Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) (17 page)

The leg that follows the boot is dressed in plain jeans, nothing special, something you'd find in any shopping mall. Then comes the torso – and oh, what a fucking torso – this fucker is
ripped.
Blair and I exchange another glance, but it doesn't last long. Just because I'm dealing with … this Turner thing doesn't mean I can't appreciate good eye candy.

“Holy sweet mother of Mary baby Jesus. My body's just called my pussy, and it wants its H20 back. Only place I'm wet right now is between my thighs. Mmm mmm mmm.” I roll my eyes, but I can't say I blame her much. Mr. Ryker is fucking
hot.
Thick, bulging muscles worthy of a romance novel cover, long legs, big hands, a whole sleeve of floral tattoos. Yeah.
Flowers.
Fucking
flowers
on this man's massive bicep. He looks like he could crush a tree trunk with those long fingers. And hey, the head that's attached isn't bad either. This guy's got thick, red hair – not usually my style but it works on him – a strong face, full lips, and when he takes off his sunglasses, moss green eyes that take in everything all at once. A single sweep of that gaze, and I feel like the man probably knows all my measurements. That, and my deepest hopes and dreams.

“Fucking fuck.” That's all I've got.

“America,” he says and his voice
kills.
There's a hint of an accent in there. I'm not a hundred percent sure what it us, but it's a panty wetter, that's for fucking sure. Irish? English? Ah, shit. I'm from the Midwest, how the fuck should I know? But it's foreign, and that's all I give a crap about. “Thanks for giving me a call. I know how hard that was for you.” The two of them hug, but it's clinical, no heat there. I elbow Blair in the side.

“Please tell me you're considering tapping this.”

“Tapping what?”

Turner's voice makes me jump, and I spin in a quick circle just in time to catch his expression when he spies Brayden Ryker. Let's just say, he's not all that happy about it.

“What the fuck is that?”

“I'm not entirely sure, but I am more than willing to find out,” Blair says, moving away from us and towards the mystery man. I don't know if he's a security guard, an ex-army operative, a kung fu expert. Who the fuck cares? But he definitely looks like he could live up to America's promises. Though I'm fairly fucking certain that one man is
not
going to be sufficient to protect us, no matter how bad ass he may be.

“That's our new … head of security,” I say lamely. Head of security. I have a security team. I
need
a security team. How the fuck did that happen? “Somebody America knows. She says he's fucking boss.”

“Huh,” Turner grumbles, getting out a cigarette and lighting up with a sneer plastered across his lips. I'm not sure if he's pissed because he's having some sort of alpha male reaction to the new guy, or if it's because we didn't fuck last night. I couldn't. The last two times nearly saw me dead in the water, drowned in my own emotions. I've got to puzzle some shit out before I go there again.

I turn back around and watch Blair greet the new guy.

Turner comes up behind me, sliding his hand under my shirt and along the flesh of my belly, teasing the silver skull piercing in my belly button with his warm fingers. I pretend I don't give a shit, but inside, I'm quivering. How fucking lame is that?

“You think he's hot or something? You keep staring.”

“He's gorgeous,” I say and when Turner makes a huffing noise, I smile. “You said honesty was the best fucking policy. So yeah, he is hot. Got a problem with that?” Warm breath scrapes over my ear, burning me up and making my hands curl into fists at my sides.

“I can't even
look
at another woman and you're checking out this ginger prick? Yeah, I'm pissed as hell. Should I take a piss to prove it to you? Mark my fucking territory?”

“You do and I'll cut your nuts off,” I say, pretending his words have no effect on me. None at all. Like it's not a fucking miracle from heaven that this playboy piece of shit is stuck like glue to me. It's something I've always wanted, but never believed was possible. Not even now. I still feel like it
has
to be a lie. That's the only logical explanation anyway. But I don't think Turner Campbell lies. I really don't. He has no reason to. No shame, no fear, no self-doubt. I'm pretty sure he's the most fucking honest man on this earth. I look over my shoulder at him, catching a glimpse of Ronnie and Dax exiting the house, bags in hand. I ignore them. I can't deal with Dax right now anyway. That conversation about Hayden yesterday was intense. That, and the fact that every look he gives me is filled with longing. Can't handle that shit right now. There are more important plot points afoot.

