“Show me what you got, baby,” she says, and then laughs, not like she's making fun of me – just like she's having fun. I'm not used to that. For a second there, it throws me for a loop. “Well come on there, soldier. Keep it at attention.” She sits up and needles my skin with her nails, brushing up my legs and letting her hands rest on my ass. She's not shy about gettin' to know me back there. When I look at Lola, I can tell she's not trying to sleep with me to fill a nook inside her heart. That's not why she's here. So I wonder why? No time to think about that crap right now though.
“Yes, ma'm,” I say, taking a handful of her hair and pulling her face back, dropping my mouth to hers and tasting the filthy sweet tang of cigarettes and vodka. Lola's got a dirty fucking mouth and a cloak of fuck the world wrapped around her shoulders. As I kiss her, I open my eyes and see that hers are already there, staring straight into my guts, untangling intestines and pushing aside major organs until she gets down to the nitty gritty. It should be uncomfortable, but somehow it's not.
Without taking my gaze from hers, I drop down to my knees and tug her towards me, crushing our sweaty bodies together. There's no time to take off her bra or jacket, so I don't even bother. Maybe next time – if there is a next time – I can play with her tits. Right now, that electricity I felt earlier is frying my brain, numbing my pain, fucking me straight up hardcore. I'm getting my ass kicked to the edge and curb stomped, and I am loving every horrible, filthy, fucked up second of it.
I cup Lola's ass and drag her to the edge of the bed, crushing her hips against the side of the mattress with my body, slipping my cock between her folds and feeling the hot hot heat burn me like the motherfucking sun. We keep kissing, nipping and biting at one another like wild animals. That's one of the things I love so much about sex – there's not much thinking involved. Reaching down, I grab my shaft, give it one last stroke for good luck, and plunge straight inside of Lola, filling up every last inch of her until I rock bottom. Yeah, baby. I was fucking made for this.
Sober sex. Wow. Just wow. I thought it was better when I was fucked up, but I guess it's been awhile. Every nerve in my body has a direct path to my brain, setting off little ticks of pleasure that flicker like fireworks.
Lola whimpers and squirms, digging her nails into my back, sliding the leather of her jacket over my skin, smashing me to shit with the rush of sensations and textures. Soft here, hard there, wet as fuck downstairs.
“Holy spanking shitballs,” she moans, grinding the lace of her bra against my chest. “Feels so damn good.” She hooks her heels behind my back and the feel of that fuzzy freaking fabric just makes me go nuts. I snatch Lola up in my arms and slam her down on the hideous carpet, pounding my dick into her as fast and hard as I can go. She doesn't complain. Instead she raises her hands above her head and digs her fingers into the floor, moans growing louder and louder by the second. Like any good drummers, we find the most perfect Goddamn rhythm, this slip and slide, rise and fall thing. Hips meeting hips, crotch to friggin' crotch. It's not glamorous, sure as shit ain't no romance novel love conquers all montage, but it's so easy and so perfect. Best sex I've had in a long ass time.
I hold onto Lola's hips, moving us towards that perfect crescendo, to that moment when the lights go dark and the crowd holds its collective breath. It's the single most perfect moment in time, and I'm determined to get us there.
Lola's screaming now, and the world is spinning. I have no mind, no logical thought process. All I've got is music and rhythm, a tight, thrumming pulse of her body wrapped around mine. I pump my hips as hard as I can, watching her face, feeling her move against me and then, just as we're about to hit that stride, jump off the edge of that cavernous cliff … Shit and FUCK, just as we're about to come …
The cops kick the door in.
Red faced and pissed the hell off, I kick the wheel of the van and pummel my palms against the glass.
“Fucking pigs,” I snarl, pressing my forehead against the cool surface of the window. I don't care what they thought was going on in there: you never interrupt a chick right before orgasm. Now my head's all stuffed up with lady lust and my body's tappin' out a drum solo in my brain, letting the notes echo and ricochet around my skull until I feel like I'm going to throw up. After the whole fiasco with the guns, and the red faces, the mumbled apologies, I even excused myself to the bathroom for a little friendly play session with Ms. Clit.
Did. Not. Help.
