“Look, I know I haven't given you guys much reason to trust me, but things are going to be different this time. Sure, my living situation's a little unorthodox, but when are you guys going to figure out that strange doesn't always mean inferior? Sometimes, weird shit's the best.” I can tell from my parents' faces that they're not buying what I'm selling. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, taste the sweet scent of sugar in the air. Knowing my mom, she's probably got something in the oven. I always thought that if she weren't so obsessed with being a mother and a housewife, that she might've enjoyed running a bakery or some shit. My mom can bake an apple pie like nobody's business. “Besides, I'm planning on working out a plan to get Phoebe – ”
My father's snort of disbelief explodes from his lips before he turns away and looks down at the floor with a sigh, planting his hands on his hips and shaking his head. Fuck.
“Dad.” I say the word firmly, looking past my mom and focusing hard on his back. I force my fingers to relax, make myself take long, slow breaths. After a moment, I glance over my shoulder and find Lola seated on the floor with Lydia, her dark hair swinging in her face as she smiles, as she takes a little metal truck from my daughter's hand and runs it up Lydia's arm. Lydia giggles, and I feel my own lips twitch. See. This is the kind of stuff I'm missing out on, the little everyday shit. I know it seems a little hypocritical of me to come bursting in here after three years, but when the clouds clear and you can finally glimpse a bit of sunshine in your life, you don't sit in the fucking dark with the blinds drawn. “Lydia is my daughter. I get that I'm in a transitional period, but as soon as I set up a bedroom for her, as soon as I feel like things have settled down a little, I'm taking her with me. For now, expect me here visiting five times a week or more.” I turn away and don't bring up Phoebe again. Maybe my parents know something I don't, or maybe they just don't trust me with an infant, I don't care.
I know what I want and what I need at this point in my life and nobody – a gun toting psychopath, a needle filled with liquid courage, my parents – is going to stop me from taking it.
Five days and absolutely zero fucks later, I'm so desperate for a naughty that I'm practically salivating, sitting here next to the pool and watching Ronnie as he swims laps. I don't think he's noticed that I'm here yet, but that's fucking fine with me. I'm more than happy to sit 'ere and watch his muscles ripple as he parts the water with strong strokes, propelling that perfect form of his through the water. His ink looks twice as bright submerged beneath the perfect blue surface, and I find myself sucking in a breath that I forget to let out until I get so lightheaded that I start to sway.
“You alright?” Sydney Charell asks, pausing next to me, a cuppa clutched in her hands and a sleepy look on her face that's at odds with the tightness around her eyes. As soon as Ronnie and I got back from that awkward little encounter with his parents, Sydney was standing in the living room having a screaming argument with her younger brother. After an epic fucking row, she stormed up the stairs and hasn't left since. I guess for now, she's living here, too. Just one big happy Goddamn family. Ah, the bloody irony.
I blow a puff of smoke out and do what I've been doing for days – forcing my mind away from the overwhelming wash of pain that comes whenever I think of my sister. It's been so bad that I haven't even gotten up the courage to call my father, to tell him, or to see if he knows. I mean, shit, he must, right? Nobody's asked me about the funeral. My throat gets tight and I take another drag on my durry.
“Just peachy, babe,” I tell her, snuffing the cherry out in a nearby ashtray and closing my eyes as a warm breeze breaks across my skin. I'm still torn between loving it here and being miserable. It's nice to be off the tour, away from Ice and Glass, away from Stephen, but somehow, I feel like we got off too easy. If I was a betting woman, I'd say this wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.
“I'd stay out of the kitchen if I were you,” she tells me as Ronnie breaks the surface of the pool and folds his arms on the edge, smiling at me with dark hair dripping into his face. I smile back and my heart skips a few beats. My cunt, not so much. She hits every beat, letting the desperation I feel downstairs hit me up top. My nipples get hard as rocks and I find myself crossing my arms over my chest to hide the reaction from Sydney. The fingers of my left hand and trail down and probe gently at my wound. I'm feeling a fuck of a lot better. Now, if I could only convince Ronnie of that. “Turner just got off the phone with the hospital. No change in Naomi's condition and nobody seems to know exactly why she's not waking up.” Sydney sighs and closes her eyes, getting out a cigarette of her own as she stands oblivious in her pink bikini. Tattoos stand at sharp attention from her arms, her chest, her sides. I think about what she said, about having a photo shoot sometime soon. I hope our shit doesn't derail hers.
