Dead Serious (2 page)

“I'm not superhuman, Naomi,” Brayden says, sounding tired. God, one freaking week on our crazy train and he's exhausted. I guess even the best of the best isn't good enough to shovel our shit. “And Hayden had access to more resources than I could've imagined.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to breathe.

“The point here is, we have damage control to take care of before the concert. This is going to take a concentrated group effort.” I look up at America like she's lost her fucking mind. I'm not the only one.

“The concert?” Blair asks, like she doesn't even really understand what that word means anymore. Concert. Concert. What fucking concert? There's not going to
be
a concert – not after this.

“Of course. We're not giving up now, not after all we've been through.” America brushes her hand over her blonde hair, touching her bun to make sure it's still perfectly in place. She's super polished today, more than usual even. Her suit seems crisper, her makeup streamlined, her jewelry just so. Frankly, it only draws attention to the crease in her brow and the slight shake of her hands. She's acting calm, but she's anything but.

“We?” I echo, my voice dry as the Mojave. “We? How the fuck is there a 'we' at this point, America? You have fucked us. Do you hear me? FUCKED US.” I stand up, but I don't make a move towards her. I doubt Brayden Ryker's so out of his game that he'd let me land one on my manager's face. “This is all your fucking fault, you self-absorbed
bitch.
You brought this crap to our Goddamn doorstep and lit it on fire. So YOU deal with it. YOU fix it. I am done. This tour is over.” I start towards the door, pushing Wren out of my way as I go.

“You get your ass back here, you spoiled rotten little cunt,” America growls at my back. I should leave. I should just walk out this door, pack a bag and go.
But what about Turner? What about Dax? What about the music?
I could start over. Maybe. I could use the fame we've built with this crap and get a leg up. But then I'd have to leave this room knowing she got the last damn word in. I put my hand gently on the doorknob.

“Spoiled?” I ask quietly because, really, that's the first time anybody's ever had the audacity to call me that. I let my fingers slide off the metal and turn around. “You sure have an interesting way with words, America, because that is the
last
fucking insult I would've ever assigned to myself. Nothing in this life has come easy for me.
Nothing.
So don't you dare, don't you Goddamn dare.” America's angry face turns wicked cruel as she rises to her feet, perfectly balanced on those suede black pumps of hers.

“Yes. Spoiled. I said it, Naomi. I have pampered you throughout this entire tour. I have made you famous. All of this,” She gestures at the room around us, indicating what? I don't know. The murders? The mystery? The constant fucking danger we're wading through? “Has made you famous. When we're through, you'll never have to work again, did you know that? Do you even care? I've made you more money than a Goddamn sultan. So this is what you're going to do. You're going to walk your ass back here and sit on this bed. You're going to listen to what I have to say, and then you're going to woman up, and get your shit together.” I open my mouth to protest, hands curling into fists at my sides, but she keeps going, voice rising like a crazy person. “You are going to take over as lead singer of this band, Naomi. This is where you were always meant to be anyway, so step up, shut up, and fucking
deal
with it.”

“If you think I'm singing at that concert on Friday, that I'm even going to
be
there, then you've got another thing coming. How much is too much, America? Are you so blinded by the past that you can't even see the present anymore? We're done. This is done. It's all fucking
done.
”

“NO!” she screeches, turning around and slamming her fists into the wall. “This is not DONE! It isn't even close to fucking DONE!” I watch in shocked silence as she pummels the wall with her perfect fists, her delicately manicured nails, her baby soft skin, until she's bruised and bloody. “You'll play at the concert, and you'll fucking smile while you're doing it.” America takes a step back, raising her hands like she can't even believe what she's just done.

“Maybe we should all take a minute and step out for awhile?” Wren suggests, backing towards the door. For once, I actually agree with him. Besides, I don't know when Dax is coming back, if he's even coming back tonight, and I really, really think he should be a part of this conversation.