“Separate vans?” Ronnie asks when he comes up behind his friend. Turner and I are still staring at each other. He, I think, is just looking at me for the sake of staring. It's unnerving. Me, I'm trying to fucking figure this out. It might seem simple from the outside, but most things are, right? It's the conflicted love/hate inside of me that's making this difficult. That and the fear. If I give myself to Turner, I'm taking a huge risk, a gamble. I tell myself that it's because I know he'll fail, that it's a risk not worth taking. In reality, I think it's because I'm sure he won't, that I'll dive in and drown deep, enter an underwater world where everything looks different, tastes different, sounds different. Can't say I'm ready for that.

“Yep,” I say, pulling my eyes from Turner's, wishing I was behind a guitar instead of standing here in the nippy friggin' breeze with my heart hanging from precarious blood vessels, swinging in the breeze like a metaphorical piñata. “You guys up front, us in the back.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Ronnie says with a wink and a smile. I guess the thought of seeing Lola again is tickling his fancy. Good for them. Ronnie's a nice guy, and he deserves a happy ending. Turner … jury's still out on that one. I watch as he moves away and Dax takes his place, limping over to me with a gentle smile on his face. His eyes move over to Turner and drop down to his bandaged thigh. Idiot wears the gauze over the top of his pants half the time because – surprise, surprise – they're too tucking tight to fit it underneath. Pretty genius solution, huh? He hasn't really been complaining about it, but I can tell it still hurts. Physical pain pales in comparison to emotional pain, so I figure he's just got other things on his mind.

“Who's the redhead?” Dax asks, blinking stupidly in a flash of bright sunshine that cuts through the clouds like a knife, highlighting the words on the backs of his eyelids.
Born Wrong.
Now that I know what it means, I respect him more for it. It's not easy to take a memory like that and own it.

“Naomi's wet dream,” Turner growls, moving away from me. The absence of him bothers me too much to mention, like I'm some clingy high school girl. The feeling puts me into a pissy mood, and I scowl at his back at the same time I check out the way the hunter green fabric stretches over his muscles. Nice, real nice.

“Some bodyguard America hired,” I reply and jump when a voice comes from behind me.

“Not just a bodyguard. Consider me an expert on personal safety.” I turn around and look up at Brayden Ryker's face. He has a nice smile, friendly, open. Kind of the opposite of Turner's. It makes me question his veracity. Yep. That's me, the ultimate cynic. “Naomi Knox, I presume?”

“You presume correctly,” I respond caustically, reaching out for a firm handshake. I feel nothing when my skin comes in contact with Brayden's, further confirming that there's something here between Turner and me, even if I wish there wasn't. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ryker.” He laughs and Blair bites her lip hard, smudging her bright lipstick.

“Please,” he says, turning his green eyes to Dax. “Call me Brayden. And you must be Dax McCann?” Dax nods and reaches out for a shake, ghost tattoos smiling wickedly up at me as his arm brushes against mine.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Please treat Brayden with respect. He's a guest here, and we're lucky to have him.” America smiles tightly, her smartphone smashed up against her face like life hasn't skipped a few beats between San Francisco and wherever the fuck it is we are right now. “I'll be riding back in his car at the front of the line. Try to behave yourselves while I'm out.” I don't mention that we did alright without her because that's not entirely true. Things were … passable, but it's definitely better to have America around, even if she is a flaming cunt from hell sometimes. Just like Indecency needs their pseudo father figure, Milo, we need our very own mommy dearest. We're all damaged here, people with bent souls and blackened hearts. Never hurts to have a guiding hand. “Yes. Yes, hello. I've been trying to reach you all day. Maybe try checking your messages?” America asks, forcing a laugh and moving away. I look around for Turner, but he's already on the van, arm stretched over the back of the seat, neck stiff. I could soothe his jealousy with a simple kiss, but I'm not going to. Fucker can deal for awhile.

“Sit next to me?” Dax asks as Brayden moves off to greet Kash and Wren. Again, Hayden is nowhere to be seen. I try to think about what Dax said, about her getting raped, being blackmailed into the position she's in now, but I can't drum up much sympathy. Sure, I'll cut the nuts off the fucker when I find him, but that still doesn't mean I'm going to throw my chips in Hayden's corner. She might be a victim, but she's also a bully. I can't let Dax forget that.

I shrug.

“Why the fuck not?”

