One of the cops, the one in a brown trench and a white button up, rises to his feet and holds out his hand. He's smiley and young, perky. Exactly the type of guy I hate. He and I are polar opposites on the scale. I bet he grew up in a three bedroom in Suburbia with a dog and 2.5 brothers and sisters. Good for him. I grew up in a trailer park with a sign so faded you couldn't read the Happy to Have You in Tigard Springs message that was scrawled across it. Immediately, my guard is up and I'm feeling territorial.
“Hello there, Turner. My name is Jim Pemberton and I'm with the Denver County Sheriff's Department. It really is an honor to meet you. I've been a fan of your music for years now. I was actually at one of your first shows, up in Jersey when Travis was still on bass.” I look at his hand and after a moment of debate, I take it and shake hard, letting him know I'm serious here. I watch his blue eyes and his chapped lips and try to decide if he's bringing up my dead friend to piss me off, or to try and win me over.
When the other cop clears his throat and frowns at me, I figure that Jim is the good cop. Whoever's at the table is the bad one. Great. I've played this game before, when I got booked for pissing on that chick. I can handle it.
I slump down in the seat and play my bad boy card, adjusting myself in my pants with one hand and holding my cigarette in the other. Bad Cop watches me play with my balls and doesn't try to hide his disgust.
“You a fan of my music?” I ask as Ronnie enters the room and looks over at me. He knows the RVs are back, too. Well, of course he does, he's Ronnie freaking McGuire. Bad Cop continues to stare at me from flat brown eyes, pursing his lips and folding his hands on the table. He's not happy to be here, following our tour around. I bet if he had his way, we'd all be stuck in Denver until this shit was over.
“My name is Darnell Valentine,” he says in a monotone. “And we'd like to ask you a couple of questions.” He sits up tall and doesn't try to hide his disappointment. “Before we move this to another department, we'd like to wrap up our end of the investigation.”
“FBI?” Ronnie asks, pulling their eyes over to him. They take in his pale skin, the snake tattoos on his neck, and they don't look overly excited to have him in the room. Fortunately for them, they don't say anything.
“Hayden Lee went missing in Colorado and showed up in Texas,” Jim says, smiling bright. He doesn't explain further. Instead he sits down next to his partner and proceeds to ask me a bunch of useless questions. What do you know about Naomi Knox? How are you two involved? Where were you on so-and-so day at so-and-so time? None of it strikes any chords until they move onto a slightly different subject.
“Have you had the pleasure of meeting Naomi's brother, Eric Rhineback?” Darnell asks. I stop with my cigarette halfway to my mouth. Holy fuck. Have the drugs done that much damage on my brain that I never stopped to think about Eric? Well, shit, he's the obvious suspect here, isn't he? Naomi said he was following the tour, that she spoke with him. But do I tell the cops that? Or do I search for the fucker myself?
I drum my fingers on the table and try to think. Finally, I decide that this information, at least, is better handled by the fucks in the suits.
“I haven't met him, but Naomi said she spoke with him.” The police don't give anything away. If they've heard this information before, they don't let on.
“Did she tell you what they talked about?” Jim asks.
Yeah, I think as Ronnie makes himself a sandwich and eavesdrops on the conversation. Milo sits stiff and rigid nearby, glancing at his watch every now and again. It's late, way too fucking late for cops and all this shit. But here they are, and the tour will just have to wait. Ah, the arrogance. And I thought I was bad. Naomi told me all about her foster parents and how she killed them, how she stabbed a pair of freaking scissors into their throats like some kind of soap opera heroine.
“He was looking for his sister,” I say instead and I notice that Jim's right eye twitches a little. Guess I hit a nerve.
