I trail after my friends, through a formal living room with enough custom woodwork to fund a small country's economy for a year. The more I see, the more skeptical I get. I mean, come on. This place is going to set us back tens of millions of dollars? Does that number even mean anything to Turner? I can barely wrap my head around it.
“Can we really afford this?” I ask Milo Terrabotti as he struggles to keep up with my bandmates, adjusting his tie as he goes. He gives me a very stern look, the skin around his face tight, but better than it was earlier in the day. Sometime between now and then, he found time to shower and change clothes. “Hey, I haven't even looked at my bank account since we hired you. I have no clue what kind of wealth we're talking about here.”
“Mr. McGuire,” Milo says as we emerge into a central courtyard and come face to face with the first of three advertised swimming pools. “Never underestimate the marketability of pain and agony.” Milo clears his throat and gives me another look. “Let's just say, if you boys decide not to work another day in your life, you and your families should be well taken care of.”
We finally catch up to my friends, standing at the edge of the pool, eyes fixated on the tropical greenery lining the edges, the miniature waterfalls, the artfully placed boulders.
“The whole place brings to mind a resort on the Italian Riviera, doesn't it?” Camby says, doing the schmoozing realtor act very, very well. Turner snorts and then spits into the pool which makes Camby turn a funny shade of pink.
“Never been,” Turner says, keeping his gaze focused on the perfect blue of the water like he's mesmerized. I look up, at all the palm trees and the broad leaf plants. To our left, there's a string of fancy pool chairs leading to a fire pit. On the wall above it, a TV hangs over the entrance to an outdoor cooking area, complete with refrigerator. Jesus, it'd be nice to live here. I mean, who wouldn't want to chill in a mansion in Beverly Hills, but the whole thing just seems … absurd.
“Turner,” I say and he turns slowly to look at me, dropping his shades back into place. The smile stretching across his lips says that, whether I think it's a good idea or not, this is where we're shacking up. All of us. Living together. Might sound a little weird when you think about – four adult men about to hit thirty, moving in with their various girlfriends (if Naomi agrees to this when she wakes up, of course), but for us, this is normal. Since we turned eighteen, we've been traveling together and sleeping in shitty hotels, in the back of our old van. When our music started to take off, we switched to fancy buses and five star resorts, but it's always been the same. Always been us.
I sigh and Turner chuckles under his breath.
“Would you like to continue the tour of the property?” Camby asks, looking at Turner like he's a God that she just doesn't understand.
“Nah, I'm good there, cupcake.” Camby nods like she expected this and clears her throat. Turner looks over at Jesse who smiles back at him. If only Trey were here to see. Milo dumped him in a hotel after he dropped us off at the hospital. But Trey does whatever Turner says, just like Jesse. If he was here, the outcome would be the same.
Crap.
Guess Indecency just bought itself a fucking mansion.
My heart starts to race, and my throat gets dry. Turner and Jesse look over at me and we share a mutual look of pain.
“If Travis was here, you know what he'd say, right?” Turner asks as he takes off his glasses again and moves a step backwards, towards the pool.
“That you were a crazy dumb shit, and this is the stupidest idea you've ever come up with?” I suggest as I watch my friend grin and wink at the real estate agent. She's under the impression we're not interested, but she's dead wrong. If she really knew Turner Campbell, she'd know he does absolutely nothing in half-measures.
“He'd say, raise your glass bitches, and let's do this shit.” Turner takes another step back, raising his arms out to either side of himself. “Candy,” he says, mispronouncing the woman's name. She snaps to like a soldier. “We'll fucking take it.”
And then Turner leans back and falls into the pool with a splash that makes Milo cringe and puts a weary smile on my face. I'm so going to regret this. I pull a cigarette out of my pants as Jesse whoops and jumps into the pool with our idiot of a lead singer. Camby looks confused but pleased and only one of her assistants wrinkles his nose when I light up my cigarette and watch over the boys like I've always done, like I'll continue to do. Hopefully, now that Lola's here and I'm finally starting to climb out of the hole I dug for myself, I can do a better job.
We'll survive. We'll get through this. Everything is going to be o-fucking-kay.
