Together, we take the song down to its darkest roots, right to hell and back. My crotch rides up against my guitar as I flick my eyes up and wish I could peer through the bright glare of spotlights to find Netty Forester's face. Since I can't see for shit, I just plaster a smile on my face and ride my instrument the way I wish I'd gotten to ride Netty in the hallway today.
Mm.
I feel like I'm getting dangerously close to making a stupid mistake here, like I'm actually interested in getting to know this wife I don't want.
Turner laughs and drops the mic on the ground.
“And that's it folks,” he says, slicking his hand through his sweaty hair. The director calls cut, and we all take a minute to grab some water. Knowing how this shit usually goes down, we'll probably get fifteen to cool down, ten in hair and makeup to fix our sweaty liner, and then we'll do it again. Maybe three, four times.
As soon as I step off the set, Netty's waiting with a bottle of cool water.
“Although I wouldn't exactly qualify myself as a rock 'n' roll expert, I liked the song. It's … a little confrontational, but I suppose that's the easiest way to get things done sometimes, isn't it?”
I take the water from her and watch as she stares up at the ceiling, musing on her own words.
“You don't exactly look like the fuck the establishment type,” I say sarcastically, gesturing at her wrinkled outfit. In the van on the way over here, I saw her smooth her palm over her clothes about a dozen times.
“Oh, you have no idea what I'm capable of,” she says, her voice sharp enough that I get the idea that maybe I've just offended her. Um. 'Kay. “Based on where I'm from,” she continues, her voice slightly warbled, almost like she's talking to me from beneath wild, crashing waves, like she's drowning on the memories that cloud her eyes. “I'm not just a rebel; I'm an enemy of the state.”
Netty smiles, but the expression is tight, stretched, sticky and unnatural. There's nothing about what she's just said that makes her happy.
“Where the hell are you from then? Saudi Arabia? For fuck's sake, you seem pretty conservative to me.”
“I'm from Utah,” she quips and both my brows go up.
“Well that explains a lot,” I say and Netty plants her hands on her hips, looking at me like I've disappointed her somehow.
“You're rude and insensitive and yet, somehow I don't think that's the real you.”
“You've known me for all of one day, so how the hell would you know?” I snap back, hating that she's somehow managed to hit the nail on the head. To be brutally goddamn honest, I have no fucking clue who I am. My whole life, I've been chasing after Turner Campbell, living in his shadow, making his mistakes. Now that he's finally getting his crap together, married the girl of his dreams, quit the hard stuff, I have no idea what to do with myself.
No way in shit I'm telling Netty any of that crap.
“You a Mormon or something?”
“Or something,” she says, and the husky flavor of her voice tells me that I've now hit the nail on the head. Bingo, bitches. I light myself a cigarette and stare her down until she finally looks at me again. “What?”
“I want to crack your egg's all.”
“You want to crack my egg?” she asks as I toss a sly smirk her direction. “You'd best think up a different food for breakfast then because you're not getting anything out of me.”
“Don't let the metaphor bother you, babe. Just appreciate the fact that I think you're interesting.”
“Oh, I'm so honored,” she says sarcastically as I slide past her to head back towards the set.
Wonder if my new wife's gonna be in town long enough for me to at least try?
Treyjan Charell walks along beside me, right down the aisle at Target towards the women's panties.
“I don't really need your help picking out clothes,” I tell him as he looks out at me from a pair of dark sunglasses. He's got the black beanie on his head again and a slightly more subdued look than he was sporting for the music video. “Actually, I didn't expect you to come into the store at all.”
“Yeah, well, I'm helpful like that, I guess,” he tells me as I reach out and snag a few plastic bags of plain, white cotton panties. I don't have the money to replace all the cute, frilly, lacy things I'm leaving behind. At the very least, I know my sister and I are the same size; she can have all the beautiful bras I'll have to say goodbye to.
