Hard Rock Roots Box Set (134 page)

I don't understand any of it.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in another country, trying to immerse myself in a new language, but no matter how much time I spend here, how hard I study, I'll never fit in. I guess it's something you either have or you don't.

“I am
so
nervous,” I say because, I mean, that's what you're supposed to say before a big show, right? Nobody listens to me—as usual. “Dax,” I whine, grabbing onto his arm with my nails, digging them into the sea of ghosts and skeletons and zombies that decorate his flesh. Not my favorite tats, but I feel like I understand
why
he got them. With all of that darkness on his arm, it should be easy to spot any beam of light, right? “Do you have something I can take to calm me down?”

Dax sighs and looks down at me with those deep, soulful eyes of his, but he nods and reaches into his back pocket, sliding out a cigarette that's not really a cig at all. I think it's dipped in something, PCP or whatever, but I don't really care. I just need something and Dax is always willing to share.

“Not too much,” he warns me, but I'm already lighting up and taking a drag.

“What is this?” I ask as he tucks his fingers into his back pockets and watches me carefully. Sometimes Dax gets this almost paternal expression on his face when he's looking at me. It's nice to know he cares, that he's probably the only person on the planet who actually gives a single crap about me, but I wish that look would shift, become something different. I want him to hold me, gaze at me with those eyes, drag the secrets screaming from my lips so I can be over them, so I can move on and forget all the bad shit that's ever happened to me. I want to settle down with Dax and have four kids, buy a house in the suburbs and live off the money we've made doing all of this crap.

I know it'll never happen, but a girl can dream, right?

“Angel dust,” he says, plucking the smoke from my fingers. I close my eyes and wait for that euphoric blur to take over. I'm going to get so fucked up tonight that I won't even remember my own name. Trouble is, no matter how shitfaced I get, I can't ever forget Cassie's. The pain washes over me like a tidal wave and I close my eyes. “I'll give you a little more after the show.”

“Thanks, babe,” I say, bumping him with my hip, enjoying the smile that takes over his mouth. “Maybe afterwards we can—”

“The fuck is this?” I pause and both Dax and I glance over to find Turner Campbell in the middle of a fit about something or other. He's a hottie with all his tats and his piercings and that never-ending pool of charisma and confidence, but holy crap. And people think
I'm
high maintenance. “You gonna disrespect me on my own tour? Get the hell out of here, stupid groupie bitch.”

“Trailer park piece of trash!” Some redheaded chick in a blue dress screams, weeping mascara tainted tears down her cheeks as she raises her hand for what, I'm not sure. A slap or something? But everybody on this tour knows better than to hit Turner Campbell. I think he's got, like PTSD or something from his mom. “Fuck you,” she snaps lamely instead, spinning on her heel and heading for a side door.

“You wish, sweetheart,” he growls after her as she yanks it open and disappears into the darkness outside. “Fucking journalist motherfuckers. Trying to steal pictures and backstage gossip that ain't any of their business.” He snorts and rolls his eyes.

There's a moment of silence there while Turner lights up a cigarette and slowly things go back to normal. I glance briefly over at Naomi, find her sitting in the corner, wrapped in a hoodie, blowing smoke rings and fingering her guitar. She doesn't talk to anybody on the tour, keeps to herself like some kind of weirdo. I don't get it, but whatever.

I cross my arms over my chest and wait for the band that's onstage to finish up their set, my eyes tracking the roadies as they switch out our equipment in record time, leaving a nice big space in the front of the stage for me to do my thing. I know how to sing and I know how to put on a goddamn show. When I'm up there, I know the audience cares about me, cares whether I live or die, and I know that for a brief instant, I'm not really alone at all.

It never lasts. Like a high it comes and goes, and the comedown is always a bitch.

“Showtime,” I murmur, biting my lower lip and sauntering out onto that stage like I was made to be there. Maybe I was? Maybe this is all I am? A doll to be paraded around in front of an audience? But that's okay, I guess. I'm resigned to my fate. “Hey there San Fran,” I giggle, dancing into the spotlight and snatching the mic from the stand, enjoying the wave of screaming and clamoring that follows my words. Hands reach out and I bend down to take them, letting fingers curl around my wrist as I smile and enjoy the fact that Naomi is behind me, in the back, shadowed by my glory.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't hate her so much, but I do. I just really do.

“I hope you guys are ready to party,” I murmur, biting my lower lip and sliding my hand up my inner thigh as I rise to my feet. I know I look good in these jeans, even if Naomi hates them, and I know that Dax is behind me, that he can see my ass.
Fuck.
I just want him to goddamn look at me. “Because I am ready to get crazy and fucked the hell up!”

I laugh, but there's nothing funny. I smile, but I'm not happy. Not in real life.

Here, though, on this stage, I can play the part. I can pretend that things are great, that life always works out in the end.

I start to bounce, counting down from three on my fingers and listening for Dax as he steps in with his sticks, guiding me with the thumping beat of his drums. I pretend when I'm up here that he's playing out the rhythm of his own heart, that he's trying to tell me something through his music.

It's not true, but I can make believe. Oh god yes, I can fucking pretend.

“
I'm the only girl you've ever wanted, the only one you've never known,
” I sing, letting go of everything for this moment, for this chance to shine. I drop my hate and my fears and my regrets and I swing my hair around, teasing the ribbons on the front of my corset, loosening them so the lacy red bra I've got on underneath peeks out and drives the crowd wild. “
The only girl that makes you bleed, the only one you need to see. Get your ass over here and prove yourself to me.
”

I pause and spin as the music stops, tossing a glance over my shoulder as I finish tugging the ribbons free.