I look up at the safe house, flip it the bird and kiss the tip of my finger. I was operating under the assumption that we'd be stuck here for weeks. I guess it had never occurred to me that the shooter would actually turn himself in. Bravo, Mr. Hammergren. Bravo. I turn around and follow Dax into the van. Watching him struggle to climb in is a challenge. I want to reach forward and give him a boost, but I keep myself back. I'd rather not step on any toes. Dax might be a nice guy, but he's still a guy. Pride issues and all that.

I start another cigarette.

“Might be waiting here awhile,” Dax says as he settles himself in the center row. I shake my head, taking a drag of my smoke. I glance over my shoulder and grab a snapshot of Hayden's snatch, revealed like a fucking Christmas card, all wrapped up in a red and green thong with a slit down the center. The wind picks up her black miniskirt and shows the world what the world's already seen. I mean, she's fucked pretty much every guy out here. Turner. Ronnie. Treyjan. Dax. Wren. And those are just the ones I know about for sure. Hayden doesn't bother to fix her clothing, just marches down the stairs in thigh highs, garters, and a pair of black boots I've seen before.

She isn't smiling.

I crawl in after Dax and slide the door closed, giving us a brief moment of privacy. Unless the van's bugged. But then, Mr. Tall, Redheaded, and Irish ought to have figured that out already, right? America's acting like he's the answer to all of our prayers. His gaze felt like a radar when it swept over my body, cataloguing and taking notes. I think this is as private a moment as we're gonna get.

“What did you tell Hayden?” I ask Dax, scooting in close enough to him that our thighs touch. He licks his lips and blinks his eyes slowly. I pay no attention to the rising bulge in his pants. I won't play love triangle with him and Turner; I can't. “Did you tell her you told us what she said?” Dax shakes his head, dark hair falling into his face. He rakes it back and tucks some behind his ears. It doesn't stay put for long, but at least his eyes are clear, gray as the storm before the tornado.

“I didn't tell her anything. I'm still angry with her. I didn't make any claims that I wasn't. She came to me, and I listened. That's it. Naomi,” he says, turning towards me, bumping our knees together. “I'm soft on Hayden because I feel sorry for her. Anybody can see she hasn't had the easiest life. But I'm not in love with her. I don't want her like that. The only woman I want is you.”

“Dax, please,” I say, looking out the front windshield and into the back of the first van. I can see Turner's blue-black hair, the tattoos on the back of his neck. I like that he's angry with me, and I hate myself for it. I love that jealousy; I crave it from him. I lick my own lips and turn back to my friend. “I told you I can't do this right now. I'm not looking for love.”

“But you think you found it with Turner, right?” he pleads, leaning in, wincing at the pain in his side. He could've died in that tornado, and it would've been because of me.
For
me. “Right?”

“I … I don't know, Dax,” I say, but that's not the right answer, and we both know it.
No more secrets, no more than necessary anyway.
“Yeah. I guess … I think I love him.” I push my hands into my eye sockets and rub at my face. “Or maybe that's just leftover emotion from before.” Another lie, more to myself than it is to Dax. “Or not. Fuck. I have no fucking clue.” I drop my hands and stare into Dax's eager gaze. “You see? Do you freaking see why I've been avoiding this shit? I can't do this. I can't wander around hunting billionaire sociopaths and wannabe rock stars when I'm worried that if I let myself go, Turner won't catch me. Or even if he does, that he'll drop me at some point. If I give him my heart and I catch him cheating or … whatever else, I'll lose it. I can't do this again. I just can't.” Dax leans in fast and quick, snatching a taste of my lips when I least expect it. Where Turner's mouth is hot, dangerous and scalding, Dax's is cool, soothing like ice to a burn. He tastes like spearmint and candy canes.

The kiss only lasts a second, but it punches me right in the jaw and leaves me gaping. I should probably punch him in the face, but I don't. I just sit there and let my eyes slide out the front windshield.
Did Turner see that?
Not likely. He's still sitting there, tense but not enraged. If he'd seen, I have a bad feeling Dax might've ended up with a pair of broken legs.
Fuck.

“Why the hell would you do that?” I ask him, scooting back a few inches and leveling him with an angry glare. He's no Turner Campbell, but the kiss
is
different than anything I've ever felt before. It's like kissing death, but in a good way. Like having a bite of that final rest, tasting soothing comfort and reassurance. I swipe my hand across my mouth and glare.