Hard Rock Roots Box Set (114 page)

“So I have your fucking permission?” I ask him, raising my eyebrow and trying to keep my body still. Last thing I need is to get into another fight. My body aches all over. Turner raises one brow and nods his
chin
at me, like I'm his bro or some fucking shit.

“Yep. Feel free to dock your ship in Sydney's port.”

“That's kind of her decision to make, don't you think?” I ask him, but he just laughs.
Fucking stuck up, arrogant, little bastard. I am so freaking sick of Turner Campbell. He's just … he makes me want to scream.
“Hers and mine. If I want to
fuck
Sydney Charell, then I don't need your permission to do it.”

“Probably not a conversation I was meant to overhear?” Sydney asks from behind and to the right of me. I was so busy looking at the elevator that I
forgot
about the stairs.
Jesus H.
I groan and turn away, tossing my cup into the trash can as I curl my fingers around the rim. “What do you think Naomi?” she continues, making my stomach hurt and my eyes clench shut.
Wonderful.

“Blame Turner,” she says, moving past me and stepping as close to the glass doors as the guards will let her. Smoke rings escape her lips and ricochet back from the window into her face. “However the conversation went, it probably got turned that way because of his fat mouth.”

“We were just having a man to man talk, right, Dax?” he asks me as I raise my head up and glance over at Naomi. She's not looking at me, but out the window at a group of men clustered around a delivery truck. Brayden's still in here, doing something on his cellphone, so I figure it's nothing to worry about.

“I hope you don't mind if I tag along again?” Sydney asks, drawing my attention back to her. I wish I hadn't looked. Her tattoos pop against her pale skin and white tee, stretched tight across her full breasts. A hint of belly peeks out at me from underneath, flashing me those perfect fucking abs again. Her legs are encased in a pair of acid washed jeans so tight, they might as well be Turner's. And the shoes? Something about those tall, red beauties makes me want to cry. “Lola's coming, too, and she asked if I might keep her company.” Sydney gets out a cigarette and keeps the cycle of smoke going in the foyer. Naomi always used to joke that the band that smokes together, stays together. So far, it looks like she's been right.

“That's fine,” I say, fumbling over my words in a way Turner never would. I hate that I keep comparing myself to him, but it's difficult not to when he's standing right fucking there. “I want you to come.”

“I'll bet you do, bro,” Turner says, and I have to let my head fall back to keep my cool.

“Dax?” Brayden's Irish accent draws my chin back down. Right away, I'm worried. Having him address me personally can't be good, can it? I swallow hard and focus on his red hair instead of the glint in his eyes. “Can I speak to you in private for a moment?”

“You can speak to him
with
me, Brayden. That's the deal,” America quips, stomping off the elevator in a black suit with a blue tie and a pair of perfectly polished pumps. There's a single blonde hair out of place, twirling up and over her right ear. It's only noticeable because the rest of her hair is slicked back into a severe bun. Not good. Not good at all. I look back over at my shoulder at Naomi who's still studying that delivery truck, the one surrounded by guys in jeans and T-shirts. Probably Brayden's men, right? Fuck.

“Just say it,” I whisper, feeling my whole body break out in goose bumps. “What is it?” I think of my dad, and I feel suddenly sick.
Is he dead? He can't be dead. As much as I say I hate the man, I don't want him to go without knowing how I really feel, without finding out how he really feels about me. I think he hates me, truly hates me, but what if I'm wrong? Please don't let it be him.
My mind starts to recycle footage from Ronnie's experience with Stephen. I don't want to see blood. I might have tattooed blood splatters on my left arm, but that doesn't mean I want to make that a reality.

A second later, the phone in my pocket starts to buzz. Nobody ever really calls me. After all, my family hates me, and my friends are all on tour with me. So who would? The only time anyone ever calls is if my dad is mad at me. I might be twenty-three, but I still dread the disappointment in his voice. Sure enough, when I pull it from my pocket, it's him.

“You may want to wait to answer that,” Brayden says, and I really don't like the tone in his voice. My eyes slide past America's bitchy face and over to Sydney. She looks concerned for me, her blue eyes like two pools of calm in this rapidly shrinking room. All of a sudden I get this desperate urge to just
be
with someone, to have somebody to run to when I have problems, to hold at night. It's such a slap in the face, that I almost back pedal. Even more reason for me to stay away from that girl. The last thing I need to do right now is turn a lusty fling into a relationship just for the sake of having one.

“Fine,” I say as I steel myself for something bad.
I can get through this. I was birthed in blood, born into murder and hate. This is cake. This is frosted fucking cake.
“What's the damage?”

“Come with me, please,” Brayden says, waving his hand for his guys to open the glass doors. I slide past Naomi's questioning gaze and out onto the hot pavement. I have this eerie feeling that this area's getting ready for another storm.
I can't wait to get out of Oklahoma.
“And please try to understand that this is simply a scare tactic.” Brayden pauses at the bumper of the delivery truck and his men move back without a word, all of their gazes trained on me. All of their gazes full of
sympathy.
“Stephen likes to put on productions. He
wants
to see a reaction from you. That's the whole point of this. If he simply wanted you all dead, you probably would be.”

America has this twisted scowl on her face that quickly fades when she sees that I'm staring at her. But she doesn't apologize or make excuses. If she did, she wouldn't be America Harding.

“Just remember, he
wants
you to freak out. Try and stay calm here and we'll get through this together.” Brayden grabs the handle on the left side of the truck and hauls himself up and into the cool, dark space. There are boxes of tomatoes on one side and cans of coke on the other. In the middle of all the food, there's a long, wooden crate with the top off. I can smell the dirt from here. Right away, I know that this is going to be worse than I thought. I take a step back and swallow hard. Brayden watches me from inside the truck, waiting patiently for me to join him. I wish I could just have him tell me what's in there, but I know I'll never forgive myself if I don't look.

