Hard Rock Roots Box Set (2 page)

I make out with dragon-boy for awhile and stop just short of second base. He seems pretty pissed off, but I'm not a fucking whore, and I'm just not that into sex right now. My head feels light and fluffy, like it's been stuffed with cotton, and I'm having trouble walking. I have to stop in the alley and sit on the dirty cement, so I can take my stilettos off. It isn't easy to navigate in four inch heels, especially with the alcohol and the THC roiling around inside of me.

I throw the leather boots over my arm and stumble back to the bus, fully expecting to find Hayden right where Wren left her – drunk and drowning in puke. When I open the door, I get a whole other story.

“Right there, baby,” Hayden is growling, hands curled around the edge of the countertop. Behind her, Turner Campbell is thrusting his dick like he's in a fucking marathon or something, gripping her skinny hips with white knuckles and squeezing his eyes shut tight. He doesn't even look up when I ascend the creaky steps.

“What the fuck, Hayden?” I ask, but she's so out of it that she doesn't hear me. Turner does, I can tell, but he doesn't respond either. Doesn't stop. The wet sound of their bodies sliding together makes my stomach twist dangerously. Vomit climbs my throat, but I swallow it back. “Hey, motherfucker,” I snarl, forgetting instantly about that angelic presence I saw on stage. It was all a trick of the light, a nice, fat slice of show business that he shoved down everybody's throat – including mine. He's back to being a devil again. How could I have ever forgotten? After what he did to me before, I should slit his freaking throat and toss him out the window, let the stray dogs in the alley finish him off. “Get off of her! She's fucking wasted, you asshole.” I throw my boots on the floor and move forward, putting one hand on Turner's chest and shoving him back. He stumbles and hits the cabinets with a grunt, sliding to the floor with his dick hanging out of his pants and his shirt bunched up around his midsection. Bits of spiderweb peek out at me from under the black fabric of his tee, crawling down and wrapping his cock. He's even got tattoos on the damn thing. You'd think I'd have noticed that before, but I guess I was too busy getting my cherry popped to think about much else.

“What the hell?” he moans, putting a hand to his head and rubbing at his forehead with fingers wrapped in ink. When Turner pushes his hair back, the edges of star tattoos wink at me from his hairline. He's obviously trashed as shit, too, and doesn't make even a halfhearted attempt to stand up on his own. I roll my eyes and ignore him, throwing an arm around Hayden's waist as she tilts to the side and threatens to topple over. I don't have much love for the bitch, but if she dies, Amatory Riot is pretty much screwed sideways. It would be a sort of love/hate thing for me if she were to fall and crack her head open.

“Goddamn it, Lee,” I growl at her as I drag her boney ass across the floor and kick open the doors to the sleeper section of the bus. Hayden is still covered in puke, so I force her to stumble into the shower and let her slump the floor. I turn the water on
cold.

“Shit!” she shouts, her voice trailing off into a moan. Hayden's head slams into the tile wall and she starts to sob. “What are you doing to me?” she cries as I step back and run a hand through my hair. Blair is glancing at me from her position on the floor of the second bathroom, a sponge in one hand and a bucket in the other. Looks like most of the vomit is gone.

“Thanks,” I say, but she's already shaking her head, tossing the sponge into the bucket and sitting up. The knees of her jeans are soaked through and her white tee is stained with something questionable. She looks pissed.

“Don't thank me, Naomi,” she says as she stands up and leans against the door frame, popping a cig in her mouth as she relaxes against the wood. “This is Hayden's oversight, Hayden's tequila, Hayden's mess.” Blair takes a drag and throws the cigarette into the bucket. “Stop taking responsibility for her shit.” I don't respond because Blair doesn't know what happened between Hayden and me. If she did, she'd understand. I don't like her thinking I'm Hayden's lapdog, but what can I do about it? The bitch has shit on me for days.
God, I am so super fucked.
I shrug and turn around, ignoring the grunts of irritation from the bunk on my right.

“Fuck you, Wren,” I snarl as I move past him and take note of the other bunk.
Looks like Kash is in tonight. What a surprise.
Kash is having some kind of fucked up affair with two chicks – the driver for Indecency and the bassist from Terre Haute. He almost never spends the night on our bus.

I pause in the doorway and stare down at Turner Campbell and his flaccid dick.

“Get up, Turner,” I bark at him, moving forward and poking his leg with my toes. “And get the fuck out. Go.” He moans, but he doesn't move. I think he's even drooling on his shoulder.
Pathetic. If your groupies could only see you now.
“Turner. Get the hell off of my bus.”

