Hard Rock Roots Box Set (19 page)

Whatever it is that she wants, it's going to be bad. I just know it.

Without asking questions, I follow Hayden into the back and watch as she makes herself comfortable on my bed, reaching into her pocket and drawing out a small container. From inside, she picks out a hit of acid and places it under her tongue.

I put my hands on my hips and watch her carefully, examining her from head to toe in case there's something I should be clueing in on. She's got on enough makeup that she looks like she's ready to start work over on second street, and the pink tank she's got on is see through enough that I can see her nipples. Classy.

“What?” I ask her. I'd like to get this over with before she starts tripping and ends up with hallucinations of demons trying to rape her. God, I hate it when this bitch is shit faced. She's a real train wreck, almost worse than when she's sober.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“No,” I say automatically, although I already know that I'm going to do it. I touch a hand to my belly and refuse to think of Turner Campbell. “What?” Hayden sits up suddenly and her eyes shift from side to side like she's paranoid or something. Or maybe she took drugs I don't know about earlier in the morning. Who the fuck cares?

“Tomorrow night, you're going to sing for me,” she says and my eyebrows shoot straight up to my hairline.

“What?” Hayden wanting to not only give up the spotlight entirely, but give it to me? What the fuck is going on here? “You're tripping hard. I'll come back later.” I start to walk away, but she reaches out and wraps her fingers around my wrist, reminding me of Turner's strong grip and the feeling of his hard body pressing against mine. My nipples harden instantly, and I tear myself away from Hayden.

“Do this for me, and I'll stop,” she says, sitting up and then leaning over so that her head nearly touches the bed and the rumpled, black sheets. “I'll stop holding … that … over your head.” She snaps her gaze up to mine, and her blue eyes are desperate, coated with a fine sheen of wetness. “America is going to flip out if she … ” Hayden sits up suddenly and glances around me, but our manager is off composing a Tweet or some shit and isn't here to eavesdrop. Spencer's music from up front trickles back and gives us even more privacy. “I need you to keep her distracted until it's too late, until you get onstage. Just tell the crowd I'm on the rag or something.” I wrinkle my nose at her.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” I say to her, plating my hands on my hips, feeling bruises there, indents where Turner's fingers claimed me. I drop my hands to my sides. “I do this, and you stop ordering me around? Stop asking me to clean up your puke? That sort of thing?”

“You're home free,” she whispers, and while I don't exactly like her tone, what can I say? This is too good to be true. I've been Hayden's bitch for
years
now. To be free would be … I can't even express the emotion in words.

“How do I know you're telling the truth?” I ask her and watch as she rises to her feet, moves across the hall and digs under her pillow. When she reemerges, she's got a photo clutched in her hand. Hayden takes a deep breath and presses it to her boney chest. For a second there, she looks terrified, but I figure it's just the acid and don't worry about it. I wonder if I should.

“You've got my word, Naomi.” Hayden searches my face for a long moment, pupils dilating rapidly, breath coming faster and faster. “You've been a good friend,” she tells me, and I have to admit I'm stunned as shit to hear that. It's the first time she's said something nice to me since we graduated high school. Or rather, since
she
graduated high school. Me, I'm just a loser fucking dropout. “I know I haven't treated you right, and I'm sorry. I just wanted to keep you around, and I was afraid if I stopped teasing you, you'd go.” I stare straight at her and don't say a word.

When she finally presents me with the photograph, when I look down at it and see the image that's burned to film, I throw up in my mouth a little.

“Oh, fuck.”

Chapter 20
Turner Campbell

I am trashed as shit, but not from the coke, from Naomi Knox.

My head hangs over the sink and my hands curl with rage. At her, at myself, at whoever gets in my fucking way. I've already ripped Josh a new one today, and Milo … Well, let's just say that he's been avoiding me like the plague, hasn't knocked or bitched once, and I've been in the bathroom all night fucking long.

“Dude, some of us need to shower.” It's Treyjan, of course. Nobody else has the balls to talk to me when I'm like this. I feel hungover from
Naomi.
She's in my blood now. And I thought I was going to be able to get her out of my system. A harsh laugh tears its way out of my throat before I rip open the door and shove Trey back hard. Nothing against him, but when I get upset, I fight. It's a condition that was pounded into my blood from my useless mom and her boyfriends.