Moving forward, I push this aura of calm down over my shoulders, locking away my emotions in a sheet of ice. My hand curls around the metal, and I pull myself up. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, to get past the clutter around me. The scent of overly ripe melons hangs cloyingly in the air, thick and heavy like rotten flesh. I blink a few times and look down into the box.

My heart stops beating and my phone keeps buzzing. My breath starts to come in small hiccups and the world around me spins.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, trying my best not to fall over. If I do, if I topple forward and touch … touch that … touch
her
, I'll never recover. Never.
Never.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.”

“Don't take it personally,” Brayden whispers, keeping one hand on a metal shelf full of produce. My gaze snaps up from the box to his face and then back again. Personally? Personally? How can I not take this personally? A moment later, I hear the hotel doors opening behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, I see Hayden Lee staring right at me. Her face is sorrowful, but her look is clear.
I gave you a chance and you blew it. You're either with me or against me.
I turn back to the box. To the skeleton inside. I turn back and look straight into the empty eye sockets of my
mother.

“Dad, I'm sorry.”

My back hits the wall of the bathroom and down I slide, until I'm sitting on the blue tile floor with one hand grasping my face, the other has the phone clutched tight. Thank God I wore gloves today. The plastic's so hot in my hand, it feels like it could scald. The silence on the other end of the line is absolutely deafening, making me wish like hell that he was screaming at me instead.

“I don't know that I have anything to say to you, boy.” I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him either. Honestly, I think I might be in shock right now.
Stephen had somebody dig up my mother's body? Or Hayden. It might've been Hayden.
I squeeze the phone so hard, I hear a sharp crack and have to force my fingers to relax. The skeleton's dark eyes keep staring at me from the recesses of my brain. The bones, they might've belonged to anyone, but not that dress. It was decaying, sure, but I could recognize the gown from a single scrap. My dead mother was buried in her wedding dress. I know that because it was one of the hot topics in my family. That, and half the photos my dad kept around were from that day. “All I want is my wife back in her resting place.” Arnold McCann's voice cracks a bit on the word
wife
, but his anger never falters. This is my fault, according to him. I did this. I brought this on myself. And I thought we might have a chance to regain some sort of relationship? Hah.

“Of course I'll figure out a way to get her back to you, Dad. And I hope you know that I didn't mean for this to happen.” Arnold laughs at me, never a good sign. He's the type of man that's always red faced and stern. I've never seen him smile, and he only laughs when he's
this
fucking close to breaking.

“If I find out this was part of some sick Satanic ritual, I swear to God, son, I will make you wish you were buried with your mother.” I stare at the door to the stall directly in front of me, focusing my attention on the silver lock, so I can stay sane. If I keep my mind on the mundane, the extraordinary will fade away, right? I drop one arm to my lap and stare at the skeleton tattoo near my elbow. I like horror, dark movies, twisted books, but when it comes to the real thing? I could definitely do with leaving the dead six feet under.

I moisten my lips and try to figure out what to say in response to that. No, I don't worship the devil, believe it or not. Just because I wear black doesn't make me a psychotic animal slicer who's always on the lookout for his next victim. But it'd be pointless to try and tell my father that.

“I could drive her back to you. You're only about an hour and a half from where we're at right now.” The thought of going back to Tulsa makes me sick to my stomach. I don't want to see my family, not right now. Maybe not ever. They won't forgive me for this shit. Just like they never forgave me for my mother's death.

“You get her back here in one piece, Dax. Do you understand me? If I find out she's been desecrated in any way, I swear on my soul, I will kill you.”

And then he hangs up on me.

“Fuck.” I look at my phone for a minute, spin it around in my gloved hand, and then throw it as hard as I can against the back wall. It shatters against the tile and falls in pieces, most of which land right in the toilet bowl. Blair pops her head in, biting her lip and looking like she'd rather be anywhere but here. I don't blame her. What's next? Is Stephen or one of his cronies going to take her cousin off life support? Deliver the body with a note to our next show? Or is that not creative enough?

“Dax?” she asks tentatively, her voice echoing around the empty bathroom. “Are you okay?”

I don't answer the question. Why should I? It's a ridiculous one anyway. Am I okay? Of course I'm not okay. My mother's body is outside in a food delivery truck, one shelf down from the fucking pickles. And what's worse? My father knows it. And he blames me for it. I can't tell him all of the shit that's going down here, so that's it. This lands on my shoulders. And why? Because I told Hayden no when she asked if I wanted a sex slave? This is all on her. I know it is. I fucking know it.

I'm not mad at Blair, so I just step out of the bathroom, pushing past her and storming down the short hallway until I'm back in the foyer. Hayden Lee is sitting there, innocent as the day is long, eyelashes batting gently, mouth slightly parted.

“I gave you a chance when nobody else would,” I tell her, watching her expression for some sign,
any
sign that she's listening to me. She turns to face me, but all I see is an act. Her expression remains neutral and her fingers reach up to tangle in her brunette hair. It doesn't help that she's wearing a white maxi dress that flows around her ankles when she stands up. It adds to the illusion of innocence.

“Dax? I don't know what you're talking about,” she begins, but I cut her off. I point my finger at Hayden and I don't like that my entire arm is shaking.

“I felt sorry for you,” I say, forgetting there's anybody else in the room but us. I can't even see past the violet haze of my anger. It's clouding everything, obscuring rational thought, taking control of me in a way that's actually kind of scary. I don't know what I'm going to do or how to stop myself. My initial reaction is to implode. I was taught from a young age that an outward expression of disapproval is like asking to be hurt, hit, abused. But I've been on the reverse lately, moving out of that cycle of abuse and onto another path, a more dangerous one. Now I want to
explode.