Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Cool it, man, my lips are sealed,” he mumbles, his chin parked on his hand as he stares out the tinted windows at the city. “I'm just here to keep my woman safe.”

  “If you call me your woman one more time, I swear to Christ,” Naomi starts, her hands quivering as she curls them into fists against her knees. She seems a bit shaky today, but if she's cool with wearing booty shorts and a midriff tank, she must be feeling a little better, right? Confident, at the very least. Hell, when I was walking the halls yesterday, I heard the growling rumble of a guitar from Naomi's room. I may or may not have taken advantage of her unlocked door to peek in and catch her fawning over her instrument. Bitch has got spunk, and I am beyond excited that she asked to come with me today. New girlfriend, yay. Oh, and possible future sister-in-law if Turner doesn't screw this up.

  “Oh, come on, Knox. You've been giving me the cold shoulder since the day you got home.”

  “That palace is not my home,” Naomi growls, her orange-brown eyes flashing as she turns a glare on her own boyfriend. “I didn't ask for that. I didn't ask to move in there. I didn't ask to be on a reality TV show.” She takes a deep breath and shakes out her hands, turning to look at me like she's almost ashamed of herself. “Sorry. I don't mean to keep being such a bitch. This is your day, your moment.”

  “Thing is,” I say as I play with the edge of my black bandage dress. “I still can't figure out why this is my moment. I mean, why put me on the cover of Tin Dolls? Why not you? Or Lola? I'm not a member of any band, and I can't sing for shit.”

  “I heard,” Naomi chuckles, her voice this warm, sexy mix of old school rock and modern metal. So cool, so fab, so fem. I wanna be Naomi Knox when I grow up. “Anyway,” she waves her hand dismissively, silver bracelets clinking. “Don't sell yourself short. First of all, you're fucking gorgeous, and those boobs …”

  “Ugh, no,” Turner interrupts, sitting up and giving me a look that says I'm cat vomit on the bottom of his shoe. I stick my tongue out at him. “If you're into girl-on-girl, you're gonna have to pick someone else out. This bitch is ratchet as hell.”

  “The only person in this car that's ratchet,” Day says as he leans forward. “Is you—after I beat your fucking face to a pulp. I don't care if you grew up with Sydney, it doesn't give you the right to insult her all the goddamn time. Have you ever considered that she might be an actual person with actual feelings?”

  “Feelings?” Turner crows with laughter, getting an elbow in the gut from Naomi. I smile crookedly and lean over to give Dax a kiss on the cheek. I'm used to the boys ragging on me, but it's nice to have someone stand up for me once in a while, someone to take charge on occasion.

  “Thanks for defending my honor, cowboy,” I say with a faux drawl, sitting back in the seat hard and smacking my gum as I give Hayden another once-over. The reigning queen of rock is dead, and here I am, with the audacity to think I could take her place on the cover of this magazine. I still can't figure out why I'm being given the opportunity, but what the hell? There are lots of people famous for their associations. I mean, like, what the hell does Kim Kardashian do anyway? Or Paris Hilton? Or Victoria Beckham? Like, they got famous just for being famous, so why not me? Why the fuck not?

  “They're probably just putting you on the cover so they can make you famous,” Turner starts, grinning big at me, a smoke dangling from the corner of his mouth, “and then kill you.”

  The photoshoot for Tin Dolls is taking place at their warehouse in the West Hills, a massive structure of decay and rust that used to be considered a condemnable mess, but that's now being worshipped for its industrial chic flavor. Inside, the old building is decked out with polished concrete floors, modern art doubling as furniture, and an entire wall dedicated to the first cover of Tin Dolls Magazine. It stretches from floor to massive, soaring ceiling as a mural, the face of that bitch pop star, Cameron Koons gracing the page with her too-blonde hair and big, fake Hollywood smile.

  I swipe a hand through my cotton candy pink hair and suck in a deep breath. I'm not nervous; Sydney Charell does not get nervous.

  “I am freaking the fuck out,” I whisper to Dax as we move inside the building and watch as Brayden's guys fan out to search the place and cover all the exits. My eyes immediately go up, way way up, to the rafters, searching for the possibility of a sniper or something. I mean, I know I'm not exactly the number one hit target for the Hammergren or Harding family, but Naomi and Turner are here. I kind of get the feeling that one or the other of them is going to get shot at before the week is out.

