Hard Rock Roots Box Set (10 page)

Chapter 11
Naomi Knox

I thought I'd feel good fucking with Turner. Instead, I just feel sick and weak and end up collapsing into bed, coke be damned. When I dream that night, my head is full of blood and birds and gravestones. Not exactly the best images to wake up to.

The morning doesn't get any better; Hayden is whining about not feeling safe, and America is talking about hiring us a bodyguard while Dax postures around the bus with his eyes narrowed out the windows, looking for some mystery culprit that he's supposedly going to destroy when he finds them.

I sigh and ignore them all, climbing into the shower and turning on the water as hot as I can get it.

I don't want to talk about the bird thing anymore – it's just fucking weird. Demented. Insane. It has to be the person who sent the video, obviously, but that doesn't help me figure out a possible culprit. In fact, it makes it even harder for me to hazard a guess. I just want to ignore it and hope it goes away. I can only handle one detrimental, life altering secret at a time surfacing, and it seems like I'm about to drown in the Turner thing.

Why is this so freaking hard for you, Naomi? Just walk up to the man and say, 'Hey, you helped me out once, but then you ruined me. I loved you, and you broke me.'
I shiver. Yeah, I'm sure that would go over real, real well. I wash myself quickly and get out, stepping out of the bathroom in just a towel, and find myself face to face with Turner.

His hands slam against the wall on either side of me and force me back a step, effectively pinning me in the tiny square of tiled spaced in front of the toilet.

He's glaring at me, and his dark eyes are fierce, cutting through the air between us like swords, slicing up the silence and shedding its blood. His lips are pursed so tight that the piercings on either side are poking out at me like accusatory fingers. He's got on a black Amatory Riot shirt, and this time, I know he knows exactly who we are.

“
Turning the Key on the Past?
” he asks me, stating the name of one of our most popular songs. “Is that supposed to be subtle, Knox?” My lip curls up in the corner, and I wonder where the fuck the rest of my band is, where America and Spencer are, and why they just let him walk in here like this.

“I don't like people in my face, Turner, so back the fuck off. And don't call me Knox. This isn't the fucking military. The name's Naomi.” Turner slams his palm against the wall hard.

“Who are you?” he screams at me, and I have to resist the urge to knee him in the nuts. I'm pretty fucking sure that the asshole would press charges, and with last month's fiasco combined with the bird murderer psychopath fuck, it's just too risky. “And what do you want from me?”

“Want from you?” I ask with a bitter laugh. The towel slips and I just let it go, standing there proud and pissed and naked and fierce with hot moisture clinging to my skin and wet hair kissing my lips. Turner's eyes fuck me from head to toe and the leg of his pants bulges with the swelling of his cock. “Sort of seems like you're the one that wants something from me. You've been pursuing me, remember? You're the one that's following me around like a lost, little, puppy.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, stepping closer to me, driving me back. His skin is covered in sweat and his hair is mussy. I'm doubting he got any fucking sleep last night. Good. He can suffer along with me. “You seem to know me a hell of a lot better than I know you. I want to know why. You a stalker or something?”

I spit in his face and he reaches out suddenly and snatches my wrist, dragging me forward and pressing me against the length of his body. His cock grinds into my crotch and his lips graze mine. But I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of anyone or anything. My hand travels up the wall in the bathroom and slips into the tiny drawer on my left. The hunting knife appears in my hand.

“You want the short answer or the long?”

“Don't you think you owe me both?” Turner asks, and then I've got the blade up and forward, pressing into his throat, teasing blood, loosing his grip, pushing him back into the row of bunks. I don't look at the star tattoos near his hair or the sleeve of color that crawls up his muscular arm; I just look into the black devil heart of a man who doesn't care, who can't bother to care, who's too entitled to see what's right in front of him.

“From the trailer park, a rising star,” I say as I quote a magazine article I read so long ago. I think I was sixteen then and Turner was twenty-one, the perfect idol. “I thought you were so amazing.” I laugh, harsh and dry. “God, I should've known better.” I drop the knife and step back. Turner lets me go, watching me with wide, wide eyes. “I worshipped you back then, you know? I thought that if you could do it, if you could escape the hell you grew up in and make something of yourself, so could I. And the idea that you could use music to do it? Well, shit, Turner, I thought I was in love with you.”