“Nobody's going fucking anywhere!” America screams, spinning around and gesturing at Brayden. He nods at her and reaches into his coat, pulling out a semi-automatic and pointing it at us, at me specifically. I feel the color drain from my face.
Aw, man. You have got to be motherfucking shitting with me.

America sniffles and runs her hand over her forehead and across her hair, smoothing the few escaped tendrils back into place. She either doesn't notice or doesn't care that there's a smear of blood across her face. I watch from the corner of my eye as she takes a long, slow blink. My main focus right now is on the freaking gun that's pointed at my midsection. To his credit, Brayden looks almost sorry about it.

“Now. That was uncalled for.” America raises her hands, takes a breath, and then straightens out her navy blue suit jacket. “My apologies. Brayden, the gun.” She nods at him again, and in the blink of an eye, the pistol disappears inside the dark folds of his wool coat. “We're all civilized people here, right? We understand each other, don't we?” Nobody speaks. I don't think anybody wants to. Not even me. See, here's the thing: do I think America wants me dead? No. But do I think Brayden would shoot me if she wanted him to? Yes, I do. And it might not kill me, but it would hurt. I grit my teeth and force myself to take slow breaths. My fight or flight instinct is on fire right now, and it's killing me that I'm not ripping that bitch's hair out. “We have a conundrum here, a big one. See, damned if we do, damned if we don't. We play the concert and something
could
happen, but if we don't, something
will.
That is the nature of our situation, folks.” America clacks her teeth, snapping off that last word. “This doesn't end until it ends, do you get me? You don't walk away from something like this. If you try, I will have you killed. See? How easy is that? You don't have to make a decision because I just made one for you.”

“And what if I go to the police after we walk out of this room? What then?” I ask, voice shaking with fury. I just got out from under Hayden's thumb. The last, last,
last
place I want to be right now is under America's.

I don't like the way she smiles at me.

“Do it,” she purrs at me, coming so close I can actually see the pores around her nose. Believe it or not, under all those layers of foundation, the bitch has them. That's not to say she isn't pretty – she is – but it proves she has flaws, cracks, weaknesses. I'm starting to wonder if it's about time for me to go after them. “Do it and see who they believe. And then see what happens when they're not looking.”

“Can you believe this shit?” I ask Ronnie, breathing in the smell of his cigarette as we lounge in the small smokers' courtyard. There are two fucking bodyguards standing outside with us, and two more in the hotel hallway. I know they're here to protect me or whatever, but I kind of get the feeling they're keeping me locked in, too. I don't like that.

“Do you mean, am I surprised by it?” he asks, letting smoke drift from his nostrils. “No, I'm not surprised at all to be honest with you. Whatever happened to that girl, it caused a wound that wouldn't heal. She was festering. I could smell her from across the room.” I try not to smirk and make a nasty pussy joke. That just wouldn't be right. Fuck, I hated that bitch, but I still feel sorry for her.

“You think she took all her secrets to the grave?” I ask, bouncing a ball against the bricks in front of me. It ricochets back into my hands as I lean back on a bench and cushion my head in the folds of Naomi's hoodie. I grabbed it by accident on my way out of the room only to find out it doesn't fucking fit. How amazing is this shit? Even our clothes are getting mixed up now. I like it. I like knowing my smell is all caught up in hers.
Let all the rival males deal with that.

“No. I think Dax knows,” Ronnie says, putting out his cig in a nearby ashtray and glancing up at the sky. The sun is blaring hot above us, a threat we can't feel in the shadows of the courtyard. All around us, the walls of the hotel rise up, peppered with windows and tiny balconies that aren't in use. Milo and America made sure of that when they booked this place. This courtyard belongs to us for now. Talk about exclusivity. “Now we just have to get him to tell us.”

“Think he will?” I ask. Ronnie's good at reading people. Shit, he's the fucking king of this crap. If there's gossip to be found, he's the one who'll get it.

“Yeah, I do.” My friend glances over his shoulder and then rises to his feet, coming over to sit next to me like a fucking faggot.

