Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) (13 page)

I let my fantasy overwhelm me, smashing my emotions down until they're like far away stars, glinting in a sea of darkness. I pretend I don't know that I really am falling for him, falling in love with a guy who left me young and scared and pregnant. I pretend that I don't know I'm finally forgiving him, that I don't care about the past anymore and only want to see the future. I let my fears go for the moment and worship the ardent simmer of our bodies. It's so hot, there might as well be fucking steam in the cold air around us. The fence creaks as our bodies slam into it, protesting the abuse. But it doesn't matter, none of it matters. It's just his cock in my pussy, animalistic and friggin' raw. Like a good show, like a rock ballad sung from on high. I'm playing a song with my body and he's singing the lyrics, following along where I tell him to go until it's time for the climax.

I come first, showering him in wet heat and woman, and he follows right after, grunting and growling, fingers curling around my hips as we drop together and come back up for air, panting and gasping and pretending there isn't a man on the other side of this fence waiting for us to finish.

In my fantasy, I get to walk away and pretend that Turner means nothing, that he'll forget about me come tomorrow.

In my reality, he looks me in the face when I open my eyes, brushes hair back from my forehead and tells me with his gaze that he will never forget me, not in a year, not in ten. Whether I want to or not, I've secured myself a place in the heart of the rock scene's baddest bad boy. The one I wanted, and then didn't, and now crave so hard I'm practically drooling.
Don't betray me, Turner,
I think as he drops my feet to the ground and presses a kiss to my forehead.
Don't let me down.

And somehow, I know that he never will. Even if I won't let myself believe that.

Getting America alone is a lot fucking harder than you might think. If I didn't know any better, I might say she was avoiding me. I ignore the gentle ache between my thighs and chase her down, cornering her in the kitchen after pretending to take a fucking nap on the couch. Turner really is asleep, snoring with his head pillowed on one of the ugly plaid cushions. I almost went too, resting there like that with my head on his chest. It was … nice. I won't say that I was completely comfortable with it, but I liked it.

“Are you trying to piss me off?” I ask her, putting my hand on the edge of the countertop and staring my manager down. She looks slightly disheveled, an appearance I'm not entirely comfortable with. Her hair is down again and her makeup is smudged, blurry, like I'm looking at a photograph that's out of focus. In her hands is a wine glass and a green bottle, something ridiculously high brow and overly expensive, I'm sure. “You drop a hint and then flip a switch, acting like nothing at all is going on here.” I pause and take a few steps back, examining the hallway for eavesdroppers. As far as I can tell, there's no one but the bouncer in the living room with Turner. I drop my voice and take a step in closer. “You never told us how you know what you know.” I look at her, but she won't meet my gaze. Not out of meekness, of course, but just like she doesn't care. She's staring out the front window at the darkening sky like it's far more interesting than this conversation we're not having.

“Naomi, this is a conversation better left for later.”

“And why is that? When is it going to get better than this? More private? America, I don't know what you know or how you know it, but you better spill before anybody else gets lined up in a sniper's crosshairs. I'm sure that next time, they won't miss.” I purse my lips and turn away, moving barefoot across the tiled floor and onto the hardwood. I have no idea where Hayden went and that's bothering me. I feel like I should slap a GPS on her back. Wherever the bitch is, whatever she's doing, I'm sure it's not anything good.

“Have you ever considered that maybe that isn't why I'm holding back? That maybe there's something personal about the information I'm carrying?” Her voice is snippy, hard as ice and twice as cold. I pause next to the dining room table and look down at the green candles arranged in the centerpiece.
Pine Paradise
the stickers say. On impulse, I slide my lighter out of my pocket and toast the wicks with flame.

“To be honest with you,” I say, stepping back and examining the flickering glow dancing across the chocolate brown walls. It's kind of cozy in here, I guess. Well, when you look at it with squinted eyes maybe. I pull out a cig and use the candle to light up. “Never even crossed my mind.” I turn to look at her, smoke trailing out behind me, surrounding me in a ring of gray that hangs in the stagnant air like smog. “As far as you've always been concerned, the past is the past and what you've already told us is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You went to Harvard, you studied law, you passed the bar exam. Then you found us and the rest is history.” I raise my hands up and drop them back by my sides, holding my smoke between my lips. “So forgive me if I haven't been considerate of your feelings regarding the matter.”

“He was the love of my life,” she blurts, and I stop, frozen there like an irregularity in time, like something outside the normal flow of space and existence, an abnormality, a freak. America sighs and then turns in a storm of flurried emotions, smashing her wine glass into the basin sink. The wine bottle falls from her fingers and hits the floor, exploding into a million colored pieces, washing her slippered feet in wasted grapes. I watch as this woman, this soldier, this person who always acts as if she's perfection incarnate, breaks down right in front of me, collapsing emotionally into a heap of rage and pain. America grabs her face with her good hand, letting the sling swing by her side as she slams her back into the cabinets and lets out a controlled shriek into her palm.

“He?” I ask, glancing over at the bodyguard. As usual, the man's like a statue, frozen and emotionless, but listening. Always listening. Hey, this is the same guy that sat idly by while Turner and I fucked against a fence, so maybe he's alright, but you never know. You never freaking know. “Tyler Rutledge?”

