“I always practice heels-up and heels-down with the weights,” Ronnie continues as Lola Saints watches from a nearby chair, her eyes fixed on her new boyfriend, hands folded over her knee. “Play for a while like that and then toss the weights aside. It'll feel like you're on fucking speed or something. Your feet'll friggin' fly. Trust me, it's amazing.”
“You know, it's almost like you take this whole drumming thing seriously,” Lola jokes, tossing Ronnie a wink that he returns with a long, lingering gaze that makes me fucking uncomfortable as hell. Didn't they just meet? And they've already got that lovey-dovey look that people kill for.
I sigh and spin the sticks in my fingers. When I agreed to come in here, I was kind of under the impression that Sydney would eventually show up. I know it's stupid as hell, but I was hoping she'd watch me play. Instead, an hour in and she's still missing. I shouldn't give a shit. But I do. Goddamn it.
“The fuck is going on in here?” Turner Campbell asks, appearing in the doorway with his hands tucked into his front pockets. I stifle a groan and make myself take a deep breath. So much for frigging miracles. Never mind, screw the gods. They seriously must have it out for me. Turner's eyes drift over to me, dark brows raising as he takes me in with an annoying smirk. My fingers tighten around the sticks until I hear a small crack. Yeah, I hate him that much. “Trying to teach the Little Drummer Boy a thing or two?” he asks Ronnie, scooting into the room dressed in a white T-shirt that says R-E-S-P-E-C-ME. Hilarious.
“Question,” I say, setting the sticks down and standing up from the stool, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why am I a Little Drummer Boy but Ronnie's not? Huh? I thought you said drummers were a dime a dozen?” Turner rolls his eyes like I'm the one who's a fucking idiot.
“I said pretty boy drummers were a dime a dozen.” Turner snaps his fingers, brown eyes twinkling. Something must've happened with Naomi at the hospital, something good. “Clearly Ronnie's not pretty,” Turner says, giving his friend a disapproving once-over. “And he's old as fuck, so he doesn't count as a boy either. He might be a whore with like a dozen kids, but nobody ever said gods were infallible, right? We make mistakes here and there.”
“We?” I ask, not at all amused. Some people think Turner's cute or charming or whatever, but not me. And it's not just because I'm not gay or bi or whatever, but just because he's annoying. As fuck. God, I hate him.
“Yeah. We.” Turner slips a smoke from his pocket and lights up while we stare each other down. “Got a problem with that?”
“Down boy,” Sydney says, sweeping into the room behind Turner and slapping him hard on the ass. I get that she's just fucking around with him, but holy crap. In an instant, I go from annoyed to enraged, like I'm about two seconds away from picking these sticks back up and shoving them down Turner Campbell's million dollar throat. Stupid son of a bitch.
My eyes catch on Sydney's as she sweeps over to the bed and tosses a pair of pink stilettos down next to her brother.
“Where the hell have you been? And where's my chair? Why the fuck doesn't anybody listen to me?” We all continue ignoring Trey. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Clearly he's the omega in the room.
“I just had a very interesting conversation with Brayden Ryker,” Sydney says, sitting down on the edge of the bed, sliding her purple heels off her feet while I watch, completely and utterly enraptured by this woman. The way she moves, the way she talks, she's like confidence incarnate. If I were in a better place, I'd … I don't know. Pursue her? Date her? My mind flashes briefly to our quickie fuck in the back of that strip club.
I just want you to be mine. I don't even care what foods you like to eat or where you grew up. It's this primal thing with me, and I'm not a primal person.
Did I seriously fucking say that shit? My stupid goofy coping mechanism bubbles to the surface, and I have to grit my teeth to clamp down on it. If I start quoting the movie Jerry Maguire, I'll never make it out of this room alive.
Sydney, you complete me.
I cough and turn away before I think up any other idiotic thoughts.
“Brayden Ryker?” I ask and I realize that my voice is precariously close to a growl. Turner casts me a strange look and threads his fingers together behind his head.
