Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  “I don't know about you,” Sydney says as she stands up and squeezes her legs together, crossing her arms under her full breasts. “But I have got to grab a quick shower and wash off, if you know what I mean.” She gives me a big grin. “You know, the cum and all.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a small laugh. “Because I didn't get the vague reference before.”

  With a wink, Sydney backs away towards the bathroom and then pauses, reaching up to touch the bloody scab on her arm.

  “With my wound and all, I could use some help cleaning off and getting all warm and soapy.”

  She turns around and heads for the shower … and I follow.

  I assume Paulette's calling us all down to bitch about our antics last night, talk about the shooting or whatever. I doubt I would've been able to do what I did in that shower with Sydney if I'd known how much worse it was all going to get.

  How much, much worse.

  We've been standing in the front yard waiting for Turner Campbell for like, twenty goddamn minutes.

  “I'm getting a really bad case of déjà vu,” I tell Sydney and her lips curl into a small smile. She's still wearing her dirty T-shirt, no shoes, and she doesn't seem to give a flying fuck that there's a camera crew about two feet away from her, zooming in on my face as I talk. Whatever. Let them look.

  I scowl and adjust the waistband on my sweatpants. I decided not to wear a shirt down here. Maybe I'll regret that when I see this episode? Who the hell knows?

  “Who the fuck does this guy think he is?” Kash asks me, standing next to Wren and smoking a cigarette. “He better not be on one of his infamous Denny's trips.” A pause as I sigh and pray that's not true. Any douchery on Turner's part this morning is only going to be amplified tenfold by the fact that we got freaky in a limo last night. Ugh. What the hell was I thinking? Must be temporary insanity due to cocaine and alcohol overdose. Only explanation.

  “God, I have a freaking hangover,” I say as I run my hand down my face and try not to let the hot, golden rays of the sun piss me off. After a night of partying, the last thing anyone wants to see is a giant glowing orb in their face.

  “Is it true?” Wren asks, his clothes twice as baggy and rumpled as mine. What was he up to last night?

  “Is what true?” I ask as I look over at him, at the black studs between his brows. He's giving me an expression that says I should know exactly what it is he's talking about. I notice Indecency's rhythm guitarist, Jesse, scooting in closer to listen. That can't be good.

  “You fucked Turner Campbell last night?” Kash asks on the edge of a snicker, making Sydney burst out laughing. I groan again and put my head in my hand.

  “We got shot at last night. We almost died and you want to know about something as stupid as that?” Kash raises both his blond brows and lets out a guffawing laugh that makes me want to strangle him. “Of course I didn't fuck Turner,” I snap as I cross my arms over my bare chest and give them all a caustic stare.

  “We got interrupted,” Sydney jokes, elbowing that kid, Josh, with her arm when he tries to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping. “Who knows what might've happened.”

  “I'm glad you're okay,” he says awkwardly, trying to fit in somewhere in this ragtag group of assholes. I feel bad for the kid, really, I do, but isn't he like eighteen or something? Turner keeps saying he's twelve, so I have no frickin' clue.

  “Thanks, cutie,” Sydney says, reaching over to pinch his cheeks with her pink fingernails. I smile a little, the expression morphing quickly back into a frown as Naomi Knox appears at the front door, shades over her eyes and the same clothes from last night draped on her body.

  “Where the hell is your boyfriend?” I ask her and she cringes, a cigarette in her mouth, a scowl on her face.

  “Please don't call him that,” she says, pausing next to me and taking a deep breath. “He's … you know … he's—” And then she just stops talking and continues to smoke, surveying the group of people standing around us. Jesse, Treyjan, Ronnie, Lola, Josh, Kash, Wren, Milo Terrabotti, Brayden Ryker. The gang's all here. Except for Blair Ashton. I close my eyes and suck in a harsh breath. I was planning on hitting the hospital later today, but my head is spinning and my hangover is worthy of an entire bottle of ibuprofen, a plate of fried eggs, and a stack of pancakes.

  And another round with Sydney.

