Dead Serious

by C. M. Stunich

  “Yeah, I do.” My friend glances over his shoulder and then rises to his feet, coming over to sit next to me like a fucking faggot.

  “Get your own damn bench,” I growl at him, putting my boots against his leg and giving him a shove. I throw the ball at the bricks again. Ronnie doesn't bother to move, just sits there quietly for a second. “What?” I catch it again and pause, glancing over my shoulder at the guards. They look like fucking statues. Even their faces are frozen. I have a hard time catching them blink.

  “Turner, I want to make it through this. For the first time in a long time, I actually give a shit whether I live or die.” Ronnie licks his lips and fumbles with the rubber bracelets on his wrist. “I know I haven't known Lola very long, but I can see this going somewhere. I can see a life with her, with my kids. We need to buckle down and dig deep. There has to be someway to get Stephen Hammergren to back off. Whether that's by killing him or … ” Ronnie trails off, glancing up at the guards again. Obviously, whatever he was to say, he doesn't want them to hear. I sigh and sit up, leaning close. “Or by giving him what he wants.”

  I feel my lips tug into a frown as I sit back, staring my friend down for a second before I throw the ball again. It bounces off the bricks and disappears into some nearby bushes. I drape myself over my knees and dig out a cigarette.

  “And that's what, Ronnie?” I ask, keeping my voice low. The muscle heads near the door are lookin' a little nervous, so I toss them a grin and the finger. Might not help their opinion of me, but I don't give a shit.

  “If it's America he wants to see suffer, then why not hand her over? If he wants us to stop making music, then we stop.” Ronnie holds up his hands placatingly as I sneer and get ready to tear his Goddamn head off. “Not forever. Just for now. Until he moves on, forgets about us. We've made plenty of money to live off for a good long while. If we took a break, maybe this whole thing would blow over?”

  “You're talkin' out your asshole, Ronnie. The man waited seven fucking years to start after America again. What makes you think a break is going to do any good?” I inhale deep, letting the sweet scent of tobacco fuck my lungs. “What we need to do is massacre this bitch, just friggin' destroy him and the ship he sailed in on.” I exhale in Ronnie's face, but he doesn't care, just keeps staring at me with that contemplative look in his eyes. At least he's not somber, sad sack Ronnie anymore. Little Lola has really put the pep in his fucking step. I don't know the chick well, but I plan to get to know her. Any bitch that digs this deep into my bro's heart has to be investigated. Ronnie wouldn't survive being screwed over. It's Lola Saints or bust at this point.

  I debate reaching out and touching his hand. It's kinda gay, but I do it anyway. It's a Ronnie sort of thing to do.

  “Look man, you have no clue how fucking ecstatic I am for you. I'd give my left nut to see you happy, all shacked up in a three bed with your friggin' rug rats running around. But we can't wish our way out of this crap. Balls to the wall, man.” I lean back and swing my boots onto the pavement, eyes scanning the windows for Naomi. I got the itch, baby. Whenever we're apart, my mind goes into overdrive imagining all the ways she could be taken away from me. I'd never survive. It sounds lame as fuck all, but I love that woman. She makes my dick hard, and my heart beat. 'S all there is to it.

  Ronnie sighs and shakes his head, running his hands over the snake tattoos on his neck and threading his fingers behind him.

  “Balls to the wall,” he says reluctantly, but I can tell his mind is still spinning. Hey, if I thought giving up Naomi's manager would win us all a get out of jail free card, I'd be all over that shit. Thing is, I know this shit ain't that easy. Nothing ever is. Except maybe pre-Naomi Turner Campbell. I try not to grin at myself. Yeah, I was easy. I'll admit that.

  I rise to my feet, toss my cig over my shoulder and start towards the door. I've been out here for like, a fucking hour now. I'm tired of waiting. Turner Campbell doesn't wait. Not patiently anyway.

  I push through the glass doors, ignoring the guards and their stoic expressions. Just like everyone else in my life, they'll follow after me. Except for maybe Naomi. I get this squirrelly feeling sometimes that I am this close to getting my ass kicked to the curb. And I like it. I really fucking do.

  “Turner, thank God,” Milo says, latching onto me as I move through the lobby and head towards the elevator. “Is Ronnie outside? I need to talk to you about something. The rest of the band is already waiting upstairs.”

