Born Wrong

by C. M. Stunich

  “It should be his choice,” I say and everybody turns to look at me. Everybody except for Naomi. Pretty sure she's still processing the information. “It's his mother, his life, his decision.”

  “I don't mean to be rude, Miss Charell, but don't you have a pole to climb? Why are you still here?” Wow. What a mega bitch. I'm glad she's not my brother's manager. I can't imagine we could coexist in the same room for more than five minutes. And I highly doubt she'd have sent me flowers or called in just to chat. Milo's the superior choice, obviously.

  “Well, you are rude, and I don't take shit from bourgeois bitches, so back the fuck off.” The words escape my mouth in a rush. And here I was, trying to be politically correct and whatnot. Normally, I'm good at holding my tongue, but there's just something about this whole story that really bothers me. So Ronnie says America and Travis were a thing? I can't in my wildest dreams imagine the two of them together. Travis was the kind of guy who'd spend a whole afternoon wallpapering his apartment with old CD jackets. He'd take French cooking classes on the sly and then surprise everyone by cooking something totally lame like escargot. That was Travis. Travis didn't hang around with white collar bitches. I can see why everyone blames this woman for the current situation. Actually, I blame her, too. If she really was with Travis, then she let him down by putting his best friends in danger, over seven years after his death.

  The room goes silent, quite literally. I don't even hear a single intake of breath.

  “Are you in charge here?” America asks me, like she's not at all put off by my words, like she's unflappable, practiced perfection. I don't buy it for even a second. The fingers on her left hand are twitchy and her right eyebrow is a little thinner than her left. Small difference, almost unnoticeable, but on somebody like this, somebody who preaches perfection, it's a dead giveaway. America is this close to cracking. “Are you a national security expert?” She gestures absently at Brayden. “Or a musician?” She keeps staring at me, and I stare right back. “No? What are you then? A leech. A girl desperate for fame, for attention, money. A stripper with no past and no future.”

  “America,” Turner warns, but I don't need his help. I never have.

  “At least I'm not lonely, broken and bitter,” I whisper, my words clinging to the silence like spider webs. I regret it almost as soon as I say it, but there's no taking it back. America doesn't react, but I know she's heard me. And she knows I'm right. It doesn't even really matter that I said it because it's true. That's the part that hurts more than anything else. I am not making a very good impression on this group, am I?

  “The interview stands. Afterwards, I could give a fuck less about what he does. As long as he's still alive, his arms remain unbroken, and he's on the plane to L.A.” America moves away quickly, brushing past me and out the front doors. I look down at Dax, looking up at me, and my throat goes dry and my stomach starts to hurt. I guess he probably could've stood up for himself, but I couldn't help it. There's just something about him that I like, something that I feel this desperate need to protect. I couldn't tell you what it was. And it's not just because I'm attracted to his hockey stick. Not just because his kiss froze my spirit in place, made me wish I was statue so I never had to move from that position. It's not just because I masturbated to thoughts of him last night. Definitely not that.

  “She'll never let that go, you know?” Dax tells me, but at least he attempts a smile. The muscles in my stomach tighten. He's so … innocent. But in a good way. Not naïve, just innocent, like he still believes there's good in the world. That's addictive. And very, very dangerous. “She can hold a grudge forever.”

  “Well, it was worth it if it helps you do what you need to do,” I tell him, and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking if I can go with him. Why I'd want to do that anyway is beyond me. Maybe I'm already tired of being cooped up in this hotel? It is a little stifling, I'll admit. It's not like I enjoy taking my clothes off for pervy men, but it's like a party every night at the club. Drinking, dancing, hormones. It's just so much quieter here. I imagine that it wasn't always like this. Indecency is infamous for their parties and like everyone else, I've read the tour gossip. I know what used to go on: wild sex, drugs, booze. I guess their spirits have just been crushed. Based on this Stephen guy's track record, I'm starting to guess that was the point all along. There is no endgame here; it's all about the journey, baby.

