“I should probably … make sure he's okay,” Sydney says, but she doesn't sound very sure of her position in Dax's life. I mean, they just met. Because of their massive sexual tension, I keep thinking of them as a couple, but they're not, not really. Hmm. Sydney stands up, adjusts the little fur jacket she has draped over her shoulders, leaving a pink bra and her belly open for public view. “Don't tell any of this to Trey tonight. Wait until we get to L.A.”
“You're not his fucking keeper. I know his ass better than you do. Had to see it up in the air and humping away at a couple hundred fangirls. It's my right as his bro to decide what I'm gonna tell him.”
“Turner, go suck some big fat D.” Sydney flips him off, flicks some of her razored platinum hair over a shoulder and exits the room with a flair.
“Those two make me miss my sister,” Lola says suddenly and then she lets out a heavy sigh that settles in the room like smog. “Poppet might have a face like a smacked arse, but she wouldn't set out to hurt me or anything important to me. If I could just talk to her for a second, I could tell her all the shit that's happened. She wouldn't help Stephen anymore.” She pauses, the dark circles under her eyes standing out in stark relief against her pale skin. Lola hasn't been quite the same since the incident at the hospital. This thing with her sister must really be getting to her. Not that I blame her – considering what just happened with mine, her pain seems perfectly reasonable. Katie. And Hayden. Two of the people that have been in my life the longest are dead.
Because they killed themselves.
I force myself to take another drag on my cigarette.
“You know, I got a call from my manager this morning.” Turner, Ronnie, and I all stare at Lola, waiting for the punchline to this shit. “Technically, I'm still under contract with Spin Fast Music Group. Ice and Glass is playing at the L.A. Concert and guess who has to hit the kit for those fuckers?”
I'm sitting at the table in my room, spinning my cell phone in lazy circles. As far as I know there's nothing preventing me from calling out, from telling someone about this shit. I might not have family out there that gives a crap, but I could call any number of news sites, TV stations, magazines. They'd listen to me, print what I had to say even if they didn't believe it. I could call the cops. Stephen Hammergren can't possibly own every cop out there. There's just no way. I could call in an anonymous tip to a random police station anywhere in the United States. But who would believe me? What I am really trying to report anyway? Help, my manager sent the paparazzi after me! I think she's hiding something related to this whole Stephen plot. Oh? You don't know what Stephen I'm talking about? Just the guy who used to be CEO of the world's largest privately owned record label. Until … what? Until my manager, the manager of – let's be honest – a pretty middle of the road rock band. Or at least that's what we were. Now, we're a fucking sensation, and it's not because of my music or my mad guitar skills, it's just because we're caught in some sort of sick game.
I sigh and lean back, letting cigarette smoke trail out between my lips. A few feet away, Turner Campbell sleeps on his belly on the bed, still not wearing a shirt, still hot as fuck. I drop my chin down and look at him, listening to the gentle rumble of voices outside the hotel. There's a veritable mob out there. Every once in a while, a chant breaks out and I can make out what they're saying. Indecency! Indecency! Indecency!
I ignore them, leaning forward and putting my elbows on my knees. Beside me, the bag of blow sits undisturbed. Trust me, there's nothing I'd like to do more than fuck myself up, but I have a bad feeling that everything is about to come to a head. I want to be sober for that shit.
“Turner.” I say his name, but he doesn't stir. His back rises and falls with the soft pulse of his breath and his arm hangs limp over the edge of the mattress. I close my eyes and listen to my memories, letting them play in my head like a movie. There's Turner with either side of his head shaved, star tattoos bright on his skull. His black hair is spiked up in the center, not quite a Mohawk but definitely not a fucking faux-hawk either. God. That concert, the night we met, that was so killer. I could feel his voice inside my bones, could hear his heart beating with each breath he took against the microphone. I was starstruck. Not gonna lie about that. Turner was … glitz and glamour and a lifestyle that was so different from what I'd been living that it sounded like heaven. I'd have done anything for him, anything at all. Just like a thousand other girls. A frown creases my lips, but I don't open my eyes. I let myself relive the moment he rescued me in the parking lot, the tattoos, the blow job in the hotel elevator. Turner popping my Goddamn cherry.
