I stash the Wolfgang back in the case and pick it up by the handle, moving away before the roadies sneak back in and start hitting up Stack for sex. Guess with me out of the picture, they needed a backup.
“Hey.” I turn at the sound of a voice and find Hayden standing close by. Her brunette hair is swept up on top of her head and she's got on a bright pink tank and a pair of white skinny jeans. Spiked bracelets adorn her wrists and a handful of silver necklaces dangle from her neck. When I look at her, all I see is attention whore. There's not really much about her that I find attractive. Shit, when I banged this chick I must've been seriously fucked up. She's definitely no Naomi. I wonder if my disgust at seeing her has anything do with my suspicion. To me, she looks guilty as fuck.
“What?” I ask as I start across the scorching pavement. May as well take this fucking thing back inside. I'm going to need it to play tonight. I pause suddenly, stopping short. Hayden follows my lead as I turn to face her. “Are you singing tonight?” I ask her. She stares at me from cool blue eyes and smiles wickedly.
“Why wouldn't I?” she asks, mouth twisted into an expression that I know must've driven Knox nuts. It would certainly fuck me up if I had to look at it day in and day out. Hayden digs a joint out of her pocket and offers it to me, but I shake my head.
“What about Naomi?” I ask and she gives me a weird look. It's part fear, part confusion. I can't figure out the reason for either, and it makes me even more suspicious. She certainly doesn't seem to be mourning her lost friend. Bitch can play all she wants at being the Queen of Rock, but she has nothing on Naomi. It's not my opinion, just simple fact. Naomi writes the music, plays like a Goddess, and has the voice of a fucking angel. Hayden knows how to play up the sex. She's a performer, not a musician. Without Naomi, I don't know if Amatory Riot will survive.
“What about her?” she asks, looking guilty as all get-out. She glances this way and that, puffing on her joint and not giving two licks about the cops that are passing by not twenty feet from us. Granted, they probably see a lot worse shit around here, but still, pretty ballsy to smoke a fattie out in the open like this. “Am I supposed to stop living just because she's MIA?” Hayden rocks back and forth on her feet as I roll my eyes with disgust and continue towards the door of the venue. Even if she sings, I'll be onstage, making sure everything goes alright, slamming out riffs that are way over my head. The day I stop playing will be the day I give up on Naomi and there is no way in shit that's ever going to happen.
Tonight's venue used to be a church … How inappropriate.
“Turner!” Hayden calls out and I pause, glancing over my shoulder at her. She looks straight at my face and holds tight there, lust and want burning bright in her eyes. Guess she's not as over me as she claims to be. “I want you to know that I never wanted anything to happen to Naomi, not really.” And then with that cryptic bullshit, she turns and walks away, leaving me calling after her. But I don't chase. There's only one woman in my world worth chasing after.
I wake up sometime later and am shocked as shit to find out that the blindfold is gone. What the hell? Immediately, my gaze snaps around the room, taking in, absorbing. I need to know where I am and what weapons, what escape routes, are at hand if I'm ever getting out of this nightmare.
My arms and legs aren't bound behind my back anymore. Now, I'm lying spread-eagled. Not good. This position only signals bad things, horrible things. I squeeze my eyes shut against the fear and flick them back open.
I'm in a trailer, I think. I mean, it could be a bus, but if it is, it's none of the ones that came on tour with us. The bed I'm on is part of a pull out sofa. Next to me, there's a slab of run down cabinets with an orange linoleum countertop. To my left, there's a pair of old leather seats, cracked with age, facing the front windshield. We're not moving right now, that much is obvious just from the lack of motion.
I strain against my bindings, but they're just as tight as they were before, if not more so. I wiggle around a bit and am not surprised to hear clinking up above my head. Handcuffs. Fucking handcuffs. The pain makes me gasp which reminds me, a little belatedly that I'm not gagged. I can move my fucking tongue for the first time in days.
“Show me your fucking face, asshole!” I scream. Or I try to. My throat is dry and scratchy, and the best I can get out is a harsh whisper. I try again. “You pussy motherfucker, come and untie me, show me what you've got, bitch.” Just a gasping croak.