“Prove you have the right to make me need.”

Naomi rips into her first guitar solo, but I won't let her have the glory. I fucking won't. I don't like to share. I spin around and tear the corset free, leaving me dressed in nothing but my bra and my jeans, sliding my fingers over the little rose tattoo on my belly, teasing the edge of my pants as I hit the front of the stage and squat low.

“
You've never wanted to remember, never thought to believe. You had me and then you lost me. Baby, can't you tell I'm the biggest mistake you never made.
” I rise to my feet and sway my hips in time with the music, fighting for every second of glory up there, making sure that this is my moment. “
Can't run away from the fuck up you became, you could've proved yourself to me. Losing the best you've never had.
”

My voice doesn't belong to me when I'm up on this stage. I give up and surrender to some higher power, some artistic muse that I don't really understand. I let go and it takes over me and I'm grateful for it. Hayden Lee doesn't want to be Hayden Lee.

I hate myself too much.

“
You can't hide your truths from me,
” I sing, dropping my head back, letting the soft sultry sound of my voice carry the notes into the sky. “
And you can't pretend you didn't screw up so goddamn badly. Death before desire, you can lie but I won't wonder. Love is pain, but I won't wander. I'm the only girl you've ever wanted, the only one you've never known, so make this right and come back home.
”

I pause for the screaming portion of the song—not really my thing—turning around and bending low, showing my ass to the crowd as I curve my body up and twist, flicking open the button on my pants with a laugh.

Always a laugh for the crowd.

Inside, I never stop weeping.

We exit stage left, sweat pouring down my face, my breath coming in heaving gasps. The crap I smoked with Dax is fluttering in my bloodstream, turning the room into a kaleidoscope of color. I feel so goddamn good right now. Why can't this shit last? Why can't I be happy anywhere but onstage? Why? Why? Why?

I slide an arm across my face and it comes away with dripping with sweat, smearing my makeup as I smile and make nice with the roadies and the security staff.
Fucking great. Good show. You rock.
Whatever they say to me, it goes in through one ear and out the other. When you hate yourself as much as I do, compliments don't have a tendency to stick.

“Dax,” I whine, grabbing his arm before he can dart out the back door. He kind of has this thing about showering after a show. “You said I could have another hit?”

“Hayden,” he begins, but something in my face must convince him it's not worth it. Maybe he can see how desperate I am to avoid the pain. With another sigh, Dax reaches in his back pocket and passes a little plastic bag over to me. “Be careful with that. Not too much, okay? You promise?”

“I promise,” I say, but I have no intention of taking it easy. If I overdo it, what's the worst that could happen? What
if
I never woke up? Would that be such a bad way to go? I smile at Dax until he leaves, casting one last look over his shoulder like he's not sure if he should leave me. I pray with all my heart that he stays. He doesn't.

With a sigh, I turn and light up, smoking Dax's cig with a pretend smile plastered to my face like clay. I just do this. Smile all the time. Or whine. Or throw temper tantrums about shit that I don't really care about, that doesn't matter. If I can pretend that stuff upsets me, then I can also pretend that the real bad shit in my life isn't important. That I don't think about my daughter everyday. That I haven't done things that make me sick to my stomach. Sometimes, I wake up at night and drape myself over the toilet to puke. Everyone thinks I'm bulimic or something, but I'm not. I just haven't figured out how to live with myself yet.

I lean against the wall and smoke while Naomi fucks around with her guitar, snapping at some roadie bitch when she tries to take it from her. She
hates
letting the staff touch her instrument. I know she pretends it doesn't bother her, but it does.

After a while, Turner and his motley fucking crew cluster near the edge of the stage, and I watch as he flashes that grin around, tosses his arrogance into the air like confetti. All of that confidence and that surety, he means it.
God, I wish I was like that. I wish this wasn't an act, that I actually believed in myself the way he does.

My eyes flicker to Naomi, catch her staring at Turner with … a strange expression on her face, something I've never seen before. I lean forward as she runs her tongue across her lower lip, this flash of longing and sadness taking hold of her features before she wipes it away with a visible effort and practically throws her guitar in its case.

What the hell?

When she storms past me, we lock eyes for a moment and I smirk. Naomi flips me off, but she doesn't stop, moving to the stairs that lead to the front of the venue and not back to the buses. Hmm. Is she planning on actually watching Indecency play tonight? She never does. I've wondered why since she listens to their music all the damn time. Now, things are starting to make some sense.

Naomi has a thing for Turner Campbell—maybe some history, too? Nobody looks at another person like that unless they're hurting hard. Trust me, I know. I've been there. I go there everyday with Dax. He's the only guy I've ever really loved, and he loves Naomi.

And that bitch looks like she's in love with Turner motherfucking Campbell.

Huh.

I spin my cig around and stare at the crackling cherry.

Turner likes to party, likes to try whatever favors are on the table. If I could get him to hang with me tonight, fuck him up a little, then …

My smile gets really wicked, and I hate myself for it. But I don't stop. Because misery loves company, right? I just want to be loved, but nobody seems willing to take a chance on me. So fuck them. Fuck all of them.

If Naomi wants Turner, then I want Turner.

I can't wait to see the look on her face when I get him.