  “Thanks,” Dax says finally, holding my gaze with his strange gray eyes, keeping us locked in an exchange that lasts longer than is really appropriate. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, but instead of feeling warm, it just feels like someone dropped an ice cube down my back. It should be an uncomfortable feeling, but it's not. It's soothing, comfortable. I take a step back and break the tension. Dax immediately shifts his attention to Naomi, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. My lady parts don't like that he likes her. I'm attracted to him, and the baser part of me only wants him to be attracted right back. It's so stupid that I give myself an eye roll. So glad I decided not to take advantage of Mr. Dark and Dangerous. I look at Naomi, pause and throw Dax a wink that I hope he doesn't see. Grr, bitch, grr.

  I make my hairdresser stop what she's doing, so I can run to the bathroom and throw up. There's nothing in there but coffee and water, so it's pretty fucking unpleasant. My stomach muscles clench and release with nothing to give up, twisting around one another, trying to force me to expel something that won't go away. Shame, frustration, anger. I can't believe I have to sit here, three chairs down from Hayden Lee and act like there's nothing wrong. I have to go on camera and smile and pretend, the whole time knowing that my mother's body is sitting in the back of a van.

  I just want this all to go away. I want to get back in the studio, or back on tour, and I want to forget any of this ever happened. But how and when and if that could happen is a mystery to me. I imagine that the only thing capable of bringing us peace is Stephen Hammergren's death. I clench the toilet seat with angry fingers and curse everyone who was in that elevator with him, especially Lola. She had a gun, a fucking gun. Why couldn't she have shot him, right then and there? We could be free of this shit. Or mostly free anyway. There are the others to think about: Hayden, Cohen, the rest of Ice and Glass. But what good is an army without a general, right?

  I turn around and slump back, wiping my arm across my mouth.

  Maybe the real enemy here isn't just Stephen Hammergren, right? Maybe it's the secrets we all have buried inside our hearts, like poisoned thorns, piercing our soul to the core. If those weren't there, it wouldn't have gone this far. Naomi killed her parents; Lola killed Marta; I killed my mother. Not that that's really a secret anymore. I bet Naomi's already told Turner about it. And my family's always known. I guess it's just my shame at being born into tragedy.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out a plastic baggy. Inside is a cigarette, but not just any cigarette. A sherm. A dippy. A wet one. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. It's dipped in angel dust. Most people smoke it with mint leaves, but why not go for two highs at once? A little tobacco works, too. It's kind of my drug of choice, but I try not to go for it unless things get really and truly fucked. Kind of like they are today. It makes me hallucinate, makes me feel like I'm disconnected from my body. It numbs the pain with falsifications and half-truths. I always pretend I don't have secrets, but when the darkness starts rolling over and the light fades, I can see them grinning at me from the shadows.

  I unzip the bag and pull out the cig, patting down my pockets for a lighter when I hear footsteps echoing across the bathroom floor.

  “Dax?” The voice belongs to Naomi Knox, seriously one of the last people I want to see right now. I think the only person that would be worse would be Hayden. I sigh and put my boot against the inside of the door, focusing my eyes on the red laces threaded through the eyelets. I put my cig back in the bag and set it on the floor.

  “What?” I ask. I try not to get snippy with her. She hasn't rea
lly done anything wrong. Falling in love with Turner isn't a sin, but hey, bitterness coats the tongue, right? I try to breathe past it.

  “I'm sorry I freaked on you. I just … I can't believe this shit keeps on getting worse. I keep convincing myself that we've hit rock bottom, that there's nowhere else to go from here but up. Apparently, we've got plenty of room left to sink.” Naomi pauses as I slide my boot to the floor and focus on her blue and black heels. There are comic book characters etched all over them in white, screaming women and drooling zombies. I try to remember if she was wearing them this morning or if the stylist picked them out. “And I'm sorry about your mom, Dax. I really am.” I remember the story Naomi told me about her birth mom, and I try to imagine how that would feel, knowing the woman who created me despised me. At least I get the fantasy of pretending my mother loved me, that if she'd lived, things would've been different.

