it. But why, when you have the opportunity, would you not at least attempt to take back your life? Why relish the things you're forced into doing? “What about your daughter?” I ask, spilling her secret into the afternoon air with a rush of blood to my brain. The pulsing in my head gets so loud, it's hard for me to hear clearly. I think there are people talking around me, but it's easy to tune them out. “What about Cassie? You've come this far, so why give up now?”
Hayden smirks like she could give a shit less. But I know her, and that's not her. That isn't true. It's all a facade, and it's making me sick to my stomach.
“Oh, I'm not giving up, Dax,” she whispers, voice wicked cruel. “I'm just giving up on you.”
Hayden's heels sound loudly through the foyer as she makes her dramatic exit, leaving Dax a shaking mess behind her. He barely makes it over to the set of black leather chairs against the wall before he collapses.
“She has a daughter?!” Naomi asks, looking like she's stuffed to the gills with questions. We had a nice chat on the way down here, and I really do think she's a cool chick, but I can also see that Dax is close to a precipice of no return. I've been there so many times, it's easy for me to recognize that expression. I've seen it in the mirror: the empty eyes, the hollow cheeks, the quivering jaw. Three times I toed that edge until I finally got my shit together, chucked the crack pipe, and broke the cycle. Yes, it's all inspirational and shit, isn't it?
“Hey.” I move up to Naomi and put my hand on her arm, curling my fingers gently around her bicep until she turns to look at me. At first, her face seems perfectly symmetrical, like it's been sculpted by the hands of the gods, but when the light hits it just right, streams through the glass at the front of the building and cuts the shadows in half, I can see that her nose is a bit crooked. It's nice to know that even those on high can be flawed. “Relax. We'll figure this out. Maybe give him a minute?” Naomi looks at me like I've sprouted two heads.
“And who are you again?” she demands, wrenching her arm from my grip. I'm the new kid on the block, I understand. But sometimes, when you're in this deep, a view from up top can be a good thing. I've got a completely different perspective on the situation here. Plus, I don't mean to be a bitch or anything, but if the rumors are true (and they always are) then Naomi didn't notice Dax's attraction to her until very recently. I saw it moment one. Nothing against Naomi; I'm just a perceptive person.
“Just somebody who recognizes a psychotic break when she sees one.” Naomi full on scowls at me, and it isn't a particularly positive sight. She tucks some of her dirty blonde hair behind her ears with a swipe of claws, gritting her teeth as she glances back at Dax and then again at me.
“You have no clue how deep this goes,” she whisper-yells. Never heard of the practice? Lucky you. Look it up. It's scary. Her voice sounds like a demon in the throes of passion. Pretty, but frightening, too. “This thing between Hayden and me. So fuck off and leave me alone. I'll ask as many damn questions as I want.”
“Mi, stop.” It's Dax, sitting with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. “Don't take your anger out on her, okay? If you want to be mad at anyone, be mad at me.”
“You?!” Naomi explodes, pausing Milo Terrabotti in mid-stride as he exits the elevator. The smile on his face dies instantaneously. Whatever good news he had to share has been overshadowed by the pall that's hanging above this room. “You? I'm not mad at you. It's Hayden. It's always been Hayden. Why do we keep letting her get away with this fucking shit? It's not like 'Tyler',” Naomi makes quotes with her fingers. “Doesn't know we're aware of his true identity. It's not like it's a secret anymore that we're tangled up in this crap, so why keep playing her games?” Naomi spins on her manger and gets up close and personal with her face. “If anybody else dies here, it's on you, America. This is all on you.” Naomi looks like she wants to hit her, but she doesn't. Smart choice. America doesn't look like the type of person who'd take it lying down.
“At least we can all stop pretending now, am I right?” America adjusts the sling on her arm and glances sharply at Milo, blue eyes sliding around in her irises like spotlights. I wouldn't want to get caught in their glow. “Everyone here knows, or at least has some idea of what we're dealing with.”
“Hayden's daughter,” Naomi repeats, ignoring her manager's comments. She bends down in front of Dax and puts a hand on his knee, peering up under the curtain of dark hair that covers his face. My stomach twists in my gut, but what am I going to do? Fight the girl? I stare at the Real Ugly tattoo that peeks out of the front of her jeans. “How old?”
“Later, Mi,” Dax chokes, raising his head up and leaning back in the chair. “I can't do this right now.”
“How old?” Naomi growls again. America just sighs and throws up her hands, spinning on her heel and turning away to put a hand to her forehead. Everyone else just mills around, eavesdropping on their conversation, waiting for somebody to give them instructions. From what I hear, only Turner, Naomi, Dax, Ronnie, and Lola are in on all the details. The others are just floating around on the fringes, stuffed full of misinformation and half-truths. Not sure this is the way I'd go about things, but then, I guess that's why I'm here to help. If they had all their shit together, they wouldn't need me.
“I don't know. Four, I think. Five? I can't think straight right now.” Dax gets out a cigarette and lights up.
“The father?” Naomi asks, voice strained and on the edge of breaking. Turner looks on from behind her, his eyes locked onto her back, fists tight at his sides. But he doesn't move. Good boy. At least he's learning. Dax whispers somethin
g that I can't hear and Naomi's eyes get huge, opening up her hard face for the briefest of moments. That's pure shock right there. “What?” she asks, but not because she needs clarification. Whatever Dax has just said is blowing her fucking mind. “What?”
“E. R. I. C.,” Dax snarls, gripping the arms of the chair and leaning his forehead in towards hers. “Eric. Eric. Eric. Your foster brother, the one you never told any of us about. That guy. I don't know anything else about it except for this. You want to know where Cassie is right now? Do you have any idea?” Naomi sits back hard, falling from her squat to her ass, right there on the floor, legs splayed out in front of her, blonde hair escaping from behind her ears and falling to obscure her face.
“Stephen.”
“That's right, fucking Stephen. So yeah, Hayden is fucked and she's a stupid bitch, and she makes bad choices. But her hands are tied, Mi. She has a daughter to think about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go drive my mother's corpse back to Tulsa.” Dax pauses to glance up at Brayden Ryker, taking in the man's floral tattoos, his moss green eyes, the tightness around his lips, with a frown. “Provided I even can?”
“You mean if it's physically possible? That's questionable. I'd have to make a choice between you, and the rest of the group. I don't particularly like doing that.” Brayden's frowning, touching a hand to his chin as he considers the circumstances. “Legally, it's walking that thin line, but as long as your father hasn't reported the missing body, we can probably get away with it.”
“It's not happening,” America says, turning back around and marching her heels across the floor until she's standing on the single rug. “We have a live interview scheduled for today. There's no such thing as another reschedule. And I don't care if your family lives two hours from here or five minutes. Makes no difference. We can get somebody else to do it.”
Dax looks stricken, but he doesn't say anything. I think he's still in shock. I know I would be, even though I didn't know my mother either. I don't know how his passed away, but mine died in the line of duty. That's right. My mother was a fuckin' cop. Interesting how the apples can fall so far from the tree, huh? I guess Dad's genes run strong in us. I take a deep breath and I move forward, too, pausing next to America. I like the way Dax's eyes catch on me, even though they shouldn't, even though this is probably the most inappropriate time to be thinking about something like that.
Born Wrong Page 10
