When I pull away, I'm breathless.
I force my lips to smile as I look between the three of them.
“One minute!” America's yelling from her spot next to the black curtain.
I shake my hands out, take a deep breath and start moving. If I don't go now, I'll run away and never come back.
“Show time,” I mutter.
The lights are dim when I walk onstage, moving over to my cue – a white X that supposedly tells me the spot where I'm going to stand. Fuck that. I resist the urge to bend down and tear the tape from the stage floor. Nobody tells me what to do, especially not here. This is our show. Ours. I am going to own this fucking shit.
I take a deep breath and then bend down to grab my Wolfgang. The strap settles over my shoulders, the heavy weight of my black and white beauty calming me, reassuring me that I'm doing the right thing by being here.
“Good luck,” Dax whispers as he passes by me. I wait until Wren, Kash, and Blair take their places before I reach out and pause with my fingers hovering over the microphone. I was offered a wireless headset, but I'm not a fucking pop star. Screw that. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and center myself. I have the strongest urge to run back and grab my shades, but I don't. Eyes wide open, baby.
I flick the power button on the mic.
“Good evening, Los Angeles,” I whisper, my voice nothing at all like Turner's, not even like Hayden's. It's lower, rougher, more subdued. I swallow hard, enjoying the brief moment of darkness up here. Once the lights flick on, I'll be gutted and strewn across this stage, open for everyone to see.
The crowd murmurs and a cheer ripples through them like a wave in the ocean. This audience is huge, so much bigger than what we've dealt with before. Hayden is gone. America is insane. Everything is crazy and different and fucked up.
Doesn't matter.
I have to take this stage and own it. I have to. This is about the music.
I let my eyes scan the flickering glow of lighters and cell phones, trying my best to find the ends of the throbbing mass of humanity. Right now, from this vantage point, it seems endless.
I take another breath and it echoes through the auditorium. Above my head, the sloping roof glows with faux stars. Their beauty pales in comparison to the real thing, but I make myself look up, trying to find strength in the random scatters of color.
“This is supposed to be the Hayden Lee Memorial Show, supposed to honor a woman with fanatically impressive showmanship, tell the world we're sorry that she's gone.” The audience hangs on my every word, waiting. My throat goes dry, but my heart stays strong. In that split second, I make up my mind. “She killed herself. For that, I'm sorry, but Hayden could be ugly sometimes. Wretched.” I lick my lips and wonder if I'm making the right decision. “But she didn't deserve to go that way.” I wait in breathless anticipation for the sound to cut off, for my voice to drown in confused murmurs. But nobody cuts the power to the mic, and I keep talking. “She didn't deserve to be manipulated and dragged through the mud by two of the most selfish people I've ever had the displeasure of stumbling across.”
The lights above me flick on suddenly, and I'm left blinking at the crowd, fully exposed, my chest rising and falling as I struggle to catch my breath.
“In my opinion, she was murdered. As was my sister, Katie Rhineback. I'm sure you've all heard the news stories, but she wasn't a bad person. Katie was a wronged person. She did what she had to to protect herself.” I touch a hand to my chest. “To protect me. So. This song, this show, is not just dedicated to Hayden Lee, but to Katie Rhineback. And to their murderers, America Harding and Stephen Hammergren.”
Another breath, another thousand pounds lighter, another secret lopped off my list.
I smile.
My hand drops to my instrument.
I start to play.
I lean back into my guitar, strumming the strings with my pick as fast as my hands will allow me to go. My new tattoo throbs, but I try to take strength in that pain, let the thread of it tie me to Turner Campbell. That asshole. The thought of him makes me smile, helps drag that inner Naomi out and let her take control of my body, let her own this horrible little outfit that leaves way, way, way too much skin exposed. Whatever. I have the body. I have the music. I have the voice.
Wren backs me up, no-holds-barred, blasting his instrument into fucking outer space, tearing up the back corner of the stage and making sure I'm aware of his presence. Kash sits in the back and drives this bass beat into our ears that hurts so good I want to cry. As for Blair, the haunting lull of her keyboard cries in the backdrop, like another voice, an echo to my own.
