Get Bent

by C. M. Stunich

  “And after devastation, there's room for rebirth, space to push aside the old and start anew.” Darnell smiles at me. If I'm not mistaken, I think he may actually like me. “Build something fresh.” The big man rises to his feet and holds out his hand to shake mine. I take it and squeeze hard. “Stay safe, Naomi. And if you need us, we'll be around. Weather permitting, we'll be at the show tonight, too. Just to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  “Thank you,” I say, but I don't rise to meet him. I watch as the two detectives shake hands with Milo. He's just like America when it comes to Indecency, sweeping in, smoothing cracks, smiling when nobody else will. America. I want to call her next. She might be in the hospital, but I doubt she'll be sitting idle for long. As soon as she's able, she'll be Tweeting and posting status updates with an IV in her arm and a nurse checking her vitals.

  The bus remains silent while the three men leave. As soon as they're gone and the door is locked behind them, Milo starts to talk.

  “We need to get a few select crew members together and plan this out, make sure it's as organized as possible. I'll get some extra security on the stage as well, someone to follow you around.”

  “Nah, fuck that,” Turner says, coming around to sit across from me. “Let's just do this our way, crazy fuck break that stage to shit. Let's just beat it down and make the crowd ours.” I look across at him and run my hand down the front of my T-shirt. Turner sees me playing with it and smirks. “And make sure that Jason knows I don't want any of that Mrs. shit sold at the merch tables anymore. Forgot we even carried that crap.”

  “Yeah, because you haven't helped us set up the table in years. Right after we sold our 100th album, your arrogance went off the charts,” Treyjan says to his friend, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. Ronnie steps forward and slips a baseball cap over his head. From the looks on his friends' faces, I make the connection that this is the one they got delivered to the bus, Travis' cap. We sure are getting a lot of presents from Eric or whoever else it is he's working with. Someone, I imagine that my foster brother doesn't give a shit about Indecency's old bassist. Or any of the rest of these assholes. If he's in on this, it's as a pawn in a bigger game. I rub the space between my eyebrows in small circles.

  “Why don't we let Naomi decide what she wants to do?” Ronnie says and I smile. I really do that like that guy. I look at Turner, watch him rub at some of the paw print tattoos on his neck. He's staring at me with an intensity that's almost frightening. All of that passion I observed him before is now fully focused on me. I don't know how I feel about that.

  We haven't told anybody else about what Hayden said. Why let them know they're targets in a plot we don't even understand? I think hard about the what we learned last night. The sex with Turner is clogging my mind with candy clouds and smiling kittens which is freaking me the fuck out, but I force myself past it and try to analyze things carefully. Spencer said the package with the doll head was brought to her by the drummer from Ice and Glass, our opening act. It had been delivered along with a bunch of other packages, the name on the top abbreviated simply as NK. And Ronnie had dished out the camp gossip: everyone was afraid of Hayden. She'd been acting off lately, enough so that it was obvious to the roadies and crew members. And she'd been meeting with a blonde guy that nobody recognized. Ding, ding, ding.

  Bitch is full of shit.

  No surprise there.

  I try to figure out if I want to confront her, knock her teeth out along with a few more nibbles of information. But maybe I don't need to? Maybe I'm starting to put things together.

  I look over at Turner and my chest stirs strangely. I'm not willing to admit what I'm feeling now – what I've felt all along. It's going to take something big to force my brain to accept what my heart already knows. I hope to hell it isn't something tragic.

  “I want to talk to America,” I tell them, looking at Turner, at Ronnie. “Can you bring Dax over here?” I notice the asshole's lip twitch at the mention of my bandmate. He's afraid of Dax, even if he doesn't know it. Maybe he's afraid of every guy? After all, there's nobody like him in the world, nobody who has this much baggage with me. He should be scared. There's a lot I have to get over to make this work. If I'm even willing to try.

  “Yeah, Naomi,” Turner says, rising to his feet. “I'll get him.”

  Dax looks tired when he ascends the steps, walking over and scooting in beside me. Ronnie's cooked up some some tacos which gives me a nice change from all the instant crap Turner's been feeding me. I scoot the plate over to my friend. We've known each other a long, long time. And I trust him. Even if he is kind of stalkerish sometimes. I've been working over the clues in my mind since I hit the shower this morning, and I can't imagine why or how Dax would be involved. I mean, nothing is certain, but I'm willing to take this chance. If he is fucking with me, if it was his crotch pressed to my face, or his hand holding the needle, I will figure it out and I'll cut his damn dick off. For now, I just reach out my hand and ask for my cell phone.