“Ech.” I wrinkle up my nose and shake my head, opening my eyes back up to find the man staring at me. His cheek is pressed into a pillow and he doesn't look quite so … unapproachable. He looks like … like a man. Like my lover. Like my – I almost gag on the word – boyfriend.
“What's ech?” he mumbles, shifting away from the stripe of light leaking from the bathroom. It's the only one on at the moment. The rest of the room is bathed in shadows. I sit up and uncross my legs, forcing myself to my feet. I might cast a lingering look at the eight ball on the table, but I don't touch it. Turner said we'd party in L.A., that we could sneak out, blow off our security detail for a while. Somehow, with this whole America development in order, I don't see how that's going to happen.
“You,” I tell him, moving over to the bathroom and turning off the light. The glow of my cigarette's the only bright spot in the room now. “I can't believe I let you pop my cherry.” Turner snorts and sits up, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. Whoa. Holy shit. I guess he really is human. I pause a few feet from the bed and just stare at him. Even though we've been spending most of our time together, I'm still not used to the raw in-between moments. He keeps his shit together, doesn't let me see anything other than the Turner Campbell he wants me to see. I'm not saying he's being dishonest or anything, just that he hasn't completely let himself go yet. Guess I can't blame him since I haven't either.
“Yeah, well,” he says, voice husky with sleep. He reaches up and removes the small, black plugs from his ears, setting them on the nightstand. “What can I say? I'm irresistible.” I don't respond, choosing instead to finish my cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. “Naomi,” he calls, his voice lyrical, swoon worthy, absolutely Goddamn perfect. I keep my gaze focused on the window, on my reflection, a watered down version of myself frowning back at me. “Come lay down with me. You don't have to sleep. We could pass the night away in other ways.”
I know he's trying to help me, but I find that my feet are rooted to the spot. I lick my lips and glance down at the coke again. No. No. I am fucking stronger than this. If I'm going to do drugs, it's because I'm partying or something, not because I'm too weak to stand on my own two feet. Fuck that.
“I just want to … think,” I say, but that's what I've been doing since Lola and Ronnie left. Thinking. Mulling over things in my head. I didn't play my guitar or fuck Turner or shoot up. I just smoked cigarettes and sat in that chair. That's it. America didn't come to see me. I thought she might, but I sure as fuck wasn't going to see her, not yet. If I'm alone in a room with her, I might put a knife to her throat and demand the truth. If she didn't give it to me or if I didn't like it? God, I don't know what I'd do. I don't want to find out.
I hear blankets rustling and stiffen, but Turner doesn't get up. When I turn back to look at him, the sheets are pulled aside and he's patting the empty space to his left.
“We'll figure this shit out.” He smiles at me, and my heart skips several beats. I take my eyes off of his and focus instead on the skull in the center of his chest. Tattoos are a lot easier to stare at than tender expressions. Tender. No. No. I've imagined something. This is a guy who just snagged the front cover of Rollin' Strong magazine, swooned at by every woman between the ages of twelve and a hundred and twenty. Tender is not an emotion he even has on his roster. Heh. Naomi, you're thinking like that sixteen year old girl from forev
er ago. Turner might be all of that and more, but so are you. Your music has touched thousands. It can touch thousands more. Your guitar solos are unmatched. That's not hubris talking, just simple fucking fact. I look back up and catch Turner's gaze. He hasn't cracked any stupid Turnerisms, smirked at me, flashed me his dick. What the hell is going on here?
“You sure about that?” I ask, moving forward tentatively. I think about that night in the safe house, after Trey had been shot, when Turner laid his head on my belly and fell asleep. The thought gives me goose bumps.
I pause next to the bed, my knees pressing against the mattress.
“I'm not going down until Indecency rules the world, until you marry me, until we make some fucked up little rocker babies. When I say trust me, I mean it. No secrets. No bullshit.” He lifts up his hand and beckons me forward with fingers wrapped in ink. When he licks his lower lip, I catch sight of his tongue ring and have to clench my thighs together to keep Niagara Falls back.
