Hard Rock Roots Box Set (28 page)

Chapter 5
Turner Campbell

After the set, Trey brings a couple of girls back to the bus just to piss me off, practically forcing a little blonde onto my lap.

“Give her some of your coke, Turner,” he says as he wraps himself around a brunette and smiles across the table at me. What he doesn't fucking get is that I'm not playing anymore. I don't want this girl or any other. I just want Naomi Knox back. If that can't happen, fuck if I know what I'm going to do. I just sit there for awhile and watch him make an ass out himself. I shot up again in the bathroom, but I don't feel any better, not really. The emotional charge I got from being onstage has totally fucked with my head, and I can't seem to snap out of it. I feel like a zombie, marching along to the beat of a necromancer's drum. I'm moving, but I'm not in control. I'm functioning, but I'm not living, not anymore. “Come on, what's your fucking problem?” Trey asks as the girl runs her fingers through my hair. I let her, but only because I'm an emotional wreck right now. I'm not thinking of her or the words she's whispering into my ear or the way Trey's acting like a damn fucking fool. I'm thinking of the girl with the bare feet and the buzz cut. I looked for her. Oh, you can bet your sweet ass I looked all over the damn place. But I knew I wasn't going to find her.

I let out a sigh that the blonde mistakes for a come on. Her hand reaches down between my legs and strokes over the bulge of my crotch. I clamp my hand down on her wrist hard, maybe too hard and she lets out a yelp.

“Don't.” Just that one word, stiff as steel. I push the girl off and rise to my feet. “I'm not in the fucking mood right now.” I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and light up while the woman starts to screech obscenities from behind me. She even throws a tube of lipstick at the back of my neck.

“Turner, get your ass back here!” Trey shouts as I kick open the screen door and move down the steps, slamming my head against the side of the bus and sliding down to the rocky pavement. I was not expecting love, but I was more than willing to embrace the shit out of it. This whole wallowing in the depths of despair crap? Not so much.

“You alright?” I don't have to look up to know that the voice above me belongs to Ronnie. There aren't many people on this earth who can make the gods cry with a simple question like that.

“Do I look alright, Ronnie?” I snap, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead and letting the ash from my cigarette fall onto my jeans. I think about tossing Asuka's name out there, just so he'll freak out and I won't have to be alone in my misery, but even as trashed as I am, I know better than that. There are certain lines that even I'm not willing to cross. I glance up at him as he pushes the screen door closed on Trey's rant and presses his hands flat against it.

“Don't hold this against Treyjan, Turner. He doesn't know any better. He just wants you to be happy is all.”

I sigh deep and drop my wrist to the ground, letting the burn of my cherry fizzle out against the cement. My other knee comes up, and I drop my head to the rough, dirty denim of my pants, the ones that have dried, black blood splatters around the ankles.

“He's a fucking tool,” I tell Ronnie, and he laughs, moving up close to me, smelling like pot and allspice. I remember the day that Asuka died, the stricken look on Ronnie's face, the way his lips went white and the color drained from his face. My memory of those first few weeks after her death is a little shady, clouded with a lot of horrible all-nighters – girls, booze, drugs – but I'm pretty sure he didn't change his shirt for a month. He'll get it, at least. He'll offer me a joint and stand by my side, and he won't try to push some groupies on me or make me pretend that nothing's wrong.

“He is, yeah, but that's why we like hanging out with him, right? Makes us feel better about ourselves.” I get that it's a joke, but I don't laugh. I feel drained. Even with the dope, I don't feel like such a big shot anymore. I feel small. Miniscule. Sitting here like this, I'm aware of how little I mean to the world, how unimportant I really am. I might have fans, a following of people who like my music, but so what? If I've made any mark on this world, it isn't a positive one. A stain, maybe. Like, look at Naomi. I left her a fucking wreck, used her and tossed her aside like I do everything and everyone else. Maybe in my quest to be respected, I forget to give it back? Maybe I've become the one thing I've never wanted to be?

“I want to believe that she's not dead, Ronnie.”

“There's a chance,” he tells me honestly, scooting closer, feet kicking aside loose pebbles as he adjusts himself and leans back against the bus. Inside, I can hear Trey's false laughter, loud and raucous, full of forced cheer. I don't know what he wants from me, but this shit isn't helping. If anything, it's highlighting exactly how screwed up it is that I am.