“What is your problem?” he whispers, sharp lips barely moving with the words. He sounds lucid enough, but he looks like shit. I put my hands on my hips and try to make a judgment call. It isn't easy with my head swimming like the Northern Pacific. I could go and grab one of Turner's band members, see if they'd come and get him, but I dread going on that bus in the middle of the night. That is, if their stupid ass bodyguard will even let me pass. Besides, the odds of finding anybody in that band that isn't trashed at this hour are pretty slim.

“Stand up,” I command as I watch his hand travel between his legs, snap the empty condom off and toss it onto our carpet. My lips curl into a sneer, and I end up grabbing his arm and dragging him up off the floor. His skin is hot to the touch and sweaty as hell.
Please don't OD on my bus, you stupid fuck,
I think as I struggle to pull the world's biggest asshole to his feet. I don't like the man, by any means, but if he dies then I'm guessing they'll probably cancel the rest of the tour, and that would be a big ass, fucking drag for me and my band. Guess the least I can do is prevent him from drowning in his own vomit tonight. If keeping him on his back and wiping dribble from his chin will keep my dream afloat then the rest of the world be damned, I'll fucking do it. I can always take pictures as backup and sell them to the tabloids if everything goes to hell.

“Shit, Naomi,” he growls, and I drop his arm like it's poisoned. Turner falls to his knees in front of me and leans against the wall, head hanging down between my legs and hands flat on the floor. “Just leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone.”

I stare down at the back of his neck, at the inky paw prints that climb his spine and disappear into his dark hair.

“What did you just say?”

Turner groans and lets himself slump fully against the cabinet before he opens his mouth and vomits right past that beautiful, little tongue ring of his.
What a friggin' douche,
I think, and then before I can stop it, my brain adds,
that remembers your name.
Hearing the three syllables of my earthly monicker pass through his lips was nothing short of a shot to the back of the head. I didn't even think that he knew the name of my band, let alone mine personally.

“Ah, shit,” Blair says from behind me, making me jump as she sidles around me and stares down at the growing stain on the carpet. “This is great. Just great. Now we get to drive all the way to San Diego with the smell of Turner Campbell's puke.” She smiles at me with tight lips. “But hey, what's new, right? I feel like we're eternally in this fucker's shadow.” She kicks Turner with the pointed toe of her red heel. “Still think he looks like an angel?”

I sigh.

“Just shut up, Blair, and help me pick him up.”

She frowns at me and tucks some of her blonde and black hair behind an ear while I dig my arms under Turner's pits and try to drag him to his feet.

“And what, pray tell, are we going to do with him once we get him up?” she asks as she bends down and joins me, tits practically spilling out the top of the tight corset she's got on. All three of us groan as we shift Turner's comatose body between us, leaving his legs dangling on the ground like perverted puppet masters in the world's worst marionette show.

“Just put him in my bed,” I say as I ignore another pointed stare from Blair.

“He's totally out, Mi. I doubt he could even get it up right now.”

“Blair, seriously?” I ask her as we dump him on the bottom bunk and shove his legs up onto my black comforter. “I'm not even going to respond to that,” I tell her as I hear a whimper from the bathroom and suddenly remember that I've left Hayden in an ice old shower.
Oops.
Blair and I exchange a look, and she sighs.

“Yes, I will clean up Campbell's puke as long as you don't start apologizing for him, too.”

“Fuck him,” I say.

“Good girl,” she tells me and spins away on her heel while I retreat back to the bathroom and switch off the water. Hayden is curled into a fetal position, sobbing, and while that's not unusual, it's kind of disturbing to watch.

I grab a towel from under the sink and throw it to her. It hits her in the face and falls to the floor. Hayden lets out a wail that makes my teeth hurt, and I suddenly regret grabbing the bitch before she fell.
Should've let her crack her head wide open,
I think as I step forward and start to strip her down. She doesn't protest, just flops around limply and lets me tear off her expensive, designer clothing that's supposed to scream 'I'm a rebel!', but instead just makes her look like a fucking tool.