“I see,” he says and adjusts himself slightly. He's pretending not to be interested, but I can tell that he is. Bad Cop doesn't move a muscle. I keep my eyes on Darnell and notice that he's wearing a very expensive watch. Guess cops make a lot of money, huh? I wouldn't know. All they ever did for me was show up and drag my momma away. They never helped me out, never really punished her, never gave me a second chance at something. They slapped her wrist and tossed her back, angrier than ever. I close my eyes and try to tone down the simmer of rage in my belly. “And do you know why he might've gone to Naomi for help with that?” I shrug and stab my cigarette out in an ashtray. It's actually my fourth one since I sat down. This is taking longer than I thought. The RVs drift around in the back of my mind. I imagine kicking the door down and finding Naomi, throwing her over my shoulder and rescuing her like a prince in a fucking fairytale.
“How the fuck should I know?” I ask, playing my other card. The fact that Naomi and I aren't connected in any tangible way according to the law is in my advantage right now. “She and I aren't exactly joined at the hip.”
“But you're in love with her?” Darnell blurts, leaning forward. His shaggy brows drop low over his eyes and obscure the glare he's tossing my way. My nostrils flare, but I manage to hold back my temper. Good for me. I'm growing in all sorts of fucking ways.
“What's it to you?” I snarl back.
“Darnell … ” Jim begins, but his partner isn't listening.
“We have a whole room full of people that heard you confess your love to her, that heard her deny you back that same love. That would've pissed me off. Didn't it bother you? To be turned down like that? And so publicly, too?”
I stand up then and knock over the ashtray with my hand.
“The fuck you gettin' at, motherfucker?” I growl as Milo rockets forward and grabs me by the shoulder. Darnell and Jim stand, too, but this time, it's Jim who's frowning and his partner who's smiling.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Campbell,” Jim says, giving me a tight-lipped grin. He moves away and Darnell follows. The sound of the door swinging in the wind seems awfully loud as I stand there staring at a burn mark on the tabletop.
“Turner?” Ronnie asks, and I look up at him. “Take a walk to cool down with me, buddy?” I nod and pull my arm from Milo's grip. My manager doesn't say a thing. Maybe this time, he realizes that it's gone too far.
Nobody questions my love for Naomi. Nobody.
I hear the voices again. They're arguing this time. I wonder if they're trying to decide what to do with me. I hope that whatever it is they decide, that they let me out of these damn ropes sooner rather than later. I can't feel my hands or my feet anymore, and that scares the shit out of me. I preferred it when they were burning in agony.
The footsteps come towards me, but they don't pull away the curtains. Instead, they move past me for the first time since I got here. The voices don't talk when they're close by, but as soon as they move away, they start up again. Wherever it is that they're standing, they've gotten so muffled that I can't hear anything but mumbling. It's so fucking frustrating, almost enough to start up the tears again. I thought they'd all dried up those first few days, but maybe I'm wrong. Right now, a good sob feels like it's about to bubble up and take over me.
Stay positive, Naomi, I say, trying to give myself an internal pep talk. Never worked for me before, but there's always a first time for everything, right? You're going to get out of this a stronger person. And then you're going to go nut shit crazy and blow some fucking heads off. Whoever's responsible for this is going down hard.
The footsteps come back and this time, there's the customary swish of the curtain, the flash of light. But when I wait for the needle, it doesn't come. This time, the IVs are ripped out of my arm, and I grunt in pain. A second later, I'm being lifted up and tossed over the shoulder of somebody. A man, I think, based on the muscle and the musky smell of aftershave, but I've been wrong before, believe it or not.
The person starts to talk and their voice is still a b
it muffled, despite my head resting against their back. That's when I realize it: I'm wearing earplugs. Fucking earplugs. Goddamn it.
“You tell him that the terms haven't changed. And tell him we haven't fucking seen her. If we do, we'll take care of it, okay?” The voice rumbles up from below my cheek as the person carries me forward. My head bobbles as we descend steps and then I gasp against the fabric in my mouth as cool water hits my skin and brings life back into my numbed limbs. The pain follows shortly after, white hot, like hundreds of needles are stabbing me again and again and again.
I start to struggle and scream as we ascend out of the rain and up another set of steps, into a warm room or bus or whatever the fuck it is. My stomach flip flops and bile rises in my throat as I'm thrown from my captor's shoulder down on a bed and left with bright light blazing into my eyes. I try to turn and bury my head in one of the nearby pillows I can feel against my face, but fingers come down and grab my chin hard, turning me back in the opposite direction.