  I look down at her and find that she's already looking at me, leaning into my arm, my touch, like a flower turning towards the sun. I never imagined I could be that to anyone, ever. It's … I'm still getting used to it, but after last night? Things could've been a lot different. Instead of a quick scare to knock some sense into me, I could've been picking out a casket with Treyjan.

  “TURNER!” Trey screams, turning back and looking up the side of the mansion like he'll be able to see his friend through a window. “It's hot as fuck out here! Hurry up!”

  “I'm fucking here, alright?” Turner says, rubbing at his eyes and appearing in the doorway. “Jesus. You don't have to friggin' scream like that. I have a goddamn hangover, and all I want is some fucking sleep. What the hell is all this anyway?”

  “If you'd been here thirty minutes ago, you'd already know,” Paulette says, her almond colored hair loose and straight, her suit pressed, smile wide. She looks like a politician. Gross … but not as gross as Turner when he stumbles to the bushes and pukes into them. Fantastic. Paulette … she never stops smiling.

  “Your fiancé is so super cute,” Sydney says as Naomi groans and puts her head in her hand. Overhead, the sun beat downs as Paulette picks up her cell phone and makes a quick call. I notice as she's dialing that Milo, Indecency's manager, is fidgeting something fierce. He looks like a guy that knows he's about to get reamed. For what, I'm not sure. But I'm afraid to find out.

  “I have a surprise that I think you're going to like,” Paulette says while she stands on the brick walkway, framed by expensive tropical plants and blue, blue sky. “I've been working on the details over the past few weeks, trying to put everything together.” She puts a hand out to indicate Treyjan. “But with Trey's impressive progress in physical therapy,” a pause, “and my discovery of Lola's incredible talent on the keyboard, I think we can make this work.”

  “Make what work?” Sydney asks slowly, taking a step forward, several inches shorter than Paulette, but ten times tougher in looks—even in dirty pajamas. I smile. A little. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Paulette doesn't answer, just grins and steps back, turning to look at the gate that leads onto the property, at Brayden Ryker as he opens it wide …

  At the parade of tour buses that roll through, past the cordoned off crowds and the police escorts. Black and silver, black and red, shining in the bright California sun, they glide smoothly down the drive and pause in front of us, towering up above with tinted windows and flawless paint. No more scratches, no more damage from the tornado, just … these. Relics. Our recent past sitting pretty in metal and rubber and glass.

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “We're going on tour,” Paulette says, her voice bringing goose bumps up on my arms as I stare at the buses and let memories of Hayden, of the tornado, of Blair getting shot wash over and through me. The camera crew moves over our shocked and silent faces, taking it all in for the world's viewing pleasure, zooming in on Sydney's raised brows and the parted pink perfection of her lips.

  Last time we went on tour, people got hurt. People died.

  I open my mouth to protest, but Paulette stops me with a raised hand, nodding at the TV show's crew until the cameras come down and they stop filming for a moment, obeying their mistress' every wish.

  I almost puke in my mouth; Turner decides to let it all out in the bushes again.

  “One last tour,” Paulette continues, like she's trying to convince us. I'm not sure why. Last time, she just threatened our lives and that seemed to work well, now didn't it? Her words ring in my skull, ricocheting through the gooey substance my brain has beco
me. It's fucking melted, man. Just … mush.

  One last tour.

  Now that's not ominous at all.

  “One more tour and we're done here, I promise. No more shootings, no more intrigue, just … music. Play for me, and I'll get you go. I mean, or, as you witnessed last night, you can keep living your lives until … you don't anymore. What happened before can always happen again.”

  My gaze snaps up to Paulette's face, to the cold perfection of it, like a painting that was never meant to leave the artist's studio. It's too perfect, a study in shape and color, but there's no emotion there. No heart.

  “What are you insinuating?” I ask, hating the way my voice cracks and my eyes flick back over to Brayden Ryker. He's standing behind and to the side of the last bus, partially cloaked in shadow, a frown on his face that has nothing to do with the tour and everything to do with last night. “Last night, the shooting …” I trail off because it doesn't matter, not really. Either the Hammergrens had someone sniping at us or … the Washingtons did.

