Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  My hands come up and slide over the sides of his face, into his dark hair that's slowly turning blond at the roots. I let myself get wrapped up in it as I draw his face to mine for another kiss.

  As our mouths meet again, my body warms with the reality of the situation.

  I don't want to let go of Dax. And I want to fall in love.

  Add those two things together and you've got the basic ingredients for the most deadly recipe on the planet.

  Romance.

  I am so fucked, aren't I?

  Pink fucking stilettos—with leopard fur trim. That's exactly the kind of trashy retro chic bullshit I like to wear, especially when I can purchase them with my own money. I slide my debit card across the counter and nibble at my lower lip, tasting pink lemonade lip gloss and just a little bit of blood. Nervous habit of mine and I've been doing it all goddamn day. I managed to wrangle my way out of taking a bodyguard for this little outing of mine. Well, okay, so I actually kind of snuck out, but who the fuck cares? My little brother? Screw Trey and his sudden overprotectiveness.

  I may or may not have left his crippled ass lying on Ronnie and Lola's bed when I left. Maybe that'll teach the little bitch some humility.

  I glance around the store, at the racks of used clothing and the few mingling patrons. Ain't nobody lookin' my way, so I think I'm clear. Who the hell's going to recognize me anyway? I'm not a member of either band, only very loosely connected to them in the first place. Part of me wants to take some of Trey's money and just get as far away from here as I can, but I know I can't do that. I won't do that, not to my boys, all the little brothers I collected with Trey over the years. Ronnie might be able to handle himself, but Trey, Turner, and Jesse? Nah. If I got on a plane today and left, they'd probably all be dead within the week, and even worse—broke. Somebody has to stick around and make sure they don't fuck everything up. True, they managed to get along without me for a long time, but then again, just look at the mess they got themselves into in the first place. Even Travis, God rest his fucking soul, managed to screw up so badly he makes the government look efficient.

  And all of that still isn't the real reason I'm here.

  Fucking Dax McCann.

  My body breaks out in goose bumps and my breath catches. Shit.

  I snort and shake my head, relieved when the cashier hands me my card back. I know there's money on there, but I'm not really sure how much. When I get anxious about something, I stop paying attention to it. Running out of money? Well then, don't look at the account. True story that it gets me into trouble sometimes, but I like to live carefree, ya know? And even now, knowing that Trey's rich enough to wipe his crippled ass with hundreds, I can't shake the poor, can't push off the trailer park. It's a part of me and I think it always will be. Not necessarily a bad thing in my opinion.

  Now if I could just stop ignoring the other big thing that I'm anxious about. If you guessed that corpse we left in KK's hotel room, you'd be wrong. It starts with a D, ends with an X, and has zombie tats on its arm. Yup. That. I am still on the subject of that.

  “Have a nice day,” the cashier says as I loop my fingers through the toes of my secondhand shoes and slide them off the counter. I give her a wink and a snap of my gum and then I'm out on the street, standing in the sunshine and wishing I had my fucking convertible with me. Milo says he'll take care of it, but who the hell knows?

  People move around me, shopping bags swinging, focused on whatever dose of daily drama they've been dolloped for the day and me, I just enjoy the anonymity of it all. No crowds, no bodyguards, no bullshit.

  I love it.

  But then I also miss Dax.

  “Jesus fuck,” I snap, tossing my shoes onto a bench as some old wrinkled lady narrows her eyes at me and makes the sign of the cross over her chest. Eh, I'm used to it. I flop down and dig a cig from my bag, lighting up and breathing out a puff of smoke to join the smog hovering over the city. I hate Los Angeles. “City of Angels, my ass,” I mumble, leaning back and draping my arms over the back of the bench. Chilling on Melrose Avenue all day might be alright, but I can't sit here and dream about a boy with gray eyes and ice cold fingers sharp enough to chill me to the bone. I shake my head and drop my smoke to the cement, crushing it out with the toe of my purple heel. Fucking Dax. If I'm honest with myself, I know why my brain's all twisted up in a funk, and it's not just because I somehow managed to lose my modeling contract with Tattoo Terror.