  “Take a deep breath,” Dax whispers, leaning over and breathing warm against my ear. “You're fucking beautiful, the prettiest girl they've had on this fucking cover.”

  “Look, look at that. The editor-in-chief is here and she has no clue what to fucking do with me.” I point out a woman in a navy suit that's speaking in hushed tones to her secretary. “I don't have an agent or a manager, so she's got no one to talk to.”

  “Manage yourself,” Dax says as he turns me around with his hands on my shoulders. Holy moly, motherfucker, but he's handsome. And he loves me. Crap. I should say it back. But later, after this shoot is over. I bite my lower lip under my teeth as he rubs his thumbs in little circles on my bare skin. “You're good at that, you know, dealing with people, making stuff happen.” Dax smiles softly. “I heard from Trey's and Turner's very lips that they wouldn't have survived to adulthood without you.”

  “Holy fuck bucket,” I groan as Dax leans down and presses a kiss against my mouth. His skin is cool, a soothing balm to my heated body. Without even realizing I'm doing it, my hands come up and curl in the front of his white Amatory Riot T-shirt. “This is going to be a long day, isn't it?”

  “Maybe, but at the end of it, I'll be waiting for you,” he whispers, kissing me again and then taking a step back as the editor-in-chief herself walks this way, heels loud against the concrete floor. I make myself smile at her because well, we both know why she's here. It isn't often that the editor-in-chief would show up for a shoot, but this whole scene reeks of Paulette's influence, so I decide to grin and bear it and act confident as hell. Maybe this chick's just as scared of that bitch as we are? If so, then I should have a really pleasant goddamn day ahead of me.

  “Miss …” A glance down at the iPad to double check my last name. “Cher-el?” she asks with a hint of a Mexican accent, her dark hair swept up into a bun on the top of her head, her lipstick as red as blood. Ominous, much? I try not to read too much into it. “Am I saying that right?”

  “It's pronounced Shuh-Rell,” I say as I extend my hand, trying my best not to sound like a royal bitch. “Don't ask me the origin, I have no idea.” I make myself smile and, surprisingly, the woman actually returns it, shaking my hand with vigor.

  “Araceli Solis,” she says as she acknowledges Dax with another smile and a handshake. “Mr. McCann. And I see you've brought a few friends?”

  “If you haven't been reading the news as of late, this is Naomi Knox and Turner Campbell,” I say, gesturing back at the rock gods standing behind me. I'm surprised Naomi's even up and about, let alone standing there like an icon with attitude. The bitch. I remind myself to channel some of that star quality into my shoot today. If I can capture even an ounce of whatever that girl's got, then I'm golden.

  “Wonderful to meet you all,” Araceli says as she waves over her assistant, a short dude with piercings galore and a sassy little gay walk. Hey, maybe I'm pigeonholing over here, but you don't often see straight guys with walks that fabulous. “This is my assistant, Vlad. He'll be taking you to hair and makeup, so we can get started. If you need a bottle of water,” Araceli begins as Vlad hands her a frosty cool bottle of Fiji and she passes it to me, “or anything else for that matter, let one of us know.”

  With another smile and a wink, she moves away and I realize that she's actually wearing a pair of Iron Fist shoes with her suit. They've covered in the skeletons of grinning mermaids. Bad-fucking-ass. Overhead, the speak
ers start to break with one of Amatory Riot's darker songs, one that I never thought Hayden was able to pull off quite right … only, this track is a live recording from the last concert. Naomi's voice oozes down the back of my neck, sending a chill sliding down my spine as Dax's drums pummel the warehouse walls.

  “Dude, there's some guy doing a line of coke in the bathroom,” Turner says with a sniff and a smile, his arrogant asshole face twisted into something wicked. “Maybe this photoshoot thing isn't gonna suck as much dick as I thought?”

  “Yeah, well, nobody asked you to come,” Dax says as we turn around and I find Naomi with her eyes closed, listening to the song with her fists clenched at her sides. Dax watches her lip-synch the lyrics to her own song for a moment and then turns back to me, bringing my attention to the patiently waiting Vlad.

