Hard Rock Roots Box Set (108 page)

I plug my headphones into my portable kit, and slam out my anger in beats and rhythms.
Naomi.
I don't know what to say to her, so I haven't said anything. What am I supposed to do with that? She fucking stabbed her foster parents with scissors. Not exactly the sort of thing you just take in and roll with. I twirl my sticks around and grip them so hard, the wood feels like jelly beneath my fingertips. I want to break them in half and go scream at her. But I can't. I can't because it'd be for all the wrong reasons. I don't blame Naomi for what she did. In fact, I applaud her efforts. She made the world a better place. Hang rapists and pedophiles, right? But what I can't handle is the fact that Turner knows. Turner knows and has for awhile she says. Great. Just fucking great.

I tap my foot on the pedal and close my eyes, letting myself get wrapped up in the world of my headphones, trapped in soul crushing paradise.
Right, right, right, left, left, left.
My bass drum destroys my ears and eats my heart, bleeding me out beneath its mighty feet. In the scope of such majesty, I'm a fucking pawn. I flip the sticks in the air and catch them, hitting it harder, doing what I do at every show and working my ass off to take it back. It's not easy to make music your bitch, but I try. Every fucking day, I work to get out from underneath the pulsing beat of its heart, emerge from the darkness of its rage, and fight my way to the front. I don't want it to own me. I want to be judge, jury, and executioner. A band can only have one star, but she can only shine if I'm black as pitch.

One of my sticks snaps right in half, and I toss it aside, pulling another from my pocket and not caring that sweat is bleeding down my face, drenching me, dripping down my eyelashes and the tip of my nose. The sweatbands around my wrist catch most of the moisture from my arms. As long as I can keep on playing, the rest just falls away. Always falls away.

I close my eyes and beat the shit out of my drums, forgetting briefly that I'm sitting alone in a hotel room, that I almost died last week, that in a few days, I'll be in Los Angeles, just one man in a choir of devils, just one fallen angel in a group of demons. My arms are still sore, but I push past the pain, my head moving with the beat, rocking with the gurgling pulse of real music. My electronic plaything becomes a monster kit in my mind, and my sticks become swords, slicing through the throat of the beast, grinding the pounding dance of song into my head. Slowly but surely, I work the sound until its mine and not the other way around. I
own
it.

My arm muscles swell as I work them to within an inch of their life, drenched in wetness, the dark eyes of ghosts peering back at me from my twisted mass of tattoos.
What did you think of me onstage, Arnold?
I wonder, imagining my father's frowning face, the color of stubble across his jaw, the way his eyes never saw me but through me, to what he could've had. If my mother had survived, would he have loved me? I guess I'll never really know.
Fuck you, Dad,
I say with my music.
Fuck you and all the rest. I tried to be what you wanted me to be, and it didn't work. And then I tried the opposite and that only made things worse. If Stephen Hammergren wants to come after you, good luck.

I finish the song with a scream and the snapping of sticks, tossing them hard against the opposite wall where they crack and fall to the floor in a heap. The table goes over next, my kit along with it. I'm breathing so hard and heavy that I don't hear the person behind me at first. It's only when I turn around, red faced and raging that I see
her.

Her. Holy shit.
Her.

I rip the headphones off my ears and try to swallow, but my pulse is in my throat and I can't breathe. The room suddenly seems smaller around me, closing in tight and making me very aware that my shirt is stuck to my skin and my cock is hard and pulsing like a drum beat. I can feel every contraction in my chest, can feel the blood rushing down and making heated demands I can't meet. After all, I don't have any fucking clue who this is.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words will come. My first thought is that I must be seeing Naomi, or a very close relative of, because the woman before me is giving me a physical reaction I've never had before. The closest thing I've ever felt to this was when I kissed Naomi at the safe house. But even then, that was just a flick of the fingers, not on a full on fist to the face.

My brain struggles to put together the pieces of the puzzle while my eyes wander up and down and sweat obscures my vision, making the leggy blonde come in and out of focus.