  “One last tour,” Paulette repeats, “and you're done. It's all over.”

  “Somehow,” Sydney says as Naomi steps up to the bus and puts her forehead against it. “I don't believe you.”

  “What other choice do you have?” Paulette asks as she smiles with pride at our shocked faces, at the way Ronnie's hands clench into fists at his sides, the way I scowl back at her and grit my teeth. “Hard Rock Roots,” Paulette whispers, turning around and running her fingers across the gleaming surface of a headlight. “We'll name the tour after the show. It'll be success like you've never even seen.” The words are nice, but I don't imagine that they're really for us. I feel like she's speaking to America's ghost or something, and it's creepy as fuck.

  “We're going on tour again?” Turner asks, like he hasn't heard a single word of the conversation. “Now?”

  It all makes sense, the smile that Paulette gave Lola when she saw her playing keyboard. She's going to replace Blair with Lola. She's leaving Blair here to die.

  “I feel sick,” I say. Sydney reaches down and takes my hand in hers, exchanging a look with me that really makes me wish I could drown in those liquid candy eyes of hers. I would swallow a whole gallon of sweet, sticky nothingness and let it drag me away from this. Blair paid the price, but gets to reap none of the glory? I like Lola and all, but she isn't Blair.

  It's not right; it's not fair; it's all thoroughly fucked.

  But Paulette is right … last night was a warning. What choice do we have?

  I take a deep breath and pull Sydney's body close, the warmth of her, the floral scent that clings to her hair, the only things that have any chance of pushing the chill in my heart back.

  In the midst of the gleaming metal and the shock and the smell of vomit, we all get ready for the final showdown.

  To Be Continued...

  Dear Reader,

  This book took me a long time to write, much longer than usual, but it was worth every drop of blood, every drip of sweat, and every single tear. I agonized, fretted, and freaked, but you know what? It turned out exactly the way it was always meant to. Another dollop of crazy, of fucked-the-hell up, of rock. Don't get too comfortable though: the ride's not over yet. I hope you're still buckled in and ready to rumble.

  Sayonara until next time, bitches.

  C.M.

  P.S. Leave a review! For the first book in the series, for the fifth, for this one. It doesn't matter, but if you do, I'll love you forever. No, seriously. Hardcore fangirl type love. Yup. And you can quote me on that.

  <3

  Oh yeah. It's that time. Time to "Get Hitched". Hard Rock Roots Book 9: coming soon!

  He's a bad boy ... and a nanny. A new trilogy coming soon from C.M. Stunich.

  Holy sweet baby Jesus.

  I don't know anything about taking care of kids.

  I pierce nipples, navels, and noses for a living.

  I've never even held a baby before. Not once. Never changed a diaper or cleaned up a skinned knee. Hell, I don't even want kids. I'm more of a drifter, a once in a lifetime lover, and then I move on.

  Family? Commitment? Nuh uh, no way.

  Tough shit, though, because my brother and his kids need me. Desperately.

  I never thought to wonder if I might need them, too.

  That I might need her, this strange woman I met at a playground.

  Brooke Overland.

  She doesn't know I'm not a professional nanny, but what am I supposed to do now?

  She hired me; I took care of her sister's kids for her; I fucked her.

  My life is so screwed up.

  “Move for me,” I growl, curling my hands around my new lady friend's hips. She's got almost as many tattoos as I do and the kaleidoscope mind-fuck of her arching her back above me is just about enough to send me over the edge.

  She squeals and giggles as I flip her over and run my fingers through her hair. It's like cotton candy, all pink and soft and shit. I fucking love Las Vegas. Ever since I moved here and got a job as a body piercer, I've had so many opportunities to meet new friends. Friends that smell like body butter, with soft skin, and healthy sexual appetites.

  Oh yeah.

  This is the real “City That Never Sleeps” and there's no way in hell I would ever leave. I don't think this girl, Katie, and me have slept in three days. Thank God for holiday weekends, right?