I close my eyes and take a drag on my cigarette, wishing Travis was here to see this, wishing he wasn't embroiled in a bitter battle that should never have even happened. My friend should be here alive to see his kid, to raise him, to jump in a swimming pool in Beverly Hills. But he's not, and somehow, someway, I'm going to have to find a way to make that right.
Turner smacks his gum outside the real estate agent's office and surveys the people around us. They're all pretending not to stare, but I can feel their eyes, like lasers. Each look leaves a tiny hole in my skin, a burn that I desperately want to reach my fingers up and itch. I know it's all metaphorical, but I can't help it. We look so out of place in this ritzy ass office, yet nobody blinks an eye at our ratty clothes or Jesse's paint splattered jeans. We're famous now and that trumps everything but rich. But oh, apparently, we're that, too. I just looked at my bank account. I almost puked at the number, but that was before Milo told me that only covers a certain portion of royalties and record sales, that the real money's in touring, merch, and public appearances, that we haven't even gotten paid for a lot of it yet.
“I don't see why we can't just move in tomorrow,” Turner's repeating for the fifteenth time since we got here. “I mean, for that much money, somebody should be in here on their knees sucking my dick.” I give him a look and he shrugs, worry for Naomi pinching his brow. False bravado aside, I see right through him.
“Real estate transactions take time, Turner,” I tell him and he sighs dramatically, sagging into a chair and putting his booted feet up onto someone's desk. I give them an apologetic smile, but the girl sitting behind said desk is staring at Turner with glitter dancing behind her green eyes. I'm sure she doesn't mind. “Just be happy I'm going along with this whole thing. I would've been okay in an apartment building worth a fraction of this place.”
“Nah,” Turner says, waving his hand dismissively. “You deserve this, Ronnie,” he tells me firmly and then pulls his sunglasses off to glare at me. “Lola deserves this, don't you think?” I sigh and glance over my shoulder, at Miss Lola Saints as she wheels her chair alongside a row of paintings that hang on the wall like an art gallery. When she sees me looking, she stops moving and smiles back at me. My heart skips a beat, and I have to look away to find the right words.
“I know you worked hard for this,” I tell him, because I do. If anyone deserves an extravagant mansion in the hills, it's my friend here. I smile and he rolls his eyes at me because he knows I'm about to get deep. Call it like a sixth sense or something – all my band members have it. “You always told your mom you were going to bury her in the shadow of your Beverly Hills mansion,” I say, and although it sounds like a morbid joke to some, we find it funny. You have to laugh about this stuff or the pain will eat you alive inside. Turner started third grade with no teeth, just a bloody mouth and a bunch of excuses. He used to have to sleep in the bathroom of their trailer because it was the only room with a working lock, just to keep a certain kind of step-daddy away. I remember the kids at school picking on him because he smelt bad and his clothes were dirty. I also remember beating the shit out of those same kids.
“Fuck that bitch. She's not good enough to be buried in my backyard.” Turner pulls his boots off the woman's desk and flips off the carpet. “Wherever you are, Mom, I hope the flames of hell burn bright.” He kisses the tip of his finger with a
flourish. A split second later, the real estate agent emerges from her corner office and smiles brightly at us.
“I've got some great news, Mr. Campbell.” My friend rises to his feet and we turn to face the woman's blindingly bright smile together. Milo's excused himself to the hall to make some phone calls and Jesse disappeared to the bathroom. I guess it's just me and Turner right now. “We've added in immediate occupancy to your offer and we've also asked the seller to consider allowing you to move in before closing. The property is vacant and does come fully furnished, so that's not a problem. It's just an issue of seeing if the seller will allow you to take temporary residence in the property as a renter.” Camby clears her throat and keeps smiling. “It's not normally a situation that a seller's agent would recommend, especially with a property like this, but,” Camby bites her bottom lip and takes a deep breath, “both the seller and their agent are huge fans. I asked her to present the offer and I may have hinted that perhaps they could be there when you get the keys?” Turner and I both shrug and Camby nods. “Alright then, we just have a few more details to sort out, and there's a very good chance you could be resting your head in Beverly Hills by tomorrow night.”
