Hard Rock Roots Box Set (100 page)

“That's good then,” Milo says, standing up and moving over to the mirror to check his suit and hair. He's not even going to be on camera, but he's obsessed with looking perfect. I try not to make fun of him; his OCD does keep this band together after all. “Because we don't want any awkward silences during the live interviews. Should we go over the schedule again?” I'm not the only one that rolls my eyes. We've been over the fucking schedule
three
times already this morning. Milo rubs at what he perceives to be black circles under his eyes. I don't see a fucking thing. “Turner, you have your shoot for the cover. Then we move onto portraits, the group shots, and then the magazine interview. After that, we're live on LMTV. Performance first, interview after. Once that's all done,
Rockersbloodpills.com
has us for however long they want. Is everyone clear on what we can and cannot say in front of a camera?”

“They bleep that shit out, you know,” I say, kicking my boot up onto the counter. The stylists better put me in an outfit that's at least half as tits as the one I've got on. I highly doubt that though.

“I'm talking about the shooting, the murders, the kidnappings. We keep things as vague as we can. Focus on the music, on the new album, any relationship material that we discussed on the van ride over this morning.”

“Dish out authorized dirt only?” I ask. “No hidden affairs or secret love children. We fucking get it, Milo. You need to relax.” When he looks at me, sweat already starting to bead on his throat, I almost get nervous, too. The man needs to light up a bowl and get trashed. But he doesn't even drink. Imagine that?

“I'll be alright, Turner. This is just … this is big. And then Friday night … ” he trails off because none of the people in this room save our band can know what we have planned for Friday night. When I heard what America and Milo had been working on while we slept, I just about damn near creamed my pants. Tyler Rutledge or Stephen Hammergren, whatever the fuck his name is won't like this, not one little bit. I push back the icy cold stab of fear in my gut. I can't be afraid of this douche nugget forever, or I'll end up jumping at all the shadows. I have to shine a fucking flashlight on those bitches and banish them forever. Or at least try. At least try. But this should pull him out of the woodwork, especially if he's planning on hurting one of us. Like Lola said, he likes to watch. He's there for the pain. He won't let something as big as this slip by him. This could be our chance to end it all.

Or if worse comes to worst, get snuffed out like a freaking candle flame.

I look fucking sick. Won't lie about that. I'm friggin' boss today.

I turn sideways and examine myself in the mirror, adjusting my black suit jacket. It's definitely something Trey would approve of, especially since I'm not wearing anything underneath it. I turn back to the mirror and touch my fingers to the waistband of my black slacks. My tattoos peek out, waving at the crowd from my rock hard abs. I curl my fingers into a fist and knock on the muscle there. Why lie? I'm proud of it. Damn proud. Nothing wrong with that.

I twirl the cluster of black bracelets at my wrist and take another look at my shoes. The combat books looked fucking terrible with this outfit, so I went for the dress shoes. Not my usual style, but I think it works with this outfit and this day, the day I turn a new leaf on my career, open up a fresh page and scribble down the first lines of new life. Naomi and I are officially an item; I've got my biggest break yet; and for the first time since Naomi threw that leather jacket at my chest, I feel like I'm in control. Can't say I'm fond of Brayden, but he has a plan for Friday night, and I respect that. If a wave of his magic cinnamon stick can fix everything, put us back on the road we're supposed to be traveling, then I'll take it. Trey will still be in the hospital, and Travis will still be dead, but at least we all know the truth. That's the most important part.
This is for you guys, since you can't be here. Since you can't, but you should.

I look up at the ceiling and close my eyes, taking in a deep breath. The air smells like hairspray, but it feels fresher somehow. I send up a prayer to Travis since there ain't anybody else on the other side worth praying to.
Please let Trey be okay. Let him be alright, and let us get through this. Save Lola's sister, so she and Ronnie can be happy. Let us fuck this mystery dude up, so we can get on with our lives. And in return, I'll make sure America's okay, that she moves on with her life. That's all I've really got, buddy.
I pause and put my palms together in a prayer position, kissing them and lifting them up towards the ceiling. “Oh,” I whisper aloud. “And I miss your fucking ass. I hope you're in a better place right now.” I drop my head back down to my chest and reach inside the pocket of my suit jacket for my new shades.

I slip them on my face and push them up with a middle finger.

“Turner Campbell?” A woman pops in the side door with an iPad in her hand and a headful of messy, dirty blonde hair. “We're ready for you.”

“Baby,” I begin, turning to face her with the squeak of my shoes against the pavement. “You sure about that?”

Chapter 11
Naomi Knox

We start with the lights off, like lovers who've never met, entering the bedroom on tiptoes and hushed whispers. Somewhere out in front of us is a crowd, a huge crowd, a massive ass fucking crowd. Bigger than anything we've seen yet, jammed into this auditorium with its spinning cameras and cast of crew members larger than my entire high school class put together.

And it's only a fraction of what we're going to get on Friday, at our re-opening night in Los Angeles, Indecency's hometown.
America, you marketing guru, you. Fuck.
Now that I've been branded with that horrible g-word, I have to up my game. I have to remind everyone here that I not Turner Campbell's bitch.

I smile.

If anything I have to show them that he's mine.

The crowd titters and chirps, like a flock of birds with a cloth thrown over their cage. Until we remove it, flood them with light, they'll stay calm, domesticated. As soon as the darkness dissipates and the stage lights burn our skulls with bright as fuck light, they'll start to curl over, spines twisted, and then they'll raise their muzzles to the sky and howl. We'll make them forget they were ever human, and have them crawling back for more.

