“I'm sorry I said that.” He pauses as we take our first step, right behind Jesse. The music swells and surges, like a tsunami, drowning me in the dying embers of the last song and filling my gently parted lips with the wicked fast beat of the next. “Well,” he shouts, leaning close to my ear, helping me down the stairs in my heels, “not sorry that I suggested it, but sorry that it came out that way. You deserve better.”
I don't say anything, just let my lips twitch in amusement as we pause near the bouncer and he studies us carefully, pausing on Ronnie like he's the straw that broke the camel's back, and pulling aside the chain to let us in. I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Sydney and Dax. Amatory Riot's drummer doesn't look so good. He's got dark bags under his eyes, drooping lips, twitching fingers. I hope to hell Sydney really is interested in him as a man because he could sure use a woman in his life.
I turn back to the crowd and allow Ronnie to act as my shield, wrapping his arms over my shoulders, draping his big body across mine to keep gyrating hips and pointy elbows away from my injuries. It's kinda cute, ya know? Having him protect me like that. Last guy I was with was more inclined to actually cause serious injury rather than defend me from it. Fuck you, Cohen. I hope you rot in hell, get resurrected, and have it happen all over again.
“For the first time in my life, I'm not irritated that I'm so small or that the guys around me are so fucking big.” I lean my head back, letting Ronnie's chin scrape across my scalp. He leans into me as we work our way to the bar. “You are drinking with me tonight, right?” I ask as he helps me onto a stool and turns to glance over his shoulder. His muscles remain tense until he spots Turner, fighting towards us and slamming his side into the bar with a deep breath. It takes a second but once people start to realize who we are, the stares begin. Granted, nobody tries to molest us, and the stares are coming from famous faces, but still. Even here …
“You hear that gnarly shit?” Turner asks, pointing up at the ceiling. I notice Ronnie visibly relaxes when his friend's in sight. “Not as good as our stuff, but still impressive.” Turner spins and puts his back to the bar, facing out at the crowd. Most of the rubberneckers turn away, but I see a few girls biting their lips, exchanging glances, wondering if they can get the famous bad boy into bed. I wrap my fingers around Ronnie's bicep. He might not be the lead singer, but I know he's never had trouble filling his bed before. If I have to, I will piss all over him and mark my territory.
“Ronnie,” I repeat and he turns to me, stepping closer, putting his hands possessively on my hips. “You are drinking with me, right?” His brown eyes find mine, searching them for a moment before he nods. I let a grin split my face and turn to the bartender. “Do you know what a Cherry Tootsie Pop is?” I ask and then decide to add, “and I ain't talkin' about the lollies.” I've done my fair share of partying in the past, and I know how localized and scattered drink recipes can be. At this point in my life, I'm more than happy to grab the fucking bottles and mix it myself. The woman behind the bar leans in towards me, eyes sparkling. She's excited to see us here. That's good. Maybe we'll actually be able to get some good service tonight.
“I don't, but I can look it up,” she shouts, tapping her pink nails on the countertop.
“Don't bother. It's all up here.” I point at my head and then hold up a hand, lifting fingers as I name ingredients. “Chocolate vodka, Red Bull, grenadine. Give us a couple rounds to start, babe.” I gesture absently at Ronnie and Turner and reach for my pocket, to grab the cash I stuffed there earlier. I might've gotten the pink slip from Ice and Glass, but I still made heaps of cash while I was at it. Ronnie grabs my wrist gently, drawing my fingers from my pocket and tossing some green on the counter next to me.
A moment later, he pulls me back, letting me turn in his arms until we're chest to chest.
The music switches to a jumpy pop song, from that blonde bitch, Cameron Koons.
Never bite the hand that feeds, baby. I got all you need to eat. I'm a glorious feast, so hop to this beat and BANG. BANG. BANG. With me. BANG, baby. BANG. BANG. BANG.
“I fucking hate her bloody songs, but they are catchy, yeah?” Ronnie chuckles and then pauses, looking at Turner over my shoulder. I pause and follow his line of sight, certain that he's never going to relax if he's this worried about his friend. Oh. Holy shit. Turner slams all three of the red shots lining the counter, faster than our poor bartender can make more. He coughs and leans over the bar, slumping onto my abandoned stool like the weight of his body's too much for him to hold up.