“You're the girl … the one … ”

Turner stops talking and runs a hand through his blue-black hair. I let the knife fall to my side and look down at his hand, at the wolf tattoos and the paw prints etched into his skin. The only sound on the bus is the soft drip, drip, drip of water on the floor as it slides over my suddenly hot skin and is replaced almost immediately with sweat. Angry tears prick my eyes.

“I went to your show in Tulsa when I was in a bad place. Made the mistake of hitching a ride home with an older guy.” The memory runs through my mind and rage explodes in my skull. “He told me I owed him for the ride home, and pushed me over the trunk of his car. He was going to rape me, but you helped me stop him, do you remember that?”

“Naomi Knox. Oh my fucking God.” Turner grips his head hard, and his eyes go wide. He's not looking at me anymore, but at my ankle. Where the tattoo is. The one that says
Turner Dakota Campbell.
Suddenly, he's exploding into action and scrambling at his shirt, tearing it away from his skin and throwing it to the floor, scratching at his back like he's got an itch. When he turns around, I see it. It's still there, surrounded by paw prints in the center of his shoulder blades.
Naomi Isabelle Knox.

Turner spins back around and just stares at me with wide eyes and a heaving chest.

“You slept with me and then you left me, Turner.” The knife falls to the floor with that same sound, that very same sound, crowding my head with memories, lacing my chest with pain. “You left me there, and then I got pregnant, and I had to make the hardest choice I've ever made. I had to say goodbye to your baby, Turner, and then I had to start over again.”

I take a step backwards into the bathroom and slam the door in his face.

Chapter 12
Turner Campbell

I kind of wish for a moment that I really had been hit by that semi last night. It would've saved me the trouble of getting completely and utterly fucking flattened by Naomi's words. If I said I felt like a bit of roadkill that'd just been scraped off the highway, I'd be telling it to you lightly. I mean, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What kind of tool has no idea what name it is he's got tatted on his friggin' back?

“Jesus Christ.” My hands are shaking, and my brain is scrambling to pick up the pieces of that night. I was so fucked up that I can't even remember what it was that I was fucked up
on.
As for the tattoo … I've got so freaking many – half of them when I was out of my friggin' mind. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Naomi!” I start to pound on the door, but she won't answer me. I don't even hear crying or anything, just dead fucking silence. “We've got a kid?” I keep pounding, hitting my fists against the flimsy wood, hoping it'll just shatter to pieces for me.
How could that have happened? I never forget condoms. Never.
“Fucking hell, Knox, open up!”

All the yelling drags that pretty boy drummer fuck back onto the bus and straight towards me. I back up before he can touch me and throw my arms into the air.

“I'm not looking to start shit,” I tell him, as he glares at me for a moment and then glances down and sees the knife. His eyes flicker up and the muscles in his face tighten. Shit. This is a far cry from the way he looked at me the other day, like I was untouchable. Maybe Naomi's lack of respect for me is wearing off. I ready myself for a fight and pause only when the bathroom door slides open and Knox steps out dressed in a wife beater with no bra, tiny ass shorts, and knee high boots. Her hair is loose and wet and between her lips is a lit cigarette. A pair of sunglasses covers her eyes and shields her expression from me.

“Naomi,” I say, and it kind of freaks me out the way my voice sounds. It's soft. Too soft. I steel my shoulders and try to get angry again. “You can't just tell me half a truth and leave it at that. I want to know everything.” I look at Dax, at his perfect emo bitch cut and the way he's looking at me like I'm the scum of the earth, and for a second there, I almost believe it. I figure she doesn't want her secret spilled, so I try to redeem myself a bit by holding back on the details.

“God, stop being such a whiny, little bitch, Turner, and get over yourself.” Naomi moves forward and Dax lets her pass. Me, not so much. When I move to circle around him, he puts out an arm and forces me back, leaning close enough that I can smell the mint gum on his breath. I meet his heated gaze with one of my own and try to keep my temper in check. If I start a fight right here, things could get bad for me real fast. I can't deal with the cops today.