“Get your own damn bench,” I growl at him, putting my boots against his leg and giving him a shove. I throw the ball at the bricks again. Ronnie doesn't bother to move, just sits there quietly for a second. “What?” I catch it again and pause, glancing over my shoulder at the guards. They look like fucking statues. Even their faces are frozen. I have a hard time catching them blink.

“Turner, I want to make it through this. For the first time in a long time, I actually give a shit whether I live or die.” Ronnie licks his lips and fumbles with the rubber bracelets on his wrist. “I know I haven't known Lola very long, but I can see this going somewhere. I can see a life with her, with my kids. We need to buckle down and dig deep. There has to be someway to get Stephen Hammergren to back off. Whether that's by killing him or … ” Ronnie trails off, glancing up at the guards again. Obviously, whatever he was to say, he doesn't want them to hear. I sigh and sit up, leaning close. “Or by giving him what he wants.”

I feel my lips tug into a frown as I sit back, staring my friend down for a second before I throw the ball again. It bounces off the bricks and disappears into some nearby bushes. I drape myself over my knees and dig out a cigarette.

“And that's what, Ronnie?” I ask, keeping my voice low. The muscle heads near the door are lookin' a little nervous, so I toss them a grin and the finger. Might not help their opinion of me, but I don't give a shit.

“If it's America he wants to see suffer, then why not hand her over? If he wants us to stop making music, then we stop.” Ronnie holds up his hands placatingly as I sneer and get ready to tear his Goddamn head off. “Not forever. Just for now. Until he moves on, forgets about us. We've made plenty of money to live off for a good long while. If we took a break, maybe this whole thing would blow over?”

“You're talkin' out your asshole, Ronnie. The man waited seven fucking years to start after America again. What makes you think a break is going to do any good?” I inhale deep, letting the sweet scent of tobacco fuck my lungs. “What we need to do is massacre this bitch, just friggin' destroy him and the ship he sailed in on.” I exhale in Ronnie's face, but he doesn't care, just keeps staring at me with that contemplative look in his eyes. At least he's not somber, sad sack Ronnie anymore. Little Lola has really put the pep in his fucking step. I don't know the chick well, but I plan to get to know her. Any bitch that digs this deep into my bro's heart has to be investigated. Ronnie wouldn't survive being screwed over. It's Lola Saints or bust at this point.

I debate reaching out and touching his hand. It's kinda gay, but I do it anyway. It's a Ronnie sort of thing to do.

“Look man, you have no clue how fucking ecstatic I am for you. I'd give my left nut to see you happy, all shacked up in a three bed with your friggin' rug rats running around. But we can't wish our way out of this crap. Balls to the wall, man.” I lean back and swing my boots onto the pavement, eyes scanning the windows for Naomi. I got the itch, baby. Whenever we're apart, my mind goes into overdrive imagining all the ways she could be taken away from me. I'd never survive. It sounds lame as fuck all, but I love that woman. She makes my dick hard, and my heart beat. 'S all there is to it.

Ronnie sighs and shakes his head, running his hands over the snake tattoos on his neck and threading his fingers behind him.

“Balls to the wall,” he says reluctantly, but I can tell his mind is still spinning. Hey, if I thought giving up Naomi's manager would win us all a get out of jail free card, I'd be all over that shit. Thing is, I know this shit ain't that easy. Nothing ever is. Except maybe pre-Naomi Turner Campbell. I try not to grin at myself. Yeah, I was easy. I'll admit that.

I rise to my feet, toss my cig over my shoulder and start towards the door. I've been out here for like, a fucking hour now. I'm tired of waiting. Turner Campbell doesn't wait. Not patiently anyway.

I push through the glass doors, ignoring the guards and their stoic expressions. Just like everyone else in my life, they'll follow after me. Except for maybe Naomi. I get this squirrelly feeling sometimes that I am
this
close to getting my ass kicked to the curb. And I like it. I really fucking do.