I suck in a big breath, put on my big girl panties, and hold out my fucking hand. I let Turner take it and pull me into the bed. Underneath the covers, he's – wait for it – buck freaking naked. I shouldn't have expected any less from the King of Rock. But he doesn't try to hit on me, doesn't grab my hand and put it on his junk – something he's done before. He cradles my face to his firm chest and holds my head with gentle fingers.
Oh my God.
My heart starts up a beat, a little hi-hat barking that makes me desperate for the stage. This concert in L.A. night turn into another nightmare from hell, but at least for those few moments I'm onstage, it'll be heaven. I'm practically drooling. Or maybe that's because of Turner. Nah. Nah. It's definitely just my Wolfgang I'm lusting after.
“If you ask me to marry you onstage, I'll say no,” I whisper, but Turner only chuckles.
“Whatever you say, Knox.”
“The name's Naomi,” I whisper, but my heart isn't in it. Knox is okay. Knox is more than okay. I let my eyes flutter closed, let my body relax into Turner's, and find just enough strength for one more request. “This right here,” I breathe on the end of a yawn, “better not end up on Instagram.”
Private. Fucking. Plane.
That's what I'm talking about. I can't wipe the grin off of my face as our Brayden Ryker supplied SUV pulls onto the tarmac. I know I should be worried about what's to come or upset about Naomi's sister – and I am, really – but come on? I can enjoy the moment, right?
“We're like royalty now or some shit,” I say and hear Josh making all sorts of rude fucking noises behind me. I spin on the little blonde bitch and he shrinks back. I've been in such a good mood lately because of Naomi that I haven't been giving him the ass kickings he so rightfully deserves. I point at him with an arm covered elbow to wrist in those stupid Mrs. bracelets. I've got a couple Mrs. Turner Campbell bracelets in various colors, a Mrs. Ronnie McGuire, a Mrs. Treyjan Charell, and a Mrs. Jesse Decker – though I suppose that one oughta be Mr., right? I don't wear a Mrs. Joshua Drake bracelet. That little bitch can go fuck himself. “You ruin this plane ride for me, and I swear to Christ, I will shove my mic so far up your ass, you'll be singin' when you shit.”
Josh glares at me, but doesn't say a word. Good for him. I wait for the SUV to come to a complete stop and then wrench the door open. Naomi's riding in the other fucking SUV because, ya know, that's where America wants her to be. She didn't even argue the point although I was ready to back her up. Pick your battles, Turner. Her whisper still lingers in my ear, turning my cock into a raging Naomi Knox pussy addict on a come down. Fuuuuck. And last night? That whole, like, cuddling thing we did or whatever? Damn. I feel like a fucking grizzly bear, like I just want to curl up around my mate and protect the shit out of her. Might have to, considering how things have been going.
“That was so crazy at the hotel,” Jesse says for the fiftieth time since we left. Yeah, it was crazy. The media frenzy only got worse overnight. Hearing about the whole Katie thing sent those vultures into a flapping, squawking frenzy, but whatever, fuck 'em. Time to get the hell out of Kansas, Toto. Or Oklahoma, I guess. Whatever. Midwest sucks man. I've had enough tornadoes to last me a fucking lifetime. Tornadoes and suicides. “Did you see all those rainbow flags in the crowd?” I roll my eyes and move over to stand next to Naomi. Her manager's on her cell, acting like nothing's amiss, like everything is business as usual. I don't know what she thinks we know or if she even gives a shit.
“You're a real icon for gay pride, we get it. Now shut the fuck up.” America gives me a scathing look and takes a few steps towards the plane.
“Wonderful, thank you.” When she hangs up, she turns to Amatory Riot with a slightly somber expression on her face. I don't buy it for a second, but whatever. “We've officially renamed the concert the Hayden Lee Memorial Show.” I look sharply at Naomi and see her nostrils flaring in anger. “This way, we can play for all the fans that have stood there with us through these terrible tragedies and honor our illustrious lead. Tomorrow night, we'll memorialize Hayden in the most amazing live music performance the world has ever seen.” The words slide off America's tongue with a practiced perfection that makes me desperate to hear Naomi's rough, sexy rocker voice attacking my ears and my cock with its raw frenzy.
