Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  Digging in the pockets of my shorts, I manage to find a cigarette and when I raise an eyebrow at Brayden, he supplies the light.

  “The Harding family is nearly gone,” he tells me in low tones, breaking open a whole cache of secrets that we could only guess at before. “But Paulette's a Washington now. And the Washingtons don't like the Hammergrens anymore than the Hardings.”

  “What's the endgame here, Brayden?” I ask, checking again for a crack in the bathroom door. Nothing. My pulse flutters when I think about Dax coming out, his wet hair mussy and tousled. Oh, be still my heart—and my pussy. Not sure who's pulsing more. Maybe this whole dating thing'll be fun? Hah. Ha ha ha. If we live through all of this. If. “Who do we want to win, and how do we make that happen, Bray? All of this,” I wave my hand around the hallway, “needs to go away.”

  “Trust me,” he says with a bright, white smile. What big teeth you have, I think with a small shiver as I puff on my cig and tuck the fingers of my left hand into my front pocket. “You definitely don't want the Hammergrens to succeed. At this point in time, you've just pissed them off royally. They want you all dead. Paulette … she wants both bands to succeed because that's what her sister wanted. Money, fame, infamy. Oh, and Tyler. Don't forget about Tyler, America and Stephen's son.”

  “Travis' son,” I correct and Brayden shrugs.

  “Just do what I say and things'll be alright. If you piss me off, you might end up dead.”

  A frown creases my mouth, but I decide not to mention how many people already are. Or how many people came close for that matter.

  “At least I'm not in the band,” I joke with a slight shrug of my left shoulder and a wink. “If everyone else drops dead, I can just take my brother's money and run.” It's a joke, not a very good one, but Brayden turns to look at me with a deep, deep frown.

  “Oh no,” he says, his words weighty and far too serious for a sunny Sunday morning. “When you walked into this, you put your name on their list. As soon as they get the chance, they'll put a bullet in you, too.”

  I'm not sure how to describe Dax's facial expression. The skin around his nose is crinkled and his eyes are wide as fuck, but his mouth is twisted into a disturbing semblance of a smile. I think. Might be a grimace.

  “Why do you have grass stains on your knees?” Trey asks, settled comfortably back in his wheelchair. I ignore him and fold my hands behind my head while I wait for … something from the collective group of assholes and idiots in front of me.

  “That's the dumbest shit I've ever fucking heard,” Turner spews because well, I just sort of see everything he says as projectile vomit spraying out of his pretty little mouth. “You mean to tell me all of this is just some rich guy's version of like, the Colosseum or something? Just a bunch of fancy assholes watching people die for fun?” Interesting analogy, not sure that I'm positive Campbell even knows where or what the Colosseum is, but okay. “I thought this was about Travis and America and their frigging kid.”

  “It was,” I start, but Turner's already flicking his hand at me, arm laden with multi-colored Mrs. Turner Campbell bracelets.

  “That's the dumbest shit I ever heard. Fuck that redheaded ginger bitch. I'm rich now and you don't see me paying homeless people to beat each other up.”

  “Although that'd be kind of sweet,” Trey chuckles and I slap him in the back of the head. Dax almost gets a full smile for that, but it fades back into that weird wide-eyed look immediately after. Maybe I shouldn't have told them all about the whole 'bullet' thing?

  “Don't be a piece of shit asshole, Trey,” I say with a dramatic eye roll. “Turner.”

  “Hey, screw you, Sydney,” Turner snaps back, sending a visible ripple of hatred down Dax's spine. Those pretty gray eyes narrow and his mouth twists to the side in anger.

  “Why the fuck do you think it's okay to talk to her like that?” he snarls, getting up in Turner's face. I'm pretty sure they're about three seconds short of a brawl. “If it weren't for your band and your buddy's stupid mistake, she wouldn't be involved in any of this crap. She wouldn't be risking her life to help you guys out.”

  “You think you can talk about Travis like that, you motherfucking emo bitch? You don't know shit about fucking shit. I will whoop your ass so hard you can't see straight.”