“Gotcha,” I say, looking back at Ronnie as he climbs from the pool in his tight ass little budgie smugglers. They're so fucking small that they emphasize exactly how big he really is. My breath hitches and I have to force myself to look away. Sydney's staring off into the distance, eyes cloudy, arms hanging by her side. I want to say something to her, like how happy I am that she's here, but I'm not sure how to go about it. I need a friend right now, am fucking desperate for it. My subconscious whispers evil things, tellin' me I'm trying to replace Poppet with somebody else's sister.
I light up another cigarette as Ronnie moves across the pavement towards me, leaving wet footprints in his wake. The smell of chlorine mixes with the spicy sweetness of the tobacco, and I sigh.
“Morning, babe,” he says, leaning down and pressing his lips against mine. The gesture's so familiar, so personal and casual, I'm not really sure how to respond. My mouth, though, she's not suffering from the same mental hang-ups. I find my hand drawn to the back of Ronnie's wet head, my tongue diving into his mouth as a thrill of heat washes over me and I shudder. He feels it, I know he does, but whether he's refusing to acknowledge it because of my injury or because of the shit week he's having, I'm not sure. Phoebe's parents won't answer the phone and visits with Lydia are still stiff and uncomfortable. I had hoped meeting my new bloke's mum and dad would go over a bit better than this, but they hardly look at me. There's so much baggage between Ronnie and them that even though I can tell they love each other, they refuse to work past it. It's frustratingly as all fuck out. Or maybe I'm just horny? “Got any plans today?”
“Same as yesterday and the day before that. Same as tomorrow and a week from now. Nope, nope, and nope.” I smoke my cigarette as Ronnie stands up and nods at Sydney. “Why?” I look up at him as he grabs a towel from a nearby chair and wraps it around his hips, hiding that perfectly pleasant bulge between his legs from sight. Damn. “You do?”
Ronnie coughs into his hand and glances away, towards the outdoor barbeque area that none of us have used yet. That sort of thing's reserved for celebrations, and nobody in this friggin' house is in the mood to celebrate. Too many dead people, too much fucked up shit. I sigh and a cloud of gray smoke wafts in the air for just a moment, clinging to an oncoming breeze and whispering away through the palm trees. In the distance, I can hear a slight murmur of voices. There's a crowd out front, you bet your ass there is. Started off about two days after we moved in. I like to think it looks smaller, but that just might be my dying optimism having a go at me, the bitch.
“I got to get Turner out of the house for a while,” he begins, and I tilt my head to the side, trying not to focus too hard on that lily tattoo of his. If I do, I'm liable to cream my fucking panties. I'm so sex deprived! It's not fair. Not only am I a red-blooded woman with needs, but since I'm trying my best to lay off the good stuff – the drugs and the alcohol – I need something to keep my mind off the toilet that is my life. I try to tell myself that I'm livin' it up with a rock star, kicking the shit in a mansion with no responsibilities, but the reality's a lot less pretty than all of that. I'm a girl with no future, no band, no money, no visa. I'm afraid that if I blink, I'll find myself back to being a ca
ne cocky's daughter, picking up the dead mice that the cats always leave lying around the barn. “Anyway,” Ronnie continues, drawing me out of my thoughts. “I need to get Turner out and about and … ” He gives Sydney a look and she smiles, holding up her hands and backing away without a word. I thought privacy would be hard to come by, living in a house with all these people, but it almost feels like the opposite. I'm almost … lonely. “So we're going to get tested.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Tested,” I repeat, thinking of Ronnie, handing me a condom for a blow job. If he's that worried about it, I guess I should be glad. Instead, I just feel empty. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I want that life, that excitement back that we had at the beginning of the tour. Sure, I'm glad I'm not working for Stephen anymore, but I need something. Life. I need to see the wheels turning and the cart rolling along towards greener pastures. I'm just not sure how to make that happen. “Sounds like a bloody brilliant way to spend a day.”