“Come on,” I say to her as I grab her by the wrists. Don't need any help lifting this bitch. She weighs, like, maybe eighty freaking pounds. “You stupid, anorexic, motherfucker,” I snort as I drag Hayden into the hallway and practically shove her onto the bunk opposite Turner. As soon as her wet head hits the pillow, she starts to snore. I watch her for a moment and turn away, catching a glimpse of Turner's shuttered eyelids and gently parted lips. Believe it or not, he looks like a fucking angel again. I flick one of his lip piercings with my fingernails and move back into the kitchen/living room area with a sigh. The pot and the whiskey have already abandoned me and left me alone with nothing but stark, white reality. “Is it wrong to hate someone so much it hurts?” I ask Blair as she sprays the rug with some sort of organic cleaner that I just know isn't going to work. The last one she used was made out of tropical fruit and smelled like bubble gum; the piss stain on the hallway floor is still there. Enough said.

“Are you talking about Hayden or Turner?” Blair asks as we both look up and watch our driver/roadie/personal bitch, Spencer Harmon, step into the RV. She's got two armfuls of groceries and a wrinkled lip.

“God, what is that smell?” she asks as she sets the bags down and watches Blair go back to work, leather clad ass up in the air flashing a three inch line of butt crack. If I was into chicks, it'd be kind of hot.

“Turner Campbell's leftovers,” I say as I pop in a cigarette and smoke it with short, sharp puffs like it's a cigar or some shit. I watch with disgust as goose bumps spring up all over Spencer's arms and legs. Her full lips part gently and her dark lashes flutter.

“Turner Campbell was here?” she whispers, and I can't hold back the scowl that crosses my face. I shouldn't get so annoyed at the girl. I mean, she's only one of thousands who've fallen for that man's charisma.
Myself included.

“Yeah, and he's trashed as shit. I walked in on him and Hayden fucking.”

“Hey,” Blair snaps as she sits up and pushes her bucket away, wiping an arm across her forehead. “I had to watch the whole thing happen and even
listen
to it.” I ignore her, and I don't ask why she didn't put a stop to it. Nobody stands up to Hayden except for me, and even then, it's questionable. Same thing goes for Turner Campbell, but not because he's scary like Hayden. He's just a god of the stage. He can do no wrong. I resist the urge to spit on the floor. It's already bad enough down there.

“Oh,” Spencer says, but the wonder in her brown eyes doesn't die and her skin prickles and crackles like it's been lit on fire. She removes the groceries like she's in a daze, pulling out healthy snacks like celery and carrots and broccoli that only she and Blair will eat. I can only hope there's something in there that's loaded up with carbs and sugar. “What time did he leave?”

“He didn't,” I say, gesturing over my shoulder with my chin. I stab my cigarette out in an ashtray that's overflowing onto the table and shrug nonchalantly. “He's so fucked up that he couldn't stand. I put him in my bed.” Spencer's eyes open wide, and I have to cut her off before she can even offer. “No, I'll sleep on the couch,” I say and I can practically see her heart bursting out of her chest at the thought of spending the night within touching distance of Mr. Campbell. As irritating as the whole scene is, I'm glad because there is no way in shit that I would spend another night anywhere near that man. The first was bad enough.
Jesus, Naomi, that was six years ago. Get the fuck over it. You know he doesn't remember, so why should you?

“Look at you,” Blair says as she stands up, pulling the bucket along with her. “All empathetic and shit. Good for you, Naomi.”

“Fuck you,” I say as I give her the finger, grab a can of beer from the fridge and curl up on the black sofa that sits across from the door. I pop the top and nurse my drink while I watch Spencer finish putting away the groceries. When she's done, she just stands there and wrings her hands like she's about to walk into an interview or something. “He doesn't bite,” I say and immediately wish I hadn't.
Oh, wait. Yes, yes, he does.
I suck down half my can as I watch her watching me.

“You really do hate him, don't you?” she asks, and I shrug nonchalantly. But when I speak, I'm dead fucking serious. I raise my eyes to meet Spencer's.

“More than anyone else on this godforsaken earth.”

Chapter 2
Turner Campbell

Shit.
I wake up in a cloudy haze with a pounding head and a churning stomach.
Where the fuck am I?
I wonder as I slam my forehead into the bunk above me and struggle to sit up without retching all over the goddamn place. Across from me, there's a girl with brunette hair sprawled out naked. I look her up and down, but she's skinny as fuck and not very attractive, at least not to me. I stare at her for awhile trying to figure out if I should know her, but the face doesn't ring any bells, so I stand up and take stock of the situation. I feel like shit, but hey, things have been worse. At least I didn't wake up in an alley or in some stranger's car on the way to friggin' Mexico. I touch my stomach with gentle fingers.
And it doesn't look like anybody cut out your organs while you were passed out. It's a good day for you, Turner.