“Leave her the fuck alone, Turner. I'm warning you.” And then he steps back and adjusts the skeleton gloves on his fists, watching me with narrowed eyes as I scoot past and chase after Naomi. That motherfucker doesn't scare me. Nobody does. Nobody can. I've been through enough in my life. I had a meth addict for a mom and several different step-daddies who graced the stained couch in our trailer. This is small potatoes compared to that crap.

“Naomi, wait up.” I follow after her, realizing only after I've left the bus that I'm still shirtless. The sun beats down on my skin and sears me with hot, white heat. Desert heat. It's a special flavor all its own, you know? I wrap one arm across my chest and squeeze my bicep with tight fingers.

She doesn't stop walking, but she doesn't try to outrun me either. She just keeps moving across the parking lot like she's got a purpose in mind and doesn't care if I come or not. Fine. I can deal with that. What I can't deal with is finding out I have a freaking kid.

Shivers travel up and down my spine, and it's got nothing to do with the damn weather.

“Boy or girl?” I ask quietly when I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with Naomi. Her face is still, and she seems okay, but the aura around that chick is toxic. If I had special powers or something, I bet I could see a black cloud billowing around her body. I stand close enough to burn.

“Trying to figure out what to have for dinner tonight?” she jokes, making a lewd gesture with her fingers and tongue. “I had no idea you swung both ways. Must be nice though, right? More bodies to choose from.” My lip curls, and I have to really resist the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. I don't know why I'm suddenly feeling like she's fragile all of a sudden. This is the same chick that slapped me in the face, but yet … she just can't be. She worshipped me? I can't imagine this girl worshipping anyone, but then again, she's got a big ass tat of my name on her ankle. I wipe a hand across my sweaty brow.

“Our kid,” I state, wondering where he or she is and how I'm gonna find them. Because I am. Hey, it might sound corny, but growing up without a father makes me determined as shit to be one. A good one. I take this crap seriously. “Girl or boy?” Naomi continues to smoke her cigarette and says nothing, heading in the direction opposite the gas station we visited last night.

“Does it matter?” she asks, and I can't help it. I step in front of her and stop her in her tracks, reaching out to grab the shades before she stops me with a hand to the wrist. Her silver fingernails wrap my skin and squeeze tight, sending a rush of hormones through me that I don't completely understand. This girl has strapped me onto a fucking roller coaster. I'm up; I'm down. It's giving me a fucking stomachache. “Those assault charges you threatened before go both ways, Turner, and I'm not trying to sound sexist, but it's a lot easier for a woman to level them against a man than vice versa, you catch my drift? It's just the way this horrible, ugly world works.” Naomi releases me and steps back, pulling the sunglasses off herself. Her eyes are like nothing I've ever seen, a color that there's no name for yet. They match the desert, red and orange and brown, dry, seemingly barren. Behind them though, behind them there's a whole world hidden beneath the dirt, one that can spring to life with just a drip of rain.

I wipe my hand across my face to help clear my mind. What am I now? A fucking poet? Naomi is just a girl I had drunk sex with a long, long time ago. She isn't an enigma or a mystery, just the one person I made such a stupid mistake with. That's all there is to it.

“Where's my kid, Naomi?” The edges of her lips droop for a moment before something clicks and she lifts her chin defiantly. The wind teases her hair and draws her nipples to hard points under the thin fabric of her shirt. If I were to reach out a hand and touch them … I bite my lip so hard it bleeds and keep my eyes focused on her face.

Behind us, the camp is starting to come alive in anticipation of the show tonight. I have a hard time even imagining getting through it. I don't handle life altering revelations very well. They've never been very good to me in the past.
Fuck, this is exactly why I hate secrets. Just when you think everything is peachy fucking keen, some shit has to get stirred up to ruin the day.

I run my tongue across my lips to wet them; this damn desert air is drying me out.

“Please,” I say. It takes a lot of effort to get that word to pass between my lips.
Please
sounds like begging and Turner Campbell does not beg. Naomi's eyes flicker away and focus on some shrubs at the edge of the parking lot. There's a lot more to this story than first meets the eye, that is for fucking sure. There are secrets wrapped in secrets buried under secrets; I can smell 'em from here. “Come on, Knox, you owe me an explanation.”