  “If this is about that bitch,” I point at my head and pull the trigger. “Blowing her Goddamn head off, we've heard. We're over it, Milo. Go write up a blog post or something, assure everyone that the show must go on.” My manager pauses as I climb into the elevator, forehead wet with sweat, skin tight, eyes droopy. Poor guy is overworked and tired as all shit out. I feel sorry for him, really. But what can I do about it? I didn't ask for all of this. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. That's what I showed up for. But I'm adapting; we all are. “And Mr. McGuire?” he asks as the elevator doors slide closed. I ignore him and lean against the wall, pretending I don't notice the security guard standing across from me.

  Thirty floors up, I climb off and the guy follows me straight down the hall to America's door. I don't even have to knock, coming to a stop just as Naomi spills out and runs straight into my chest. She doesn't look all that good, even considering the circumstances.

  “What the fuck happened?” I ask her, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. Nobody touches my woman and lives to tell the tale. Naomi shushes me with a kiss, trailing her lips along the edge of my jaw to whisper in my ear.

  “Don't say a word. Just back up, and let's go.” Don't have to ask me twice. I slide my arm around her waist, letting the buzz of my body replace the rush of adrenaline. The spots on my jaw where her mouth touched me burn like crazy, even as I'm wondering what the hell is going on. I try to stop at our room, but Naomi keeps me going, back to the elevator and then in. As we turn around and watch the doors slide closed, I catch glimpses of her fellow band members. They don't look so good either. Could be the Hayden thing, but I think there's something else, too.

  I wait in silence, my arm wrapped around my woman's waist, as we head right back to the damn lobby, bodyguard in tow. Naomi wraps her fingers around mine and steers me straight to the smokers' courtyard and over to the bench where Ronnie still sits in contemplative quiet.

  “She threatened to shoot me,” Naomi growls, lighting up a cigarette and plopping down next to my friend. I sit down next to her and lean in close. “Well, maybe not her specifically, but Brayden.” Naomi gestures with her lit cig, face contorted with anger and eyes glaring.

  “Who? America?” Ronnie asks, getting that crystal clear clarification he's always after. Naomi nods. “Why?” I watch as she shrugs angrily and takes a massive drag on her smoke. Her orange-brown eyes sparkle with rage as her free hand clenches tight against her jeans.

  “Because I threatened to walk out. Because I had the Goddamn audacity to think that perhaps the death of our lead singer might exclude us from the concert in L.A.” Naomi exhales and lets her eyelids flutter closed. Her skin is singing; I can feel it from here. Pure rage is radiating out from this woman, and it's turning me on. Totally fucked considering the death of Hayden and all that, but what do you want me to do about it? “Brayden isn't just working for her; she fucking owns him.” Naomi pushes some blonde hair behind her shoulder. “You know, she didn't just threaten to shoot us, she flat out said she'd hunt us down and kill us if we tried to leave the band or the tour.”

  “Are you fucking shitting me?” I growl, leaning in even closer. I don't know if these guys have got us wire tapped or what the fuck ever, but I might as well keep my voice down. Ronnie and I exchange a glance.

  “I thought she was on our side,” Ronnie whispers, a fresh cigarette clutched between his fingers. Hell, I'm not one to fuck up a party. I get out my own smoke and light up.

  “Apparently there are three sides to every fucki
ng story,” Naomi sighs and leans back, sliding her arm along the back of the bench. Her fingers just barely brush my neck, and I find myself gritting my fucking teeth to stay sane. I never thought a monogamous relationship could be so freaking torturous. I just figured that eventually, I'd get tired of doing it with the same person and move on, so I never tried. Big fucking mistake. It's like each time we touch, the thermometer climbs up a degree or two, moving closer and closer to a scalding fucking explosion. What happens when we get there? I don't know, but for now it makes me want to grab my dick and squeeze. I keep my eyes off of her low cut white T-shirt and lock them on her face. “I don't know America's angle in all of this. I thought I did, but now I'm just not sure. I don't know what's real and what's not.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “If I were you, I'd get out while I still could. Go. Pull Indecency from the tour, from the concert, and just lay low. America never said anything about shooting you.”