  “Bring it on,” Dax growls back just a split second before I step between them, my back to Turner and my hands against Dax's chest. The contact between us ignites in an instant, turning my body to ice, freezing the words in my mouth as I look up and into his face. Dax swallows visibly as he reaches down and wraps his hands around mine.

  “Oh my gaaaaawd,” Turner moans as I flick a quick glare over my shoulder and find him running his hand down his face. “Can you two, like, not right now? We've got business to take care of.”

  “You sure you don't want to go find some homeless people first?” I snap, taking a deep breath and carefully—carefully—extracting my hands from Dax's fingers. We exchange another look, one that says volumes about how this new 'relationship' of ours is going to go: it's going to be a fuckfest.

  I straighten my tits and pretend there isn't a serious moisture problem happening downstairs.

  “The Hammergrens and the Washingtons,” Ronnie begins, sitting on the bed next to Lola. He sounds thoughtful, like he's been analyzing the information while the rest of us were dicking around. “Are the kind of people with resources we can hardly even imagine. You think we've got money now, but it's literally just a drop in the bucket when you're talking about people like this. Just think of the Waltons.”

  “The who?” Turner asks, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “Aren't those the people from Little House on the Prairie or something?”

  “That's the Wilders. The Waltons are the rich, selfish a-holes who own Walmart,” I say and Turner smirks.

  “Yeah, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? Get your tits done down there at the super center?”

  “That's seriously fucking it,” Dax growls as I spin and spear Turner with a dead serious fucking gaze. “One more comment like that, and I will drop you.” The look on my new beau's face tells me he means it.

  “Make all the jokes you want at my expense, but isn't Naomi scheduled to come home in the next few days? How funny would it be if that bullet Brayden was talking about was meant for her? You and Knox sure have done an admirable fucking job of drawing all the attention your way. If anyone should be worried about this shit, it should be you.”

  Turner's mouth pinches tight as he jerks his head away like he could give two fucks less than nothing. Nice acting, but his hands are shaking as he lights a cigarette and puts it to his lips.

  “Even if what you're saying—what that leprechaun bitch is saying—is true, so what? What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Sounds to me like there are more than just two sides here,” I say, trying to keep my temper down and the punch of anxiety in my belly at bay. If I start flipping shit, the rest of these assholes are seriously screwed. “I don't trust Brayden Ryker, but when it comes to motivation, he seems to have it pointing in the right direction. I say for now, we stick with him and see what happens.”

  “And if you're wrong about that?” Turner asks around his cigarette. I glance back at Dax, but it doesn't look like he's got any answers either. And I thought being a crack addict was hard. Heh. At least I wasn't always aware of my problems back then. Right now, my mind is crystal. I hold Dax's gray gaze for a moment before glancing over at my brother, at Turner, at Lola sitting on the bed next to Ronnie. Her small form is draped in a loose T-shirt, just long enough to hide whatever panties—or lack thereof—that she might be wearing. The sardonic expression on her face tells me she's not surprised by any of this.

  I don't have an answer for her, for Turner, for any of them. My stripper senses only extend so fucking far. So I shrug my shoulders and turn away, my pink leopard trim heels loud on the cold marble floor. Dax follows and the bedroom door swings softly shut behind us.r />
  “You sure you don't want to go back in there and tell my brother that we're dating?” I ask with a raised brow as I pause at the top of the stairs and glance back at Dax. “Might be a fun way to finish off our shit stained morning, don't you think?”

  Dax gives me a tight smile that doesn't even come close to hiding the fear in his eyes. I think most of that look is for me, but I don't need it. I'm not scared of the Washingtons or the Hardings or the Hammergrens; I'm not fucking scared of anything. The thumping pulse in my throat begs to differ on that, but she can go fuck herself. Bravado's always worked for me in the past. What makes this situation any different?

  “If we do that, I have a feeling he'll open his big mouth and then maybe we won't need the Washingtons or the Hammergrens to kill your brother because I'll be finishing the job for them.”