  Or that I got screwed into a dirty hotel mattress like a wood screw.

  Nope.

  It's not the sex that's freaking me out. It's everything else.

  I've got a crush. A big one. And it hurts so bad it's almost good. I might be out on the town right now, but my mind is still in that hotel room with Dax. If I hadn't leapt out of bed post-orgasm and taken off like an Olympic sprinter, I'd probably still be laying there cuddling Amatory Riot's drummer.

  Ahhhhh. I really need a girlfriend or two or ten to talk this shit out with. Wake up, Naomi fucking Knox. Some estrogen tempered advice would totally rock right now.

  I sigh again and run my hands over my face while the sun beats mercilessly down on me and tries to dig its nasty little melanoma fingers into my flesh. I could go home, make myself some fruity cocktail, lounge by the pool and bitch at Lola. She's definitely solid GF material. But I made myself a promise today, and I'm not going to let some tiny, little, teensy-weensy problem like true love stand in my way.

  Hah.

  “Screw this.” I force myself to my feet and pull my phone out of my purse. I have the address for the studio right there, plugged into my contacts and ready to go. Nobody wants to answer my emails, my phone calls, my texts. Fuck 'em then. I'll go in person.

  Sydney Charell in person is almost impossible to say no to.

  I smirk and hail a taxi.

  Not everyone believes in ghosts and shit like I do, but if they saw this woman's face, they'd change their mind real fast. She's white as a sheet—and that's with a spectacular LA tan coloring her features. Guess my presence is enough to drain the blood right out of those plastic surgery perfect cheeks of hers.

  I raise a blonde brow.

  “You deaf, woman?” I ask, splaying my multi-colored fingernails out across the quartz countertop. “Sydney Charell, look me up.” I point down at the iPad lying abandoned on her side of the desk and try not to let Crazy Sydney out to play. My emotions are all over the fucking place right now, twisted up in dreams of a man so broken and shattered that all I want to do is devote my free time to fixing him. Dax McCann, you dick. I drum my nails on the counter and watch as the woman straightens out her designer suit jacket and takes a deep breath.

  “I know who you are,” she says and then lets her mouth settle into a practiced professional perfection that bugs the ever living crap out of me. I can smell rudeness like a thousand miles away, and I'm just about ninety-nine percent sure she's about to say something we'll both regret in the morning. “You're that stripper we scouted.”

  I purse my lips and take a step back. I could go all Turner Motherfucking Campbell on her ass and slap a bitch, but then I'd probably get arrested for assault. People don't seem to know how to handle their crap without getting the cops involved. Whatever happened to being able to brawl for your own honor?

  I glance around at the potted palms, the expensive white leather chairs, and the polished concrete floor. Outside, it's a million degrees, dusty and warm and so … so So Cal. In here, in typical Los Angeles fashion, the air conditioner's blasting away, turning my nipples to hardened points. The secretary notices and curls her lip, but I don't care. This bitch is nothing to me; I've met a thousand like her. It's real easy to look down at someone else because you don't understand, because all you know about their life is what you've seen in movies. Being a stripper sucks, but so does sitting in a cubicle all goddamn day. It's a job, just a job, and it doesn't define me. Then again, I'm also not ashamed of it either.

  “Yes, I'm that stripper that you scouted an
d then subsequently canceled on. I want to speak to …” I pause for a moment trying to remember the name of my contact, the woman I was supposed to meet with a few days ago to get ready for the shoot. “Mag Delano. Can you see if she's in, please?”

  “Mag doesn't take walk-ins,” the woman says, snubbing me and pretending like she didn't shit a brick when I walked through those doors and announced myself. “If you have an appointment, I'll be glad to show you in. If not, I'm sorry, but you'll need to check our website for further information on the application process.” The woman smoothes her beige skirt underneath her and sits down like the conversation's over. To me, it hasn't even started yet.

