Hard Rock Roots Box Set (11 page)

Her eyes snap back to mine and her full mouth tightens into a thin line.

“Turner,” she says, stepping forward and poking me in the chest with the corner of her sunglasses. “I don't owe you shit. Fuck off and leave me alone. Stop calling me, stop following me, and you better keep your ass off the stage when I'm on it. Me and you, we have nothing to say to each other.”

And then she steps around me and leaves me in the dust.

Chapter 13
Naomi Knox

I survive the show that night – barely. I play, but I don't play with any heat or substance, and I can tell the crowd knows it. I mean, they still cheer and scream and flail, but they don't drop their inhibitions; they don't evolve backwards and fall to the floor in howling fits of animalistic rage. When they do that, you know you've nailed it. That night, I do good, but I don't blow anybody's mind.

Can't say the same for Turner.

From what Hayden says, he destroyed the stage and caught that whole damn building on fire with his words. She says they were so laced with rage that he was spitting acid and burning holes in the fucking stratosphere.

Good for him.

After our set, I retreat back to the bus and fall asleep.

When I wake the next morning, I can't hold it back. I end up at the table in the front with my notebook open flat and my pen pressed so hard against the pages that the paper tears with every other word.

Blair and Dax watch me silently from across the table while the rest of the band put-puts around the bus like they've got nothing better to do. And I mean, hell, fuck 'em, I guess they don't. They know when I'm like this that something good's coming. Our last album? Yep. Happened just like this.

“You want to take a break?” Blair asks after a little while, scooping some of her bi-colored hair over her shoulder and adjusting the little black and white polka dot bow she's stuck in the front of it. She looks cute, very vintage. Me, on the other hand, I look like shit. I haven't showered or changed my clothes, and I know I probably smell like sweat and beer, but when I'm writing, nothing else matters.

I shake my head and wish I could confide in her. It might make me feel better if I shared my secrets with somebody I actually like. In fact, I think given the opportunity that Blair and I could be best friends. And I don't mean that in the whole shallow sort of,
We like go every Friday and get our nails done together
bullshit. I think Blair and I could be bury-the-body best friends. Too bad the walls I've put up are taller and longer than the Great Wall of China.

“Can I make you some coffee or something?” Dax asks next, uncrossing his long legs and standing up to stretch. “Something black, bitter, and cheap?”

I groan low in my throat and lean back, letting my head fall to the cushion behind me.

“Sounds amazing. Make a big pot and don't expect to share.” I hear him laugh, but don't look up. Instead, I close my eyes and start to hum, putting my words to music. In a minute here, I'm gonna get up, grab my guitar and some headphones and fumble my way through to something epic. Works every time. It's just the way I roll.

“You gonna let us read any of that?” Blair asks as I sit up and open my eyes, glancing down at the mess of words that'll eventually turn into a song of some sort. Hopefully a good one. I shrug and spin the notebook around. All of my secrets are sitting there in code, hidden between the blue lines with cryptic phrasing and a horrible abuse of the English language that makes it nearly impossible to guess what I'm hinting at. There's enough to give people pause, to open up the idea of discussion, but nothing too personal, nothing too incriminating. And that's just the way I like it.

Blair reads the words carefully and taps her fingers on the table to get some kind of a rhythm going, and Dax steps up behind her, smelling like canned coffee and weed. The smell is oddly comforting, enough so that I shake out my hands and take my first breath in almost twenty-four hours. It hurts so much that it feels good, you know what I mean? It breaks up the tension in my chest and puts the briefest of pauses on my anxiety about tomorrow. March 15
^th
. The six year anniversary of …
that.

I made the right decision then, and I still stand by it now, but that doesn't mean I can't feel hurt about it, betrayed even. I trusted Turner, looked up to him then, and he took advantage of me and left me with a problem I wasn't ready to deal with yet. Fucking asshole. I pull out a cigarette and light up, taking small, useless puffs and blowing the smoke out in rings. Yeah, I can really do that.

“Lemme guess,” Dax begins, watching me from under a dark mop of hair that falls across one of his gray eyes. “You can tie a cherry stem into a knot, too?” I grin and blow out another ring, watching as his eyes fall to the page and move down the row of illegible phrases I've just scribbled. I don't answer his question, but in case you're wondering, that would be a big, fat yes.

I lean back again and cross my arms over my chest, trying to push Turner's face out of my mind. I want to tell him everything, or I did rather, but then he had to go and throw out that
you owe me
bull which just makes me want to hit him. And he kept saying
our kid, our kid.
There is no kid, and there's definitely no
our,
just a ghost of a memory that haunts me every damn day. Turner Campbell may not be the sole reason that I have trust issues, but he sure as shit didn't help. He could've cured me, I think, but instead, he dragged me backwards and left me in this state. Angry. Distrusting. Determined.

I finish my cigarette and flick it in the ashtray near my elbow.

“Jam with me?” I ask them, and get two surprised faces in response. Normally, I write songs on my own, and when I'm happy with what I've got, I show my shit to the band and let them layer in their own parts (so long as they don't fuck with my riffs). Today, I'm feeling social. Could be the death of me.

Blair and Dax exchange a look.

“Oh, come the fuck on,” I say, slapping my palms flat on the table and standing up. “I didn't ask you to join me in holy matrimony; let's just play some shit together.” I move away from the table and pause when my phone starts to buzz on the counter, shaking like an epileptic in a fit. I pick it up, glance at the number and then move over to the sink.

“Turner?” Blair guesses, and I nod as I turn on the water and drop the phone into the drain on the left – the one with the garbage disposal. A second later, I flick the switch and a horrible grinding, screeching sound emanates from down below. It's like an alley cat got in a fight with a semi-truck – and won.