  “Yeah, uh, fuck that,” I say, flicking my smoke to the ground and leaning close to Naomi's ear. “I'm not going anywhere, so get that out of your head.” I bite her earlobe and she shivers, even as she elbows me in the chest. I sit back with a half-smile. It's hard to smile big knowing that Hayden Lee just put a bullet through her brain. “We're going to figure this out, destroy the world with our careers, and retire in five years. We'll all live in one, big, dumb-ass gated community with over the top HOA fees from a home owner's association run by me. No beige, no picket fences, and no fucking golden retrievers. Ronnie's sixty-eight kids can come over and play with our two. That is how this shit is going to play out.”

  “I have to sing,” Naomi whispers, her voice oddly hollow. You'd think she be happy about it, right?

  “You've been singing,” I tell her, thinking of the newsfeed I saw of her whooping Hayden's ass, putting her boot on her back. “Like, crazy a lot.” She shakes her head and stands up, turning in a half-circle to face us, cigarette still in hand.

  “Yeah, but I didn't have to. Not really. This is … I have to take Hayden's place, Turner. And I'm not like that. Not like you. I play the fucking guitar. I don't sex up the stage, put on a Goddamn show.”

  “But you can, and you have,” I emphasize, wondering where the hell this is all coming from. Confident fucking Naomi Knox is having a breakdown? I guess it's understandable, but a little weird. “You freaking piss all over that stage. That's all there is to it. Mark that bitch and make it yours.” Naomi stares at me, eyes cutting so deep, I feel like she can see my fucking thoughts. “Is that what you're worried about? Taking over the band?”

  “Jesus, Turner,” she snorts, shaking her head and dropping her chin to her chest. “You have no idea what I'm going through right now. Hayden is dead. Do you get that? Dead. And yeah, she killed herself. Yes, her hand pulled that trigger. But why? Why did she do it? She has a kid, Turner. A kid. What did Stephen do to push her so close to the edge that she'd rather die than deal with the consequences of living? This fucking shit is serious.” Naomi puts a hand up to her head. “And I am all sorts of messed the hell up. I didn't like Hayden, but we had fucking history, Goddamn it. I deserve some time to process my crap. I don't want to get onstage and step into her spotlight. Not like this. This is not how I wanted to win.”

  She throws her cigarette to the ground and takes off towards the glass doors. I try to go after her, but Ronnie grabs my arm, giving me a look that damn near convinces me that he's a whole decade older than he really is.

  “Tread carefully, my friend,” he says which only makes me scowl. I jerk my arm from his grasp and take off after Naomi, running a hand through my hair. I'm not used to chasing after anyone – and I don't really like it – but I'd go anywhere for her. I would run a fucking cross-country marathon for Naomi Knox. I pause once I'm inside the lobby, dragging my security detail along in my wake. Naomi is nowhere to be seen, and I have no fucking clue where she went, but I do catch sight of Dax. I run my tongue over my lips and try to gather some tact. It ain't anything I've ever been good at, so it takes some work.

  When he sees me standing there like a Goddamn tool, he groans and rolls his eyes. His pretty little emo face is streaked with tears, red and puffy like he's been crying all damn night. Probably has, too. If Hayden shot herself yesterday, then Dax has had plenty of time to stew in this shit. I hook my thumbs through the loops on my pants and hike them up, sucking in a deep breath and moving across the marble floor towards him.

  I get intercepted by Treyjan's piece of shit fucking sister.

  “What do you want, Sydney?” I growl at her as she crosses her arms over her fake ass tits and stares me down. It only takes me, like, a split fucking second to tell that she and Dax had sex. I'm like an incubus or some shit, like a sex god. I can smell that fucking shit. “You got some sausage, so you're all up in arms now?” I wave my hands around and watch as Dax slumps against a decorative pillar nearby, closing his eyes like the weight of the world is just too damn much for him to hold up.

  Sydney narrows her blue eyes on me and steps closer, getting near enough that we could kiss. That is, if I wasn't fucking disgusted by that thought. Or desperately head over heels in love with Naomi Knox. I try not to smirk. Feels wrong, you know? Like, Dax is a bro now, and I don't fuck with my friends.

  “He doesn't need your shit right now, Turner,” she whispers under her breath. I roll my eyes and push her out of the way. Dax's lids split and he glares at me as I come closer, pausing just far enough away from him that we can whisper without anybody hearing, but not gay close. I don't really do gay close.