  “I actually had an appointment, a few of them to be quite honest with you, one of which was supposed to be today, right here, right now.” I get the chills just thinking about it, about the fact that this was going to be my big break, the day of my first shoot. Somewhere in this massive building, I'd be behind a camera with my body on display like a frosted cake. This was my fucking opportunity to change shit, to make thirty a milestone year that I'd never regret. “Now, I was told someone would contact me about rescheduling, but nobody seems to want to talk to me at all, including you. Don't think I missed that look on your face when I walked in here.” I point at the secretary; I've noticed people really fucking hate being pointed at. It's a good way to piss someone off without actually doing anything at all. “Now, get me Mag Delano. She's not such a big shot that she can't see me on short notice.”

  “Miss Charell.” The voice behind me sends a sharp chill down my spine, a sense of foreboding that makes me clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. The fuck is this asshole doing here? I turn slowly and stare at Brayden Ryker with all the confusion and frustration that I'm feeling right now.

  “Stalker, much?” I ask with a brief lift of my shoulder. See this guy here, he gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies. He didn't, but he does now. After everything that happened at the concert, and the way he covered it all up, he's about as transparent and readable as a report from the CIA. I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. Considering he's probably a good two hundred pounds heavier than me, that's not all that far.

  Brayden Ryker crosses his arms over his chest and smiles at me, all bright and cheery like. Jesus H. Christ. Maybe he found the body? I turn back to the secretary and lean over, giving her my best shark smile, all teeth and no happy.

  “Why don't you just take down my number and have Mag call me back when she gets the chance? Seems like something's come up.” The bitch behind the counter very grudgingly hands me a business card and a pen, waiting with pursed lips while I jot down my number and toss it back to her.

  When I turn back to look at Brayden, he's gone, standing outside the glass doors in the harsh yellow sunlight and the oppressive city heat.

  “You following me or something?” I ask as I step out next to him, lighting up a cigarette and asking myself why, why, why I had to get involved in all of this shit. I stare the security guard up and down, from his boots to his sleeves of floral tattoos. For someone who's in the business of protecting others, he sure does let a lot of people go six feet under. “You're not really in security, are you?” I ask and Brayden shrugs, like he has no intention of answering my question.

  “Do you like music, Miss Charell?” he asks me as I lean back against the glass windows behind me and hope to hell I'm leaving prints or streaks or something that the secretary will have to come clean off. Knowing Los Angeles though, it'll probably be some poor, underpaid sap with too much work and no respect. I stand up straight.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, tilting my head to the side and letting blonde hair cascade over my shoulder. “Mostly eighties stuff, the occasional pop song. I guess I like rock 'n' roll okay if my brother's not involved.” I smile tightly. “Why do you give two fucks about any of that?”

  “I don't actually, but I figured I'd make small talk while we wait for the van.”

  “What fucking van?” I ask as a white mini makes its way around the corner.

  “That one,” Brayden says, curling his fingers around my arm. “Get in.” The strength of his grip tells me that's not a suggestion – it's an order.

  “Are you pissed about that whole leaving-a-corpse-in-KK's-hotel-room thing?” I ask as soon as the van doors are closed against the sweltering heat. There's no point in beating around the bush; Brayden must know about the body by now. He might be a shitty security guard, but I get the feeling his inadequacy in that area is by choice. The man is a perceptive beast. “Because you totally started it, and I'm definitely not apologizing.”

  Brayden ignores me, draping his arms over the back of the seat and closing his eyes for a long moment. I keep my legs crossed and pretend I don't give two shits about being almost, sort of, kind of kidnapped by the sexy Irish brute.

  “What's your deal anyway? Leaving a dead body in a bathtub? I mean, I'm no saint, but that's kind of fucked up.”

  “That was clever, using the wheelchair and all. Did you think that one up on your own?”

  “Maybe,” I say, tapping my fingers against my thigh and wishing I was anywhere but here. Preferably naked in front of a camera at the Tattoo Terror studio. Instead, I'm weaving through the streets of Los Angeles in the back of an nondescript white van with Oregon plates. Fun. “Why? You looking to hire some new recruits? Because I need a job and let's just be honest, you suck at providing security.”

  Brayden laughs, but the sound's all crispy and bitter and broken, like this is a man that's got nothing left to lose. Wonderful. And that doesn't make him seem scary at all.

  “Sydney Magnolia Charell, how do you like your life?”