My heart clenches and my fingers twitch as I think about going for my phone. There's nothing in the world I want more than to be able to call her, hear her voice, tell her what's going on. Obviously she'll have seen the news, but will she know what to do? She hasn't tried to contact me yet, but if she does … they could find her, too.
“When you think about it,” Treyjan says, and his voice is weirdly soft, “your entire face falls.”
“Think about what?” I say airily, pushing my cart further along, towards the racks of bras. As a 34 J, I know there's nothing in here that'll fit me properly, but I don't have time to seek out a specialty shop or wait for an online order. I'm thinking of leaving first thing in the morning.
“It. That. Whatever your demon's name is.”
“His name is Jessop Barlow,” I say without meaning to. But then, it doesn't really matter because he's just part of a much bigger problem. I should never have gone to the police; I should've just taken Oaklyn and gotten the hell out of there. But inside my chest, I felt this raging need to have justice, to right the wrongs done to me and so many others. I wanted to fight.
I wonder if I'll be paying for that decision the rest of my life?
“Jessop? What the hell kind of name is that?” Treyjan—or Trey as his friends seem to call him—asks. I still can't figure out why he cares (he seems like a selfish douche) or what he's doing here with me, but I guess it's better than being alone. I so seriously miss my cat.
“It's a family name,” I say, biting my lower lip as my skin crawls with ghostly memories. I'm not about to delve into further into issue with a complete stranger—especially not one whose pants are so goddamn tight. Obviously, I've never been a guy before but I can't imagine his junk's happy tucked inside all that denim. He's probably murdering his sperm count. But his ass sure does look nice, all plump and bubbly—especially for a dude. “Mm,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
My eyes flick up to find Treyjan glancing over his shoulder at me.
Both brunette brows go up in surprise.
“Did you just say mm while looking at my ass?”
“No!” I gasp as he comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the aisle—and I keep right on going. I end up slamming the cart into the backs of his legs.
“Jesus Christ, woman,” he snaps with gritted teeth, turning around and yanking the cart from my grip. “I've never met anyone in my life that was so damn accident prone. The fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me?” Treyjan pauses and then lets those wicked sexy lips of his tilt up in a slight smirk. “Or is my ass just so damn mesmerizing you couldn't see straight?”
“I wasn't saying mmm, like yummy. I was saying mm, like a sound of acknowledgement.”
“A sound of acknowledgement about how hot my ass is?”
“A sound of …” I pause and sigh, reaching up to slick my hands over my hair. “You know what? Fine. You have a lovely derriere, okay? I admit that.”
“A derri-fucking-ere? Wow, you really are from Utah, ain't ya?”
“And where are you from? The beach? You sound like a deranged surfer, all fuck, dude and chill, bro and hella sweet and hang ten.” I wave my hands in the air, overdramatic and theatrical maybe but I'm so … I'm just so … this man makes me so freaking pissed. Plus, my cheeks are hot with embarrassment.
“Alright, Utah, let me school you a little,” he says, pulling his shades off and tucking them in the left front pocket of his jeans. “First of all, yeah, I was born in So Cal. Second, I never goddamn fucking said hang tenin my life. Not once. Turner and I used to beat up surfer guy
s in high school.”
“Are you two twins or something?” I ask and Trey sighs, tearing his beanie off his head and letting his crazy brown hair stick up in all directions. He puts so much product in it, it's no wonder it won't lay flat. It's just this wild spray of brunette spikes protruding every which way. Now that he's taken it off, I can see why he thinks the hat might help protect him from rabid fans: Trey's hair is pretty recognizable. It defies the laws of gravity. It's like it's training for zero-G space situations.
Yet … I have this irresistible urge to run my fingers through it.
Did I do that the other night? Did I touch him like that? Did he touch me?
I realize there are a lot of questions I should probably be asking him—about sexually transmitted infections, birth control, etcetera—but broaching that subject means admitting we might have actually had sex. Neither of us remembers much of that night, so I'm not quite sure how to even go about discussing it.
