Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Working on it,” he growls back at her, their gazes meeting through the respective gray and yellow lenses on their shades. “You know I'll take real good care of you, babe.”

  “See,” I whisper back to Sydney as she rolls her eyes and exchanges another long, lingering look with me. “I don't say babe. Only douchebags say babe.”

  “A-fucking-greed,” Naomi says, turning around and walking backwards for a moment to give me a high five. I see her cringe a little at the movement, but she shakes it off and spins back around, pretending not to be bothered. Typical. “Don't call me babe. Or Knox.”

  “We're back to this shit again?” Turner asks incredulously, picking up the pace. I have no idea how Sydney can keep up in the four inch heels she's wearing, but I'm a dude, so what do I know? “I thought we were past all that?”

  “After the crap you've pulled, you're calling me Naomi until I damn well decide to forgive you.”

  “Aw, fuck me,” Turner says, pausing suddenly at the curb and opening up the door to a black sedan. “Get in,” he says quickly, nodding his chin at the vehicle. I hate to think that the idiot just picked some random person's car to hijack, so I figure he must have a plan. Either way, I climb in, pulling Sydney in behind me so she's almost on my lap. Turner takes the front seat and Naomi squeezes in next to us. “Go. Quick,” Turner tells the guy, rolling his window down and tossing his cell out. Sydney and I exchange another look and then take turns stealing our SIM cards before we do the same. We all unclip our mics and send those off next. What the hell? We've got enough money now to get new cells, and the show can get more mics, so why the fuck not?

  “Um, who the hell is this?” I ask, pointing at the driver.

  “Uber,” Turner says, shoving some gum in his mouth and turning to look at us over his shoulder. He grins nice and big before turning back and rolling down the front window. “Try following us now, motherfuckers!” he screams back towards the camera crew. “Heh. Bitches.”

  “I have to admit,” I say as I give the dumbass some grudging respect. “That was a smart idea, although I'm pretty fucking sure that Brayden will find us anyway.”

  “What the hell ever? Better than those douches with the show.”

  “Now we just have to pray we don't die while we're out and about,” I say—and I'm only half-joking about that.

  My skin is electric with the thrill of being bad, of doing something so wrong that it's fucking right. Screwing Dax backstage at Tin Dolls, running away from our security detail and our obligations, snorting cocaine in a public restroom.

  “Holy shit,” I say as I take a deep breath and try not to freak the fuck out. It's been a long time since I last did any drugs this hardcore. But I don't subscribe to the whole once an addict, always an addict thing. Addiction is control. I have control over myself now—not that I'd ever do crack again, but this snow is pure as hell. “It's all rushing to my head.”

  I put my bright pink nails up to my temples and lift my head to look into the mirror. My eyes are ringed in liner, shadowed with black and silver. Lashes are curled and fab, my brows are arched and perfect, a lovely pink slash that matches my cotton candy hair. I feel hot right now. Powerful. Excited. I know it's part drugs, part everything else, but … I glance over at Dax and find him leaning back against the counter with his elbows propped up, dark eyes focused on me and only me.

  I find myself running my tongue over my lower lip, running my nails up my tattooed arms and watching as he follows the motion.

  “Do you two ever take a break?” Turner asks as he reaches for the twenty in my hand and snorts a line, running his inked up fingers down his throat with a sigh. “I mean, Jesus Christ, are you like, trying for a baby or something?”

  “Hah.” My voice snorts out and I shake my head hard, earrings flying. “No, no, no.” Only we didn't use a condom like twice. Ouch. “And don't act all high and mighty and virginal,” I say as I point a nail at Turner's muscular chest and push him back a step. “You and Naomi haven't exactly been treading light waters. There are rumors you guys screwed onstage during that blackout in … where were you guys? San Antonio?”

  “Austin,” Naomi corrects as she steps up to the counter and runs the rolled up green bill along a line of white powder. “And it's true. We did.”

  “Holy fuck, Mi,” Dax says as he shakes his head and stands up, moving over to me and taking his own turn at the counter. I have no idea where we are, but this place is dark and it's not crowded, and there's some shit band onstage with like, five fans moshing out. Perfect place to get drunk and hide out for a while. “Holy. Fuck.”