I sniffle and dig into my pocket for another one of my infamous mini vodka bottles. Can never have enough of those. I collect these like teenage boys collect porn. Before anyone can see me, I unscrew the top and finish off my drink of choice. Does it taste and smell like nail polish remover? Sure, it does, but it's my baby, and I ain't never gonna leave it. Besides, I was in there with Ronnie for less than a half hour and I'm having trouble walking. He's huge, a lot bigger than I remembered from our utility closet visit. Definitely bigger than that fat, stubby chode lover, Cohen. That, and he's a crazy animal. My ass and back are still aching from the rug burns.
“And I'd kill for another taste,” I whisper against the glass, sliding my finger along the edge and wishing we could've just gotten back to it. Unfortunately, Ronnie's manager exploded into that room like a concerned father and herded us out like cattle. On the road we go! I sigh and turn around, slumping back and waiting for the rest of the group to get their asses down here. I'm not climbing onto that van until everyone's here. We're all familiar with Turner Campbell, and his ways. I've spent more hours on this tour waiting around for him than I have onstage.
“You look like shit,” Joel says, skipping out of the hotel like he's on a crazy acid trip. Probably is, anyway. Who am I kidding? I light up a smoke and sit there with one arm over my stomach, the elbow of the other resting on my hand.
“Thanks,” I respond caustically, pursing my lips so tight, the smoke gets caught inside my mouth and floats there. I blow it out in a rush. “Me and Lady Blue Balls are hanging out today. She makes for piss poor company.”
“Eh, that's not so bad,” Joel says, running his hand over his shaved head. “I thought you got a slap on the wrist from the boss or something. That'd be a bad day, man.”
I drop my cigarette to the cement near my feet. Thank God I'm wearing my shades or Joel would see the look of stricken terror in my eyes. I was so shocked by Ronnie coming after me like that, that I forgot I was looking for him in the first place. My hormones kicked my moral crisis to the back burner. What kind of monster am I?
Joel adjusts the bandage on his arm, the one he uses to hide his shitty prison tattoo, and stares at my smoldering cigarette. He's not very perceptive, so I doubt he notices the slight shake in my hands and the tremble of my lips.
“And, uh, if you ever need help with those blue balls, I know all the colors of the rainbow.” Fucker follows this up with a sleazy wink.
“Righto,” I say, wondering what I should do now. Do I tell Ronnie? After that, I just kind of have to, don't I? Unless, of course, I decide to write that off as business. I swallow a lump in my throat, trying my best to keep my voice even. Joel is one of Mr. Rutledge's lapdogs, loves the man like he's God. “I'll keep that in mind in case we ever end up in an apocalypse – one without any other men, women, or plastic kitchen utensils. Frankly mate, you'd be my absolute last choice.” I smash my discarded cigarette with my heel and start off towards the doors to the hotel. Before I can even get there, Ronnie comes out holding his daughter, the little girl with the red curls. Turner Campbell's on one side, and that spiky haired shithead Treyjan Charell's on the other. Fuck me swingin', now what? I wonder as I wring my hands and wait for them to come closer to me.
Already, Ronnie's eyes are on me. Well, at least I think they're on me. He's wearing a set of shades, too. It's kind of a thing on this tour. Lots of secrets to hide, I guess. But I can feel something, some sort of sharpness digging into my soul. This stupid sad sap is compromising everything!
I turn away and touch my hand
s to my cheeks.
If I warn Ronnie now, then I'm done for. I can kiss my dream goodbye. And my life, too, for that matter. Even if I hopped on a plane back to Queensland right now, he'd hunt me down. Tyler Rutledge was very, very clear about that.
“Lola?” Ronnie's standing behind me, waiting for me to turn around and acknowledge him. I can feel sweat beading on my upper lip. How attractive I must look. I get out another cigarette, biting down on it for comfort and spin to face him. He's painfully gorgeous, especially now with his baby in his arms and a soft smile on his face. Doesn't look like such a sad sack right now. Wonder if that was my doing?
