Hard Rock Roots Box Set (35 page)

When I wake up, we're in Austin and the sun is shining just as hard as the rain was falling yesterday. I step out into the front of the bus with droopy eyes and a
bad
attitude. Starting off the day pining for the one you love, filled to the brim with secrets when you
fucking hate
the damn things, is hard to deal with. My personal no secret motto is not holding up right now, and I'm rotten inside, full of those bleeding, reeking monstrosities. I can see how Naomi got so angry at the world. She was carrying some huge fucking tumors of bullshit.

I light up a cig and slump down at the table, across from Ronnie. He looks better today, less strung out. I'm proud of him. He grins at me and flashes some of the silver fillings in his teeth.

“Have a good time last night?” he asks, and I shrug. I'm not ashamed.

“It'd have been a lot better if I'd had a partner,” I say and Ronnie nods, losing his grin to introspection, delving so deep into himself that for a moment, he looks like a corpse. I notice that he's wearing some of those stupid fucking bracelets on his arm. I see that one has red writing that's a bit different from the others.
Mrs. Ronnie McGuire.
He sees me staring and holds up his wrist.

“Your fame is wearing off on us,” he says, but he doesn't really look all that excited about it. Instead, he folds himself forward and locks my gaze with his. He's wearing clean clothes today and he's actually got on a shirt that one of his kids sent him. It's a stupid orange color with a bear on the front, and it looks a little ridiculous, but the message is clear.
I love you, Daddy.
I've caught him gazing at it a few times, but he's always shoved it back under his pillow when he's caught somebody looking. My quest, my determination, somehow it's rubbing off on my friend. I like that. Maybe something good can grow out of all this shit like fertilizer? Who knows? “You okay with that?”

“Am I okay with the sensationalism of my girlfriend's disappearance? Not fucking really, but what am I going to do about it? It's kind of out my hands. Once I've got her back, safe and sound, maybe then I'll smile about it.”

“We're making enough money to buy a fucking private island.”

“Yeah, well, there's that, too.” I watch as Josh moves into the kitchen and starts making himself a cup of coffee. For once in my life, I'm actually awake before noon. Impressive. From the look of the hustle and bustle outside the window, it seems like the crew is actually getting their shit done early for once. The drive from San Antonio to Austin is less than two hours, so my guess is that everybody got what they wanted when we arrived last night – sex, drugs, sleep. The general feeling in camp is one of contentedness, not anger, not fear, not sadness. It's like the murder never even happened. I feel kind of pissed off for Marta. I feel
extra
pissed off for Naomi.

“What's the plan for today?” Ronnie asks me, stretching his arms above his head and leaning back. He scratches at the stubble on his chin. “More gumshoeing?” I take a deep breath, absorbing the warm smell of caffeine. Maybe, instead of having a beer today, I'll start off with some coffee. Sounds like a good change of pace. I knock my tongue ring against my teeth and try to think. Do I mention the guitar to Ronnie? Maybe not yet. I guess I should go check it out first, see if I can find anything.

“I'm just going to fuck around, and see what I can come up with,” I say, and I pretend not to notice the eagerness in my friend's face. He wants to help, and I'm glad. This is the liveliest I've seen him since Asuka died all those years ago, but I don't want that spark in his gaze to turn to suspicion. Hayden, slut that she is, gave me something to think about. Maybe the hostility from Dax and Blair had something to do with that guitar? Maybe everybody's wondering about that? “I'll call you if I find anything,” I add, and Ronnie smiles. As I stand up to get a cup of coffee, Josh places one down in front of me.

“For you,” he says simply, and I give him a tight-lipped smile.

“Thanks.” He nods curtly and we go back to ignoring each other. He's not Travis, he'll never be, but I guess I can forgive him for kissing Naomi. Well, eventually anyway.

I sip the coffee and come up with my plan.

There's a guy named Stack who works for the tour. Technically, he's employed by all the bands, so I feel alright seeking him out. He's got more piercings than a pin cushion, but the women flock to him like he's made out of fucking chocolate. Their lips say they want to eat him up as they flirt and run their tongues over their moist mouths, brush their fingers down his bare arms. I have to wade through a sea of them just to talk to the guy.