Nobody speaks again. I suppose it's for fear that I'll recognize them, I don't know, but the silence is eerie. I hear footsteps and shuffles, the crumpling of paper, strange swishing noises I can't place. A few moments later, the cool draft against my back disappears and I hear a door being closed and locked.
The needle pricks my arm again, and I pass out.
The key doesn't work on the fucking RVs. No matter how many times I try, how hard I push, how much I want to scream, it doesn't fucking work.
So Ronnie and I head back to the bus, and I collapse, exhausted, images of guitars and scissors and blood running through my head in a continuous loop. I get that I'm probably going through some sort of withdrawal right now, too, and it's not easy. My mind and my body are both struggling to get through what's probably the hardest week of my fucking life. Falling in love is like catching an incurable disease. Yeah, maybe that doesn't sound so romantic, but it's true. It changes you, inside and out, alters the way you see and feel things, how you perceive the world. It's incurable and it's contagious as shit. It makes you want to have babies and raise kittens, pet butterfly wings and sleep with your head on somebody else's chest. Love … man, it fucks with everything you are and everything you want to be. I like it and hate it.
I roll over in my sleep and groan, pressing my fingers to the wall beside my bunk. My other hand drifts down below and starts to stroke my cock while images of that blonde fucking beauty fill my head. I feel bad, jacking off to her when she's missing, but somehow, I know she's okay, and I know that I'm going to find her. As soon as I do, I'm putting a ring on her fucking finger, making her mine once and for all, whether she likes it or not. Deep down, I know she still loves me, even if she won't admit it to herself.
So in my half sleep, I run my fingers down my dick and grip myself at the base, squeezing hard, imaging Naomi clenching tight around me, dreaming that I'm filling her with my seed. I bite my lip hard and pump fast and furious, groaning so loud that Jesse ends up throwing something at the curtains and telling me to shut the fuck up. But I can't stop. I'm so wrapped up in that girl that I can't breathe anymore, that I can't see the world without her in it. Love has grabbed me by the balls and it's never letting go. I am so freaking screwed.
I'm going to find you, Knox. You can bet your sweet ass that I won't rest until you're lying in my arms, sated and sweaty, filled with me while I'm consumed by you.
I squeeze harder and move faster, spilling myself into my pants and wishing it was my lover's sweet pussy. And then I open my eyes and stare at the wall and I know, just fucking know that wherever she is, she can feel me wanting her because I can sure as hell feel her wanting me.
Love is a disease, man, and I am fucking chronic.
When I wake up, we're in Austin and the sun is shining just as hard as the rain was falling yesterday. I step out into the front of the bus with droopy eyes and a bad attitude. Starting off the day pining for the one you love, filled to the brim with secrets when you fucking hate the damn things, is hard to deal with. My personal no secret motto is not holding up right now, and I'm rotten inside, full of those bleeding, reeking monstrosities. I can see how Naomi got so angry at the world. She was carrying some huge fucking tumors of bullshit.
I light up a cig and slump down at the table, across from Ronnie. He looks better today, less strung out. I'm proud of him. He grins at me and flashes some of the silver fillings in his teeth.
“Have a good time last night?” he asks, and I shrug. I'm not ashamed.
“It'd have been a lot better if I'd had a partner,” I say and Ronnie nods, losing his grin to introspection, delving so deep into himself that for a moment, he looks like a corpse. I notice that he's wearing some of those stupid fucking bracelets on his arm. I see that one has red writing that's a bit different from the others. Mrs. Ronnie McGuire. He sees me staring and holds up his wrist.
“Your fame is wearing off on us,” he says, but he doesn't really look all that excited about it. Instead, he folds himself forward and locks my gaze with his. He's wearing clean clothes today and he's actually got on a shirt that one of his kids sent him. It's a stupid orange color with a bear on the front, and it looks a little ridiculous, but the message is clear. I love you, Daddy. I've caught him gazing at it a few times, but he's always shoved it back under his pillow when he's caught somebody looking. My quest, my determination, somehow it's rubbing off on my friend. I like that. Maybe something good can grow out of all this shit like fertilizer? Who knows? “You okay with that?”