  He blinks his eyes at me. They're covered in liner and shadow and he's got his hair all spiked in the back. He looks good today, Dax does. Even his shaking hands and sweaty forehead are a good sign. I don't think he's hit the drugs today. I'm kind of surprised I'm not going through withdrawals, Turner either. Maybe it's the magic of love or some shit?

  But I do smoke a joint. Just a little. I take a hit and hand it up to Turner who's standing beside the table glaring.

  “America's a little out of it, but she can talk. And complain. I have a feeling she'll be back before we know it, bearing down on us twice as hard.” Dax searches for a number in his contacts and passes the phone to me, licking his bottom lip and letting his fingers brush against mine. He hasn't given up, not completely. I think he's hoping Turner falls on his ass and fails. I don't know what to hope for right now. I just want to find Eric and figure out what this is all about. If I show up tonight, he'll come to me. I know he will.

  “Did she see anything?” I ask Dax, but he's already shaking his head, adjusting the purple gloves on his hands and glancing around the bus at the other members of Indecency. He doesn't ask why I'm sitting out here in front of them all. I figure that Turner probably filled him in. He smiles at me and if he senses that something happened between me and the self-proclaimed King of Rock, then he doesn't let on.

  “She doesn't remember anything yet. She told the cops she remembers walking out of the venue and finding some roadies smoking pot, but that's it.”

  “How's Hayden?” I whisper, leaning close, hoping he'll tell me something, anything. Dax is too nice, too fucking trusting. I pray to God that he doesn't let this fucking get to him. When I destroy Hayden, he's going to be there to watch.

  “Not so good,” he replies, pursing his lips. I know he feels guilty for sleeping with her, but he shouldn't. He doesn't owe me shit.

  “That fucking cunt is lying through her teeth,” he says, putting his boot up on the seat and retying his laces. “She's probably got some cult shit going on with that Eric fuck. I bet he wanted to, like, fucking keep Naomi and his sister as sex slaves or some crap. And I think that Hayden.” Turner slams his boot down on the floor and inhales some THC into his chest. “Hayden wants her own, personal cock garden.”

  “What?” Dax asks, looking at Trey and Ronnie and Milo with pinched brows.

  “I think maybe we could be of better use elsewhere?” Trey suggests, poking his dark haired friend in the bicep. “Like, somewhere other than here? Rook has some good shit on his bus. Let's go score some.” He starts to move towards the door and pauses, looking at Turner with a twitching lip. He cares about his friend, that much is obvious. They're macho fucking tough guys, so they don't show it much, but it's there. I decide I like their dynamic. “Just be careful, alright? Whatever's going on, I don't want to know. Just remember that there's a murderer on the loose and a tornado watch in effect, okay?”

  “Yes, mother,” Turner says, looking back at
his friend with a wicked grin. “Now get the fuck out.”

  Trey leaves and takes the blonde kid and other dude with him while Milo hovers near the sink looking alarmed.

  “It's fine, Terrabotti,” Turner says, looking at his manager and blowing out some smoke. “I'll take care of this shit, and we'll make platinum.” He pauses and Milo opens his mouth, pauses, snaps it closed.

  “Alright. Just don't take anymore photographs of your genitals.” Turner laughs, loud and raucous and kicks his manager out into the pouring rain with a gentle shove. He locks the door and comes back up the steps. Dax and I both give him looks, but he doesn't acknowledge them, and we don't ask. I, for one, don't want to know. I imagine that someone as full of themselves as Turner Campbell takes a lot of crotch shots.

  “Okay, Knox. What's the plan? I want to figure this crap out before anybody else gets hurt. If I lose one of my friends because of this fuckwad, I will kill him myself. I'd rather not spend twenty years in jail, so why don't we see what we can do?”

