Dead Serious (14 page)

I grab Naomi under the knees and push her legs back, opening her dripping wet pussy up to me. My dick slides in easily, no resistance, greeted by the pulsing throb of a dirty heartbeat. It's beating so fast and so frantically that I actually gasp and curl forward, taking a massive breath before I can regain my footing.

“What's the matter, bitch?” she asks me with a slight smirk. “Are you done already?”

“Fuck you, Knox,” I growl back at her, feeling that surge of anger that stings so good when I'm around her. She loves to hate me, too, I know she does. This works for us, and I'm not about to challenge that. “If you weren't so desperate to milk the stud out of me, this wouldn't be happening. Cool your jets, baby, and let me take care of you.”

I reach my fingers under my shirt and pull it off, so she can admire the spider web tattoo on my lower belly, the bats. Both of which crawl down lower, wrap my cock in color. You tell me how many guys you know that have the balls to get ink on their dick? If I wasn't wearing this fucking condom I'd have a much better view of my tattoos entering Naomi, thrusting their way past her folds and scraping hot and delicious against the roof of her hungry pussy.

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself,” she says, sliding her hand down and finding her clit. I move at the same rhythm she does, fucking her balls deep, enjoying the fact that the van shakes and shudders beneath us. Wasn't really built for this sort of activity now was it? I groan and let my head hang back, sliding my tongue across my lips, tasting the metal of my own piercings. With the ardent vehemence of Naomi's pussy clamping down on my dick, I don't have enough brain cells left to remember Brayden's bodyguards or the press outside the van. I've forgotten all the fuck about them.

But they haven't forgotten about us.

Sunlight breaks across Naomi's body, slicing her bloody form in half, cutting through the bubble of pleasure we've made for ourselves. I pause and turn, glancing over my shoulder to find cameras in my fucking face. People with microphones. They're all shouting at me as I squint and try to orient myself to what's happening. I'm half naked, buried in Naomi, and she's lying there with a look of sheer surprise scrawled across her features.

“Mr. Campbell, care to comment on the death of Amatory Riot's lead singer, Hayden Lee?”

“Holy fuck!” Naomi screams, sitting up, shoving at me. She scoots backwards, tugging her jeans up and fastening them over her belly while I'm still sitting there with my mouth hanging open and my dick sticking straight up like a fucking flag, the condom glistening with Naomi's juices. “Turner!” She crawls on her knees towards me, shoving my cock not all too gently back in my slacks. I groan, half in pain, half in pleasure, and snatch her wrists away, finishing the job myself. Naomi, still two steps ahead of me, yanks her sunglasses from her pocket and jams them on her face.

What. The. Fuck.

You know me, man, I really like the attention of the public. I like being famous. But you know what I like more? Respect. I demand motherfucking respect.

“Can you tell us where all this blood is from? Did something happen? Naomi Knox, can you give us a statement?” A dude is climbing into the back of the van, thrusting his microphone at Naomi's face. She scoots away from him, heading for the side door, when he reaches out and grabs her ankle.
Big mistake, bitch.

“Get your hands off of my woman, you stupid son of a bitch.” I grab him by the shirt and toss his fat ass out into the crowd. They absorb him like a swarm of locusts, pushing forward, grabbing at me. I don't like to be fucking touched without my permission, and I really Goddam hate to be grabbed. I lift my boot up and kick a man in the face as hard as I can. His neck snaps back and blood pours down his chin, but I don't give a shit. “Leave me the hell alone. When I want to give an interview, you'll fucking know about it.”