The noise is enough to bring America sprinting from the back, iPhone still pressed to one ear, perfectly polished and shimmering in a nude suit and black pumps. She looks like she's on her way to a luncheon at the country club, not a rock concert.

“What in the God's name of fuck was that?” she snarls, and I smile, happy to see that our language is really rubbing off on her. I turn off the disposal and the water and step back, spinning to face her with a nasty grin.

“Just taking out the trash is all.”

The jam session with Blair and Dax goes so fucking well that I almost forget about Turner and the half-secret I shared with him. The one that I'm going to have to finish sometime in the near future. After all, if I learned one thing from trying out my new song, it was that it wasn't finished. The story that it's based on doesn't have an ending, so how can I expect the tune that's based off it to?

Anyway, I'm smoking a cigarette and watching the roadies unload our shit when he saunters up behind me and blows smoke in my ear. I'm so not worried about running into him that I don't even bother to turn around. I've got my music high right now and there is nothing in this fucking world that can beat that. Even crackhead Wren agrees with that one.

“Why are we playing Tucson when we skipped LA? Seems kind of fucked up, huh?”

I don't answer the question because I'm actually kind of shocked to hear his voice. For a few blissful, perfect hours there, he did not even fucking exist. I don't answer the question and instead keep my gaze focused on Spencer's back. She has these bright, butterfly wings tattooed on her shoulder blades, the perfect compliment to the creamy mocha color of her skin. I admit, I'm kinda jealous. My skin is so pale that all my tats look like stickers, like they've just been stamped there and aren't really a part of me. Pisses me the fuck off.

“I think I was pretty clear when I told you to stay the hell away from me, Turner.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and watch as he steps up next to me and puts it out. My gaze remains focused straight ahead. I start to hum the melody to the second new song I started today, the one about dead birds. Yep, even stalkers can be inspirational. My mind wanders back to
that
issue for a moment and quickly dismisses it. One thing at a time. That's about all I can handle right now.

“Yeah, but, uh, Knox, finding out that you and I procreated ties us together just a bit more than your typical set of strangers, huh?”

I shiver and pull out another cigarette. The lights of the venue are casting strange shadows around us, making the air look like it's full of ghosts. I wonder briefly if one of them is our kid and then shake off the guilt with a violent snap of my head, giving Turner my best narrow-eyed death glare.

“Really? You're going to pull that bull now? Why? Because you have daddy issues and need to soothe your tortured soul? Give me a break, Turner, and get the fuck over yourself.” He's staring straight back at me, and his face is changing from soft and understanding to pissed off. Apparently, I said something I shouldn't have. Oh well. What's new?

“You don't know shit about me,” he growls, clenching his fists so hard at his sides that his tattoos look like they're about to pop off and take flight, join the ghost-shadows flitting in the air. “So stop feeling sorry for yourself. I didn't purposefully try to fuck with your life. We screwed, and I left. It wasn't you; it's just what I do. Girls proposition me; I fuck them. It's life. It's nature, whatever. We had a good time, and you got pregnant. It happens.” Turner pauses, and I think I hear him mumble something like,
just not to me.
His callous attitude about the whole thing makes me want to rip off his balls, but then I remind myself that I'm not supposed to care. Slicing off some of his prized man bits would show too much emotion, so I grab the rage that's boiling inside, and I put a lid on it, clamp it down and keep it hidden. Later, tonight, when I get a hold of my guitar, I'm going to take a note from this dickhole and play it so hard it bleeds.

“Glad to know that that night meant so much to you.” I smile and start to walk away. Being around Turner is not a good idea. I knew that when I was offered this gig; I should've walked away then. Now the noose he threw around my neck so long ago is starting to choke me. And I thought I'd chucked it? Pathetic. Even now, even as I'm standing here hating him with every ounce of my being, something about him is drawing me forward. Could be the fire in his brown eyes, the color that burns there so bright it blinds. Despite his callous attitude and his
all be damned
bullshit, Turner has enough passion to light the sky on fire. He does it with his music, but for some reason, it doesn't seem like he's capable of translating the good in him to real life.

I can't be around someone like this.

I have a hard enough time with my own issues. I need to be around people who know what they want and how to take it, who understand their strengths and play them hard, who fight to overcome their weaknesses. That is, if there are any people like that who actually exist.

Turner paces alongside me, all tight, twitching muscles and clenched teeth. He brushes the hair off his sweaty forehead with an angry hand, and I know he wishes he could just hit me. Glad to see he isn't sexist, that he'll attack any threat head on. But if he touches me, he's going down. I am a lot stronger than I look. I've been fighting off men twice my size since I turned ten.

“You know what I meant,” he grounds out, tucking his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans. They kiss his skin so tight that I can practically hear the smacking of lips. That denim is freaking
painted
on Turner's legs. Doubt there's room for underwear in there.

“Do I?” I ask him, forcing my steps to slow, so he has a chance to explain himself. Right now, I'm heading straight toward Dax and Kash. Once I get there, Dax will chase Turner off. Or he'll try anyway, and I really, really don't want to deal with that shit.
So hurry up then,
my logical mind tells me. I ignore it, much to my detriment, I'm sure.

“I just meant that it wasn't personal, Naomi. I didn't mean for this to happen to you, and I … ” Turner trails off, and I have no choice but to turn and look at him. The sound of his voice was … strange, like he was embarrassed about something. I can't even imagine the man having that emotion, so it's a pretty big deal to me.

I stop walking, and Turner does the same.