“You alright, bro?” Ronnie asks, but Turner just gives him this look of sheer misery. We scoot back a bit, trying to see if it's even possible to talk to one another with Cameron Koon's song pounding in our ears.
This is. Your time. To BANG. BANG. BANG. With me, baby.
Bass pulses through the concrete floor, shooting straight up my heels and making my entire body twitch as my muscles tighten and my spine twists, desperate to get moving. But poor Turner, poor fucking Turner.
“This is like déjà vu, bro. So bad. The song, the Red Bull, the club. I can't stop thinking of Naomi. Maybe it was a bad idea to come here?” Ronnie and I exchange a glance, and I step back, taking a spot on Turner's right while Ronnie heads up the left. I stand there and rub his back in circles while Ronnie tries to comfort him enough that we can be sure he won't run off and OD in the bathroom. Or grab one of the many eager faces around us for a quick little naughty. Not that I really think he'd do that, but sometimes people act weird when their life's in turmoil.
“She's going to make it, Turner. You gotta stay positive and fight through this. If the club's too much, we can have one of the vans take you back to the house.” Turner shakes his head and snatches the next shot that our bartender places on the counter. He downs it as I reach for my own and follow suit. Perfection. Tastes like a chocolate covered cherry. Brilliant. Ronnie grabs his own shot and drinks, giving me a look over his friend's back.
“Nah, I'm cool.” Turner reaches into his back pocket and comes up with a plastic bag filled with the powdery white perfection of blow. Shit. I force my gaze away, back towards the heaving crowd. It's almost as crazy in here as it is during one of our concerts. Almost. “I've got Snow White to keep me company.” He tosses the bag on the counter and nobody blinks. Two seats down from me, there's a girl with a fucking needle in her arm. I guess the boys in blue overlook this club, probably with a lot of gentle, green persuasion. I wonder who owns the place?
“Turner, you're a big fucking boy, so I'm not going to try to tell you what to do, but,” Ronnie puts his hand on the plastic bag, “if you're going to do this, do it, but please don't take it so far that I have to call an ambulance. Don't pull any Romeo and Juliet shit on me and pass out right when Naomi wakes the fuck up, you got it?” Turner rolls his eyes, but I can tell he's listening.
“Yeah. Whatever. Look, I had the best night of my life a few weeks ago, and it all started in this fucking club. Go play with Lola while you have the chance.” Turner pauses, and I can tell he feels like the mood's getting too serious. “She'll probably be pregnant soon enough anyway, and you'll lose your chance.” Ronnie smacks his friend in the back of the head and then steps away, holding out a hand for me.
“Sorry about that,” he whispers into my ear, his lips moving against my skin, breath warm as it stirs my hair. “I've just never … seen him like this before. I don't want Turner to lose his happiness. I know how that feels.” Ronnie exhales deeply and then stands straight, sliding his hands down my side. His mouth twitches, and I can tell he wants to ask if I'm okay, but he bites back the question, listening to my body as I start to move against him, letting the beat work its way into my blood.
“No worries, Ronnie. You know I like the fuck out of your face,” I say, poking him in the nose and then sliding an arm around his neck as our bodies start to sway with the wave of the crowd.
“I love the fuck out of yours,” he tells me, and my body goes hot from head to toe. Ou
r mouths connect, and I do my best to make him forget about the broken condom. I have a feeling that if he fixates on it, I won't get laid again for another two weeks. Ugh. These nice guys and all their silly morals and obligations.
I slide my tongue against his, tasting the sweetness of the shot, feeling the burn of alcohol in my limbs, swimming straight up to my brain. We kiss, even as the crowd begins to hop to another pop song. Our bodies move along with the mass of people until our mouths break apart with the motion and we dance with the group, letting the collective whole of the souls around us decide what movements we should make. As long as we're together, that's all that matters.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Sydney and Dax. She's moving with the music, gyrating and spinning, blonde hair tinted blue from the flickering lights overhead. Dax moves with her, but I can tell he's off his guts, totally fried. Poor guy.
I turn my attention back to Ronnie, just enjoying his company, the touch of his hands on my hips, the sweat dripping down his forehead. We manage to make it through three songs before the bar calls and we end up on either side of Turner again, ordering another round of drinks – buttery nipples this time, baby. After we finish these, I get us all blow jobs and no, I don't mean the usual dick sucking kind. These little bites of perfection are made with Bailey's Irish Cream, Kahlúa, and a squirt of bright white whipped cream on the top.