“The fuck is going on in here?” Turner asks, pushing past the new girl and strutting into my room like he owns it. Naomi's close behind him, cheeks gently colored, breath slower and more focused than it was before.
She's happy to see him, even if she
is
scowling at his back.
For the moment though, I could give a shit less. Mystery Girl is staring right back at me with blue, blue eyes and gently parted lips. Her blonde bangs hang in her face, obscuring her raised brows as she moves to the side and lets Ronnie and Lola pass by her. “And why the fuck do you have a rager, dude? You like to put your little drummer sticks up your ass or something?”

“Hey, fuck you, Turner,” I snarl, feeling this rush of passion and heat that quickly cools into an icy storm. My fingers curl at my sides, digging my nails into my palms as I struggle to steady myself, to stop the heady flow of hormones and adrenaline that push through my veins and threaten to send me into an animalistic frenzy.
Holy crap, I need to sit down.
So I do. I stumble back and find the couch before my legs give out. Or give in. Fuck. I am
this
close to moving across the room and sliding my hand along the back of this girl's neck, pulling her to me, and putting my fucking tongue down her throat. And that's not me. That's just not me. That's, like, a friggin' Turner thing to do.
Shit.

“Are you okay, Dax?” Naomi asks in a weird voice, coming closer to me. I grind my nails into the fabric of the couch cushions and run my tongue over my sweaty lower lip. New Girl mimics the motion, and I groan deep in my throat. I get that everybody's exchanging glances around me, but I don't care.
She
is still looking at me, and that's all that matters. My eyes slide down her body and she shivers like she's cold.

This girl, no this
woman
is curvy in all the right places. She's got a narrow waist and full breasts, rounded hips and legs that go on
forever,
straight down into a pair of red stilettos. Her arms are covered in bright tattoos, the complete opposite of mine. Where my biceps are drowning in darkness and rotting zombies, howling demons, and the lost souls of screaming ghosts, hers are filled with life. Blue waves and yellow fish, a green starfish, a killer whale. They're easy to see, too, considering she's wearing a halter top that barely qualifies as clothing. It hangs loose from her breasts, giving me the perfect view of a taut belly and the soft lines of abdominal muscles. This girl, whoever she is, isn't skinny like Hayden, she's fit. Hard muscles coil underneath soft flesh, and I can't fucking stop myself from launching into a full on daydream about what she could do in bed.

Love at first sight. I don't believe in that shit. Weird, huh? Yeah, but the Little Drummer Boy has been fucked over too many times before. The fairytale only lasts so long as reality doesn't come stomping through to smash it. Unfortunately, I stopped believing in the unbelievable a long time ago. But lust at first sight? I can buy that. Her hormones and my hormones, maybe they make just the right cocktail?

“Dax, Sydney. Sydney, Dax,” Turner says, gesturing loosely at us both. “Sydney's a stripper with fake tits, and the only reason I'm putting up with her is because she's Trey's sister. Dax is a little bitch that probably masturbates to
The Smashing Pumpkins
or some shit like that.” Turner snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah, and I think he plays drums or whatever.”

“Fuck you, Turner,” we both say, our voices blending and breaking apart as we both pause and take note of each other. Sydney's the first one to pretend there's nothing in the air between us, smiling at me and moving forward with her hand outstretched.

“Sydney Charell,” she says, her voice that rough sexy that only porn stars get.
God, I hope she's not a porn star.
But she is a stripper. Interesting. And fuck. I smell trouble on her perfume as I force myself to my feet and look down at her hand. I still have a massive hard-on, but hey, if anything, my dad tried to beat the gentleman into me. I grab the ugly yellow-orange throw pillow off the couch and cover myself up with one hand. Sydney chuckles at first, but the sound dies on the edge of her lips as we lock hands, fingers curling around one another like they're possessed. I swallow hard, feeling the saliva slide down my throat like a rock. It crashes into the pit of my stomach and makes me feel sick with need.
Jesus Christ.
I might've stopped playing, but I haven't stopped sweating. Beads of moisture roll down my arm and get caught on the black fabric around my wrists. The sweatbands are adorned with skulls, not unusual for me, but today I feel self-conscious about them, like when Sydney sees them she's going to make a judgment call. I hope I fall on her better side. Shit, I'm about to drop to my knees to
pray
for it.