“Yeah,” Sydney says as I look back at her and watch as she switches her shoes out for the pink ones with the leopard trim. My cock springs to rigid attention and my hands curl into fists so tight that I draw blood with my nails. “I'd tell you what it was about, but I'm not exactly sure. I think he implied that we're pawns on a chessboard for rich people, but that's just my interpretation.”
“Where did you talk to him?” Ronnie asks, eyes sharp and focused on Sydney. He pauses for a moment to exchange a glance with me before looking back at his friend's sister. “And did he, uh, mention our little outing?” Code for corpse drop, huh?
“I had to get out of here,” Sydney says, frantically working at the buckle on her shoe. “I needed some air. He met me on Melrose Avenue. Have no fucking clue how he found me there. And yeah, he did. Mention it, I mean.”
“Dax must make for a pretty stifling boyfriend, huh?” Turner asks, looking upwards at the vaulted ceilings like he's already forgotten about the Brayden Ryker comment. “Like, does all that emo just slather across your skin and suffocate you?”
“Turner, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to beat your ass like I did during the interview.”
Brown eyes flick over to me and Turner drops his arms to his sides, curling his hands into fists.
“You call that an ass kicking? If I remember correctly, I had you on your back on the floor.”
“Only because I got bitch slapped by a car door during a fucking tornado. I'm feeling a lot better now. Want to try again?”
“Good lord, Jesus Christ,” Sydney groans at the same moment Milo Terrabotti opens the bedroom door with a tentative knock. His face when he peeks inside isn't exactly pleasant. He looks like a kicked dog about to get the boot. I recognize it well. Dad made sure I knew how to cower in a corner like a good boy.
“Paulette Washington is downstairs,” Milo says, his voice a question and his eyes focused wholly on Turner. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, right? “And she got's an entire camera crew with her.”
There's a contract lying on the table in front of me, but I don't think I can read it. I'm too busy sitting there thinking about how much I'd like to fucking punch Paulette's face in.
“Not sure what part of no you don't seem to understand,” Ronnie says as he gives Paulette the hard stare. “Is it the N or the O?” I study Paulette's face as Sydney's voice echoes around inside my skull. “Fun little fact we picked up last night …” So Paulette is America's sister. I don't see the resemblance, not physically anyway. But I guess it's there in the practiced movements she makes, the calculating twinkle in her eye, the businesslike curve of her lips.
“I thought after our discussion last night that you'd have changed your minds?” Paulette says, her brunette hair hanging in gentle waves around her shoulders. She paces a large circle around us, like a predator honing in on its prey.
“Do you actually even own this house?” Ronnie asks, changing the subject as he follows her with his gaze and I stare at the black and white print on the paper in front of me. Sydney's sitting right next to me, our thighs just a scant few inches apart. I purposely adjust my leg and bump it against hers. When I glance up, I find her staring right at me.
“What a silly question,” Paulette says as she pauses in front of the table and rests her palm in front of me. When I manage to tear my gaze away from Sydney's, I find that she's looking at me, too. “It's so nice to finally meet you, Dax. I'm a big fan.”
“Sure you are,” I say as I lean back and push the contract away. There are a hell of a lot of digits on that piece of paper, more money printed in Times New Roman than we made in royalties in the last year.
“Listen, can I speak frankly? I prefer not to dance around sensitive subjects.” Paulet
te drums her manicured nails on the table and then leans back, a slice of peach perfection in a skirt suit and nude heels. Pretty but unremarkable. A look like that's no accident. Every detail from her earrings to the three gold bracelets on her wrist are planned. Just like America. Exactly like America.
I blink away images of Naomi Knox lifting a gun and pointing it at our manager. I don't want to remember that. I can't. Those few minutes on the stage were complete and utter hell. I watched Blair get shot, watched her blood splatter across the wood floor beneath my feet and I was fucking helpless to stop any of that goddamn chaos.
I run my fingers through my hair and glance at Sydney again. She's not looking at me anymore, but straight at Paulette Washington.
“So I killed Cohen Rose last night. Yes, I'll admit to that. Is that what's bothering you?”