  “I'm going to call America,” I tell him, tapping the screen and trying to decide exactly what it is I want to say. I trust her, but I don't want to put her in any danger either. I stare down at the screen, at the picture of stars that Dax has posted as his background and I think about Eric and the brief period where we dated. He was detached maybe, but I never thought he was cruel. I look up again and hope I'm making the right decisions here. Apparently, my people judging skills aren't exactly up to par. I should've seen bad things coming when I met with him before, but I didn't. I still can't figure out why he didn't take me before. He had plenty of opportunities. “And then I'm going to figure out what to do about my outfit. This shit isn't going to fly onstage. I'd kind of prefer it if my tits didn't steal the show.” Turner grins and opens his mouth, ready to blurt some shit that'll force me to kick his ass, so I keep going.

  “You think Hayden's still into this?” Dax asks as I hit the button to dial. Neither Turner or I respond to his statement and he leans back with a sigh.

  “Dax, thank the fucking stars. I need to get out of this redneck shit hole before I blow my brains out of my skull.” Nice to know she's retained some of the slang we've been feeding her along the way.

  “It's not Dax,” I say and the phone goes completely silent.

  “Naomi,” she says after a moment. “Good. You're alive.” Those few words might as well be a shouting, sobbing cry of relief. This is all I'm going to get out of my manager. “Now listen to me. Don't speak. Don't respond. Don't ask questions.” I wait as America sucks in a gasping breath. It sounds wet which scares the crap out of me. If she dies, our band is done for. Fucked. Screwed six ways to Sunday. We need her. “The night of the concert here in Denver, when we were attacked, there were six people that came onto that bus. None of the bouncers stopped them, nobody noticed. Six people in masks.” I stay silent, just as she'd asked. “They were there for you and me specifically. That pothead girl was an accident. They meant to kill me, and they meant to keep you.” She takes another gasping breath, and I hear a voice in the background. “Can't you see I'm on a call for business right now, you addle headed bimbo? Get out.” America pauses and snarls under her breath. “There's no privacy here. It's ridiculous. You'd think I was the one that committed the crime.” She sighs. “I need the details, but I don't want them over the phone. Give me a few days, and I'll meet you guys in Wichita. Are you singing tonight? Don't say anything to that. I think you should. Just be careful and watch your ass. This isn't over yet, and I don't imagine it coming to a close for awhile. If the police manage to learn anything, I'll be shocked. Now, hang up and go do your thing. I don't want this little snafu ruining our careers.” Only America would be ballsy enough to call a violent assault/homicide/kidnapping a snafu. I take the joint back from Turner and pull calmness into my lungs. “And Naomi,” she says before I hang up. “If you speak to any of the cops there, tell them I want my wedding band out of the evidence locker. They won't listen to me anymore.”

  And then she hangs up.

  I put the phone face down on the table and try to breathe.

  “Well?” Turner asks, hands on his hips, looking sexy as fuck in a pair of ripped jeans and a plain black tee that pulls tight over his muscles. “What did she say?”

  “She says,” I explain to him, looking around at Dax and Ronnie. “That were six people on the bus that night.”

  “Six?” Turner asks. “How the fuck did they get past security?” I think of the cop that I stabbed. An incident like that should've had the whole place buzzing with activity. They take assault on an officer pretty fucking seriously, and yet, there's been nothing. No words. My blood chills and goose bumps spring up across my skin.

  “I was putting together a theory, but it's kind of gone to shit.” I sigh and run my hands down my face. “Your weird sex cult idea doesn't sound so ridiculous after all. With all of this crap going down, who knows?” I slam my hands down on the table top. “You know what. Fuck this. I just want to sing. Maybe when whoever's involved sees me, their true colors will start to show?” I look straight into Turner's face and just hold my gaze there. He returns the favor and doesn't waver. I hope that when push comes to shove, that he'll really stick around like he says he will. I could use an ally right now.

  “Let's knock 'em dead,” Turner says with a slight grin, and I pray to the fucking gods of rock that that sentence remains metaphorical.

  We get Naomi all decked out and she goes from hot to fucking delicious. My dick ends up playing hotdog with my pants as the damn bun. Not very comfortable. I reach in and adjust myself while she gives me a look and eyes the shades with distaste.