Ronnie chuckles and reaches out a finger, drawing the whorl of his fingertip against my lips. I sigh and lean into the touch, my cigarette held out at my side, my chest heaving with desperation. Transition. Nobody ever told me it was a dirty word, but it is, and it's hard, and it sucks.
“Let me know the results as soon as you get 'em,” I say, pushing his hand away and rising to my feet. I look up at Ronnie's face because to look at his chest or his abs or his tattoos would be too much right now, and I make myself smile. “If you're clean, I wouldn't mind a bit of raw doggin', if you catch my drift.” His laughter follows me as I turn and head back inside, finding Sydney sitting in her bikini in the kitchen. Her breasts sit on the edge of the counter, propped up by the granite like they're too heavy to stay up on their own. Only I know that's not true. Sydney's fake ass tits are nice. I won't say I'm jealous, but they look good on her.
“Any word from Dax?” I ask, wishing for someone else's drama to come in and save me from myself. I open the fridge door, marveling at the expansive mass of stainless steel and step back, surveying the contents within. Since we can't easily go out right now, Milo ordered in groceries. There's more than enough leafy greens in here to last me a lifetime: tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and in the cabinet last night I found chia seeds and whole grain bread. Nothing I much feel like eating. I want some fucking takeaway, like a Mrs. Mac's Pie from the service station. My stomach rumbles and I press a hand over it.
“He's … staying at a hotel downtown. The same one you guys stayed at actually. I've only seen him once since the concert, and he doesn't look good. I know he'd hate to hear me say this, but he's a sensitive guy. He doesn't deserve all of this shit.” I hear a slamming sound and turn to find Sydney closing her magazine with more force than necessary, sitting up and staring at me from a pretty face surrounded by perfect blonde hair. Colorful sea creatures crawl across her neck and chest, her shoulders, her arms. I like 'em. Makes her seem more animated somehow, more alive. Don't understand anyone who doesn't have ink. “I want to see him again, but I don't know how to go about doing it. If I call, he answers, but what can I say? Me and him, we're nothing to each other.” Sydney sighs and purses her lips, blue eyes sparkling with something. I'm not sure what – anger, frustration, longing – but I can at tell that at the very least, she wishes they weren't nothing.
After staring longingly at the raw contents of the fridge, I close it, wishing they'd morph into something edible. My stomach rumbles again, and Sydney smiles.
“Think we could get a pizza delivered here?” she asks, and I shrug. I don't know shit about shit when it comes to 'celebrity' life. Pretty sure that's what Indecency qualifies as now. Can't turn on the fucking TV without seeing their faces, can't read a magazine without seeing an article, can't go online without finding them trending somewhere or other. This morning on Twitter, all I saw was #turnermotherfuckingcampbell, #indecency, #amatoryriot, #naomiknox, and #rocknroll. Pretty clear that the public mind is still firmly entrenched in our shit.
I reach across the kitchen island and snag an apple from the silver bowl there, biting into it and wondering if Milo Terrabotti intends on living here with his band. I'm not sure if I've seen him leave once since we got here. To be honest, I feel sorry for the man; he works his fucking ass off taking care of these boys.
“We could always call and tell 'em to bring our shit to the biggest, most ostentatious house on the block,” I suggest, leaning against the counter and closing my eyes against this brief slice of normalcy. I might be standing in a kitchen worth more than my family's entire farmhouse, but this feels real. I need real right now.
I open my eyes and watch Sydney reach out for her cell, sliding her fingers across the screen as I munch on my apple and wrinkle my brow. My body's itching for music. I want to hit a kit, slam my sticks and feel a beat work its way under my skin. If Ronnie happens to be standing behind me while I play, sliding his fingers along my inner thigh, reaching up to that sweet, hot space under my skirt … fuck. I bite my lip and shake my head, putting my fingers against my temple. One track mind, anybody?
