Hard Rock Roots Box Set (107 page)

“So you're saying … ” Ronnie begins, but he doesn't finish his sentence, letting the unspoken shimmer in the air around us. I can feel that, too. I can feel the pain he's nursing for Lola. I look between him and Turner, to Milo, to Jesse and the bassist kid, Josh.
Wow, this goes deep, doesn't it?
I sigh and shake my head, sucking in a deep breath and trying to remember what my yoga instructor told me. I hold negative energy in my lower back or some shit. I relax and bend over, trying to stretch out said region. And I don't even give a fuck if anybody's staring at me. Sometimes, you just gotta be the weird one. It's always the weird one that stands out anyway, right? Nobody cares about the sheep; it's the wolf they're all after.

“Yes, Ronnie,” Brayden says, checking his watch and then glancing up at the ceiling like he's searching for something. “I'm saying that Poppet Saints is a willing participant in the whole scheme.” Brayden grins, teeth nice and white, and looks back down at us. “I imagine if she knew her sister wasn't so into it anymore, that she'd give him out somethin' fierce about it. No worries though, I can right that wrong soon enough. Now, if you please, a rundown on what happened here today? Just a quick one; we can go into details later.”

“Where are our fucking bodyguards?” Turner snaps at the man, posturing like a horny gorilla in the throws of an alpha battle. “What fucking use are the assholes if they're not around when we need 'em?”

“Oh, them?” Brayden asks, and for a second there, I see a slight twitch in his jaw. I doubt anybody else notices, but like I said, I feel things. I see things. It's a hazard of the trade, I guess. Brayden might be playing confident, or hell, might even
be
confident, but there's a bit of worry in there somewhere. Something happened today that he didn't like. “Well, they're dead.” Milo gasps and Josh groans, but my boys stay silent. They've been here before apparently.

“Marcus is dead?” Milo asks, touching a hand to his chest and shaking his head like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. The short, little blonde looks more suited to accountant work than he does to managing a rock band, but as far as I've seen, he does a damn good job at it. I have a feeling though, that this is a bit out of his league. Brayden nods briskly and keeps a tight smile on his face.

“Now for that rundown?” he asks again and Milo nods, stepping forward and raising his chin. So in control. I'm impressed. His suit still looks pressed and his tie is perfectly straight, arranged just so, like we weren't just held at gun point in an elevator.

“I'm of the mind to call the police,” he begins, glancing back at his band. “But I know a skunk when I smell one. You're the expert here, and you've come highly recommended, so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. It's quite apparent that you know what's going on here, even if I don't.”

“I do, indeed,” Brayden says, his accent thickening for just a moment. “And you can trust me with whatever information you do have. I'm only here to help.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest and looks Milo straight in the face. The two of them stare at each other for a moment before Milo nods and holds out his hand, taking a step back and breaking the space between Brayden, Ronnie and Turner.

“Tyler Rutledge was here,” Ronnie says, brown eyes steady and strong.
Wow.
It's going to be awhile before I get used to that again. There were years there where I wasn't even sure if he was still in that head of his. I thought maybe his soul had died along with Asuka. Today, I can see it quite clearly.
Amen, baby. Amen.
“And I don't know what America's told you, but I'm just going to assume it's everything?” Brayden simply smiles. “Well, we know he's really Stephen Hammergren, and I fucking told him so. If I have to take on Spin Fast Music Group and a whole army of hired hit men, I will. I don't care how herculean this shit gets.” Ronnie's fists get tight at his sides and the snakes on his neck hiss with power. I can see the muscles coiling in his neck. He's like a bear that's just found his mate, and he's not afraid to go all grizzly and shit. “He was here with that cock sucking shit fucker, Cohen Rose.”

“Yeah, yeah, and there was a gun and some pepper spray involved. What the fuck does it matter? I want to get the hell out of here and see Naomi. If you're here, you're not there, and she could be in danger. So fuck that. Let's go see Trey, and then get the fuck out of here.” Turner straightens out his shirt and sniffs, running his hand through his hair again and casting me a look, like he thinks I'm going to say something. Guess he knows me pretty well, huh?