  “Look the fuck away if you can't breathe, if you can't answer this call to arms. Look away if the truth hurts so good you can't see. If you don't stand up for the strong, you'll only be one of the weak.”

  “Ready?” Vlad asks me, a headset perched on top of his dark hair, his arms crossed over a T-shirt that says Tin Dolls in cursive pink. He holds out a nicely manicured hand for me to take.

  “For the road,” Dax whispers, pressing a small bottle into my palm. It's Fireball Whiskey. Nice. “Good luck, and I'll see you on the other side.” I blow him a kiss with freshly painted pink fingernails and then reach out to take Vlad's hand. When I emerge, I'll be a fucking star, baby.

  Vlad takes me through a maze of fabric dividers, all in white, like a yard full of fresh laundry hung out to dry. Only, I'm pretty fucking sure this laundry is handwoven silk or some shit.

  I smile and run my pink nails along one of the “walls” as we walk into the hair and makeup studio. Technically, we're still in the same warehouse with the soaring steel beams and the rust and the industrial charm, but this is a whole different world back here. In the distance, I think I can hear Dax's voice above the low din in the room, but maybe that's just wishful thinking? This thing I got with him, man, it is bad—but in a way that's so damn good.

  I force my fingers through my hair and make myself pay attention. There'll be time to ogle my new man candy boyfriend later. Right now, there's … all of this.

  There's a row of mirrors to my right, topped by big round bulbs, like an old fashioned dressing room. The whole look reminds me of that one rare summer when my dad pretended he was going to get clean, and he took me to the local ballet studio to meet the teacher. I didn't think I'd ever see lights any brighter or more promising than those. Of course, that shit all turned out to be a big fat lie. Dad was high again before I ever got to take my first class, but this is different. This time, I call the shots. And it's my life. And I'm going to fucking make it.

  I suck in a deep breath as I try to take it all in, stomping my feet a little to rid myself of the anxious feeling that's taking over my body. Fortunately, even though there's a pretty big crew back here, nobody seems to notice. They're too busy buzzing around, moving clothes and makeup from here to there or talking amongst one another. The sound of hangers being shoved across racks is almost deafening, masking the chatter of the employees, so I have no idea what they're saying. I have to blink several times just to force it all to make sense. The lights are bright, ricocheting off the sea of cosmetics that line the white desks on my right and revealing an almost literal fortress of clothes, clothes, and more clothes on my left.

  Too bad I won't get to wear any of it.

  “Would not want to get lost in there,” I joke as Vlad pulls out a fancy baroque chair in gold and introduces me to this person and that person. Basically, I don't remember a fucking syllable to any of their names. Things like Mezz and Apple and Mystery. You know, typical bullshit Hollywood names that everybody will hate in like, ten years.

  I sit for a while and stare at myself in the mirror while people tease my pale pink locks and decide how to style me. This is freaking crazy insane, I think as I meet my own eyes and Dax's voice pops into my head.

  Sydney, I think … no, that's a cop-out. I love you.

  I suck in a harsh breath and curl my fingers around the armrests of the chair. Nobody seems to care that I'm having a small panic attack over here, so I close my eyes for a moment and breathe. Sitting here, in this place, with all of this … this stuff happening around me, it makes me think. About Dax. About his feelings. About my feelings.

  The first second I saw him, I knew. I mean, it was an animal-lust sort of a knowledge, like dude, I really want to mate with this guy. But now? He's sensitive enough to count, but he's not weak. And he's unlike anybody I've ever met. He's got this goofy side to him that he tries to hide but that comes out anyway.

  Oh, and he's got a big dick. And six pack abs. And really fucking awesome tattoos. And pierced junk. Hey, I'm not trying to be shallow here or anything, but this stuff counts, too, you know. If it didn't, I'd definitely be in line for marrying a chick.

  I sigh and run my hands down my face before one of the makeup artists bats them away and says something about my lips that I'm sure I never want repeated in polite company.

  I'm in love with Dax.

  I open my eyes again and feel a rush of warmth come over me. If he were back here right now, I'd grab him by the hand, shove him into the forest of designer clothing and ravage him until he couldn't get it up anymore. As things stand, I have to get through this photoshoot first.