“Am I okay with the sensationalism of my girlfriend's disappearance? Not fucking really, but what am I going to do about it? It's kind of out my hands. Once I've got her back, safe and sound, maybe then I'll smile about it.”
“We're making enough money to buy a fucking private island.”
“Yeah, well, there's that, too.” I watch as Josh moves into the kitchen and starts making himself a cup of coffee. For once in my life, I'm actually awake before noon. Impressive. From the look of the hustle and bustle outside the window, it seems like the crew is actually getting their shit done early for once. The drive from San Antonio to Austin is less than two hours, so my guess is that everybody got what they wanted when we arrived last night – sex, drugs, sleep. The general feeling in camp is one of contentedness, not anger, not fear, not sadness. It's like the murder never even happened. I feel kind of pissed off for Marta. I feel extra pissed off for Naomi.
“What's the plan for today?” Ronnie asks me, stretching his arms above his head and leaning back. He scratches at the stubble on his chin. “More gumshoeing?” I take a deep breath, absorbing the warm smell of caffeine. Maybe, instead of having a beer today, I'll start off with some coffee. Sounds like a good change of pace. I knock my tongue ring against my teeth and try to think. Do I mention the guitar to Ronnie? Maybe not yet. I guess I should go check it out first, see if I can find anything.
“I'm just going to fuck around, and see what I can come up with,” I say, and I pretend not to notice the eagerness in my friend's face. He wants to help, and I'm glad. This is the liveliest I've seen him since Asuka died all those years ago, but I don't want that spark in his gaze to turn to suspicion. Hayden, slut that she is, gave me something to think about. Maybe the hostility from Dax and Blair had something to do with that guitar? Maybe everybody's wondering about that? “I'll call you if I find anything,” I add, and Ronnie smiles. As I stand up to get a cup of coffee, Josh places one down in front of me.
“For you,” he says simply, and I give him a tight-lipped smile.
“Thanks.” He nods curtly and we go back to ignoring each other. He's not Travis, he'll never be, but I guess I can forgive him for kissing Naomi. Well, eventually anyway.
I sip the coffee and come up with my plan.
There's a guy named Stack who works for the tour. Technically, he's employed by all the bands, so I feel alright seeking him out. He's got more piercings than a pin cushion, but the women flock to him like he's made out of fucking choc
olate. Their lips say they want to eat him up as they flirt and run their tongues over their moist mouths, brush their fingers down his bare arms. I have to wade through a sea of them just to talk to the guy.
“Nah, this is no repair job,” he says with a white-toothed smile. I can practically see my reflection in the damn things. I can sure as fuck see myself in his piercings. The six rings on his lip jiggle when he talks. “I saw Naomi's Wolfgang after the show, and it was trash. This is brand spanking new.” He spins the guitar around in his long fingers and squints his brown eyes at it like he can decipher where it came from if he stares long enough. “I mean, I could probably track the serial number and tell you where it come from.” He looks up at me. “But if I were you, I'd just count my blessings and thank whoever it was that left it for ya.” Stack shrugs and hands the guitar back to me before returning to patching up a trashed kit.
“Why's that?” I ask as he settles into his work and his eyes start to get that faraway look in them, proving that he was born for this kind of thing. It's the same look I get when I sing, when Ronnie smashes his drums. The look of a fucking purist, that artist's eye that blinds you to everything else. It's all fine and dandy and shit. Just wish it wasn't blinding him to me at this moment.
“That guitar is a blessing. Hard to find. Costs more than a car.” He looks at me and raises a silver studded brow. “Well, more than my car anyway. I don't like to second guess good luck.” Stack smiles and goes back to re-covering a drum. My stomach churns, but I don't know what to say. That this fucking thing is like a curse. I could have him track the serial number, but I have a feeling that whoever left this was careful enough to cover their tracks. I mean, if they're getting away with murder, surely then can outrun little, old me.
Get Bent (Hard Rock Roots) Page 7