I'm not the only one raising my brows in surprise at that one.
“You … did what?” Jesse, the rhythm guitarist from Indecency, asks. The guy looks like he's about to have a fit. The rest of us … ever hear of the word jaded. It was designed for situations like this. The first time a crazy guy ships your dead mother to your hotel, you freak. The next time, when a crazy bitch in a power suit admits to killing the dead guy that was in your hotel room earlier in the day, you don't bat a lash.
I lean back and close my eyes.
Maybe I'll get a new tattoo today? Why not? I was trying to save some skin for later, but hell, there's a pretty good chance I won't make it that far, so what the hell? Another zombie or ghost or grim reaper oughta do just fine.
“You had Brayden Ryker put him in my bathtub,” Ronnie says, ignoring Jesse and Turner and Trey. The three of them look like they've just been kicked in the nuts. Good for them. At least somebody still has room for shock.
“What else was I going to do with him?” Paulette says, shuffling some papers and smiling up at us, her look taking in the entire group like she's about ready to give a presentation to a room full of business execs. “I wanted you to know that I'm taking up my sister's mantle with all due seriousness. I mean, unless you want the Hammergren family to kill you. I can let that happen, too. It's up to you: reality TV show or death. Seems like an easy choice to me.”
I flick back the pages, grab the pen and sign my name.
If everybody's staring at me as I walk out that door, then fuck 'em.
I'm not dying because of some stupid grudge. If it means I have to let a camera follow my ass around, then have at it.
I can guarantee there won't be much to look at.
“Dax, wait up.”
Sydney's voice sends chills down my spine, but I don't stop walking until I hit the gate, pausing as I stare out at the street and the crowd that just doesn't seem to want to go away. At some point they've got to get tired of us, right? Right?
“Did you sign the contract, too?” I ask as I glance over my shoulder at her. Sydney's staring right back at me, her eyes three shades lighter than the fucking sky. If we didn't have an audience, I'd turn around and slide my fingers up the side of her face, take her head in my hands and kiss her softly, taste her lip gloss, let her confidence flow right from her mouth and into mine.
Maybe it's a good thing there's a couple hundred crazy ass fans standing outside the second gate?
“You did,” Sydney says and then shrugs her shoulders like that's explanation enough. Does what I do matter to her? Should I give a shit? God, but I really fucking do. “Besides, you know me, I just do things to do 'em. Anyway, my contract with Tattoo Terror is, like, officially fucking toast. No butter. No jam. Burnt to a crisp.”
Sydney sighs and moves forward, curling her fingers around the green bars of the gate. I follow suit, my fingertips touching the heated metal as I look past the intricate swirls of leaves and vines and straight into the faces of the crowd. Behind us, a few of our bodyguards shift nervously.
Is this an appropriate time to bring up our nooner? Probably not. Maybe it was just another fluke? If I bring that shit up right here and get shot down … My ego isn't nearly as big as Turner Campbell's. Not sure it'd survive the ride.
“This is good money,” Sydney continues, like she's trying to convince more than just me. Something that Brayden said really bothered her. Even I can see that and I hardly know this chick. I glance sidelong at her. But damn, I want to. And it's not just because she's the most attractive woman I've ever seen in my life—although that doesn't hurt. There's just … just something about Sydney that makes me want to hold her hand and make daisy chains or some shit. “I don't like to take handouts, but I figure if I have to keep babysitting these assholes I should at least get paid for it.”
“Maybe this is a good thing,” I say, letting my selfish thoughts fall right out of my mouth. Why not? What's the point? I've already pissed all over whatever relationship I could've had with Sydney by acting like a mopey, whiny piece of shit. May as well continue the charade. “You not posing naked for millions and all.”
Sydney throws her head back and laughs, turning around and pressing her back into the bars of the gate.
“I don't know about millions, but at least a couple thousand perverts would've had a good time with my pictures.” Sydney snaps her gum and looks me up and down from under that perfect fall of blonde. My dick's already hard, so I don't bother turning away. Let the crowd, the paparazzi, the security team see. I'm not ashamed of what I've got and I'm tired of being the nice guy. They really do finish last, don't they? “You are aware that I worked as a stripper for thirteen years, right? That's a long goddamn time.”