“I don't think they were intending on hurting anyone but Ronnie and Lola,” I say, because well, I guess I'm just a smart ass little bitch. Turner gives me this look that could kill, if I wasn't already immune to it. He's had that look since he was five, this squinched up angry face that makes most women soak their drawers. I don't get it, but whatever. I adjust myself, my stilettos squeaking across the overly polished linoleum floor. Why is it that most hospitals look the same? Same ugly floor, same boring walls. I bet my ass that if you stuck a sick person in a room with some bright paint, a painting or two, some
live
flowers and not just dead ones, that they'd get better a whole hell of a lot faster. That might just be me, but come on, white walls aren't good for anybody. “Because if they'd wanted to, they could have.”

“Agreed,” Brayden said, still smiling. I imagine that he smiles a lot. “But the fact that Stephen paid you a visit is promising. It means he's slipping. I'd be, too, if I'd just lost control of my company.”

“What?” Ronnie asks, voice sharp. Always taking in things, that boy. He could watch a movie and then relay every fucking outfit the characters wore, down to the little deets – hair accessories, shoes, gloves, purses. It's actually kind of creepy. Brayden raises his hands like he's gone too far, but his words aren't accidental. This guy doesn't do anything accidentally.

“Why don't we all pile in the van for a little holiday?” he says, backing up a step or two. A moment later, Lola emerges from the bathroom, hair sopping wet and hanging in her face. She moves closer to the group and this time, she does let Ronnie touch her, folding into his arms and sagging there. Poor girl. “As I said, we can do details later. For now, let's get you all back to the hotel. I imagine you'd like a bit of rest before your interviews? Besides, it's just about time for us to catch a plane to L.A.”

I raise my brows, but don't say anything.
L.A., huh? Why on earth would the boys be heading back to our
hometown? Interesting. Very interesting.
My photo shoot just happens to be in L.A. as well. But I mean, of course it is, right? That's the real Sin City right there. Sorry, Vegas. My dad always used to call it Los Diablos, but hey, from the mouth of a religious crack addict, that's just funny isn't it?

“I'm not fucking leaving here until I see Trey,” Turner demands, standing up tall and glaring at Brayden like he's personally responsible for the shit in the elevator.
That's my boy. Make the world eat it. Even if it's not their fault. Usually, they deserve it.

“Don't be such a fag, man. I'm right here,” my brother says from behind us. It only takes Turner a half second to sprint across the room and slide to his knees on the floor by Trey's wheelchair. One of Brayden's guys is pushing it. Or at least I assume the man in the khakis is one of his guys. I mean, he's not currently snapping his neck or shooting him in the face, so I just assume it's chill. I smile as I watch Turner put a hand over Trey's and rest his forehead against the metal arm of the chair. Brothers in every way but blood. Whoever said it was thicker than water anyway? Fuck blood. This here's real family.

I have no clue what's going on, but as I watch the boys surround my brother, my poor brother, dressed in bandages and hooked to a butt load of machines that roll along beside him, I know that I'm going to find out. I'm starting to get the feeling here that maybe, just maybe the guys haven't done anything to deserve this shit. And nobody, and I mean
nobody
hurts my family and gets away with it.

Chapter 3
Dax McCann

I sit on the edge of my bed and try not to think too hard about what Hayden said to me. Or the fact that she said it on purpose, to get a rise out of me, to see what I'd do. That girl is so lost, and I'm starting to wonder if she's ever going to be able to find her way out of this. It isn't fucking fair. Hayden wasn't always this way. Once upon a time, she was better than this.

“This is fucking ridiculous, Dax,” Naomi growls, cigarette flapping between her lips as she stares down at me. I glance up at her, but I'm not sure what she wants me to say. I thought I was helping Hayden by keeping her secret, but I think – although it fucking pains me to admit it – that Turner's right. Secrets kill, and Hayden's are poisoning her from the inside out. I pretend like I don't feel betrayal swirling around in my gut. I'm betraying her confidence by telling Naomi, but maybe, just maybe I'm saving her life. “Think you could've mentioned this sooner?”