  “Don't talk like that so early in the a.m.,” I drawl as I turn to face Dax, my heels precariously close to the edge of the staircase. I feel like Meryl Streep in Death Becomes Her, a few precious seconds away from tumbling down these steps and breaking my neck. “It turns me on somethin' fierce. No more Trey? Sounds like a dream come true.” I smile as Dax wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me away from the edge, resting his hands tentatively on my hips like he's trying to test these new waters of ours. I'll be right there with him, struggling to swim. I'm not exactly an expert on relationships. Sex, I know how to do. Everything else … eh, there's a learning curve.

  “Come to think of it, I thought I had permission to date you?” he asks with a crooked twist of his lips. Right now, in the golden light streaming in from the skylights above us, I can see the tattoos on the backs of his eyelids with perfect clarity. Born Wrong. But right. Oh so right.

  “Well, there's a definite difference between practice and theory. You sure you don't want to make a shitty morning even shittier? I bet Turner'd jump in there, too.”

  “Just promise me that you won't be pissed when I have to punch your brother. I know he's crippled and all that, but he's kind of a dick.”

  I pause for a moment, tapping my finger against my lips and then shrug.

  “I must admit, I've gone there a time or two in my day.” I slide my arms around Dax's neck, feeling the strong muscles in his back and shoulders. Our mouths meet and I shiver at the icy coolness of his lips against his mine. Kissing Dax is like leaping headfirst off a cliff into the cool blue ice of a winter frosted lake. It stops the heart and then starts it again at a frantic, thumping pace.

  I almost wish it'd kill me.

  I draw back with a gasp and a sigh before grinning up at him. It feels like something momentous happened last night, but I know that to everyone but Dax and me, it's just another day. Didn't you just swear off this dude? my mind asks me yet again, but I'm no longer listening. I am Crazy Sydney, and I do things just to do 'em. Oh, and emo dudes. I do those too, apparently. Go figure.

  “Shall we breakfast?” I ask, keeping the mood light because well, it just fucking has to be. I'm not going to live my life slinking around, shrouded in darkness, not for Paulette Washington, not for anybody. Speaking of Paulette …

  I pause and glance over my shoulder as I catch a snippet of conversation from downstairs.

  “Do you hear what I hear?” I ask as the skin around Dax's nose crinkles up. It could be a news anchor from CNN … or even worse, one from Fox. More than likely though, that perfect, polished gem of a voice belongs to the Devil herself. “Fuck a crapper,” I groan under my breath, turning back towards the staircase.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Dax muses as he follows me down the stone steps. We pause at the entrance to the living room to find Paulette Washington sitting with Milo Terrabotti around the coffee table, white paper cups held in their hands.

  “Miss Shuh-Rell,” Paulette oozes as she glances over her shoulder, actually pronouncing my last name correctly. Almost no one does. “Mr. McCann. How are you both doing this morning?”

  “We were doing great …” I get out a smoke and flick my thumb over the metal wheel on my magenta lighter. “… until you showed up.” I take a drag, staring at Paulette with a caustic smile marring my face. She's remarkably similar to her sister, America. Maybe not in looks, but in attitude certainly. If I have to, I will tear this bitch down the same way I did the other one. “What do you want? Isn't filming supposed to start on Wednesday? Or did you come here to rustle up a little more drama?”

  Paulette rises from the couch and smooths out her skirt, smiling up at me like she actually likes me. This coming from the woman who killed Cohen Rose and dumped him in a bathtub. I shiver a little when I think about it.

  “Do you know why I'm still alive, Sydney?”

  “You can keep calling me Miss Charell,” I say, crossing my arms under my breasts. “And can I take a guess and say that it's because you continue to eat, breathe, and fuck?”

  “The Hammergren family, with Stephen at its helm, killed nearly everyone I loved. It might be difficult for you to understand, considering your low socioeconomic status, but there is an elite in this beautiful ugly world of ours, a nobility. My family was a part of that,” she continues, moving towards me. I stand stone still with Dax at my side. He's frowning, the corner of his lip twisted in disgust. I appreciate the emotion, but I don't give a fuck. Low socioeconomic status? Is that supposed to be an insult? Fuck this bitch. “But it wasn't enough, not for my parents or my brother.” Paulette pauses next to me and continues to smile. She looks like a magazine ad, all glossy and perfect. A stock photo.