I listen for Dax's kit, let his booming beats drive me up to my toes, let him tell me when to bounce, when to spin around, when to move to the front of the stage and squat low, bleeding my guitar's blood across the crowd.
I rise to my feet, using the muscles in my legs to stand up fluidly, gracefully. I can't let anyone see me fail now.
I scoot back, pause next to microphone and open my lips for that first scream, a growling crawl that breaks from my throat and tears the audience to pieces. They're no longer stunned by my speech. Now they're just lost in the music. It'd be pretty fucking difficult not to succumb to the seductive lure of my axe.
“OFF with their heads,” I snarl, shaking my blonde hair back and forth and taking a few more steps back. I grind my guitar into my crotch, fucking it twice as hard as Turner fucked me last night – and that's saying something.
Boom, boom, boom.
Dax's bass drum signals my first guitar solo, one that takes precedence even over the lyrics in this song. My head is bobbing up and down and my body's following as the fingers of my left hand fuck my fret.
Rawr.
I start to bounce and then drop my head low, over the top of guitar, swinging my shit like a dude in an eighties hair band. The time signatures in this part of the song are constantly changing, trying to fuck with my head, trip me up, knock me down.
I refuse to fall.
My solo wraps up and the beat fades away behind me. I clutch the mic with two sweaty hands and breathe hard against it.
“If you don't want to see, then look the fuck away.” I sing the words as clearly as I can, enunciating each syllable until I'm positive they're etched into the collective brain of the crowd.
I pause; my band picks up the empty space for a moment and then lets the music die again.
“This,” I hiss, as the song begins again anew. “Is a call to fucking ARMS!”
I bounce back and start fucking my Wolfgang again, wishing I could move more freely around the stage, almost missing Hayden's presence. But I do want to sing, I do. I just fucking love playing the guitar. This forty bar beast refuses to be leashed, dragging my hands down to the depths of hell, so I can play for the devil. I love every second of it.
“Look the fuck away if you can't breathe, if you can't answer this call to arms. Look away if the truth hurts so good you can't see. If you don't stand up for the strong, you'll only be one of the weak.” I let my voice lace through the microphone, each word like a handful of grasping fingers, launching itself into the audience to rip off some fucking faces.
I spin around and shake my shit, feeling my tongue slide over my lips as I close my eyes and melt into the sound.
“My love bears a warning. It's a call to arms that I'm just starting. Rally the troops and bring the blood.” I lift my hand away from my guitar for a moment, sliding a thumb across my throat. “Off with their heads. Let the blood spill and the broken hearts kill. It doesn't matter where I've come from, it's where I go. So off with their heads. Off with their heads.” I drop my voice low. “Off with their heads.”
“OFF WITH THEIR FUCKING HEADS!” My band's voice unites into a single sound. It might be a morbid message, but I feel like it's accurate for our current situation.
“Look the fuck away if you can't breathe, if you can't answer this call to arms. Look away if the truth hurts so good you can't see
. If you don't stand up for the strong, you'll only be one of the weak.” I spin in a circle and then lift my hands up and away from my instrument, letting Dax and Kash blast the stage together, just a bass and drums. Together they make up this primal sound that forces my body to move.
I pull my guitar up and lift it behind my head, resting it across the back of my shoulders as I grind my hips in circles and drop to the floor. I can feel the muscles in my thighs screaming at me, but I don't care. I don't give a flying rat's ass about anything.
I drag my Wolfgang down my side and slide it between my legs, moving my hips across it before I lift it back up and run my tongue along the neck. A quick spin on the straps and it's back in front of me where it's supposed to be, guiding me, teaching me, letting me scream my frustration out through my fingers and my throat.
“OFF. WITH. THEIR. FUCKING.” I stop, gasp in a massive breath and snatch the microphone in both hands, tonguing the shit out of it with the final word to the song. “Heads.” The word comes out in a moaning whimper, and then I take a bow, letting my head hang low as the crowd explodes like a fireworks show, bursts of bright color and sound.