My turn to shrug my shoulders and pretend her words don't make me want to go on a mass murdering spree. Think we already have enough of that in our lives.
“I hate that this world is so fucked up that someone as smart and interesting as you had to take their clothes off to survive.” I curl my hands tighter around the bars and flick my eyes forward, so I don't have to look at Sydney's face.
“I could've taken money from my brother,” she says, like she's trying to justify the choices she had to make. She doesn't have to do that for me. I'm not judging, just observing. I can't stand the thought that some chicks think they're just meat for men to ogle or use. Makes me sick. The men, I mean, not the women. “Not at first, sure, but a couple years in and I could've quit. Guess I'm just too proud.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I say, my words drowning in the screams from outside the gate. I feel like a tiger in a zoo, just pacing, pacing, pacing, waiting for the day I get out. Only … that day never does come for the tiger, now does it?
“Hey asshole!” It's Turner. Of course it is. I let go of the gate and glance over my shoulder to find him storming towards me in a pair of black combat boots and tight as fuck jeans, Ronnie on his heels. “What the hell was that? Did you even read the contract before you signed it? Do you have any idea what it says?”
“I don't care,” I say, and I'm a hundred percent goddamn serious about that. My lead singer just woke up from a coma, my best friend has probable brain damage, and I've had about enough of this murder-mystery crap. If Paulette says she can win this war, good for her. Win it, be done with it, let me walk away from this alive. With Sydney on my arm. I grit my teeth at that last thought.
“Yeah, well maybe you should,” Turner says as the roar behind me turns to deafening. We probably shouldn't have a scene right at the front of the property like this, but what the hell? Who cares? There are two gates between us and them. “Look at this. Look. Look at it.” I spin around and snatch the papers from his hand, glancing at the spot he jabs his finger at.
“What?” I snap, trying to shuffle through the legal mumbo jumbo. It all seems pretty standard to me. Until I see the paragraph that starts talking about location, location, location. It's an address in Beverly Hills. This address in Beverly Hills.
“Welcome to the fucking house, roomie,” Turner snaps, flinging the rest of the papers at me. They flutter to the ground and come to rest in the hot California sun. “Stupid
asshole. You're just lucky Ronnie'd already talked her out of having cameras in the bathrooms. Read before you sign next time, you stupid emo fuck.”
He turns and stalks up the drive as I glance over at Sydney and catch her gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.
I'd be pissed … if I didn't think she was about to smile at me.
I almost smile back.
Guess I'm movin' in. With Turner Campbell. Somebody shoot me, please.
I don't see Dax for two days, and he doesn't call either. I pretend like I don't give a shit, but I keep checking my phone and frowning when the only text is from a stripper friend of mine back in Detroit. Saw you on the news! it says. How's your brother? And then there's the inevitable question of money and can I maybe borrow some until next payday because my car broke down and my boyfriend's an asshole and all that. I text her back and tell her I'll send a thousand bucks—of Trey's money, of course. Until I get the advance for this stupid show, I'm dead broke. Dead broke and living in a house with three swimming pools. Heh.
When I come down the stairs and find the man in question walking in the front door with his suitcases, a grin splits my face right in half—especially when I catch snippets of Turner's mumbling monologue.
“Fucking emo bitch freeloader motherfucker.” He's grumbling and smoking a cigarette in the foyer, but he doesn't look particularly pissed off. Despite what he says, I think he likes Dax.
“Mr. Campbell, have you ever considered smoking outside?” Milo asks, wrinkling his nose at the lazy curls of gray smoke that twist and shimmer around the shining black surfaces of the piano. Ronnie's been sneaking down here at night and playing soft spoken tunes that send chills down my spine when I catch snippets of them. Not sure if anyone knows about that but me. Doubt Campbell would slouch disrespectfully against the piano like that if he'd heard his friend strumming heartbreak from those ivory keys.
Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8) Page 6