I scoot back and follow Naomi out the side door. There are reporters there, too, but we're parked close enough to the hedge that there's only room for the mob to stack up about four people deep. Much better odds, I'd have to say. I find my own sunglasses and put them on, letting Naomi grab my hand and lead me through the crowd. Flashes pepper my vision, blinding me even through the shades, and hands reach out to touch, sliding across my still very fucking rigid dick, across my bare chest, my face. I elbow people, plunging through the thick of the crowd with Naomi by my side. She looks away from the crowd, focusing her attention towards me. Her left hand tries desperately to shield her face as we stumble and fight to survive a stampede the likes of which I've never seen. Milo's right. Man, we been cooped up so long that we really don't have a fucking clue how intense this shit has gotten.

From trailer park trash to idol. It's what I wanted, but Jesus, Mother Mary, there's a bite of danger in the air, like even though Naomi and I are the focus of all this attention, that we could be trampled to death by it, too. I realize things are getting even worse when we break through the first twenty or so feet of people.
That
was the press. And these. These are the fangirls.

“Turner!” My name echoes around me like a curse, like I'm finally going to pay penance for all those chicks I fucked and discarded. Not fair. Not when I've finally found the one woman in the world that can match me note for note, show for show, blood for blood.

I let go of Naomi's hand for a brief second, just to get my arm around her waist, and almost lose her in the fray. The crowd is jumping and heaving and pushing, crashing against us like white water rapids. Class fucking five, baby.

Naomi stumbles away, her arm in the death grip of some motherfucker with a shaved head and an Amatory Riot T-shirt. I shove at the people around me, their chatter nothing but white noise to me. Later, I might wake up with fucking nightmares about being shoved to the ground by a bunch of tweens and raped while they take selfies of themselves. A shudder ripples through my muscles as countless hands fondle my ass, scrape across my abs, even have the fucking audacity to touch my nipples. Where's their fucking humanity? I know I'm always out for blood when I'm onstage, seeing how far I can take the crowd before they go bat shit nuts, but this is real life right here and in real life, I demand respect. This is about as far from it as it can get. I'm not a rock star right now, not their God, I'm a commodity and they're all scrambling for a piece.

Where the hell are Brayden's guys in all this? Some fucking security they're proving to be.

“Naomi!” I can't even hear my own voice in the mob. I keep pushing forward and towards her, towards the hotel. If I can just get a hold of her again, I swear to Christ I won't let go. As I'm fighting my own battles though, she's stomping hers. That anger and pain she was trying to fuck away in the back of the van, it's now built into a massive crescendo that's threatening to crash down around us. I remember the fanboy she stabbed near the beginning of the tour. Of course, at the time I didn't know it was her, but it makes sense. She doesn't want to take shit from anyone, I get that. I just hope to hell she doesn't have a blade on her right now.

Naomi's palm comes up and smashes into the bald dude's nose, spraying more blood across her already dirty hair. He releases her arm at the same moment she knees another guy in the balls.
Goddamn it.
I feel my erection getting worse as I slide up behind her and wrap my arm around her waist. Seeing Naomi fight like a wildcat, well, let's just say it makes
my
wildcat
purr.

“Come on.” We huddle up close, keep our heads down and push onward, like hikers in a snowstorm. It's only when we're in spitting distance of the hotel that Brayden Ryker shows up with his employees in tow and forces a path through the crowd.

“A+ on the fucking security detail, dude.” I flip the oversized leprechaun off and nearly collapse in relief when we stumble inside the doors of the hotel. I expect to find Milo there, wringing his hands and biting his lip, but instead it's just America. Well, America and four bodyguards.

Her lips are turned down in a frown, the harsh brightness of her lipstick like blood against her skin. She's got her arms crossed over her chest, and a superior air about her person that just drives me fuckin' nuts.

“Well,” America says before either Naomi or I can open our mouths to challenge her. Carefully, slowly, Naomi pulls off her shades and lifts her chin to meet America's gaze. “Maybe next time when I tell you what to do, you'll listen.”

With that, she spins on her heel and disappears into the elevator.