I force myself to take a deep breath, drawing hot air into my throat, doing my best not to suffocate myself with panic and worry and future fears. I can't think about any of that right now. All I can do is deal with this, right here, right now. America knew if she got us here quick, that Stephen wouldn't have time to plan anything. I think she was right. The atmosphere doesn't have that desperate bite that it did in Little Rock. Tonight, we're going to be okay. Tonight, we're going to continue on in the direction we started that night and run with it. That was our make or break moment. This here is our fuck-the-world moment.

“Hello, St. Louis,” Turner whispers, the
S
slithering out of his mouth in a hiss. The crowd rumbles like the ground before an earthquake. They don't know who we are or why we're here; they don't know anything. The studio simply opened the gates and welcomed as many people in as they could. No tickets, no anticipation, no expectations. Just people, sex, and rock 'n' roll. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, his voice smooth and perfect, all devil, no angel. Wicked. Sinful. Pernicious. This poor crowd has no idea they're about to be blindsided.

I wait with my hands on my guitar, absorbing the dark magic within the instrument. The Goddess of Guitar is smiling down on me right now, grinning maybe. I feel good, ready for this. I answered their interview questions, took their pictures, but that wasn't the real me. This is the real me. I square my shoulders, push my feet into the stage, ground myself. And then, as an afterthought, I put my shades on my face with a slick smile. I'm not hiding from anyone, but a little mystery never hurt, did it?

“
Turner Campbell!
” I hear shouted from random spots out in that sea of darkness. “
Turner Motherfucking Campbell. Indecency.
” I even catch a few snippets of my name.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Turner chuckles, tearing up the speakers with his laugh, drenching them in sex. It just oozes from his pores, and even though it's pitch black in here, I know the crowd can
see
it. “I can't hear you. What was that?” I hear the shuffle of his clothing through the mic as he leans forward.

“
Indecency! Indecency! Indecency!
”

“Are you ready for this fucking insanity, St. Louis?” The audience gurgles and bubbles like a kettle on the stove, ready to explode and tear this place apart. I close my eyes and get ready, diving inside of myself and dragging that other me up to the surface so fast she bursts from my lips with a small gasp, breaking into the microphone that's been set up for me. My own voice echoes around the auditorium while people scream and hearts pulse and spirits sing. “You hear that?” Turner asks, and I just know I'm going to want to kick his ass after this is over. “That back there, ladies and gentleman …”

The light above Turner kicks on, just that one light, bathing him in brightness. I fall in love along with the rest of the people there, gazing at an angel fallen from heaven, celestially beautiful, ethereally tragic. His blue-black hair shimmers like dark feathers on a dancing demon, and his body is absolute perfection in that suit. He paces the edge of the stage like a general surveying his army, preparing himself to give the order that will send them into battle, bleed their souls dry and destroy them from the inside out. And he doesn't let his injury stop him, doesn't even act like it bothers him. There's no limp in that fluid gait, no ripple in this sea of performance perfected. Turner knows exactly how to move, how to take his fans on the ride of their life, make them puke up their insides and come right back for a second helping. I want to be like that. I do. Despite what I've been telling myself, he's still my idol.

And I intend to overthrow him.

Or at least reign alongside him.

“That back there is my girlfriend.” Turner spins around with a grin across his full lips. I can't see his eyes, but he can't see mine either. Good thing because when the light above my head comes on, I have to squint it's so bright. I don't look out at the crowd; they'll be even harder to see now. They're wrapped in darkness, protected by anonymity, and me, I'm front and center, sharing the stage with the world's biggest asshole. My … my
boyfriend.

“Fuck you, Turner Campbell,” I say into the microphone, and I love how wicked sharp my voice sounds, severing arteries and bringing men to their knees. I feel a trickle of sex seep down my spine and into my fingers. Of their own accord, they start to move. Everything's impromptu today, no set list, no time limit, no worries. Today, we control it all. And it's live. And we're being streamed across the country into fuck only knows how many households, across so many screens, so many phones and tablets and computers. I block that all out and growl out the beginning of my favorite Indecency song, the one they ended their show with the night I lost my virginity –
Pretty Girl Won't Break.
“That's it. Just fuck you.”

“
What a day,
” he sings, still facing me. “
It was when I met you.
”

I snarl out some chords and then pause, waiting for Jesse to come out to play. I don't know him very well, but I know this song. And we both have a pretty fucking awesome mutual acquaintance: a fucking guitar. So I play, and then I wait until he responds. Back and forth, a conversation clawed out with picks and amps and dirty intentions.

“
What a day,
” Turner coos into the mic, voice so soft and angelic, it makes me want to weep. If I was capable of that sort of thing I mean. “
And what a night when we first made love.
” He turns back to his audience, cradling the microphone in his hands so lightly it looks like it could drop from his grasp at any moment go hurdling into the black hole of the audience. It feels like time and space are shifting right now, ebbing and flowing, changing the laws of physics. The darkness stretching out beyond the stage is a black hole, a place where no living thing resides.

I strum my black and white beauty, tasting the Wolfgang's sighs and snarls through my ears, swaying back and forth with shuttered eyes. Honestly, I'm glad to be out here opening with Indecency. Normally, Amatory Riot would be up first, but Milo and America both agreed that getting both me and Turner out here for the start of the show was necessary. I don't even know how I'm going to survive this. I have to play with
both
bands, have my heart ripped out and smashed into pieces for the entire concert. It's just us, just our two bands. There's no Terre Haute, no Ice and Glass. Just us. Us. Us.

“
And oh,
” Turner sings, dragging out the last note longer than I know I could. He sounds so smooth and male, his voice bringing my nipples to attention, wetting my panties with desire and frenzied desperation.
I want to fuck the shit out of him.
“
Oh,
” he continues, pulling that sound out, stretching it around the listeners below, corralling them in before they start to stampede. I wonder if he's hard for me, if his dick is aching painfully, crying out for me the same way his voice is.