I start to struggle again, flailing my body around like I'm having a seizure, fighting with every last ounce of strength I have inside to either get a reaction from my captor or find a weak spot in all of this shit. There has to be a way out. There just has to be. Where the fuck are you, Turner? I think and then realize how foolish I've been. Now, here, with the drugs fading from my system, I realize that Turner might not even be looking for me. I never even considered that before. Don't know when I became such a bleeding heart romantic. Even if Turner felt all the things he spouted out that night in Denver, that doesn't mean he's going to drop everything and go searching for me. What a crock of crap.
So I kick harder and I keep screaming, willing with each breath for something to happen. Nothing does for a long while, and my voice, instead of getting stronger, gets weaker with each shout, with each whisper of gasping breath.
Fuck. Fuck. And super fuck.
I lay there and stare at the ceiling. It's stained, just riddled with water spots and grease. Based on the musty smell and stench of mildew, it's pretty obvious from scent alone that whoever has me now is residing in a lot less swanky of a place than my previous captors. I adjust myself with a sigh, trying to hold back tears when white hot pain sears my hands and feet. And then I hear a noise. A squeak. It's small, barely noticeable. I yank on my right wrist. Nothing. My left. Aha. I pull harder.
I can hear metal sliding on metal followed by an almost imperceptible shriek. Is it a loose bolt? An old part ready snap? I don't know, but it's worth a try. I pull on my wrist so hard that it feels like the bone is about to break in half, sucking in my breath and biting back a scream that's threatening to tear out my throat.
Nothing fucking happens.
I collapse back into the bed with a sob and wonder if this'll be the last place I see. If this room will be my nightmare and my tomb. What will I experience here? All the things I fought to escape when I killed my foster parents? Is this the universe's vengeance on me for taking their lives?
“When the moon hangs low and night is warm, I find my way to you,” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears I won't shed. If this is my last moment alone, the last time I'll ever see the world this way, I want to sing. I always played the guitar, it's like a part of my fucking body, an extension of myself, but singing is … it's an extension of my soul. I wish I'd done it more, that I hadn't let Hayden monopolize the lead. “If life is a question of courage, I've failed, so I hope you'll still hold me. Oh God, please hold me. If you turn me down, I've got nowhere else to go.” I sniffle hard and fight back the wave of crushing depression. “If you'll pick me back up, I promise I'll stand. I'll find my feet and fight back, nobody will bother me again. Those sticks and stones won't touch my bones, and words will be only weapons I can wield.”
The door creaks, but I don't stop singing. Whoever it is that's fucking with me, I want them to know that I'm a person with feelings, that I'm here, that I matter. I'm not going to be some faceless fuck puppet who screams for their pleasure. I will bend, but I refuse to fucking break.
“I'll shed blood if I have to. I'll draw them out while I draw you in. I'll lose them while I find you. Pick me back up, and I promise I'll stand. I promise, swear it, know it, love it, believe it.”
The door opens in and I crane my head up to see who it is. Some masked perpetrator? A stranger with wicked intentions?
Instead, the person that ascends the steps is one of the last people I expected to see. I swallow hard and force the word past my dry lips.
“Hayden?”
The sto
rm we had in San Antonio rolls right into Austin and slams us all hard, crackling the air with electricity and passing an eerie shadow over the venue. I'm in the back early today, fresh out of ideas and frustrated as fuck. I should've followed Hayden. I watched her, sure, and she went back to Terre Haute's bus, but I should've kept on her. Something isn't right about that girl, never was. For the first time in my life, I feel wrong inside for sleeping with someone, like something inside has gotten tweaked in a bad way. Thank fucking God I don't remember that shit.
I stand with my arms crossed and my gaze focused on the stage at Ice and Glass. I don't know much about their music, barely even remember that they exist. They've been opening our shows since we left Seattle and yet, I've never bothered to download a single track. They're alright, but they're not star worthy, not by a long shot. I light up a cigarette and turn away, focusing my gaze on Milo who's speaking with one of the roadies. To be honest, I don't know how any of this works. Milo tells me what to do and where to go, and I follow along. Who does what here, who's in charge, none of that matters to me. It should, maybe, but it doesn't.