“That FUCKING cunt,” I scream, throwing a water glass against the wall. It shatters in a satisfying display of glittering shards, spraying the couch with liquid and causing Dax to scoot a few more careful inches away. “Traitorous
bitch,
” I growl out, waiting for the adrenaline to stop pumping through my body, making my hands shake so bad I can't even hold my guitar. Because that's all I want to do. Either that or fuck Turner Campbell. A whimper of frustration almost slips off the edge of my tongue, but I bite it back – literally. The taste of blood in my mouth makes my head spin.

Katie is dead.

But you, Naomi Knox, you are free.

Well, at least from one of the horrors plaguing my life. I killed my foster parents – child abusers, rapists, general human garbage – and now I'm going to walk away from it with my hands clean. In the legal sense anyway. But the whole reason I did it, risked my freedom and my future, was to save Katie. And now she's dead. Dead. Dead.

Dax's gray eyes watch me with sympathy, tracking my movements as I pace back and forth in the hotel room. I'm surprised America's even
letting
me talk to anyone. She made it pretty clear in the lobby with that statement.
Maybe next time when I tell you what to do, you'll listen.
I hope this room's bugged, so she can hear
exactly
what it is that I think of her.

“That disgusting yuppie Yank piece of crap. I bet she slithered out of Satan's hairy vagina and suckled on the teats of betrayal and misery.”

“Nice,” Turner says, leaning up against the dresser at my back. I give him a look, but his expression's blank, so I have a hard time switching my anger over to him.

“Tell us everything,” Ronnie says, and I roll my eyes, holding out my hands, palm up. There's dried blood stuck under my fingernails, even though the first thing I did when I came back in here was shower. I threw my clothes in the sink afterwards and lit them on fire. The flame didn't really take, and it was kind of anticlimactic, but it helped with the rage.

“I already
did,
” I snap, touching my fingers to the bandage that's hidden underneath my Indecency T-shirt. I don't know why Katie chose to cut me – to keep me from stopping her? to prove to everyone that will ever watch that security tape that she was a dangerous killer? – but it's not very deep. Physically, it only stings a little. It's the emotional pain she thrust into me with that blade that really hurts. My past is stirring up like dust, swirling around my feet as I continue to pace.

“I know,” Ronnie says softly, voice calm and ridiculously put together. I have to remember that he had his children dropped off at our hotel covered in blood, stacked right on top of the dead bodies of their mothers. He has every reason to be in a rut right now, and he's not. I make myself appreciate the fact that he's on our side. “But maybe if we go over it again more slowly, lay out all the details, we can make more sense of this.”

I move over to the table near the window and grab the box of cigarettes that's sitting there, yanking one out and lighting up. I'm getting this
really
strong urge to go see Wren and see what shit he has that I can smoke up, snort up, or shoot up. I'm trying to resist, really I am, but this is getting to the point of ridiculousness. I'm not sure how many more plot points I can fucking handle. Would the author of my life please just grab a revolver, a bullet, and play a fun little six round game of Russian Roulette?

“You want us to make, like, a poster presentation or some shit, Ronnie? Seriously. What else is there to figure out? America's a lying bitch, not a victim. She's into this shit, probably responsible for a good half of the crap that's gone down.” Turner pushes away from the dresser and moves over to his duffel bag, bending down to dig around inside of it. I watch him move, the muscles in his back rippling under his skin. I'm actually pretty excited about the fact that he's not wearing a shirt still. I shouldn't be, but I am.
Your sister is dead, you fucking bitch. Put the lady boner away and deal with your emotions like a real woman.

“But why?” Ronnie asks, rubbing his chin and shaking his head. He holds a cigarette in his right hand, resting his elbow on his knee. The smoke curls out and wraps around Lola Saints' face as she lays quietly with her head in Ronnie's lap. “What does America have to gain from destroying her own band?”

Nobody answers and the six of us sit in silence: Dax, Sydney, Ronnie, Lola, Turner, and me. We haven't called anyone else to the room yet, but we're going to tell them everything. No more secrets. Especially not if America's involved.