  “It's fine. I didn't even know her.” Born Wrong. I touch my fingertips to my eyelids and try not to imagine how she felt in the hospital. Did she know I was killing her? Did she care? Did she want to trade her life for mine?

  “I know, but I also know that doesn't matter. I'm sorry just the same. And Hayden … Fuck. I can't say I totally agree with everything you've done, but at least I understand it. I didn't know she had a kid, Dax. I had no fucking clue. And with Eric?” Naomi pauses, and I can just imagine her running her tongue over her lips. This time, though, I don't get a hard-on. I don't think I could if I tried. I'm pretty sure my dick's retreated right back up inside of my body. Maybe Pearl would like to hear that? I'm clinically a lady for the day. I'm just so repulsed by everything right now; sex is the last thing on my mind. “Was it consensual?” she asks. I sigh, but it's a legitimate question, so I answer honestly.

  “She said that it was, but Naomi, I don't know if Hayden can tell what direction is up. I don't think she even realizes when she's lying and when she's telling the truth.” I think about Eric's sister, Katie, locked up forever for taking vengeance where it was rightfully deserved. I don't feel sorry for Eric at all. In fact, I'm glad that the fucker is dead. Some people just need to die. Hate me for saying that if you want, but it's true. If the death of one person can ensure the safety and happiness of a thousand others, isn't it worth it? I mean, Eric raped his fucking little sister. Bile rises in my throat and I have to spin around and grab onto the toilet for dear life again.

  “You sure you're alright in there?” she asks me, but I'm too busy heaving into the bowl to answer. Ugh. Maybe seeing my mother's bones is bothering me more than I thought? Or it could be the thought of going back home. That's more than likely the real reason. “Can I get you anything?” she asks me, voice still loaded with questions. I'm sure Naomi wants to ask me about the snuff film. Just thinking about that ends with me spilling my guts again, gasping for breath as I stare at the dirty water and pray for this day to be over.

  I don't want to do this. Please don't make me do this.

  I think about Hayden's face, the way the camera caught all the right angles and made her look even younger than she really was. Naomi still thinks this is just my running theory. Fuck, I wish that it was. I wish that I was just grasping at straws. But no. No, I've seen Hayden Lee on the big screen.

  “I'm okay,” I lie, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and patting at my face. Doesn't help. A whole bottle of mouthwash wouldn't even help. This rotten taste isn't just in my mouth; it's in my soul. “Naomi,” I begin when I think she's getting ready to leave the room. “Thanks for sharing your secret with me.” She pauses for just a moment.

  “You're welcome.” And then her footsteps move back the way they came, leaving me in a bubble of silence. Outside the walls, I can hear the buzz of the employees, the chatter, the excitement. God, if they only knew what it looked like from the inside looking out, they wouldn't idolize us so much. I lean back on my knees, putting my hands on the legs of my black slacks. I get to wear a suit today, of my own choosing. I paired the jacket and red button up with matching pants, and the rattiest fucking boots I own. I like the contrast between the two.

  “Wish I could tell you mine,” I whisper. I'm going to be in Tulsa, so I may as well visit her. My secret that is. I almost gag. Definitely going to need a little help through this. I reach down for the baggy, trying to convince myself that I don't feel like a high school student sneaking a joint. I sit back and slump against the door, lighting up and breathing in the sweet scent of delirium. I just want to get wrecked right now. Absolutely wrecked. That might make it a little easier to see my cousins or my grandmother. Hopefully I can get in there and get out with as little social interaction as possible.

  As I'm sitting there trying to gauge how long I have before someone comes looking for me, the door opens again and in walks another set of footsteps. They're different this time though, less heavy. That's a weird thing to notice, footsteps. But I do. I'm just like that, I guess. I notice little things. They're not always as useless as they first seem.