  “That's not a weird question at all,” I say, folding my arms over my breasts as the radio switches to an Amatory Riot song and Dax's drums come pummeling out at me. The sound gets under my skin and makes me shift in my seat, leather creaking under my skintight jeans. My sore pussy is a nearly constant reminder of what we did earlier this afternoon. Can't escape an ache in the seat, huh? “Can't complain, I guess. I'm not on the pipe, not working as a prostitute, and currently in possession of all four of my limbs. Why?”

  “Because you're marked by the families,” Brayden drawls, like he doesn't give a fuck that he's speaking in tongues and freaking me the hell out. I'm not gonna end up broken and buried shallow, am I? “Well, one family anyway. I have no clue what's up with the other.”

  I turn to Brayden and steeple my hands against my lips.

  “Okay, look, this is gonna sound a little … bitchy, but can you speak English? Like, in a way that I can understand because marked by the families really doesn't mean shit to me.”

  Brayden Ryker leans in close, his moss colored eyes locking down on me. If I was a weaker person, I'd crumble under that gaze. But fuck, I've been stripping since I was sixteen and I have seen some shit. I'm not even sure there's a person alive today who could break me with a stare.

  “Imagine you have … money. Lots of it. Enough that you can have anything you want. Anything.”

  I raise an eyebrow and reach up, flicking my pink triangle earring with my fingers. It was my mom's. She wore it when she was hot shit in the eighties. I kind of have a thing for that decade. Can't help myself.

  “Okay … that's sort of like asking me to imagine a triangle with four sides, but shoot. Keep going. I can follow a train of thought like nobody's business.”

  “Now imagine that you'd lost your appreciation for even the most basic of things like luxury or comfort or sex.” I lift the other brow and part my lips with a pop.

  “Continue.”

  “Then imagine that the only things you give a crap about, these very rare, very special things are then taken away from you by someone you hate.”

  “Can you wrap this up,” I ask as I spin my finger in a small circle. “Because I have a feeling you're about to lay some shit on me.” I should've stayed back at the house with the boys—or in the hotel with Dax. I swallow hard and close my ey
es for a brief second, opening them back up with a flick of lashes.

  “So, what do you do?” Brayden asks, tilting his head to the side as we pull around the block and come right up to the gate of the mansion. Full circle. Everything always comes full fucking circle.

  “I get those things back?” I ask, not sure if there's a right answer to this question.

  “And if you can't?”

  “Then I guess I'd settle for a steaming hot plate of good ol' fashioned revenge.”

  Brayden Ryker smiles wide at me, leans over and opens the door to the van.

  “Exactly. So forget about your contract, forget about Mag Delano, and forget about a future if we can't figure this shit out. Fight the tide and you'll lose. Trust me, I tried that once and it didn't work out so well for me. Now, get out and don't leave the house again without a goddamn fecking bodyguard.”

  “Do you ever use ankle weights when you practice?” Ronnie asks me, standing in front of his kit with a slight half-smile. On the bed behind us, Treyjan Charell scowls and flips me the bird when he sees me watching him. I think I hear him say something about boning his sister, but whatever. Sydney's a big girl. Pretty sure she can take care of herself.

  At least, I hope so since she's not even fucking here.

  I hold back a sigh as I curl my fingers into fists. After Sydney ran out on me—pretty fucking literally—I sat there for all of ten minutes and then asked Brayden's guys to bring me over here. But when Ronnie let me into her room, she was gone. Apparently, that was a surprise to everyone and not just me.

  I try to focus on Ronnie McGuire. When the King of the Kit invites you to a drumming lesson, you attend, whether you like it or fucking not. Small miracles, Turner Campbell doesn't seem to be around. Thank the fucking dark gods.

  “To be honest, it never even occurred to me,” I say as I bounce my legs up and down, testing the extra weight on my ankles. Some distant part of me's thrilled that I'm getting lessons from a rock god, but the more present, more cynical part is reminding me that this guy spent a whole decade getting high and drifting through life on poisoned candy clouds. How the hell is he as good as he is? Maybe he just tweaked all the hell over his drums? I don't know.