I take a deep breath and shake my hands out. This isn't just a big deal. This is huge. And it's not just the house. There's a part of me that knows as soon as we're settled in here, other, more pressing issues are going to float to the surface. Least of all finding out exactly what happened at that concert. The way my mind is programmed, I won't be able to rest until I've got every detail, uncovered every dirty secret, connected every dot. Once I've got a story laid out, I'll feel a hell of a lot better.
And then there's my kids. I think about them every fucking day now – a big change from the random thoughts that used to drift through my brain. I need to get Lydia back from my parents and see about getting Phoebe back from Shannon's. They're not gonna fucking like that. Their daughter was knocked up and abandoned by yours truly and now she's dead. A shiver travels down my spine and I have to tune out what Camby's saying to process the emotions. That's just the tip of the iceberg, too. How someone like me, somebody that's been fucked out of their mind for nearly a decade, is going to handle suddenly having to be a parent to a three year old and an infant is anybody's guess.
I lick my suddenly dry lips and glance back at Lola. If we're going to be a couple, a real couple, and that's all I fucking want in this world, then she'll have to be a part of my daughters' lives. I start wringing my hands, and I can feel a small pool of sweat gathering on my lower back. Shit. One day at a time, I tell myself as I try to drag my attention back to the current conversation. One day at a time.
Turner shakes hands with Camby, and I follow suit, smiling and nodding at whatever it is she's trying to say. When he turns to walk away, Turner puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Dude, you're getting the ghost look again. What's up?” I look back at my friend and try to take some solace in his strength. The girl I love is here with me, right now, while his soul mate lies comatose in a bed. If he can smile and swagger around and act like an idiot, I can at least pull my shit together.
“Too much thought and not enough action,” I say with a sigh. My lips tingle for a cigarette and my skin crawls with the desperate longing for a needle. But I can't do it. No more relapses. If I play my cards right here, I could very well end up with a normal life.
“Jesus Christ, Jesse, you must've been a birthing a Goddamn baby in there. No wonder the bus bathroom was never free.”
“Hey, screw you, Turner!” Jesse shouts back, and I sigh, meeting Lola's blue eyes as I feel my lips twitch in embarrassment and barely concealed affection for these assholes. Okay, so maybe a normal life isn't on the books for me, but it doesn't mean it can't be a good one.
Later that night, we're shacked up in a ritzy hotel and I'm finally able to stand up. I wobble like a fucking drunken emu, but I manage. Ronnie's right by my side, his fingers on my hips, his hot breath on the back of my neck. It's the first time we've been alone since the concert on Friday. Fuck, how many days ago was that? It feels like it was both yesterday and an eternity ago. How the hell does that even work?
“Hey, love,” I say and feel a slight flush of heat through my body at the word. Love. I love Ronnie. I can admit that now. Near death experiences are good for shocking the system like that. Now I just have to figure out how and when I'm going to tell the guy that. “What day of the week is it?”
“It's Friday,” Ronnie says and the word feels like it's fluttering against the back of my neck. My fingers curl around the door frame of the bathroom as I try to keep my feet. Collapsing to the burgundy and gold hotel carpet wouldn't exactly be the best way to convince Ronnie I'm feeling good enough for a wrestling match in the sack. “Feels impossible, right? That it's been a week since the concert?”
“Yes and no,” I say as he trails his fingers over my side and I turn, putting my back to the wall and looking into his brown eyes. I know there's nothing special about the color, not really, but something about Ronnie's gaze is mesmerizing to me. The depths of his emotions, the intensity with which he feels them, those are rare traits in a man. Hell, those are rare traits in anybody. I swallow and drag my eyes away, focusing on the dark window panes to my right.
When Ronnie reaches over and starts to pull up the loose jersey dress I'm wearing, I don't stop him. The lady parts flood like a Goddamn monsoon's brewing overhead, but I know this isn't about sex. He just wants – no, needs – to see what happened to me. I close my eyes and let Ronnie have a peek at my first ever official gunshot wound.