“Yeah, that's great,” Sydney's saying, giving me a thumbs-up. I smile back at her and drop my hand, finishing off my apple and looking around for a rubbish bin. She gets up, still on the phone and smiles, kicking at a spot on the lower cabinets. A drawer pops out and voila, there it is in all its fantastical stainless steel glory. “Trash compactor,” she mouths as she pulls on the handle and opens it for me. “See you in forty,” Sydney finishes, hanging up her phone and giving me a raised eyebrow as I shake my head in disbelief.
“Whatever happened to a simple, plastic bin?” I ask, finding the situation suddenly funny. “Or, like when I was growing up, a freaking bucket? We'd just toss our rubbish in there and my dad would take it out and light it on fucking fire.” I poke the stainless steel with my foot and throw up my arms, tilting my head back and taking a deep breath. Shit, I don't want anyone to think I'm complaining about all this luxury. It's just … not me.
“Consider yourself lucky that you had a garbage can and a dad that gave a shit. My dad was always coked up and trying to figure out what his next scheme was going to be, you know, to get more money to buy more fucking crack.” Sydney laughs and leans against the counter like she actually finds her story amusing. I search her eyes for pain, and can only find the slightest sliver of pity. She's over her childhood, really over it. I'm impressed. “Anyway,” Sydney waves her hand and forges on with her story, “he used to just throw garbage, let it lie where it may, you know? So Trey and I, of course, followed in his footsteps. I think I was seven or eight before I realized it wasn't normal to walk around in a foot of smelly crap.” Sydney sighs and shakes her head, pointing down at the trash compactor. “So as ridiculously stupid as this thing is, I kind of like it.”
“Kind of like what?” her brother asks, wheeling himself into the kitchen and around the center island. Trey looks like shit still, making me feel like a complete horse's ass again. Seems kind of fucked that we'd both get shot, but that I'd walk away from it easy while he's stuck in that chair, suffering. The universe works in mysterious ways – most of them pretty fucked up. I try to smile at Trey and he returns the look with a wary one, like he doesn't trust me. Rightfully so, I guess. I have no idea what Ronnie's told him about me, but I hope this works out. I really do. The fact that these people are even still talking to me is a miracle – let alone letting me live in their house. I cross my arms over my chest and try to breathe. “What is that anyway?”
Sydney snorts and ruffles her brother's brown hair.
“It's called a trash compactor, dumb ass. You put garbage in and then you press a button and it smashes it all together.” She claps her hands and her tits jiggle like nobody's business. Trey notices and wrinkles his nose. “You don't have to take it out as often, makes life easier.” She shrugs and Trey scowls, like a Turner clone.
“Who cares about that? Milo says he's hiring a cleaning staff anyway.” Trey rolls himself back a few feet and
angles towards the fridge, reaching out to pull it open while his sister looks on in disgust.
“Cleaning staff or not, that doesn't mean you can just throw your shit on the ground. I hope you're aware of that.” Trey ignores her and Sydney sighs again, waving her hand dismissively and pushing off from the counter. “After the pizza gets here,” she says and then glances over at her brother, “and you're paying by the way,” he snorts but doesn't offer up a smart ass comment, “I was thinking of going to the hospital to visit Naomi.” Sydney pauses and glances away for a moment before turning her blue eyes back to mine. “Blair's there, too, and she's not doing well at all. I thought maybe Dax might show up … ”
Sydney trails off, and I smile.
“I'll be there,” I say, because if I'm going to make a life of it here, I'm going to need friends. Sydney seems like as good a place to start as any.
Naomi Knox looks beautiful, like a sleeping princess or some shit. If I believed in all of that fairy-tale crap, I'd be calling up Turner and asking him to stop by and give her a deep, sexy pash to wake her arse up. I cross my arms over my chest and lean back, looking down at the spread of blonde hair around her face, at Sydney as she combs out the tangles. In the fucking movies, people in comas always have perfect hair, don't they? But Naomi's was a rat's nest before we got to it. She still looks pretty though, like a fucking rock star.
“What happens if she never wakes up?” I ask, feeling yet another stab of guilt through the gut. God. I can't help but taste the impact of my involvement in all of this, like a blob of rotten fruit, molding and turning to mush on the tip of my tongue. No matter how hard I try, I can't wash away the fucking guilt. “What happens to Turner?”
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