I pull out my phone, check for messages, scan my Facebook page, my blog. Nothing. Nobody has anything helpful to fucking say. Bunch of damn trolls. I tuck it back in my pocket and nearly drop my cig when the power flickers off and on. To their credit, Ice and Glass keeps going, not skipping a single beat. The crowd, lukewarm previously, starts to titter and get excited. Good. I need a lively show tonight, something to fuel my blood so I can keep on keepin' on.
The power goes off again, and the emergency lights wink on, bathing both rooms in a red glow that reminds me of dark rooms and perverted serial killers. I don't like it at all. Makes me sick to my stomach. The singer, a guy in his early twenties with a cocky fuck face and an attitude to match, belts out the lyrics to his song, screaming them at the crowd with a music fueled rage. They love the shit out of that and start to bounce, bathed in the bloody glow of the lights and the distant pounding of drums. When the electricity explodes back into action, they shriek like wailing demons and rush the stage. It's a bit lower than usual, an improvised arena made from an old church dais. Kind of creeps me the fuck out. Either side of the platform is draped in these heavy, red curtains that dangle from the vaulted ceiling like ghosts.
I turn away and close my eyes, breathing in the scent of sweat and pot, wishing like hell I was high. But I know I'm less than useless that way. If I'm not making any headway now, how the fuck do I expect to get shit done with a bunch of screaming voices in my head? Drugs are not an option right now.
“Turner.” Just my name, short and clipped. I open my eyes to find Blair dressed in a form fitting red dress, tight and ruched. It looks like it's got a mind of its own as it inches its way up her pale thighs. Her black and blonde hair hangs over her shoulders and teases the edges of her fingers where they're pressed against her chest. Beneath them, I can see something peeking out. A picture maybe?
“What's up?” I ask as I watch her watching me carefully. She's making a lot of judgments right now, and I've got to make sure I'm on the right side of them. There's conflict burning in her eyes, warning me that something's happened. I don't know what it is, but it's serious. Otherwise, why the hell else would she be here talking to me? Blair closes her eyes and rests her long lashes on her cheeks for a moment.
“You asked me if there was anything of Naomi's that might help you figure things out. Well, I might have something, but I need you to answer a question of mine first.” She opens her eyes and cuts me deep. “Where did you get that guitar? We all saw what Naomi did to hers. What the fuck are you trying to pull?” I wet my lips and tap my cigarette ash into a nearby tray. Honesty, my favorite fucking policy. Finally.
“It was left on my bus,” I say, and then I think about that hard for a minute. The guitar. A piece of Naomi, a symbol. Travis' hat. The same. What. The. Fuck. Is going on here? I get the idea that this whole thing goes beyond Naomi, that it's something bigger, something even more frightening than I thought before. Something that started a long, long time ago. My skin erupts in goose bumps and I find myself wrapping an arm across my chest.
Blair continues to stare at me, taking in the white Amatory Riot shirt with the black and red fist, the dark jeans, the boots. She isn't my biggest fan, but I know before she takes a step forward in her ridiculously high heels that she's going to take a chance on me.
“I found this on the bus, under Naomi's mattress. I found it before the show that night. I was going to ask her after, but … ” Blair stops talking and then thrusts the image at my chest. I take it in shaky fingers and unfold it.
Hayden Lee, covered in blood. What a surprise.
“What the fuck?” I ask as the worst friend, the best enemy, I've ever had slinks in and moves over to the side of the bed, dropping to her knees and hovering her hands over my body like she's casting a spell.
“I wish we didn't have so many secrets,” she whispers, sniffling and letting hot, salty tears fall from her eyes and slap the bare skin on my arms. “If we didn't, this might not be happening right now. I'm so sorry, Naomi. I never meant for anything bad to happen to you.”
“Hayden,” I say, trying to appeal to her soft side. Didn't know she had one until now, but shit, if her weeping face and trembling lips are any indication, she feels guilty. I have to play up on that, take advantage and get the fuck out of here. The way she's acting, how her eyes are shifting from side to side, I'm willing to bet that this isn't her trailer. She knows who it belongs to, and she's not supposed to be here. That much is obvious. “Hayden, whatever's happened, whatever you did or I did, it doesn't matter. Just get me out of here, and we'll figure it out. We always have, right? Right?” But she's not listening anymore. Her face is in her skinny hands and she's sobbing like I'm already dead, like this is my funeral and I'm as good as buried. I've always hated the bitch, but right now, I despise her. “Snap the fuck out of it, bitch!” I scream, and I'm proud to hear my voice actually come out properly. Instead of a wheezing gasp, I sound strong, ready, like I could take on anything. It's all a front, of course. Doubt I could hurt a friggin' fly, but it does draw her eyes upward.