“We shouldn't even be playing this concert, America,” Naomi says, leveling her brown eyed gaze on America's blue one. “Hayden, however I might have felt about her, was a part of this band. She built this group from the ground up with me. This is not how things should be.”
“Don't you think I'm aware of that!” America screams, but then she immediately collects herself and swipes a hand over her blonde hair, touching her bun to make sure it's still in place. “But it's how things are, so we're going to deal with it.”
“My sister died yesterday.” Naomi states the facts simply, even though we both know it doesn't matter. We're getting on that plane, going to L.A., playing that show like nothing's changed since Indecency's first concert way back when, since the opening night of this tour in Seattle. But everything's different, and we all know it.
America says nothing, turning away and moving towards the steps that lead up into the cabin of the plane. We all stand in silence for a moment before the sound of tires breaks through the early morning air. I turn and wrinkle my nose at the sight of four more SUVs rolling our way.
“The fuck is that?” I ask, turning to look at Milo, then at Brayden Ryker as he motions Sydney and Lola out of the black van we had to use to transport Trey. I made fun of his ass because he had to be carried downstairs on a stretcher and lifted up into the back of the van. Now they're setting him up in a wheelchair, an IV bag at his side, a frown on his face as he flips me off. We both know I'm going to make some really offensive cripple jokes at some point today. Me, I got shot in the leg and I'm still kicking ass and taking names. Does it hurt like a bitch? Sure it does, but as long as I change my bandages and pop a few pain pills, it's nothing to write home about. My momma made sure I knew how to take my pain with a smile. God bless her shriveled, black little soul.
“That would be your opening act,” Brayden says, pausing, this little half-smile on his lips curling my mouth down at the corner. “Or should I say opening acts. Burning the Bleeding, Terre Haute, and Ice and Glass. Or most of their members anyway. I understand they had to make a few substitutions?”
Milo steps between me and Brayden when he sees my eyes widening. My manager's dressed in a powder blue suit that looks horrible against his pale skin, making him look washed out and overworked. Which he is. Sorry. I realize Indecency's put him through a bit more than his contract ever specified.
Milo holds up his palms to placate me. If he's already starting down that road, I know I'm not going to like what I'm about to hear.
“Oh, hell no,” I say, backing away a step and shaking my head. “I am not sharing a plane with those motherfuckers.”
“You told me I could make the final decision on whether to invite the other bands along with us
. Mr. Campbell, please don't make a scene. This entire show's been planned on the sly, away from the ears of the press, and with the utmost discretion. Finding a new set of opening acts was going to be impossible. It was that or have none at all, and frankly, I feel like we need to get this right.”
“Isn't that guy Jesse fucked still in the hospital?” I hear my friend grunt behind me, but I don't turn to look at him. Milo sighs and touches a hand to his blonde hair.
“Yes, Turner, Rook Geary is still in the hospital though I'm happy to report his condition is stable.” Milo takes in a big breath and meets my eyes, for once in his life. Usually he tries to look anywhere but directly at my face. “But we're going to make the same substitutions we did in Little Rock.”
“Because Little Rock was such a major success?” I ask, gesturing at Trey. God. The pain of that night, the blood, the screaming, thinking of it just gives me a massive headache. “Milo, come on. I'm not sitting on a plane with Cohen Rose.” I risk a glance at Lola and see that her mouth is so pinched I can hardly see her fucking lips.
“Yes, Turner, yes you will,” Milo says, but he doesn't sound happy about it either. I'm about to rip him a new asshole when I look up and find Brayden Ryker scratching the back of his head with the barrel of a pistol. Pretty sure it's the same one he put up against my fucking face. I hope his finger slips and he accidentally blows his Goddamn head off.
“Blow a fat fucking dick,” I curse, turning away and stomping across the pavement to rejoin Naomi. I realize that I'm breathing hard, and my knuckles hurt from squeezing my hands into tight fists. Crap. Crap. And crap. “I, uh, think Milo's been persuaded to keep us on track if you catch my drift.”
“I can see that.” Naomi's voice is clipped. After a moment of staring over my shoulder, probably at the fucking soulless ginger dickhead, she scoffs and turns towards the plane. I think we're all at a point where it's becoming damn near impossible to shock us.
Dead Serious Page 11