  “I'd just escaped a fucking trailer after being drugged for … fuck, I don't even remember how long.” Naomi runs a hand down her face, looking fierce as hell when she shoves her shades up into her blonde hair. Her eyes flicker with a rage that I can barely understand. Fuckapalooza. Remind me not to piss this bitch off. “I wasn't thinking clearly.”

  “Clear enough to make me buy an abortion pill from that right wing douche at the counter,” Turner mumbles, and I seriously cringe and slap a hand to my face. I even have to stomp my feet a bit to get the sensation of dumbassery off my skin.

  “Did you seriously just fucking say that?” Dax asks, giving Turner a look like he's crazy.

  “It's a morning-after pill, fucktard. There's a big difference.” Naomi grinds out, giving me a woman to woman look that says why are we fucking humans with penises? Humans with vaginas are much, much, much, much smarter—and strap-ons were clearly invented for a reason. “But thank you for reminding me that you took my virginity and left me alone and pregnant once. I like the double whammy there—ignorance and idiocy.”

  “I'm pro-choice, okay? I'm not ignorant. I respect the shit out of women.” Turner slaps a hand against his chest, taking a step forward and running his pierced tongue over his lip rings. “And I respect the ever living fuck out of you. I was just trying to say, you know, if you want a baby, then I'm willing to try and try and try and try.”

  “You picked Turner over Dax?” I joke, crossing my arms in an X and pointing my fingers at each dude's chest. “Seriously?” Dax smiles at me, but Naomi just shakes her head.

  “I'm certifiably fucked.”

  “Hey, well, I bet between you, me and Lola, one of us is going to end up pregnant. I just know it. You want to bet on who's gonna be first?”

  Naomi groans and pulls away from Turner, putting her back against the black tiles and sliding to the floor.

  “Don't fucking say that,” she mumbles as she gets out a cigarette and sticks it between her lips. She starts to light up and then notices the smoke detector above our heads.

  “On it,” I say, using the toilet seat to climb up. I balance precariously on my heels and relax when I feel Dax's strong hands circling my hips. “Thanks, love,” I say with a wink as I unscrew the white plastic cap and toss the batteries in the sink. Hey, don't judge, I'll put it back when we're done, okay?

  “Thanks, Sydney,” Naomi says, watching as Dax pulls me off the toilet seat and I slide my arms around his neck. He holds me up there for a moment, one strong bicep wrapped tight around me. For a split second there, I get to look him straight in the face and it's fucking magical. Ugh. I hate being vertically challenged sometimes. “And sorry for being a bitch to you before.”

  “When?” I ask as Dax lets me slide down—all the way down his gloriously muscular body. Mine heats up in response and I find myself fluffing my hair just to keep my hands off his dick. Woo. This boy's going to be the death of me for real. I flap my hand at Naomi. “No worries. I don't even remember any of that shit.”

  “Well, I do, and I'm sorry. You seem like a cool chick, and Turner seems to like you—”

  “Uh, no, not really,” he scoffs. Dax growls at him, but Naomi just pretends he didn't speak. I think things are better like that.

  “To like you and trust you, so …” Naomi takes a drag on her cig and shrugs her shoulders. “I do, too. As stupid as he is, he seems to ha
ve a knack for picking friends.” Naomi looks up at Turner and then over at Dax. “So I'm sure he'll soon be showing more respect for both of you. There's no reason for infighting when we're at war.” Naomi growls that last word out like she's onstage, grinding her cigarette into the graffiti stricken wall before standing back up, all rocker-chick-esque and shit. No sign of her injury or the trauma of what she did at the concert showing through. Too fucking cool. “You fuckers ready to get drunk?”

  “Can it be something fruity with an umbrella and a straw?” I ask, batting my lashes and reaching out to run my thumb along Naomi's newest tattoo, that stretch of lines and notes that I don't understand in the slightest.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” she says with another growl, ushering us out of the bathroom with a jerk of her chin. I think that's the last clear memory I have that night.