Sweat drips from my forehead to the stage floor, but I know I'm not done yet. I am just getting fucking started.
I am freaking the fuck out back here.
Watching Naomi in that outfit, with that guitar, with that … confidence. I want to fuck the shit out of it. Her confidence. And her.
I can't stop reaching down to adjust myself, pretty Goddamn certain that I'm going to blow a load in my pants today. It's pretty much inevitable.
“Turner.” Ronnie's trying to keep me grounded, keep me focused on the fact that tonight is just perfect weather for a shit storm. But all I want to do right now is get on that stage and sing with her. With my one woman. I growl low in my throat when his fingers grab my bicep.
“Let go of me,” I snap at him, tugging away and stalking to the edge of the curtain. Naomi's bent over, sweat dripping enticingly down her body. When she stands up, the lights dim, and roadies scurry past me with water bottles in their hands.
When the lights next switch on, I intend to be standing next to her.
“Naomi just called out two people that really don't like to be fucked with, Turner. Remember Little Rock.” His words make me pause, pull my attention away from my Goddess for a split second, just long enough to catch sight of Cohen Rose smiling sharply at the two of us. I don't know what that expression means, but I don't like it. I spare a glance for Lola, sitting on the floor at the break in the curtain, waiting with her duffel bag in her lap.
“I remember.”
“Trey got lucky, Turner. You and Naomi, you might not get lucky, do you understand me?”
I turn to glare at him. It's not Ronnie I'm mad at. It's just … I'm frustrated. This is our show, our moment, our connection. I want to sing with her so bad my chest is aching like I can't breathe.
“You want me to hide back here? Is that what you're asking?”
Ronnie licks his lips and shakes his head, pulling up that seemingly infinite well of his patience he carries around to deal with me. His fingers tug at the fabric on his black Indecency T-shirt.
“No. I just want you to be alert. I know how easy it is to get lost in the aura of the person you love.” Ronnie swallows and closes his eyes, pain clamping down around his skull like a vise. “I know that, and I also know how hard it is to lose someone. Just stay alert and be careful. That's all I'm saying.”
I nod at him, listening to the gurgling war cries of the audience.
It's time though. I have to go. This is it.
I step up beside Lola, looking down at her and meeting her eyes for a single moment. The energy that passes between us is weird, but I brush it away. It'll be okay. I'll protect Naomi. And my friends. It'll be fine.
I take a deep breath.
Milo's there in a split second, putting his hand on my chest.
“We've got a second microphone for you. Everyone wants to see the two of you together; that's what they came for. But Turner, remember, this is a memorial concert. Try to act appropriately?” He tries to smile, but his face is tired, drawn down. He heard what Naomi said to the crowd. Maybe he knows what she was talking about, maybe not, but nobody here is under any illusions that things are peachy fucking keen.
I accept the microphone handed to me by Spencer Harmon, holding it tight in my right hand.
I look up, catch sight of Naomi in the shadows. She's waiting for me. I know she is.
Well, I'm not one to make a woman wait.
I move forward, my feet sounding ridiculously loud against the wood beneath my boots.
“Hey there, beautiful,” I whisper as I pause next to her, smelling her sweat and her enthusiasm. And her fear. There's not a lot of it, but it taints the air around us. I taste some in the back of my own throat, too.
“Hey there, asshole,” she whispers as the lights start to brighten, revealing us slowly, like the sun reveals the world with each and every sunrise.
Naomi and I exchange glances.
Her hand drops to her guitar.
I grin.
“Hey there LOS ANGELES!” I screech, rushing forward, pausing at the edge of the stage. I let my eyes trail over the VIP section in the front. There's a cordoned off area, surrounded by steel fences. Inside of it, there's a much smaller portion of crowd to focus on, faces I can actually see. Strangely enough, I see the bouncer from that metal show last night. Heh. Guess that bitch really did call in a favor from Milo. The rest of the people there either paid too much for their fucking VIP ticket or are related to the band in some way, shape, or form.