“You've been mean to me, Naomi. Always calling me stupid, whispering cruel words behind my back.” Hayden's hand snakes out and grabs me by the hair, pulling tight, squeezing hard. “I should want you here, want you to suffer, but I guess it's just not in me.” She lets go and stands up, dashing away tears, glancing at the clock on the stove. She looks so clean and polished right now. Pisses me off. I feel so grubby and disgusting. I would kill for a fucking shower. Shit. “I have a show soon,” she tells me, confirming my earlier guess that I'm still on the tour. I'm not out in a bunker in the desert. Things are looking up. “We have a show soon, and I'd be kidding myself I thought we'd survive without you for long.” Hayden turns and gives me a look over her shoulder, reaching up to pull the clip from her hair. Perfectly straight brunette tendrils drip down her back and swing as she whirls around to face me fully. Her nipples are erect and she looks a little too excited for the given situation. “Even with Turner … ” She pauses and licks her lips. I don't like the way she says his name, like she's raping him with words. Jealousy surges through me, both surprising and terrifying. How can I be thinking about that when I'm in a situation like this? The fuck? “We'd just be a novelty. I don't want that. I want to be immortalized, Naomi.” Hayden moves towards me and purses her lips. “I'll get you out of here. I don't know when or how, but I will. I will.” And then she leans down and presses a kiss to my lips.
Admittedly, I want to strangle the bitch, but I can't alienate her now, so I lay there stone still until she pulls away with a sigh.
“Hayden,” I say as she backs up and turns away. “Don't leave me here.” She ignores me and reaches for the door. “Hayden! Please!” I scream and my voice echoes around the trailer. “Hayden!” Rain and wind pour in through the open door as she descends the steps and hits the pavement, letting it swing sh
ut behind her. Despair crushes me hard, tightens its grip on my throat and strangles me. I start to scream and thrash, kicking and flailing around, bruising my wrists and ankles and drawing blood.
I'm making such a fuss, I don't even hear the door open a second time.
“Naomi?”
The soft voice is almost inaudible above my shouting, but I hear it. It's a voice I haven't heard in a long, long while. I stop screaming and tilt my chin towards my chest, so I can see. Standing at the end of the bed, barefoot and dressed in rags, stands my foster sister, Katie Rhineback.
Getting through Amatory Riot's set is a fucking chore. Hayden's not a bad singer. In fact, she's better than I want to admit. Thing is, having to stare at her skinny ass as she eats up the crowd's pleasure is like watching a succubus rape a man. He might act like he's enjoying it, but he has no idea that his soul is being ripped out through his cock. I want to smash my guitar into the back of that bitch's head and demand that she tell me where Naomi is. I know she knows. And that picture? If Naomi had that, and Hayden wanted to stop her from telling people, it would make sense why she'd go after her. Now, why she'd kill Marta and attack America, I don't fucking know. Maybe bitch is just crazy?
I force my way through the songs, trying my best to match up to Wren, getting nowhere near Naomi. Afterwards, I don't even bother leaving the stage, just step up to the plate so to speak, and snatch the mic from Hayden's hand. The audience hisses at this and cackles as I set the guitar on the ground and slide it away with my foot.
“Howdy,” I whisper into the mic, happy to be free of the guitar but feeling a little naked, too, you know? Good thing that's a positive onstage. I tease the edge of my pants and loose a button. The demons below me surge and wail, clawing up at me, worshipping me, having no fucking clue how bad I'm hurting. I want to inflict that pain on Hayden until she gives up her secrets. As soon as this set is over, bitch better run. “How are y'all doing this evening?” I lift up my shirt and let 'em get an eyeful while crew members rush around me, breaking like waves when they get close. Nobody touches Turner fucking Campbell. “I'm going to be honest with you right now. I am beyond fucking horny.”
Get Bent (Hard Rock Roots) Page 8