  My drink has a glow stick in it, so you just know I'm in good hands. I swirl it around in the bright blue liquid and suck up a massive candy-sweet-sick slurp that makes my head spin. Cocaine and booze and a quiet little seat at a bar where no one recognizes us—or rather my three companions. I won't be hot shit until that cover drops. And then … who the hell knows?

  I glance over at Dax, letting my eyes drink him in, the colors of his tattoos swirling along with my vision. Both of his muscular arms are covered in art, save one blank spot on the backside of his left bicep. Two full sleeves of dead things that, for whatever reason, work together, that turn me on like nothing else. Who knew skeletons, ghosts and zombies could be hot?

  When Dax sees me looking at him, he tosses back his shot and turns in his seat, pushing my knees apart so he can lean forward and look me in the face.

  “Are you checking me out?” he whispers, his voice low and dark, stirring up memories of his body inside mine, ramming me into that makeup counter like nobody's business. My skin thrills and my blood starts pumping to my lady parts. I almost fan myself.

  “And if I am? What are you gonna do about that?” I ask, my voice starting to get that edge to it that clearly states drunk as hell. I reach out and run my fingers along the grim reaper tat on Dax's forearm, over the rotting zombies, the howling demons and the screaming ghosts. I pause when I get to his sleeve, the spot where the white cotton of his shirt cuts a zombie with blood pouring down its face right in half. “Are you gonna take me into that bathroom and give me an encore to your performance this afternoon?”

  Dax growls at me again—God forgive me, but I love that shit—and then leans forward, capturing my mouth in a hot sweaty kiss, his hands sliding up my thighs, fingertips teasing their way under the edge of my dress.

  “Hey,” Turner says, tapping me on the back of the head. We pause for a moment and I toss a faux glare over my shoulder. I'm too drunk to actually be pissed at this point, but what the hey? Never hurts to make sure Campbell knows his place. “Save that shit for the limo,” he laughs, tossing back a shot as Naomi lets her blonde hair cascade down from its ponytail. She snaps the hair tie off her fingers like a rubber band and hits a bottle on the back bar.

  “A shot of that,” she says to the bartender, some young chick with a shaved head and eyes for Naomi's tits. She hasn't checked me out once, that bitch. “For each of us.” The woman gets right to it, ignoring her other patrons in favor of flirting with my new friend. I'm almost jealous. “Who's up next?” Naomi asks, nodding her chin at the stage that's sitting empty in the front of the building. “Please tell me it's something decent.”

  “No more sets tonight,” the woman says with a shrug, the gravestone tattoo on her shoulder a lot like the ones Dax has. He has a whole graveyard of them, an image that I find my thumb rubbing over, caressing longingly. “Pretty soon they'll set up the karaoke machine and things will get even worse.”

  Naomi tosses her head back and laughs, sliding a glance over to Turner and getting a raised brow in response.

  “You're not seriously thinking of doing karaoke?” I ask as I release Dax's arms reluctantly, spinning in my seat, so that he has to grab me around the waist instead. I can't take his hands on my thighs right now. Nope. Not happening, not if I want to stay sane. “Don't you think your angelic little demon voices might give away your secret identities?” I ask when the bartender finally steps away.

  “We're so signing up for this shit,” Naomi says, taking her shot in a split second and gesturing over at the glasses in front of us. “Drink up and get ready. All four of us are going on that stage.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Dax laughs behind me, his breath feathering against my ear and making me shiver. “I am not singing tonight. You can get me drunk, you can get me high, but you're not getting me to make a fool of myself on that stage.”

  “Fuck yes I am,” Naomi says, waving the woman back over for more shots—and a sign-up sheet. “I am the goddamn boss of this band,” she says, sloshing another drink and then pointing at her chest. “I got shot. So yeah, yeah, if I say we sing, we sing goddamnit.”

  “No Katy Perry though,” Turner says, wrinkling up his nose. “I'd rather eat my own puke than sing a Katy Perry song.”

  “I'll do it,” I say, leaning over Turner and snatching the sign-up sheet from Naomi before she accidentally signs her real name. “As long as I get to pick the music.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Turner says, holding up his hands like he's in an old-timey shootout. “Get ready for eighties, eighties, and more friggin' fucked up eighties. Why do you like that old shit anyway? You crazy or something?”