“I told Brayden Ryker, what else do you want from me?” I ask, glancing up. My muscles are throbbing, and I have a massive headache, but I can't lie down yet, not until I find out what happened at the hospital. Some small part of me hopes Turner is dead, but then, I don't want Naomi to suffer. That's not real love now, is it? Besides, who the fuck am I kidding? That cocky ass piece of shit is stronger than steel. After a nuclear blast, there'd be cockroaches, and there'd be Turner motherfucking Campbell. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. How much further I delve into Hayden's secrets is really up to me at this point. “And that's all she said, Mi. She didn't elaborate.”

Naomi closes her eyes, bottling up that rage she has for Hayden, that hatred that's driven too deep to ever go away. Things are not going to be as they were, never again. Even I know that. Hayden and Naomi are too far gone to continue having much of a relationship.

“You said there was more. Fucking spill it then. I'm tired of wading around in the dark. What else did the bitch tell you to try and garner some more sympathy?” Her eyes snap open and grab me around the throat, strangling the breath from my lungs. I can see it in the set of her jaw, the way her fingers curl at her sides; she's worried for Turner. I lick my lips, but my mouth is suddenly dry, and I can't find the strength to speak. Naomi rolls her eyes and turns away, moving towards the window and placing her fingers against the glass, just so. She's dressed in a loose Amatory Riot tee, and her hair is hanging softly down her back. The sight's getting me riled up in more ways than one. First, she looks fucking beautiful standing there, a rock goddess in sweatpants and bare feet, a girl who breaks hearts and destroys souls, just by walking through a crowd. And second, she's clean, and I'm not. I have this
thing
about showering after shows. Besides, my injuries from the tornado haven't just disappeared over night. I'm hurting, and when I hurt, I sweat. Not a good combination. But these sorts of truths can't wait for another shower. I sat here and mulled this over while Naomi was in the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure this is the only way to go.

“If I tell you what I know, you have to understand that if Hayden finds out, I'll loose her trust. I won't get another fucking word out of her.” I watch as Naomi leans forward and presses her forehead to the window, breathing smoke against the glass. The gray tendrils swirl out between her lips and tease the stray strands of hair that slither over her shoulder. She looks resigned, but to what, I'm not sure.

“Dax,” she begins and my heart skips a beat in my chest. This girl is tough as nails, and she doesn't take shit from anyone. The respect I have for her has bloomed into this monster that's taken up residence inside of me, made me fall hard for a girl I'll never get. I've always had this niggling feeling inside of me, this dark voice that told me things never really change. Naomi's out of my league, always has been, always will be. I thought that when I left home that I could change my future, but I guess we're all just tied up in the hands of the Fates. Maybe this is my punishment for killing my mother? Most people come into the world innocent, but I was born bathed in blood, drenched in my father's hate, and thrust into a life I've never felt comfortable living.
Born to Bleed.
That's me, baby.

“Yeah?” I ask, because I just know that whatever Naomi's going to say is going to bebad. Just like it was before the show. Why kick me in the nuts just once? After all, we have those interviews to look forward to tomorrow. Might as well make sure I have some good emo bullshit to spew. I squeeze my fingers in the bedspread and fight the urge to get up and grab Naomi by the hips, push her over and fuck the shit out of her. That's what Turner does, right? Takes what he wants?

“If we don't all start being honest with one another, we're going to get picked apart by the crows.” She turns around suddenly, her orange-brown eyes gleaming with a sheen of brightness. The muscles in her arms are tight, like she's gripping onto the windowsill for dear life, holding onto it like a raft while she drifts at sea. I stand. Don't know why I do, but I just feel like something's coming. I might as well be prepared for it. As I do, I go through all of my secrets, my dirty laundry, and I try not to be sick. If this guy, this psychopath, really has it out for us all, all he needs to do is dig deep and bury me up to the neck in it. Once the tide comes in, I'm a goner. Naomi takes a deep breath, lets her lashes flutter against her cheeks and then locks eyes with me. “Dax, you know how my foster parents were murdered, right?” I nod. I've heard the story; we've
all
heard the story. Nobody knows for sure yet, but the bets are on for whether it was Naomi's foster brother, Eric, or his sister, Katie. I guess I should've played the paint by numbers game, should've figured out the truth on my own, but we all know how that can be. Sometimes, the truth stares you straight in the face, other times, it just slaps the shit out of you. Every now and again, we could all use a hard whack up side the head. “Dax,” Naomi says, making my skin flush hot when she says my name. “Dax, it was me.”