  “You think he sent them?” she asks, and I figure she's talking about her foster brother. Dax stands in my bathroom, slipping compacts and lip liners into a plastic bag. I'm not a big fan of the guy since he is an emo bitch, but I have to admit, he did kind of come through for us. He jacked a bra, panties, and makeup from Blair without her even knowing it. And now Naomi is standing before me, full tits ripe and perky, lifted and swollen into an epic line of cleavage in her mangled Turner Campbell shirt. She sliced and diced that baby until it was unrecognizable, leaving a stripe of pink over her bra and tendrils of torn fabric hanging around her soft belly. The silver skull ring in her belly button winks at me as I scope out her Real Ugly tattoo with the angel wings and pretend I'm staring at the broken heart tattoo, so I can check out her breasts.

  “Who the fuck knows? Does it matter?” She narrows her smoky eyes at me and I have to wonder if Dax is really a fag or not. I mean, damn, the guy knows how to do makeup. “You're going to use the new Wolfgang tonight, aren't you? Might as well accept the shades, too.”

  “Even if an incestuous rapist stalker might've sent them to me?” she asks as Dax flicks off the light and joins us in the kitchen area. Ronnie's out scopin' around the venue looking for more gossip, so it's just the three of us in here with a gray sky and raging rain out the window. I hope there's still a crowd tonight. Tornado watch or no, I can see rage and riffs and blood boiling in Naomi's eyes. She's going to take her anger out onstage and it's going to be killer. It's worth the risk.

  “Fucker spent his money on some nice shit. Why? To freak us out?” I reach out to grab the glasses from her hand, and she tightens her fingers around them. I want to snatch her wrist and drag her against me, kiss the fuck out of her moistened lips, but I doubt she'd let that fly. As much as I want to be an item, rock god to her goddess, I don't think she's ready. But I'll wait. She'll come around, eventually. I smile. I sound like a fucking chick. I wait with my fingers resting on hers until she relinquishes the shades to me and slip them on her face. “Screw 'em. We're going to nail them either way, might as well get some free shit out of it.”

  Naomi sighs and leaves them on, sweeping her blonde hair over her shoulder and picking up the new hoodie I got for her. It's a bright red Indecency sweater with our logo slapped on the front in white. She pulls it over her head and makes sur
e the hood is in place.

  I don't ask her her plans for the stage. I don't need to know them. I'm going to do what I feel is fucking right, whatever strikes me at the moment. I don't imagine this night ending without me joining her onstage though.

  The air is charged as shit tonight, filled with the wild energy of the storm. It's going to churn this crowd up, no matter how big or small it is.

  “What do you want to do about Hayden?” Dax asks, tucking the makeup bag under his arm. He looks nervous. He should be. Something's going to happen tonight. I don't know what it is or if I'm going to get all the answers, but shit is going to go down, and I'm going to be ready. Nobody, and I mean nobody is touching my woman tonight.

  “Let me deal with her,” Naomi says, taking a breath. “She's going to give up the spotlight tonight. Willingly. And then tomorrow, when everybody knows I'm back, we'll figure this shit out.” She shakes out her wrists and takes a deep breath. “My fingers are itching for my baby. If I don't slam some strings tonight, I'm going to go fucking insane.” Naomi moves forward and pushes open the door, and at that same moment, the rain just … stops. I hear her mutter something about tornadoes under her breath, but I grew up in California. I don't know shit about tornadoes.

  I jump down the steps after her and Dax follows, keeping close but feeling so far away. I know he can feel it, this thing between Naomi and me. Shit man, anybody could see it. The water beneath our feet evaporates away with the heat. She tries not to look at me too hard or for too long, but I know last night meant something to her. I'm changing her mind one slow, sweet fuck at a time.

  “You know,” she says, voice pitched low. She knows Dax can hear, but whatever it is she wants to say, she wants to say it now. “If I hadn't been kidnapped … if I wasn't being stalked and betrayed and screwed with at every turn, I'd be thinking a lot more about this … thing with you.” I stop walking and get out a cigarette. Dax glares at me, and despite his earlier proclamation that he didn't stand a chance against me, he doesn't exactly look like he's ready to give up. I wonder how this will all play out. “I spent years with … ” Naomi grabs at her sweater and twists her fist in the fabric. “With you as my saddest secret. Now that it's out, that you know about the baby and,” Naomi pauses and sighs, slapping her hands against the legs of her borrowed jeans. “And everything else. I'm having trouble figuring out where to place myself, how to react. I have one more secret, one more.” Naomi bites her lower lip, looks down at the ground and then up at me. “One more and then I'm free and I don't know what I'm going to do.”