“Hey,” I say, and because I'm stalling for time, I reach out and touch my fingers to his daughter's hair. “Who's this beautiful lady?” Ronnie grins – actually grins! – and turns so that the girl's face is looking straight at mine. She has neon green eyes, like two sour apples stuck right there in her pudgy face. Fuckin' cute. She reminds me of my kid sister, the way her gaze seemed to pick up on things even the adults couldn't see. I miss her face. Screw her for running off with a misogynistic Frenchman. Who makes cheese for a living anyway? Goddamn prick.
“This is my middle daughter, Lydia,” Ronnie says, and I can see gears turning in his head. This is his first time doing this, and he has no idea if he's getting it right. I wish I could help him out a little. Nobody deserves to feel so lost in life. Not that I have much room to talk. I can't imagine what Ronnie would do if he found out I actually know the names of all his kids, their mothers, their ages. My job in life right now is to get to know him, wrap him around my finger and watch his life fall apart. And then, when everything's just gone to shit, I'm supposed to break his heart and walk away like nothing ever happened. That's my role, that's it. It's not complicated; I don't have to kill him. Not like Cohen. Cohen's target already has a gravestone with his name on it, and just doesn't know it.
“She's gorgeous, pretty little thing,” I say, trying to smile. I guess it comes across more as a grimace because the girl starts to cry, reaching her hands out for Turner who's standing there like he's Ronnie's personal bodyguard or something. I don't like the way he's looking at me. It's freaking me out. It almost feels like he knows something. But he can't. He's an idiot, right?
“Daddy,” she sobs, and her voice breaks my heart in half. She just lost her mum, can't really blame her. And it's your fault. You could've stopped it. You could stop all of this. There's an opportunity here for me to make everything okay, to fix it all. Just a wave of Lola's magic wand, and it all goes away.
Ronnie winces and gives me an apologetic look before passing his daughter over to his friend. He's not much of a fighter, is he? I stare at him staring at me, and feel my lips part. Consequences catch my tongue and tie it in a knot. No outcome sounds good for me. Lose my life, lose my freedom, lose my soul. A spin of the chamber and pull the trigger, see what it'll be.
“She looks a lot like you,” I say instead, disgusted at myself for my own cowardice. Ronnie raises his eyebrows and reaches up to touch his hair. He's feeling self-conscious. How stupid. He looks ridiculously delicious right about now. His black hair's parted to the side, dripping into his face like a curtain, hanging just past his ears on either side. The ends are all razored up, rock 'n' roll fab. I love it. But I shouldn't. Fuck.
“You think?” Ronnie asks, sounding skeptical. Turner holds Lydia tight, but awkward, like he's never held a kid before. I reach out my hands and pretend they're not shaking. If I don't notice, nobody else will, right?
“May I?” I ask, and Turner looks over at Ronnie for permission. “I had lots of little cousins. It usually fell to me to keep 'em out of the cane fields. Hand her over.”
“Cane fields?” Turner asks, wrinkling his handsome face up. “The hell is that?”
“Sugar, numb nuts,” Ronnie says, borrowing the unlit cigarette from my mouth.
“Yup,” I say as I take Lydia against my chest and smile as she immediately catches on one of my tattoos, poking her hand into my jacket and stabbing her finger against the ink. Holding her like this makes me sick to my stomach. Tears spring to my eyes and it takes every ounce of self-control and fuck-the-world-bitch I have inside of me to keep them back. “I was a cane cocky's daughter.”
“Kitty,” Lydia says, petting the leopard print tattoo I have on my shoulder. “I like kitties.”
“A sugar farmer's daughter,” Ronnie whispers into Turner's ear. Turner scowls and shoves his friend away, straightening his neon pink shirt and pulling his belt off to the side, so it hangs crooked. I always thought the point was to put it through the loops, but fuck me running, guess I don't know shit about fashion. Besides, it's not like the asswad needs anything to hold up his pants. They're so tight, they might as well be painted on.
“I know that, fuckface. And don't breathe on me. I'd rather not catch a disease.” Turner steals the still unlit cig from Ronnie and slaps his cheek. “Full disclosure, remember? Warn your date next time.” He moves away to stand next to Treyjan and lights up. He's pretending not to listen, but I can tell otherwise. Idiot in disguise, huh? I wonder as I smile at Lydia.