I don't see anything out of the ordinary.
Behind me, Naomi starts up her guitar and Amatory Riot follows.
“You're fucking incredible, really.” I breath in hard and stand up, stalking back across the stage. I feel like me when I'm up here. Like the Turner Campbell I'm supposed to be. I could rule the fucking world. “Seen some pretty great shit tonight, right?” The crowd whimpers and moans in response to my words. “But you ain't seen nothing like this.”
I move up behind Naomi as she plays, stroking her guitar like I wish she'd stoke my cock. I grab her hip with my right hand and keep hold of the mic with the other. Our bodies grind together as I smooth my fingers along her flesh and grope her ass. Her response is to lift her right leg up and back, giving me a pretend kick in the nuts.
The audience melts into a dark blob, just a shaking, twittering lump of peons. They're waiting for their orders, and I'm going to give 'em to them.
“I want complete. And utter. Fucking absolute. Maniacal Goddamn chaos.”
Dax's bass drum pummels me from behind, building up that tension, drawing it to heights that even God would envy.
“Now MOVE.”
I spin around, swinging the mic with me and catch it in my left hand.
“Forget,” I breathe, making out with the microphone, wishing it was Naomi. I suck in a massive breath and turn, storming across the stage to stand by the side of the only woman I've ever fucking loved. This song we're playing now, it's the very first one we sang together. We've come full circle right here. “Forget me forever. I've destroyed you one too many fucking times.”
I raise my right hand up, leaning against Naomi as she grinds on her axe, setting the crowd aflame, shipping those motherfuckers out to be burned at sea like Goddamn vikings. Val-fucking-halla, baby. Your ship has arrived.
“Bleeding, broken, buried beneath,” I snarl as Naomi steps up to her own mic and blends her voice with mine. We exchange a look and then it's as if only one voice comes out those speakers, hers filling in mine where it's too hard, mine toning hers down if it's too rough. Harmony. I love the shit out of that.
“Torn and trembling, take me in your arms, but know that it'll be the last time.” I crawl forward, letting the beat of the song carry me up to the edge of the stage again. My mic drops to the floor, screeching its anger to the Rock Gods above
. Naomi fills in for me while I scan the crowd again, just in case, just because Ronnie asked me to and not because I really believe anything's going to happen.
“The last. The last. The last FUCKING time!” Naomi's voice pierces through my skull like an arrow, bleeding me out through the wound, letting that hot redness soak my body as I lift my shirt up over my head and slide my fingers down to the waistband of my pants. I undo the button and pull the zipper down, but that's as far as I go. The rest of my junk has Naomi Knox written all over it – literally.
As Naomi launches into the instrumental portion of the song, dropping back and lining up with Wren, slaying the crowd with two blades instead of one, I squat low and snatch a discarded water bottle from the floor. This is all part of the show – it's just what I do.
But then I see something that catches my eye.
See, everyone here is wearing black and chains and torn up jeans. We are tatted and pierced and fucked up and broken and bleeding.
It's ridiculously easy to spot America in her white suit. She's like a pimple on a pretty face.
What the fuck?
She's moving quickly, sliding between rapturous faces, upturned to absorb the glory of their gods. She holds her arms stiffly at her sides, raising them only when she comes up against the back of a man in a black woolen jacket. A man with a horribly familiar face.
Oh shit.
“Tearing me up, shredding me inside; my walls are coming down in flames.” Naomi's voice is hauntingly ethereal, like the laughter of a ghost who found this world too beautiful to leave behind.
No. No. No.
Why did I say ghost? Why did I even think ghost?
I start to stand up, to turn, to go to her when I hear a gunshot.
And another.
And another.
All coming from stage right.
“Naomi!” I forget about the show and the crowd and America. She can kill Stephen for all I give a fuck. I close the distance between us and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her to me roughly and knocking her fingers away from her guitar.
Dead Serious Page 18