“Travis,” she snaps, dropping her hand and snarling at me with white, white teeth, moving forward, through the puddle of alcohol, slippers soggy and squishing. From the darkened living room, I hear Turner stirring, sitting up with a start and a groan.

“Travis?” I ask, trying the name out on my tongue. Obviously, it's a fucking common ass name, but I feel like I'm missing something. Travis. Travis. Travis.

Oh.

Travis.

My head snaps up to America's blue eyes as Turner's footsteps move around the side of the couch and pause on the other side of the cabinets, flames dancing across his dark form as the candles flicker and smile on the blackness around us.

“What did you just say?” His voice is quiet and dark, like velvet wrapped around steel, soft but deadly. Ready to strike.

“He was the love of my life,” America whispers, voice so low I can barely make out the words. She clutches at her chest with her free hand, twists the fabric of her button up shirt with rigid corpse fingers. “Travis Gaborone. I loved him with everything,
everything
I had and everything I'll ever be. I loved him and then I lost him.” Her eyes tear up, staining her face with liquid I never thought I'd see. I take a step back and bump into the edge of the table. “And it's all my fault. All my fucking fault.”

“Travis' death was an accident,” Turner says, moving a few feet closer to me. “What happened to him was an accident.” America laughs, and it's dry as dirt, harsh and gritty.

“What happened to Travis,” she says. “Was murder.”

“The fuck are you talking about, bitch?” I snarl, moving forward, getting in America's face, pushing her back with shaking hands. She pushes me right back and we get into a grapple that Naomi has to break up, moving us apart with quiet strength and presence more than anything else. What she doesn't know is that I'm not afraid to fuck up some bitch who's spewing lies about my best Goddamn friend, the friend who's been gone for a long, long time. Seven years without him. It's been a fucking ride, that's for sure. So, cast on her arm or no, I will beat the crap out of anyone who talks shit about Travis Gaborone, 'specially when they've got no right. No fucking right. “Travis was hit by a car when he was crossing the street. That's it. Ain't nobody ever said otherwise.”

“Yeah?” America asks with another laugh, one that makes my skin crawl. This chick is tough as nails with a thicker shell than Naomi Knox. Scary. “Hit by a car and then backed over. Yeah, that's right. The person who hit him went into reverse and ran over his body. Again. And Again. And again.” My blood starts to boil and the muscles in my jaw get tight, working hard as I grind my teeth together. I never got to see Travis' body, never got to hear the details of the accident. Just like with Trey, with Naomi, the law doesn't give a fuck how much love you got for that person. If you don't fit into their narrow ass bullshit definition of family, you can just forget about kissing your friend goodbye. Too fucking bad for you. And Travis' parents never said a thing, not one damn thing.

“How the hell would you know that?” I bark at her, trying but failing to keep my voice at a reasonable level. There's nothing reasonable about this shit. “How the fuck?!” I turn away before I hit her and move over to Naomi, wrapping an arm around her waist and burying my face against her blonde hair. I've never had anything like this,
anyone
like this. I close my eyes and breathe her in, feeling the pounding in my chest slow. If I wasn't so fucked in the head right now, I might feel good about this. Instead of drugs or drunken pussy, I've got Naomi, Goddess of Rock with legs for days and a smile so sharp it could cut. “How the fuck?”

“Because he was my fiancé, that's how,” America growls back at me, getting defensive. “You might not have known me, but I knew all about you. You and Ronnie, Jesse, Treyjan. Indecency. I was at every show. Every single fucking show.”

“Then how come I don't remember your ass?” I ask, moving back and turning towards her, letting my fists curls at my sides. The light from above the kitchen sink throws shadows across America's face, turning her perfect complexion into splotches of light and dark, intensified by the whisper of candles behind us. “Think I'd recall catching Travis tongue some yuppie bitch in the back of the venue.”

“We were careful to hide our relationship, so careful,” she whispers, hands shaking as she fingers the edges of her sling. And then her gaze snaps back to mine. “Besides, your head was so far up your ass back then, you couldn't see what was right in front of you.” America takes a step back and holds her hand out for something, Naomi's cigarette apparently. She hands it over without a fight.

“But why?” Naomi asks, standing stone still, eyebrows crinkled up and face full of questions. “Why even bother?”

“Because I knew what he'd do if he found out. Because I was afraid of him. Because I was already married.” America looks down at the fingers on her broken arm, reaching down with her other hand to touch a tan line on her ring finger.

“You were … married. And engaged?” Naomi asks while my head spins in my circles and my stomach tightens up with emotion. I hate talking about Travis; we all do. Our lost brother. The pain is still so intense that I have a hard time even thinking about it without wanting to light up, shoot up, or fuck up. And I thought I knew everything about that night. I spent
days
on that street corner with candles and flowers and weeping fans. How could I have not known this? Bitch has to be lying. Has to be. Has to. Has to. Has to.

“Oh, don't get all high and mighty on me now, Naomi. You're certainly one to talk. Murder. Abortion. Drugs. You can't judge me!” she screams, and I take another step back. The raging blaze of ire in her voice is enough to set this whole place aflame. I spare a glance for the bodyguard, but he hasn't moved, and his face registers nothing. I hope we can trust him. Not that it matters anyway, right? Because this has got to be a lie. Or maybe I just wish it was. “I wanted to leave Stephen, but I couldn't. You don't understand how he is, what he's capable of.”