“I'm a certified badass now, aren't I?” I joke, but Ronnie doesn't laugh. His fingers travel across the bandages and then pause. I hear his breath hitch as he slowly peels away the gauze. Still, I don't look at him. I can't. Not yet. I wait until I feel the brush of air against the wound before I crack my lids and glance down. “I guess I got lucky,” I tell Ronnie, trying to smile. The expression won't stick to my lips. “The bullet passed through, missed my intestines and all that other good stuff in there. Lucky me, right?”
Ronnie takes the dirty bandage and dumps it in the rubbish bin next to the desk before retrieving the bag of supplies the hospital sent us home with. There are some painkillers – nothing I couldn't get from any roadie on the tour though – antiseptic ointment, clean gauze, some medical tape. We're supposed to change the wrappings twice a day. Well, I'm supposed to do it twice a day, but I'm lucky – I have Ronnie. I swallow hard, and I know without him even having to say it that he loves me as much, if not more, than I love him. I don't know how or why, but I'm pretty positive he fell for me that first day, when I approached him backstage and pretended to be interested in his assorted collection of gossip and travel stories. That's a drummer for ya. Always intense, focused, always in rhythm. I try not to smile.
His hands are gentle as he cleans the wound and replaces the bandage. I have to look away, not because blood makes me squeamish, but because the soft touch of his hands is too much. Blood and gore, I can deal with. Somebody like this, treating me like I really mean something, I don't know how to process that. My chest heaves and I have a hard time finding my next breath. When Ronnie reaches up and cups the side of my face, I feel tears threatening to squeeze out from under my eyelids.
“I'm sorry about Poppet,” he tells me, and his voice is so sincere that I feel sick to my stomach. I can't hold back the wave of emotion when he's looking at me like that, his dark hair falling across his brow, his full lips slightly parted. I lean into his touch and close my eyes again, letting the liquid drip down my cheeks. “I am so sorry that you got dragged into this.”
“It's not your fault,” I whisper back to him because it's really not, not at all. I should've been stronger, should've told Stephen/Tyler to go fuck himself when he approached Ice and Glass and tricked us into becoming his little minions. I wanted so much to be more than just a sugar farmer's daughter, something more than a girl who'd bet everything on traveling to anoth
er country to be with a boy. In all the ways Cohen Rose was rough, Ronnie is gentle. In all the ways he was weak, this man is strong. Maybe, somehow, fate knew I'd end up with Ronnie eventually? If I think about it now, all the pain and the heartache and the guilt, it feels like it was worth it, just to feel the touch of his skin against mine. “I wish I'd been a stronger person.”
“You are a strong person, Lola Saints. Listen to me.” Ronnie's voice brooks no argument, so I glance up and focus on the snake tattoos that wrap his neck. I meet the eyes of a cobra and swallow back another wave of tears. Fuck. I keep promising myself that I won't cry, and then I go and do it again. Damn you, Ronnie. “If you hadn't fallen prey to Stephen's promises, somebody else would've. Somebody with no conscience, no heart. You came to us and told us the truth, Lola. If you hadn't done that, who knows where this all would've ended up? Believe it or not, things could've been worse.”
“Is it over?” I ask, and Ronnie's silence tells me all I need to know.
“Over is a relative term,” he says, dropping his hand from my face and taking a step back. The soft black cotton of the jersey dress drapes over my form with a swish of fabric and I cross my arms over my chest before looking up at his face. “Here.” Ronnie holds out a hand and smiles at me. I reach out and curl my fingers around his, around the knuckles that spell out LOVE in black ink. “Sit down and I'll order room service. You should try to take it easy.”
“I've never had it easy,” I say and then cringe, realizing how bitchy that sounds. “What I mean is, I'm not sure if I even know how.” I move over to the edge of the bed with Ronnie's help and straighten myself out on top of the white linen with a groan. I'm feeling better, and the pain has definitely lessened, but bloody fuck, am I knackered. I close my eyes and rest my head against the pillows, enjoying the gentle reprieve from the chaos that has been my life for the past few weeks. It feels good, too good maybe, because before I know it, I'm asleep.
Doll Face Page 6