“Turner's my best friend,” Trey says, nostrils flaring. I can see that this is a sensitive subject for him. “Yeah, everybody thinks I'm just his less good, douchebag clone. Sure. Whatever. Maybe I am?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You dress alike, and you talk alike—and you both have really serious problems with manners and etiquette—but at your cores, you're not all that similar.”
“That so? You a therapist or something?”
“Veterinary assistant. I know dogs.”
Trey's mouth twists into this evil, little smirk, and he flicks the warm brown color of his gaze in my direction.
“You're a bitch,” he tells me, but I just smile tightly back. I've been called worse.
“And you're an asshole.”
“Match made in heaven then,” Trey says, pausing as I reach out to grab a sensible pair of white flats. He slides his hands over my shoulders, lighting up every sense I have. The hard heat of his body presses against my back and the clean, spicy smell of him curls inside my chest. I'm surrounded by this awful, awful man and all I can think is I wish I could remember our wedding—and our wedding night.“No fucking way, Mrs. Charell. For the club, I want you to wear these”—he reaches for a pair of red heels and hooks his fingers in the toes—“and these.”
Treyjan takes my left hand and presses the pair of rings against my skin, curling my fingers around them.
“You want to be married to a stranger?” I ask, completely breathless, a single hot bead of sweat tracing its way down my spine.
“I want to play a game,” he whispers, and I realize that his mouth is basically pressed up against my ear. I can feel a hardness pressing against my back that definitely isn't the very long handle of the shopping cart. “You promised you'd come out with me.”
“I didn't promise to break my ankle wearing high heels,” I whisper back, but I don't think it escapes either of our notices that I'm not complaining about the rings. Why should I? It can't be any worse than the last time I got married. I squeeze the rings so hard they dig into my skin. “Pay for all my clothes today, and I'll wear whatever you want.”
No way in hell I'm going to some club looking like a woman at a church luncheon, not like the concert. I'll let somebody who actually knows what they're doing dress me tonight.
And then maybe undress me.
Or not.
Did I really just think that?
“Fine by me,” Trey says, dropping the shoes into my arms. He then moves his palms to my hips and takes hold of me in a firm grip. “Because I so motherfucking want.”
Before I can really register what he's doing, Trey slides the hot warmth of his tongue up my neck and then steps back, leaving this cold pocket of air between us.
Looking over my shoulder, I see his gaze on my ass.
“Mmm,” he says and then lifts up a finger, throwing this awful smirk my way, “and that's with two goddamn 'M's.”
Fuck.
Not only do I have to worry about my dad and my unwanted fiancé, but now I have to worry about this weird rockstar guy and his completely inappropriate behavior.
And how much I actually like it.
“Who the hell are you?” Naomi Knox demands when I come down the stairs and find her waiting in the foyer, arms crossed over her chest, a pair of silver shades perched on the end of her nose. She looks downright fucking hostile standing there and glaring at me with eyes the color of a desert sunset.
If I didn't have much bigger things to worry about, I'd probably be scared of her.
“Who let you in here?”
“Um,” I say as I pause with one hand on the banister, wondering if this girl just has short-term memory loss, has that disorder where she can't remember peoples' faces, or was just really high when she met me. “My name is Netty For—”
“Oh, shit,” Naomi blurts, tearing her glasses off and blinking down at me. She's about a million miles taller, even with the horrible high heels I'm wearing. “Trey's wife.”
I lick my lower lip.
“But I'm not really—”
“Who the fuck let some groupie bitch in here? No goddamn groupies in the house,” Turner snaps, swaggering up to stand next to Naomi and glare at me.
“I really don't appreciate the sexist undertones in your language,” I tell him as Naomi's rockstar mouth curves up into a smile as wicked and cocky as any of the guys I've met here. “And I'm not a groupie.”
“This is Trey's wife,” Naomi says, and her smirk ratchets up into a grin when she sees my irritation.
“I don't even know him,” I tell her as Turner Campbell gawks at me, walking around me and his wife in a tight circle. “Holy motherfucking crap. You let try turn you into a club rat?”