“Nah, this is no repair job,” he says with a white-toothed smile. I can practically see my reflection in the damn things. I can sure as fuck see myself in his piercings. The six rings on his lip jiggle when he talks. “I saw Naomi's Wolfgang after the show, and it was trash. This is brand spanking new.” He spins the guitar around in his long fingers and squints his brown eyes at it like he can decipher where it came from if he stares long enough. “I mean, I could probably track the serial number and tell you where it come from.” He looks up at me. “But if I were you, I'd just count my blessings and thank whoever it was that left it for ya.” Stack shrugs and hands the guitar back to me before returning to patching up a trashed kit.

“Why's that?” I ask as he settles into his work and his eyes start to get that faraway look in them, proving that he was born for this kind of thing. It's the same look I get when I sing, when Ronnie smashes his drums. The look of a fucking purist, that artist's eye that blinds you to everything else. It's all fine and dandy and shit. Just wish it wasn't blinding him to me at this moment.

“That guitar is a blessing. Hard to find. Costs more than a car.” He looks at me and raises a silver studded brow. “Well, more than my car anyway. I don't like to second guess good luck.” Stack smiles and goes back to re-covering a drum. My stomach churns, but I don't know what to say. That this fucking thing is like a curse. I could have him track the serial number, but I have a feeling that whoever left this was careful enough to cover their tracks. I mean, if they're getting away with murder, surely then can outrun little, old me.

I stash the Wolfgang back in the case and pick it up by the handle, moving away before the roadies sneak back in and start hitting up Stack for sex. Guess with me out of the picture, they needed a backup.

“Hey.” I turn at the sound of a voice and find Hayden standing close by. Her brunette hair is swept up on top of her head and she's got on a bright pink tank and a pair of white skinny jeans. Spiked bracelets adorn her wrists and a handful of silver necklaces dangle from her neck. When I look at her, all I see is attention whore. There's not really much about her that I find attractive.
Shit, when I banged this chick I must've been seriously fucked up.
She's definitely no Naomi. I wonder if my disgust at seeing her has anything do with my suspicion. To me, she looks guilty as fuck.

“What?” I ask as I start across the scorching pavement. May as well take this fucking thing back inside. I'm going to need it to play tonight. I pause suddenly, stopping short. Hayden follows my lead as I turn to face her. “Are you singing tonight?” I ask her. She stares at me from cool blue eyes and smiles wickedly.

“Why wouldn't I?” she asks, mouth twisted into an expression that I know must've driven Knox nuts. It would certainly fuck me up if I had to look at it day in and day out. Hayden digs a joint out of her pocket and offers it to me, but I shake my head.

“What about Naomi?” I ask and she gives me a weird look. It's part fear, part confusion. I can't figure out the reason for either, and it makes me even more suspicious. She certainly doesn't seem to be mourning her lost friend. Bitch can play all she wants at being the Queen of Rock, but she has
nothing
on Naomi. It's not my opinion, just simple fact. Naomi writes the music, plays like a Goddess, and has the voice of a fucking angel. Hayden knows how to play up the sex. She's a performer, not a musician. Without Naomi, I don't know if Amatory Riot will survive.

“What about her?” she asks, looking guilty as all get-out. She glances this way and that, puffing on her joint and not giving two licks about the cops that are passing by not twenty feet from us. Granted, they probably see a lot worse shit around here, but still, pretty ballsy to smoke a fattie out in the open like this. “Am I supposed to stop living just because she's MIA?” Hayden rocks back and forth on her feet as I roll my eyes with disgust and continue towards the door of the venue. Even if she sings, I'll be onstage, making sure everything goes alright, slamming out riffs that are way over my head. The day I stop playing will be the day I give up on Naomi and there is no way in shit that's ever going to happen.

Tonight's venue used to be a church … How inappropriate.