A scuffle breaks out between us and escalates. Blows are exchanged and Ronnie and Jesse end up getting involved, pulling us apart, arms still swinging. Sweat and blood are pouring down my face and into my eyes, but Treyjan looks okay. Stupid fuck. I shrug Jesse off and wipe the crimson copper from my mouth with the fabric of my T-shirt, letting it fall red and soggy back against my belly.

“What's your problem, man? Ever since you started obsessing about that fucking bitch from Amatory Riot, you turned into a completely different person. You've known the cunt for like a week and already, you're a mess. God, she's fucking hot dude, but she isn't worth it. Jesus Christ.”

I stand stone still for a moment and then I'm flying at Trey again, hitting him so hard in the jaw that he ends up on his back on the floor. Jesse grabs one of my arms while Ronnie takes the other, and I end up pinned down in the captain's chair next to our driver, a pretty redhead with green eyes. I don't know her name, never bothered to learn it. She's been off limits since day one. There's this twinkle in her eyes that says she's in love. I usually don't bother with girls like that.

My friends pull their hands back slowly, tentatively.

“You okay now?” Ronnie asks as sweat beads on his upper lip, and he starts to pant. He's a wreck again today, just miserable looking. Bags under his eyes, shaky hands, pale skin. Fucked up because of a girl that died more than ten years ago. A freak accident stole her life and his soul. My biggest fear's always been that I'd end up like Ronnie. I've never told him that, but it's true.

“Fine,” I snap, watching as Jesse tucks his hands in his pockets and looks at me through a fall of dark hair. He's glaring at me, pissed the fuck off for starting shit when there wasn't any. Screw him. I turn to the window and slam my head into the glass, closing my eyes and trying to figure out how to get a grip on my anger.

My hands fumble around my pockets and come up with a cigarette. When I flick open my lighter, I open my eyes and watch the signs on the side of the highway roll by. At least we're moving. That way I know I can't get up and go after Naomi.
No secrets, right Turner? You've been fucking lying to yourself ever since you saw her asleep on that couch. You know. You remember. You like this chick. You did back then and you do now. You wanted that kid to exist, so you'd have an excuse to chase her. Get over yourself.

I stand up quickly, take a drag on my cigarette and wipe my sweaty palms off on the thighs of my jeans, the ones I got from the teen section, the ones made for chicks. And I look fucking perfect in them. Jesse and Ronnie watch me nervously; Josh glares; Treyjan sips a cup of water and glances at me out of the corner of his eye. Milo starts to speak, but I hold up a hand to keep him quiet.

I'm twenty-eight fucking years old; I know what I want and how to get it at this point in my life. And now I know I want Naomi Knox. It's that simple, that easy.

I pull my cigarette from my mouth and take a look around, meeting the eyes of my friends carefully, so they'll know how serious I am right now. First person to laugh gets punched.

“I'm in love.” I don't say
I think
or that
I might be.
The first step to being successful in anything is knowing yourself. A lot of people don't get that. I don't need to think shit over or take Knox to dinner. That shit is all circumstantial. When you know, man, you just fucking know.

I put my cigarette back in my mouth.

The bus stays quiet. Ronnie's mouth turns up in a sad smile, but otherwise, everyone's expression is just blank.

“In love?” Treyjan asks, and I get the feeling that I might have to punch him again. Right in the nuts this time. “You're not in love with that girl. You just feel bad because of that sob story she fed you the other day, all of that abortion crap.”

“Nah, that has nothing to do with it.” I put out my cig in a nearby ash tray, and I swear to fuck, I feel better than I have in years. Lighter. Like I could float away or some shit. I rub my hands down my sweaty face. “I just like her. She's a fighter. She's … strong.”

“She's a bitch,” Treyjan says, and I smile.

“That, too.” I sniff, trying to clear my nostrils of dried blood, and then shrug. “You don't have to understand it or agree with it. You just have to fuck off and let me do my thing, okay?”

“Like make an ass out of yourself onstage?” he asks, looking more and more pissed off by the second. I snap my fingers and point at his chest.