“Doesn't taste half as good as you did this afternoon,” I shout at Ronnie and laugh as Turner shakes his head in disgust and lays out two lines of coke, snorting them up in quick succession. He offers both Ronnie and me some, but we exchange a look and decide to pass. I know my limits. I can drink recreationally, sure, but if I start on the other stuff, I won't make it a week before I'm back in the bathroom with a little crystal to keep me company. “You want to dance with me?” I ask Turner, but he shakes his head, waving Ronnie and me off again.
We rejoin the crowd just in time to get a glimpse of a few figures moving across the stage that lines the entire back wall of the club. Just a few minutes ago, it was covered in people, dancing and making out and God only knows what else. Now it's empty but for a few folks in jeans, dragging equipment onstage like the best of roadies, hooking up speakers, setting a microphone center stage. Two guitars and a bass later, and there's a distinct buzz in the crowd, whispered voices and rumors coming faster than a teenage boy with a copy of his mum's Victoria's Secret catalogue.
Ronnie and I exchange a look a split second before a girl in a skintight aqua dress appears, the sparkles on her outfit gleaming like scales under the sudden spotlight that highlights her blonde form, turning her pale hair into a halo that's at complete odds with her wicked smile.
“Evening bitches,” she says and then chuckles, tugging her dress down in the front with one hand and holding her mic with the other. The crowd murmurs appreciatively, like they're excited to see her but not particularly impressed. I guess that's what happens when you perform for celebrity royalty, eh? “My name is Cameron Koons and I'll be entertaining you all for a little while.” Another laugh, one that's as fake as that smile. A band appears from offstage, moving like shadows behind the leading lady. I feel a scowl twist my lips. They might as well be invisible. Nobody cares who they are or why the beat that Cameron's singing to is twisting their soul, shattering their faces, making them bounce and dance across the floor. God, I hate soloists. Music as a solo act? Hah.
I let my head fall back and stare at the exposed ductwork high, high above us.
Ronnie reaches down and squeezes my hand, bending down to whisper in my ear.
“Another drink?” he asks and I groan.
“Oh, hell yes. I don't know if I can continue to have a good time with that bitch onstage otherwise.” I drop my chin back down and watch as a man joins Cameron, his shaved head gleaming in the lights, sunglasses on his face. When they start their first song off rapping together, I know I'm in trouble. Yuck. “Couple rounds of vodka shots never hurt anything, right?” I ask and Ronnie laughs.
I let him keep hold of my hand while we work our way back towards the bar. With Cameron onstage at the opposite end of the room, it doesn't take much effort to work our way back towards Turner who's scowling and shaking his head.
“I swear, I can't get away from this woman,” he growls as Sydney and Dax appear to our left. Sydney helps Dax onto a stool and lets him slump to the counter, wiping a hand across her sweaty brow and pinching her lips with worry.
I got this booty, booty and I'm gonna shake it til you blow your goody goodies. Never drove so fast in the backseat of a car, never danced so hard to such a sick ass beat. I'm gonna move it til you recognize my skill, boy, and I'm gonna fake it til I make it, okay, 'kay?
“This has got to be the worst song I've ever heard,” Sydney says, ordering up a round before I get the chance to. She tosses some cash on the counter and then runs both hands down her face. In the background, the rap finally dies away and the drums start up, shaking the walls and the floor, commanding how high the crowd jumps, how fast it pulses. Doesn't anybody realize here that Cameron Koons isn't making magic all on her own? I fucking hate pop stars.
“Bloody bush pig,” I mumble under my breath, tipping back my shot. Cameron's voice rises to a crescendo just before she breaks off and the guitarist launches into a weak little solo that's actually enough to set the crowd off like a frog in a sock. Hmm. Oh well. Who am I to judge, right? I slam another shot back and take a deep breath. The alcohol's just starting to get into the cracks of my brain, loosen up my muscles, push a slight smile onto my face.
“They're only excited to listen to this crap because they haven't heard a real musician perform live.”
“Oh no,” Ronnie says, reaching out and taking hold of his friend's upper arm. The two of them exchange a look. “Don't you dare do anything that I'll regret come morning. No fucking way. Without Naomi here, it's my job to keep you in line, Arkansas.”