  “Up, up, up,” one of the women—at least I think she's a woman—says to me, gesturing to a 'dressing area' in the back that's basically made up of a curtain strung between two of the divider walls. “Take your clothes off,” she snaps and then she's gone, leaving me to peel my skintight dress down over my hips as I survey the fare that's been laid out next to me. Dresses, shoes, lots of different kinds of panties … huh. I shrug my shoulders and get to it, trying on about a dozen items before it's decided.

  Guess Naomi was right. I'm pretty much going to be wearing nothing.

  In the end, I wind up with a pair of heeled boots, a thong, a robe, and some stickers—that I'm not even allowed to put on myself. Questionable Woman ends up coming back with skin glue that she slathers generously across my nipples before covering them with two black stars.

  Next time I look at myself in the mirror, even I'm turned on.

  I feel my freshly reddened lips curl into a smirk.

  Wait'll Dax gets a load of this.

  And even better, wait until he hears me tell him I love him.

  Sydney is a goddess in every way that matters.

  When she emerges from the sea of mirrors and fabric divider walls that make up the dressing area, she's wearing nothing but a magenta bathrobe and a pair of black heels with patent leather bat wings at the ankles, positioned just low enough to show off the black and yellow angelfish tattoos above them.

  She can't have been gone more than an hour, but when she walks into the room, my heart immediately starts to pound and my palms get slick with sweat. In the background, another Amatory Riot song happens to be playing (haven't listened to the radio in a while, but I guess we're pretty fucking popular now), so I get to see her stomp to the beat of my drums. Whether Sydney knows it or not, she lets the notes guide her feet, smiling wickedly at me she gets closer.

  “Fuck,” I murmur under my breath, feeling my body respond to her presence like a drug. Last night, I was a little worried that I'd screwed things up. After I told her that I loved her, she gave me a hug. Yeah, a hug. One that lasted an almost uncomfortably long period of time. After that, she disappeared into the shower to wash off her hair dye and then acted like everything was normal. True, we had a hot fuck that lasted well into the night, but that doesn't mean she liked what I said. “I'm such a goddamn idiot.”

  I stare, completely enraptured as Sydney drags her eyes away from me and lets Vlad and that editor-in-chief chick introduce her to the photographer. I wish she'd look back up at me, let her blue gaze wash over my body, but she stays focused on the conver
sation happening next to the camera. When I take a few steps closer, I can hear at least a little of it.

  “You can take the robe off whenever you feel comfortable,” the photographer tells Sydney, settling herself behind her table of computer screens, cameras, and assistants. The whole scene is pretty much what I expected except for the fact that the woman's got a fucking Mohawk in royal purple. Fuck

  Tattoo Terror,

  I think we're right where we need to be right now. Maybe this whole thing is a blessing in disguise?

  Looking back up at me, Sydney slips the robe off her shoulders slowly, revealing both sleeves of tattoos, her chest, her tummy and … well, everything else. I see turtles, brightly colored fish, that infamous orange octopus, and a killer whale all drenched in blue waves that cascade down her arms, across the tops of her breasts. There's a sparkle of color along one hip and a flicker more on her left calf as Sydney grins back at me with nothing but pasties on her nipples and nothing but a thong on her hips.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “You going camping or something?” Turner chuckles from beside me, his tattooed arms locked tight over his chest as he wrinkles his nose at his pseudo-sister. “Because you're pitching a massive tent. Fuck, dude, how long is your dick? Because seriously, I could like, set up camp in there.”

  “Longer than yours,” I tell him with confidence and he snorts.

  “Turner, shut the fuck up,” Naomi says as she watches Sydney with a careful gaze, taking in those liquid candy blue eyes, the sharp cut of her pink bangs as they hang low over her brows. I have to look away for a moment and swipe the sweat from my face.

  Fuck.

  I almost consider heading to the bathroom for a line, but the photographer's directions draw my attention back to the staging area. There's nothing but a white backdrop and a cluster of props off to the side, but nobody seems to mind. When you've got someone as beautiful as Sydney Charell to photograph, nothing else matters. “If I wasn't attracted to men, I'd marry her,” Naomi says as she lights up a cigarette and passes it over to me. I reach to take it and our fingers brush, causing our eyes to meet and hold there.