“But nobody believes that except for me.” I sink deeper into myself, wrapping my arms around my legs, halting my breathing so that it comes out slow and controlled. Inside though, inside my heart is pounding and slamming against my ribcage and my pulse is racing. My hands shake and my jaw is trembling with adrenaline.

I hear Ronnie exhaling long before he speaks. When he does, I can tell he feels bad for me, that he understands what I'm going through, that he's desperate for me to be right. He wants Naomi to be alive, so I don't have to go through the shit he went through. All of that self-loathing crap, those moments of pure terror when he'd wake up screaming her name.
Asuka.
I think the worst though was the silence that followed the screaming, the frozen slice of hell that Ronnie would sit in, eyes glazed over, sweat pouring down his face. I always knew he was remembering that she was dead, clawing his way out of nightmares and into something much, much worse. Harsh ass fucking reality.

“Does it matter then? Why not hope? Why not hope like hell until the truth comes out? If it turns out you were wrong, get depressed then. But don't get bent out of shape yet. You can always kill yourself later, right?” Ronnie pulls a joint from his pocket and lights up with a silver lighter, casting an orange glow over his stubbled face. The crackling end of the joint makes the snake tattoos on his neck look like they're writhing, constricting around his neck and choking the life out of him. Sometimes, I think he'd like that, to die without having to make a conscious decision about it. Suicide's hard. It takes a lot of courage, and Ronnie and I both know that he's a damn pussy.

I reach my hand up for the joint, and he passes it over.

I'm about to take my first hit when Dax comes over and pauses a couple feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his black jeans.

“Hey,” he says and then looks over at Ronnie like he isn't sure he wants to talk around him. Ronnie's my fucking boy though, and there's no way in shit I'm telling him off. Either Dax says what he needs to say around him or he doesn't say anything at all. I don't want to be left alone right now. I need Ronnie here, gay as that might sound. I take my hit and hold the joint up for Dax. He ignores it. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Listening,” I say, leaning my head back against the bus and breathing in the sweet scent of sweat, smoke, and alcohol. Oh yeah, the party is on tonight. The crowd is whipped up into a riotous frenzy, screaming outside the front entrance, tossing shit over the gate. The press isn't helping much either, reporting on rumors and spreading them like forest fire. If I were to go searching for the little bald bitch now, I'd get torn to shreds by my own fans. They would freaking trample me to shit. I take another hit and hand the joint to Ronnie.

Before Dax gets a chance to speak, Jesse moves up between us in his red skinny jeans and baggy tank, wearing a bunch of stupid, rubber bracelets on his arm, you know the ones they give out for fundraising and whatever.

“Check this shit out,” he says, flashing me his wrist and the white writing that adorns all eight of the bracelets he's squeezed onto his skinny arm. They all say the same damn thing:
Mrs. Turner Campbell.
Huh. “They're passing these out by the dozen.”

“Who is?” I ask, lifting up my shades and looking closer. Jesse shrugs and withdraws his arm, casting a curious glance over at Dax.

“Dunno. Chicks in a blue van? Looks like you're even more popular now. Nice job, Turner.” He picks at the bracelets again and pauses, biting at the black stud in the center of his lip. Jesse doesn't know what to do with me now. Every other thing he says to me is punctuated with an
I'm sorry
or some shit. Doesn't make me feel any better. All his awkwardness does is make me worse. It's a constant reminder that things are not right, that they might not be right for me
ever.
Naomi Knox had this … this
something
inside her that made me think of puppies and kitty cats. I want to kiss her face off and make babies with her, and she is the only damn woman on this earth that I would give the title of Mrs. Turner Campbell to. Fuck the rest of them groupies.

“Well, glad you're interested in the position, but I don't do dick. Thanks.” The joint makes its way back to me, and I take a hit. “And tell the rest of the crew that anybody I see wearing those damn bracelets is getting fired.”

“Can I please talk to you seriously for a moment?” Dax growls, sounding pissed. I glance over at him and wish that the drugs did it for me like they used to. Guess the pain of losing the only spark I've ever had lit in me sort of diminished that. Now, they take the edge off, but that's about it. I think about getting up and snatching the bottle of vodka from the cabinet. Maybe if I mix a few choice substances, I'll pass out? Seems better than the alternative.