“Fuck off,” Turner says, pushing back at Ronnie and rising to his feet. “I'm just going to pay a visit to the shitter, okay? No big deal.” Ronnie releases Turner reluctantly but watches him carefully as he pushes his way through the crowd with the false bravado of a cocaine high. Lucky bastard. I reach out a hand for Ronnie's and take hold of his warm fingers, dragging him back into the crowd and letting him wrap his body around me. I'm at that tipping point between drunk off my ass and still horribly alert. I just gotta let the alcohol work its way through my blood, just like a good song, something that can be played over and over and over again.
I push my body into Ronnie's with force, find his hands traveling over my ass, his forehead pressing against mine as we grind and sway with Cameron Koons and her puppet band. Ronnie's fingers slide along the waistband of my pants, warm my flesh with the slight brush of his, searing my skin as he teases me and smiles while he's doing it.
“You fucking asshole,” I growl at him, leaning in close so I can put my lips against his ear. “If you're going to tease, you better damn well deliver. One more dry spell and you'll really get to see what my dad and sister used to call the Crazy Banana Bender.” I pause and suddenly the situation doesn't seem quite so funny. My body slows and the burning flames I felt for Ronnie sputter out in an instant. Poppet. My chest tightens and I have to swallow three times to get past a lump in my throat.
“Oh, doll face,” Ronnie says, pulling me against him, sliding his hand over my hair and tucking me under his chin. “It'll be okay. We'll fight through this.” I close my eyes and let the strong bass beat reverberate in my bones. That's the thing about grief, I guess. It comes and goes and no matter how hard you try to fight it, eventually it'll getcha. Fuck. I sniffle and pull back a bit, just enough that I run my arm across my eyes and shake my head.
“I feel like a fucking tool,” I say, blinking suddenly and shaking my head. My booze-y brain swims as I sniffle again and glance back at the stage, watching Cameron as she basically fucks the stage, sliding across it in her ugly arse sparkly dress, licking
her microphone like a shitty Turner Campbell wannabe. I switch my gaze back to Ronnie and close my eyes against a sudden surge of emotion when he cups my face in his hand. “I'm a coward, Ronnie. For days now, I've been avoiding calling my dad. I mean, I guess he probably already knows about Poppet, but I have to talk to him. Why am I here, drinking and dancing, when I should be doing that?”
“You can't punish yourself every second of everyday,” Ronnie whispers, pressing his lips against my forehead, my cheek, my lips. “I've been watching you do it for weeks now, ever since Stephen showed up at the hospital that day. You can relax, Lola. It's okay to have a good time, even if you're grieving. The point of living through the tragedy is to actually live. You're a brave woman, even if you don't know that.”
“Pig's arse!” I snort and Ronnie laughs, pulling me close, enveloping me in his arms and the warm, masculine scent of his body. He smells like lilies and soap, but I could just be imagining the first part, thinking of that tantalizing little tattoo under his shirt. I close my eyes for a second and let us loose ourselves in the middle of that massive crowd. I know, I know, a nightclub seems like a pretty fucked up place to have a moment like this, but that's life, babe. Uncontrollable, unpredictable, downright fucking bizarre. “I … ” I almost say the words I love you, but the song dies down and the crowd explodes with wild murmurs, drawing my attention up and over to the stage.
“Fuck.” Ronnie's already looking that way, his mouth slightly parted, silver fillings glinting with the change in lighting overhead. The room darkens and a second spotlight appears on the stage. Only it's not the rapper dude in the sunglasses that's now up there with Cameron Koons, it's Turner Campbell. Well, fuck me runnin', that little asshole.
“Yo, yo, yo, Los Angeles,” he slurs, slamming his boots across the stage and pausing not five feet from an absolutely thrilled Cameron. Her pink tinged lips curl into a grin and her eyes shimmer. Even from back here, I can tell she's ecstatic about the change in the program. Gazes flicker our way, and even in the throng of people, it's suddenly not so hard to spot Jesse, Sydney, Dax, Wren, Kash. Lovely. “I just want to give a shout-out to my fiancée.” Ronnie groans here and shakes his head. “Naomi Knox,” Turner raises his hand and the crowd starts to titter, like a bunch of bloody birds in a tree, a flock that's just spotted a worm, “I love you, baby. I just want you to know that.” Turner sniffles and looks over at Cameron.
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