“Exactly.” Treyjan rolls his eyes at me, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket. When I pull it out, I see there's a message from an unknown number, and my chest gets tight. Naomi, maybe? I open it up with a flick of my thumb.

“This is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard in my life. Turner, you've never even had a damn girlfriend. I've known you since we were kids, dude. You're not in love; you're just infatuated. Obsessed.” He continues to bitch while Milo clears his throat and jumps in, giving some bullshit speech about love and life that nobody's fucking listening to. Least of all me.

On my phone, there's a picture, and in it, Naomi. Covered head to toe in blood.

Chapter 21
Naomi Knox

I'll admit, I'm the first to think that Hayden's request is bizarre. Despite my heckling, she won't tell me what she's planning on doing, but I figure that I've got the rest of the day to keep prying.

The picture she gave me is folded up, burning a hole in my back pocket. Even the idea that it's there is making me sick, but I leave it, knowing that despite the random 180 she's just pulled, she can't be trusted. This photo, as fucked as it is, gives me complete freedom from her. I keep reminding myself of that as I struggle to forget about Turner. It's hard, especially since I've been listening to Indecency's albums on repeat for the last few hours. His voice is just … out of this fucking world. Every time he growls, I get flooded with heat and can't keep the memory of his groaning out of my head.

Fuck.

I wander back to the front of the bus and watch out the front window as we pull into another parking lot. Jesus, but I'm tired of sleeping on this damn thing. I want a real bed. And Kash snores. And now, Dax won't stop staring at me. Not even for a second. If he knows that Turner and I slept together, he doesn't let on, but he does keep dropping hints about the damn baby head, asking where it came from and whatnot.

I can't wait until this tour is over.

The parking brake hasn't even been set when Turner comes storming onto the bus and up the stairs. His face is red and his eyes are wide. He looks like shit.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snarl at him, but he's already grabbing my wrist and dragging me down the steps. His grip is rock solid and his intent is clear – to get me out of earshot. But why? As Turner yanks me across the cement and towards some shrubs at the edge of the lot, I see a champagne colored car idling near the exit. I don't know for sure, but I'm willing to hazard a guess that Eric's the one inside. Hmm.

Turner stops only when we're cloaked in shadows, hidden from the lights of the venue by a windowless stone wall. His fingers relax, and then his phone's in my face.

“Naomi,” he says as I snatch it away from him, examining his wide eyes and sallow skin. I don't know what he's been doing all night, but sleeping certainly isn't it. And he's wearing the same pants he had on yesterday. Different shirt though. Probably since I ended up stealing his. I tap my fingers on the side of the phone and wonder what happened to my underwear. If they end up on eBay, I swear to God, I'll kill him.

“What is your fucking problem?” I ask him, switching my gaze to the screen and the picture that's already pulled up and ready for my viewing pleasure. My heart starts to pump and dizziness sweeps over me, making me stumble. Turner catches me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Dax watching us. I keep the phone tucked tight against my chest. “Where did you get this?” I sound breathless, desperate. Afraid. And I don't like to sound that way. It isn't in my nature.

I look down again, examine the picture.

There I am with the scissors in my hand, pale fingers clenched tight around the metal. In this particular still, the pointed blades are half buried in Mrs. Rhineback's miserable throat. Blood is just starting to spill from her neck to join her husband's. Oh, how fun.

“A video followed shortly thereafter,” Turner says, lighting up a joint. I steal it from him before he has a chance to smoke it and purse my lips around it. Wow. Just wow. Thanks a lot, Katie. I look up and let my eyes scan the darkness around us. She could be anywhere and that scares the shit out of me. She was never dangerous before, but people change. I have no idea what she's capable of. I mean, that baby head thing? That was just cruel.

My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps and my chest feels so tight that I'm afraid my ribs might just open up and let out my heart. As I drop Turner's phone to the ground, I notice that the lower half of his shirt is covered in blood. His swollen lip and nose explain the source but not the cause. I smash the heel of my boot into the screen and pull the joint from my mouth with one hand, gesturing casually, as if Turner didn't just discover the fact that I'm a murderer – one who got away with it.