“Dax McCann,” I say, and my voice comes out in a whisper, not because I'm feeling weak, not today. But because there's so much pent up energy inside of me, I'm afraid if I speak too loudly it'll all burst out. My arm is shaking, but my hand, where it's wrapped around hers, is solid. My fingers feel like ice, frozen into place. I watch as goose bumps travel up Sydney's arm, pricking her tattoos like a tidal wave.

“Dax?” Naomi asks again. I should be turning to look at her. After all, right now, she's the love of my life, right? Right? I release Sydney with a start, taking a stumbling step back against the couch. I flex my fingers and hold my fist to my chest, feeling the
thump thump thump
of my heart racing inside the confines of my ribcage.
Okay, Dax, reel it in, man. You're just hyped up from the show and Hayden and the drums. This is just … well, okay, so I have no idea what this is, but you can't let it get in the way. You're standing on the precipice of greatness. So, you might've just been shot down by Naomi, but it's not in your nature to give up.
Somehow, the thought seems more shallow now than it did before. There's nothing like beating a dead horse, right?

“Yeah?” I ask her, like nothing's different. But oh my God, everything is. And all I did was meet a girl. I focus really hard on Sydney's face and pretend the story of my parents' first meeting is
not
playing in my head. It's the only story my grandmother ever bothered to tell me. Granted, I think she did it to grind salt into the wound, but hey. And yeah, my dad is
not
the only person in my family that hates me. Just take a number.

“Are you feeling alright?” Naomi asks me, nose scrunched up like she can't quite make heads or tails of my behavior. Hell,
I
can't make heads or tails of it either. When she reaches up to touch my forehead, I jump. Her hand feels like fire against my face, and it's too much. I push her arm away and take a step to the side, towards the mini fridge. “Maybe this isn't a good time? You're cold as a corpse, but sweating like a fucking pig. Lay the fuck down.”

“Nobody will blame you,” Ronnie says, drawing my attention past Sydney and onto his face. He looks good, much better than he did a few weeks ago. I think he's gained some weight, but then, I don't really know the guy well. Still, I know enough to get that something's wrong with Lola. Compared to Ronnie, she looks like shit. In fact, I think she's
lost
weight. At the moment, her eyes are hollow, like broken windows looking inside an empty house. I look between her and Ronnie, back at Turner and Naomi, and then I sneak my gaze over to Sydney again.

Shit.

She's still looking at me, examining me the way I examined her. Her gaze catches on my crotch for a second and a small smile quirks her lips. It takes me a second to realize that I've dropped the pillow. I fall back onto the couch with a groan and grab another one.

“Do you need a fucking minute or do you want to hear about the shit that went down?” Turner asks me, and, surprisingly, he sounds a lot less irritated than he did a minute ago. When I glance over at him, I see his gaze flicking between Sydney and me. Well, fuck him. If he thinks it's that easy to change your heart, then he obviously doesn't care about Naomi the way he says he does. Just because Sydney is hot as fuck doesn't mean I'm dropping the Naomi thing. A hard cock isn't enough. Well, it wouldn't be enough if she hadn't just shot me down. I grit my teeth at the memory and shake my head.

“Of course I want to know. What the fuck is it now?”

“Yes, please, do tell,” Sydney says, and her voice makes it really, really difficult to concentrate. I'm not normally the type of guy to run off and take care of things, if you know what I mean, but Goddamn it. This is absolutely insane. If any of my friends had come to me and described something like this, I would've accused them of shooting up and downing an entire bottle of Viagra. So not normal. “What the fuck is it now? I have a really hard time imagining you guys haven't done anything to deserve this.”