  “Your point being?” I ask as she pauses and shakes her head softly, those brunette waves of hers glossy and shimmering in the sunshine streaming in from the backyard. I open my mouth to add a little more fat to the fire when I catch sight of Brayden standing near the sliding back doors, his arms crossed over his massive chest. The look he sends me says everything. Play nice.

  Well, shit. That's a lesson I missed in kindergarten. Maybe because I never went … But I do know a whole hell of a lot about self-preservation. Something in my chest besides my implants is telling me to keep my mouth shut right now.

  Grin and bear it, baby. I look Paulette straight in the face and raise a single brow.

  “My point is that my family is dead, so what makes you so special? You're a stripper from Los Angeles, a drifter, a nobody. The only person alive on this earth that can help you now is … me.” Paulette sweeps her hair back and smiles at me. “To me, this is a game. To you, it's life or death. So why not play to help me win?”

  It's hard to relax with threats and intrigue hanging in the air like rotten, maggot infested fruit. It's as if this whole mansion—this beautifully ostentatious swath of luxury—smells cloyingly sweet, like a bloated peach. I know it's all in my fucking head, but I can't shake the feeling off. It clings to my skin like the sweat I'm not sporting thanks to a killer HVAC unit.

  “This place is ridiculous,” I tell Sydney as we stand awkwardly in the kitchen, both our gazes drawn to the cameras dotting the ceiling. There's a few more in here, I'm sure, but I'd rather not go looking for them; I'd rather not know.

  I run my hand over the stone countertop and shake my head. I feel like an asshole complaining about all of this, but come on, how much does a person really need to be happy? A place this big, it's too much for both bands combined. I feel like a dick just sleeping here.

  “He couldn't just run out and buy a house in the 'burbs?” I ask as Sydney turns around and leans her elbows against the upper portion of the breakfast bar. Her breasts are on full display when she stands like that, trussed up and swollen from the white maxi dress she slipped on over her bathing suit. We've been dating officially for like, six hours and I'm already starting to freak.

  The hell did I bring all that up for last night? We went out to talk and ended up an item? I really am an emo bitch sometimes.

  “Well, you know,” Sydney begins as she glances around the gleaming palace of stainless steel, precious stone, and custom cabinets, “Turner is an asshole
of the worst kind. I don't think he knows any better.”

  “Better?” the asshole in question asks as he saunters into the kitchen with a smug expression that's just begging to be slapped off his pretty little face. “I lived in a fucking trailer with step-daddies who jacked it to my sleeping face. I deserve this fucking shit.” Turner points to the floor and then raises his chin with a grin, casting a look my way that just begs me to argue with him. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and wait for whatever it is he wants to say. Clearly, he came in here with a purpose in mind.

  “Let me guess, I missed something important? Did the San Andreas fault finally blow? Are we awaiting a tsunami?” Sydney asks as she stands up straight and plants her hands on her hips, the peacock feather earrings she slipped through her lobes floating in the artificial breeze from the AC. Goddamn, she's beautiful, I think as I take in her generous curves, the high peaks of her cheekbones, her glimmering baby blues.

  Turner doesn't answer right away, letting his lips curl up in a massive grin as he digs out a pack of cigarettes and lights up, the rubber bracelets on his arms squeaking with the motion. He's got a good dozen crammed on his forearm. I think one of them even says Mrs. McCann. Where the fuck did that come from?

  “For once, we've got some good goddamn news. Guess who's ready to come home?” A chill shoots down my spine and my fingers curl into fists at my sides. If Turner looks like that, like he's just come all over the inside of his jeans, there's only one answer that can follow that question.

  “Naomi?” I hazard, praying that I'm not wrong. I can't think of anyone else I'd be happy to see pulling into that driveway. Besides, the sooner she gets back, the better. Kash, Wren, me, we need her. She's the glue that's holding this band together, the only person that'll be able to figure out how to get on without Hayden, without America, maybe even without Blair.