  “I was born with rock in my blood,” I say as I scribble down some fake fucking monickers. I call Turner Jack Off Dickhole. I wonder if the barkeep will believe that one? “But it was slowly and irrevocably bled out of me by the five idiots that filled the trailer with their noise day in and day out.”

  “Yeah, well, that noise is worth like, millions of bucks.” Turner stands up and stumbles a little bit before raking his fingers through his dark hair and moving over to throw his arm around Dax's shoulders. “Your brother and your boyfriend make some of the best damn music this country—no, this world—has ever seen, and you want to sing pop songs from, like, a hundred years ago?”

  “Why do you keep touching me?” Dax asks, looking exasperated, but pleasantly buzzed. Good thing, too, because I'm starting to have trouble remembering how to pronounce my last name. I blink a few times to clear my head and then take another shot.

  “Because we're bros now,” Turner says, a beer in one hand that he slaps against Dax's chest. “And I don't hate you as much as I did before.”

  “Touching,” Dax says, picking Turner's arm off his shoulder and letting it drop. “I appreciate the sentiment, but maybe you could keep your hands to yourself?” Turner just laughs and surveys the mostly empty tables behind us. It's getting darker outside, so a few stragglers are streaming in, but it's not quite that time of night yet.

  “Here's a special shot for you, on the house. I call this one the pink pussy,” the bartender says, giving Naomi another drink—and a flirtatious wink to go along with it.

  “Wow, Turner, looks like you got some competition,” I say as I stretch my arms over my head and feel that little prick of electricity in my spine that says I am fucked the hell up. “You want to duel for your lady's hand or something?”

  “I don't even give a shit,” he says, turning around to face me and walking backwards until he hits the old fashioned jukebox by the bathrooms. “Because I know a soul mate when I see one. Knox and I are like this.” He twists his fingers together and then throws up his hand, spinning back to flip through the music. When “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” by The Police starts up, I'm right fucking shocked. “To get you in the mood,” he says when he turns back and then holds out his hand for Naomi.

  “I'm going to regret this later, aren't I?” she says, but she stands up with a smile and puts her hands in his, letting him lead her into the mix of empty tables to dance. When I turn to give Dax a look, he's already smiling. His dark eyes take me in from head to toe befor
e he reaches out and spins my stool around so we're facing each other.

  “You're the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says and I give him a raised eyebrow.

  “Please, you're drunk. And high.”

  “So what?” he counters and then slides me off the stool, dragging me over to our unofficial dance party. “That doesn't mean what I'm saying isn't true,” he whispers against my ear as I spin in a circle and come to rest against his chest. In the back of my mind, I know how temporary all of this is, how dire our situation really is. But right now? Kind of don't give a flying fuck.

  Dax turns me around again and then dips me low, like he did that night in the hotel when he kissed me like an old fashioned prince. He doesn't kiss me this time, but the effect his touch has on my body is, well, like magic.

  When he pulls me back to him, I lean up on my toes and kiss him hard and fast, feeling that flicker in my tummy that says butterflies. Clichéd phrase, totally true. How else could you possibly describe that sensation? There's that flutter, that tickle, that twisting, winding, nauseating, heart-pounding, heart-stopping, breath-hitching kick to the stomach that tells you you're doing something right for once.

  I want to fall in love.

  Dax told me he loves me, but I never said it back.

  I bite my lower lip as we spin in a circle and bump into Turner and Naomi. We're all too drunk to care at that point, so I figure why should I give a shit about this?

  “I love you, Dax,” I blurt and it's the weirdest, most uncomfortable thing I've ever said in my life. I feel my cheeks heat and that's weird as hell, too. I don't blush. Sydney Charell does not frigging blush. I really am Crazy Sydney around this guy, aren't I?

  “I love you, too, Dax,” Turner says as he spins by, making his voice the most ingratiating, annoying thing I've ever heard in my life. I smack him hard in the chest as he moves away, but it's hard for me to focus on anything but the look on Dax's face. He stares down at me, the tattooed blood splatters on his left arm holding me tight, the skeleton tat near his elbow grinning maniacally at my words.