  “Good place to catch a quiet smoke?” Sydney asks, and I have to close my eyes against the sound of her voice. She's got this purr to her words that gives me chills. I take another drag and put the cig out on the wall, slipping the remainder of it back in the bag and into my pocket. A small amount of PCP, dust, whatever you want to call it, feels like strong pot. Add a bit more, and it not only makes you numb, but you see shit that isn't there. Smoke too much and you get psychosis, comas, death. Fun stuff. I hate myself for even touching the shit. I want to blame the tour and the roadies and Wren, anyone really, for my habit. But this is a uniquely Dax sort of a thing.

  I stand up and turn around, unlocking the door and pushing it gently out of the way. It swings open and reveals Sydney to me. I fucking love her face. I don't know what it is, but the slant of her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips, her sharp jaw line. I squeeze my hands to relieve some tension. I even like her hair. It's cut so sharply, like it could slice if she ran it over my skin. Fuck. I glance down at my crotch. Apparently, I was wrong. I am still capable of getting it up today.

  I move up next to her and strip off my fingerless gloves, tucking them in the pocket of my suit jacket, and then I pretend to wash my hands, running ice cold water over my skin. Doesn't help much, but at least it's uncomfortable. My dick doesn't really care either way. It's just happy to see Sydney.

  “Sorry,” I choke out, but I don't know that she's even aware of what I'm talking about. God, I hope not. She turns to face me, wrapping one arm across her midsection. The motion lifts her breasts up even further, raises her shirt an inch or two. I keep my gaze focused down on the sink, using the foamy soap to scrub at my fingernails. They're painted black, so it's not like you can tell if they're dirty or not, but I pretend to care.

  “For what?” she asks me, glancing up at the ceiling and then back down at me. “This is a coed bathroom.”

  “I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable,” I tell her, forcing a smile on my face. I'm getting nervous, so I'm starting to get goofy. At least the drugs are in my system now. Hopefully, I can relax here soon. At three hits, it'll probably take me ten minutes or so to feel anything. Sydney laughs and the sound echoes pleasantly around the white tiled room.

  “You mean because your heat seeking love missile has detected prey?” She grits her teeth a little when she says the last word. As ridiculous as that statement is, it doesn't help with the disarmament, if you know what I mean. I actually laugh though, probably the first time in days. Sydney waves her hand dismissively and the silver bracelets on her arm jingle. “Happens all the time. I take off my clothes for a living, remember? I'm used to it.”

  “Well, that doesn't make me feel like the world's biggest asshole,” I say, but we're both smiling. Sydney flips some blonde hair over her shoulder and shakes her head.

  “Nope. That title would belong to Turner. Or Trey. My brother's a bit of a Turner clone. It's hard to say a bad thing about one of them without implicating the other. Trust me, you're in a whole different le
ague. They'd be more likely to try and sword fight a beautiful girl with their dick than they would be to apologize for it.”

  “And they'd still get her into bed,” I add, standing up straight and grabbing a handful of paper towels. If I dry my hands a bit lower than normal, Sydney doesn't say anything about it. But her blue eyes do take me in, swallow me whole. I'm pretty sure she's checking me out. At least in this case, I know for a fact that the feeling is mutual. She told me herself. It's kind of nice. I stare at her eyes, searching for a word to describe the color. They remind me of this painting my father kept over his bed. My mother painted it (of course she did, right?). My dad never failed to come up with new ways to remind me of his loss – and that it was my fault. One time I told him that it was really his fault for sticking his dick in her. He beat me so hard, he had to call me into school for the week. I could barely stand. Apparently, I was suffering from 'pneumonia' at the time.

  “What are you thinking about?” Sydney asks me randomly, reaching up to play with the silver hoop earrings she's wearing. They're about chin level with me, that's how short she is – and that's with the heels on. Treyjan's the same way. In the few encounters we've had during the tour, all I can really remember is how his head barely came up to my neck. “Your eyes look so far away. Where are you going up in there?” Sydney leans forward and gently brushes the hair from my forehead. “And wherever it is, can you take me with you?” Her voice comes out in a whisper and brushes across my skin. I swear to god, I can feel every fucking syllable.