Naomi smacks him in the chest and gives him this blatant look of disgust that I appreciate.
“She looks hot, Turner. Leave her the fuck alone.”
I stand there as steady as I can in the red high heels, these strappy stiletto-sandal things that clearly were designed to murder feet. Paired with a glittering black dress that would've gotten me drawn and quartered back home, I actually feel really … good. It's not that high heels and short dresses really mean anything to me, but I'm more than enjoying the idea that I can wear then and nobody can stop me.
My legs are showing; my hair is cut short.
These are two huge fucking no-nos where I come from.
“Where are you two off to?” Turner asks, and I realize that he's talking to Treyjan and not me.
I pause as his footsteps come down the steps, pausing directly next to me. Glancing over, our eyes meet and I'm struck by the wild hunger in his gaze. Holy crap.
“Love the dress,” he says, barely acknowledging the fact that his friends are standing right there, waiting for him to answer their question. Trey studies me instead, and I return the favor. His wild hair is even crazier than it was earlier, this tousled brown rocker look that makes my knees feel weak. Or maybe that's the soft, easy crawl of smile moving across his face? Could also be the vibrant shimmer of gold in his brown eyes.
“Thank you,” I say curtly, feeling like I'm suddenly short of breath.
Why am I even doing this? I wonder as Trey and I stare at each other. Why am I even standing here? I should be on a bus, looking out the window and watching the miles tick by, putting distance between myself and this place. They've found you; they know you're here. And yet … what could one night out hurt? There's no way Jessop's getting in this place—it's a fortress strong enough to keep out rabid fangirls and fanboys. Even a religiously sanctioned assassin doesn't stand a chance of getting in here.
I think of Oaklyn again, all alone in a small town on the California/Nevada border. As soon as I'm safe, as soon as I'm sure they've lost my trail again, I'll contact her and we'll meet up. That's always been the plan. Besides, it's not her they're really after. She didn't put the prophet in jail; I did. She didn't take a self-proclaimed prophet away from his people; that was me.
What would Treyjan think if he knew all my secrets?
&nbs
p; I highly doubt he'd be looking at me like that.
“Yo, you two deaf or just lovestruck and dumb?” Turner asks, interrupting the moment.
“Man, fuck off,” Trey returns, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves cut off. Of course, none of the buttons are actually hooked, and the shirt is just hanging open over a chiseled chest and midsection. A red tie hangs loose around his neck, and his hair is a completely perfect disaster. Dark eyeliner, a scrumptiously sordid smirk parked on his ripe mouth, and I'm finding it almost impossible to look away. “You all decided to go and get domestic on me, so I found a new friend to party with.”
Treyjan pushes past Turner, taking my wrist in his other hand and pulling me toward the front door. I've never really been a partying sort of person—my idea of wild is a late night showing at the movie theater with my friends—but I'm willing to try. I let Gloria, Asha, and the twins drag me to the concert in the first place, didn't I?
Apparently I must be some sort of wild child at heart—without my inhibitions, I was more than willing to marry some random guitar douche.
That, and stay in a city where I know for a fact I'm being hunted.
It's only a matter of time until they figure out a way to get to me.
Trey surprises me by opening the door to his sports car, a bright orange convertible with the top down and a pair of gleaming black leather seats in the front.
“This is not a van filled with bodyguards,” I inform him, crossing my arms over my chest. No matter how curious I am to see what a date with a rockstar might be like, I'm not going anywhere without Treyjan's security team with us.
Even with them, this is a risky move.
The men and women that follow Indecency around town might be paid to protect the band. The man that's coming after me believes he's been sanctioned by God to do whatever it takes to find me—even if it means killing innocent people that get in his way.
My stomach clenches, and for a second there, I get dizzy.
The enormity of what I'm facing overwhelms me, makes me wonder if I'll ever truly be free from my past. After all, a person can never escape their shadow can they? It leaves a dark stain wherever they go.
Screw Up (Hard Rock Roots Book 10) Page 6