“Turner!” Hayden calls out and I pause, glancing over my shoulder at her. She looks straight at my face and holds tight there, lust and want burning bright in her eyes. Guess she's not as over me as she claims to be. “I want you to know that I never wanted anything to happen to Naomi, not really.” And then with that cryptic bullshit, she turns and walks away, leaving me calling after her. But I don't chase. There's only one woman in my world worth chasing after.

Chapter 18
Naomi Knox

I wake up sometime later and am shocked as shit to find out that the blindfold is gone.
What the hell?
Immediately, my gaze snaps around the room, taking in, absorbing. I need to know where I am and what weapons, what escape routes, are at hand if I'm ever getting out of this nightmare.

My arms and legs aren't bound behind my back anymore. Now, I'm lying spread-eagled. Not good. This position only signals bad things, horrible things. I squeeze my eyes shut against the fear and flick them back open.

I'm in a trailer, I think. I mean, it could be a bus, but if it is, it's none of the ones that came on tour with us. The bed I'm on is part of a pull out sofa. Next to me, there's a slab of run down cabinets with an orange linoleum countertop. To my left, there's a pair of old leather seats, cracked with age, facing the front windshield. We're not moving right now, that much is obvious just from the lack of motion.

I strain against my bindings, but they're just as tight as they were before, if not more so. I wiggle around a bit and am not surprised to hear clinking up above my head. Handcuffs. Fucking handcuffs. The pain makes me gasp which reminds me, a little belatedly that I'm not gagged. I can move my fucking tongue for the first time in days.

“Show me your fucking face, asshole!” I scream. Or I try to. My throat is dry and scratchy, and the best I can get out is a harsh whisper. I try again. “You pussy motherfucker, come and untie me, show me what you've got, bitch.” Just a gasping croak.

I start to struggle again, flailing my body around like I'm having a seizure, fighting with every last ounce of strength I have inside to either get a reaction from my captor or find a weak spot in all of this shit. There
has
to be a way out. There just has to be.
Where the fuck are you, Turner?
I think and then realize how foolish I've been. Now, here, with the drugs fading from my system, I realize that Turner might not even be looking for me. I never even considered that before. Don't know when I became such a bleeding heart romantic. Even if Turner felt all the things he spouted out that night in Denver, that doesn't mean he's going to drop everything and go searching for me. What a crock of crap.

So I kick harder and I keep screaming, willing with each breath for something to happen. Nothing does for a long while, and my voice, instead of getting stronger, gets weaker with each shout, with each whisper of gasping breath.

Fuck. Fuck. And super fuck.

I lay there and stare at the ceiling. It's stained, just riddled with water spots and grease. Based on the musty smell and stench of mildew, it's pretty obvious from scent alone that whoever has me now is residing in a lot less swanky of a place than my previous captors. I adjust myself with a sigh, trying to hold back tears when white hot pain sears my hands and feet. And then I hear a noise. A squeak. It's small, barely noticeable. I yank on my right wrist. Nothing. My left.
Aha.
I pull harder.

I can hear metal sliding on metal followed by an almost imperceptible shriek. Is it a loose bolt? An old part ready snap? I don't know, but it's worth a try. I pull on my wrist so hard that it feels like the bone is about to break in half, sucking in my breath and biting back a scream that's threatening to tear out my throat.

Nothing fucking happens.

I collapse back into the bed with a sob and wonder if this'll be the last place I see. If this room will be my nightmare and my tomb. What will I experience here? All the things I fought to escape when I killed my foster parents? Is this the universe's vengeance on me for taking their lives?

“
When the moon hangs low and night is warm, I find my way to you,
” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears I won't shed. If this is my last moment alone, the last time I'll ever see the world this way, I want to sing. I always played the guitar, it's like a part of my fucking body, an extension of myself, but singing is … it's an extension of my soul. I wish I'd done it more, that I hadn't let Hayden monopolize the lead. “
If life is a question of courage, I've failed, so I hope you'll still hold me. Oh God, please hold me. If you turn me down, I've got nowhere else to go.
” I sniffle hard and fight back the wave of crushing depression. “
If you'll pick me back up, I promise I'll stand. I'll find my feet and fight back, nobody will bother me again. Those sticks and stones won't touch my bones, and words will be only weapons I can wield.
”