“I like kitties, too,” I tell her, too. “I had a whole bunch growing up, to keep away the mice.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, and she smiles wider. Just behind the glint in her eyes is a terrible memory, darkening what should be an innocent face. Here is the vicim of this tragedy, held tight in my arms, a girl who will never know her mother. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to push back another set of tears. Not all mothers are gifts from God, remember? She might've been like yours, like that crack whore junkie bitch from hell. But she might not have been. That's the part that makes me sick to my stomach. “Birds, too.” I shrug my jacket off and let it slide down my arm, noticing as I do that Ronnie's watching me very, very closely. He runs his tongue across his lips and adjusts his stance, reaching down to pull up his baggy jeans.
My rainbow lorikeet tattoo smiles up at us, a sea of bright colors curling down my bicep, making me nostalgic for home. I hope my dad is managing the birds alright. Might have to kick his ass if I find out he isn't. He always had a head for plants, but animals … and daughters, not so much.
“My mother used to breed them when I was a kid.” Lydia rubs her hand down my arm and pats the ink gently.
“Nice birdie,” she says, eyes still cloudy but with a hint of sunshine in there somewhere. Ronnie's smile gets wider too, a bit more curled at the edges. I study Lydia's baggy shirt and the tiny boxer shorts she's wearing. Not the most appropriate clothes for an ankle-biter.
“You need any help shopping?” I ask him, and he laughs, throwing his head back to the sky and putting his hands together in a prayer position.
“I would fucking love you for it,” he says, tilting his head back down and smiling at me. He's just got the most perfect face. I can't seem to resist it. Thought I'd have no problem going in and taking care of what had to be done, but now that I'm getting to know the guy, I can't imagine hurting him. Or his kid. I guess striking a blind target is a hell of a lot easier than spitting in someone's face. My eyes trail over his lips, down to his neck where brightly colored snakes twine with vines and roses, making the sickest freaking neck piece I have ever seen. “Really, I'd owe you one.” I raise my brows at him and pop out my hip, making sure Lydia's sitting nice and comfy. It's the least I can do. That, and get her out of these nasty ass clothes.
“Think you already owe me one,” I say, and I don't mean for my voice to drop and get all husky. “Remember? Cops? Guns? No climax?” Ronnie laughs and takes a step closer, enveloping me with his heat. There's this weird moment where time stops and my stomach gets all knotted up. It's like we're a family or something. Me, and him, and this kid. I wonder what someone outside this bubble would think looking in at us? Of course, this isn't my kid, and Ronnie isn't my anything, but there's that fantasy of it.
“It was your screams that drew them in,” he whispers, leaning over me and breathing hot against my ear. I'm just glad
Lydia's entertained by my skin art. Can't have her witnessing this play by play between her dad and me. It's sneaking up into that PG-13 realm. Ronnie lifts his hand and pushes my jacket down my other arm, pressing a kiss to my shoulder that makes my knees go weak and my downstairs start strokin' a furnace. Load on the firewood, baby.
“And it was your rep that forced their hand. That and the fact that you were so intent on digging for gold that you didn't hear them knock.” He laughs, the sound fluttering against my skin, soft and insistent. Maybe it's not fair for me to blame him. After all, the only reason the police were there is because of me, us, my band and our twisted sponsor. “Well, you were killing me softly, so I guess they were right to interfere,” I whisper, voice so low I'm sure Lydia can't hear me. “You're a hot fuck, McGuire, I had no idea. I've heard otherwise.” Ronnie steps back, still smiling, and slips a bracelet off his wrist, grabbing the hand that's not supporting Lydia and slipping it on me. Mrs. Ronnie McGuire it says. “Little soon for that, eh, fuckface?” He snaps the purple rubber against my skin and grins, flashing me some silver fillings in his mouth. For whatever reason, even those make my lady bits grumble. We just have some magic chemistry, me and this pathetic cockwad.
“Just keep it until we get to finish up,” he says, pushing the last word off his lips like candy. “Ready for Wichita?”
“Can I keep my eyes closed until it's over?” I ask him, and get another laugh. I've been watching Ronnie for weeks now, and this is the most emotion I've ever seen from him. My mission's right on track, and I couldn't feel worse about it. Fuck a duck.
Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) Page 8