“I'll see you inside,” Jesse says, getting the hint. I notice he doesn't take the bracelets off as he goes. A few seconds later, Josh slides by, but he doesn't say anything. Good. He's starting to learn his lesson and stay the hell out of my way. Ronnie thinks we should get along better, but I just don't have the energy to try right now. Maybe when Naomi comes back, I'll give it a go?
If
she comes back.

“What do you want, Dax? Kinda busy right now, okay?” Dax wrinkles up the left side of his face for a moment and then grabs control of himself, sucking in a deep breath and shaking out his hands. He's wearing fingerless red gloves with black stitching today. I think they're made of leather, but who the fuck knows?

“The band and I have been talking,” he pauses and looks over his shoulder like he expects Naomi or Skinny Bitch to pop out of the crowd of roadies at any moment. “And we'd like it if you took over, at least until Hayden comes back. I mean, if she comes back. If not, then until we find somebody new.” He doesn't have to ask twice.

“I'm in until Naomi comes back,” I say, and then before the asshole can speak up, I add the next bit. “However long that takes, you catch my drift?” Ronnie whistles under his breath. Being a front man for two bands? Maybe not such a good idea, but I'm making this pledge on a bet, on the idea that Naomi Knox
will
come back, that she's out there somewhere, alive.

I'm making this pledge out of love, stupid or not, because without that, there ain't nothing in this world worth living for.

Chapter 6
Naomi Knox

How cruel is it that after I've accepted my defeat, surrendered to the dark and allowed myself to slip to the other side, that I wake up? That I come to with a gasp that never escapes my lips, that gets caught up in something constrictive, that chokes me as I flail and struggle, desperate to determine the purgatorial hell I've been caught up in?

It's wicked cruel. Wicked cruel and real ugly.

I kick and fight and snarl, but it doesn't do me any good because I'm caught. In what, I don't know. It could be rope, could be chain, could be threads of demonic power, or shit, if I'm lucky maybe it's angel hair? Maybe I'm waiting at the gates of heaven, wrapped up and ready for judgment? If so, then I know I'm screwed. So I struggle some more, and I scream, and I scream, and I scream. And in the background of my mind, I hear a response, a chant coming from all around me, echoing in response to my cries.

And the chanters are repeating one thing and one thing only, two little words that mean nothing and everything all at once.

Turner Campbell.

Chapter 7
Turner Campbell

The next morning, I wake up to rain that plasters the windows with moisture and leaves room for really inappropriate sketches from my bandmate's fingers. The windows in the back all have giant dicks drawn on them. I swipe them away with my hand and smoke a cig, hoping that Milo's still feeling sorry enough for me that he won't bitch. It's my bus anyway.

I sigh and wonder where it is we're going now, what city's next. I stopped caring after Naomi went missing, but I can't help but feeling like I'm getting farther away from her, like maybe she's still in that blood drenched bus back in Denver. I tap my ashes into a glass tray and put the cig between my lips.

If the woman in the hospital is Naomi's manager, America, and she's
not
the girl in the morgue, then who the fuck is that? That's the question that's been bothering me all night. I figure the police should have DNA or some shit, and I wonder what's taking so long. Or maybe if they know and they're just not telling me. It'd make sense. I mean, who the fuck am I really? A rock star? A drug addict? They don't fucking care. In all reality, she and I have nothing to do with each other. The police don't know I'm in love. And even if they did, love doesn't mean shit in the real world. It opens you up inside, fucks your soul crazy hardcore, but outside, it's just a weakness to be exploited.

And right now, I'm being shit all over.

I crush the cigarette into the ashtray and spin around, moving between the bunks, past Jesse's snoring ass and into the front where Trey is sitting shirtless, nursing a rank ass hangover and glaring daggers at me. He's mad, I get it. I'm not acting like myself, but you'd think he could cut me some slack considering the circumstances. I pause and look over at Milo who's typing away furiously on his laptop. I know last night created some buzz; I heard my name being chanted in the parking lot. I bet he's got his hands full. At least I know I'm paying him to do something other than bitch. On a whim, I reach over to the counter and grab one of the stupid
Mrs. Turner
Campbell
bracelets, sliding it on my wrist. I snap a photo with my phone and post every-fucking-where.