  “I'm really sorry, man,” I say before he can spit out anything that'll piss me off. He's on the defensive right now, and I don't blame him. I get it. That's how I deal with my shit, too. I reach out a hand and pat his shoulder. Dax doesn't move, letting his gray eyes drop to my fingers with a detached expression that makes him look a little scary. Too bad it ain't Halloween cause I could wear that face as a mask.

  “Don't touch me, Turner,” he says as I lift my hands in surrender. I'm not here to start a fight. Seriously. “You didn't give a shit about Hayden.” Dax pauses and I can see his fingers curling at his sides. “Nobody did.” I take a step back and watch as Dax lets the emotions run over and through him, electrifying his fingers with unwanted energy. They twitch by his sides, a half second away from exploding into violence. Trust me, I've played the rage game many a time in my fuckin' day.

  “Hey, you're right,” I say, rushing to fill the heated space between us, “I didn't care about Hayden, but you're my friend now, Dax. I don't abandon my friends. So I am sorry. I'm sorry you lost her, and I'm sorry you have to go through this.” Dax doesn't look convinced, but hopefully I can diffuse some of that anger before he takes it out on someone. Wouldn't do to get my ass kicked by the Little Drummer Boy.

  “You're so full of shit, Turner,” he says, but his voice sounds more tired now than anything else. “Go bother Naomi. I hear rumor she actually enjoys your company.”

  I laugh and pat him on the shoulder before he gives me another warning look. Oops. Whatever, he can deal, and I'm giving him a one time pass to act like an asshole to me without consequence. Hope he uses it wisely.

  “Yeah, well, shouldn't matter now, right?” I raise my eyebrows and run my tongue across my lower lip as my gaze slides to Sydney. “Hope you two had a good time before all the shit went down. And hey, from experience, I can tell you that pussy really does have the power to cure most ills.”

  “You're fucking disgusting,” Dax says, but I can see his hatred for me is distracting him from that black pit he's so desperate to drop into. I might have won Naomi, but I know she still cares about Dax. Besides, we fought our shit out with fists. We're cool now.

  “Yeah, true. Maybe I am? So what? I say what the rest of the world only thinks inside their heads. At heart, we're all dirty little perverts just tryin' to make life work on this spinning ball of dirt. Might as well enjoy it.” I pause. Grin. “Like you enjoyed Sydney Charell.”

 
; “I was drunk. We fucked in the back room of a strip club after my father disowned me and informed me I wasn't actually his child. Oh, and then I got to see the body of my dead high school sweetheart seconds before my friend shot herself in the head.” Dax smiles tightly and then points at his temple while mouthing the word boom under his breath. Hot damn. I do my best to keep the grimace off my face and flick my tongue ring against my teeth. “Dampens the memory a little, you know?”

  Dax looks up and gazes over my shoulder, presumably at where Sydney's standing, waiting for me to back off. Something flickers in Dax's eyes, and he glances away.

  “If there was anything happening between us, it's gone now. I'm done with all of this. I just want to pack up my shit and go.”

  “I don't know if that's going to be an option, dude,” I tell him, thinking of America and her threat to shoot the members of Amatory Riot. “There's sort of a situation brewing with your manager and her little soulless ginger haired lackey.”

  Dax doesn't look surprised, doesn't even blink at me. I try to think up something else to say, but the words won't come. Huh. Imagine that. Turner Campbell, speechless. Doesn't happen often.

  “Whatever,” Dax says, pushing away from the pillar at his back and moving towards the elevators with a couple of Brayden's men dragging behind him.

  “Wait up!” Sydney calls, coming to a sliding halt when I grab onto her arm. She glares at me and narrows her blue eyes. Something in my gaze must give her pause because she sighs and softens her expression, pulling her arm from my fingers. “What is it, Turner?”

  “Don't leave Dax alone,” I ask her, nodding my chin at his back as he waits for the elevator. Sydney raises her eyebrows and shakes her head, but I step in front of her before she can move. I'm dead serious about this shit. “He's not in a good place right now.”

  “Obviously,” she says, but her voice lacks any hint of sarcasm. She sounds almost as tired as Dax. Guess getting poisoned by our fucked up Kool-Aid takes its toll on everyone. I don't know how big of a drink Sydney took, but I can see in the set of her jaw that she's in like fucking Flynn.