  “Oh, Zay,” she moans, running her tongue up the side of my face. I grab her wrists in my hands and slam them into the pillow behind her head, nipping at her exposed throat as I thrust hard and fast, slamming our pelvises together with the sweet sound of flesh on flesh. Oh God yes. “You are the world's fucking hottest nerd.”

  I grin big.

  “Hey, just because I take breaks to shoot rebel soldiers online with my buddies does not make me a nerd.” I put a little extra strength in my next thrust and get rewarded with a guttural groan from Katie's pretty little lips. If she hadn't walked into the shop to get her tits pierced on Friday, I'd have missed out on all this fun. Lucky me.

  “You have a toy collection, Zayden,” she says, but I don't respond. If she's able to talk, then I'm not doing my job right.

  “What if I asked you to be one of my little toys? Because I want to play all night long with your movable parts.” Katie laughs and I groan. Ladies, laughter tightens up all those muscles downstairs. Guys fucking love it. Laugh more during sex, pretty please.

  I nibble Katie's lower lip, tasting cherry lip gloss, and slide my tongue into her mouth. Fuck, do I love women. They always smell so good, feel so soft, taste so sweet. If I had to list my hobbies for a stranger, it'd go like this: fucking, video games, fucking, and listening to pop music. But don't tell anybody about that last one or I'll have to kill you.

  I squeeze Katie's wrists tighter, fuck her harder, and feel myself on the verge of a mind-blowing orgasm when my phone goes off, buzzing across the nightstand like a vibrator gone rogue.

  The ringtone is the song Toxic, but not the Britney Spears' version (even though I secretly dig it). I had to save face, so I put on A Static Lullaby's cover of it.

  There's only one person on my contacts list that has that ringtone and he never calls.

  I pause for a moment, but Katie wiggles beneath me and I end up dropping my mouth to her freshly pierced nipples. I run my tongue around one and avoid the sore spot, teasing just close enough to make her squirm.

  “I'm coming, Zay,” she groans as my cock drives deeper and harder. I can feel her tightening around me, getting ready to explode. Thank God. I don't think I could hold on much longer.

  The phone stops ringing and immediately starts up again.

  I pause yet again, and Katie ends up getting her hands free, wrapping her arms around my neck.

  “So close,” she whispers against my ear. “So close. Don't stop.”

  So I keep going and then fucking fuck, there goes that damn phone again.

  “I have to answer it,” I say, because my br
other, he only calls if there's an emergency. I stay right where I am, wrapped up inside of Katie, and lean over to take the call.

  “What the fuck do you want? This better be good. I'm entertaining company right now.”

  My brother doesn't hesitate to rip me a new one.

  “Do you have any compassion at all, Zayden? What is your goddamn problem? It's not like I ever ask you for anything. You never return my phone calls or texts, never come home for the holidays.”

  “Okay, and what's wrong with that? It's not as if we're exactly close,” I say and then sit back in shock when Katie slaps me across the face with an open hand.

  “I was close,” she snaps at me, shoving me back and climbing off the bed. I watch in stunned frustration as she gathers her jeans and tugs them on. “Enjoy the rest of your Monday, you dick.”

  The front door slams closed behind her as I tug off my condom with a growl. Great. Just great. And I didn't even get her number or her last name. What a waste.

  “I need your help, Zayden,” Rob says, and I catch the strain in his voice right off the bat. Whatever this is, it really is serious. I feel a little guilty for being an asshole – to both Rob and Katie – and climb off the bed to dispose of the condom in the trash can under the window. “It's Mercedes' parents,” he continues as I open the top drawer of my dresser and grab some boxers. My hard-on's long gone now, no point in wandering around naked. Feels kind of wrong to have my junk hanging out when I'm talking to my brother, you know what I mean?

  “Okay?” I ask, trying to be sympathetic. I mean, Rob might be a jerk, but his wife, Mercedes, is actually pretty awesome. Sometimes when Rob's asleep and she doesn't think she'll get caught, she gets online and joins my raid group. That girl can take on a red dragon zombie boss like nobody's business – impressive, even if it's all part of a computer game.