Hard Rock Roots Box Set (53 page)

“Naomi!” I scream after the wave rushes us, rides us, fucks us and then simply … stops. The building is missing its roof, the buses are not where they were when we left them and there are bodies everywhere. Some are covered with debris, others are lying bare on the suddenly sunny pavement like they're just out for a tan. I
must've
passed out because I don't remember anything beyond that kiss, that one fucking, single sharing of breath that will define who I am for the rest of my miserable life. “Naomi!” I push myself up with my elbows and grit my teeth against the pain in my thigh. It's inconsequential right now. I don't care. I don't care about anything but my one woman. My only woman. “Naomi?” My shout becomes a question as I roll her over. She moves limply, pulled only by my arms on her shoulders. I don't see her chest moving. I don't see it. I don't fucking see it.

She's dead.

She's fucking dead.

“Naomi?” That's it, there it is, a sob. A wail. “NAOMI! FUCK!”

I grab her face, lift her head up, tap her cheek. Blood dribbles down the side of her face and turns her blonde hair pink, taints her lips. I pull her body up to mine and listen.
No, no, no, no.
But then, there it is, a faint pulse, a light whisper. She sucks in a breath and groans.

I cry like a little bitch.

I won't lie. I bawl like a baby and go back for more, squeezing her against me, cursing her name under my breath.

“Would you stop shouting,” she whispers. “I mean, just shut the fuck up. My head hurts. I can't think straight.”

“You stupid, fucking bitch, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was shielding you, you asshole.” Naomi tries to sit up and whimpers, dropping her body back against mine. I hold her tight and wrap my arms around her as I survey the damage. It's like a fucking apocalypse out here. In the distance, I hear sirens, ambulances probably. The tornado warning has stopped, but I doubt out of choice. I bet that fucker got ripped up and torn up, spit out and eaten alive. Whoever it is that's coming, I hope they get here soon because I don't think either of us is able to move. I press a kiss to Naomi's hair. “You're alive,” she says.

“You sound almost disappointed,” I whisper, trying to keep the fuck all, screw it rhetoric. I don't want to know how many of those bodies are never going to get up again. Naomi doesn't respond and we wait while leaves skitter around us. Groans are coming from various places across the lot and voices from beyond the chain-link fence. I don't turn and look at them. I can barely fucking move.

And then I remember. Shit.

Dax.

I twist around and try to look, trying not to let Naomi figure out what I'm doing. I spot his emo ass right away, lying motionless where I last saw him standing. God-fucking-damn it. I turn back around and squeeze Naomi's head against my chest. She doesn't need this right now. I just keep my attention on moving my hand through her hair, nice and gentle and slow.

I notice Eric's blonde head sticking out from under a cluster of cardboard boxes, buried there like a bum in an alleyway. He, unfortunately, isn't as motionless as Dax. I can see his fingers twitching as he groans and crawls forward, straining himself up on his elbows. Behind me, shouts ring out and boots pound the pavement. My neck is fucking killing me, but I stay in that position and watch as some of the police officers and roadies check the bodies.

Naomi starts to fall asleep, but I give her a gentle shake and press another kiss to her head. I think she has a concussion. Ain't no way I'm letting her out of this now. Not after that confession. It was as epic as the fucking storm and ten times as unexpected.

“I love you, too, Naomi Knox,” I tell her. “And it'll be alright. It'll be o-fucking-kay.” I glance back. Hayden is leaning over Dax with tears on her skinny, gaunt face. She checks his pulse and I wait with bated breath.
One, two, three.
She rubs at her nose and sits down, pulling his head into her lap. It only takes a moment for some of her bandmates to catch up to her. From their reactions, I can tell that Dax is alright. They're worried but not devastated. Good sign. I breathe out a sigh of relief. He might be a fucking rival, but I don't want him dead. I don't want anything around that could hurt Naomi.

“He's okay?” she asks, and I pause.

“Yeah,” I say, as I look back and lift my hand to grab Ronnie's attention. He starts towards us in a jog. “Dax is alright.” I smile. “Sneaky bitch. I was tying to protect you from that shit.” Naomi's orange-brown eyes flicker open and she focuses her watery gaze on the crawling form of her foster brother.

“Turner, don't ever try to protect me from feeling something real. Don't try to protect me at all.” She pauses and a tiny smile tweaks her bloody lip. “Unless it's as stupid and egotistical as thinking you can take out a man with a gun without being shot. Kind of like that.”

I smile and then pause. My lips turn into a frown.

“The fuck?” Naomi twists just enough to see, wincing as she spots her foster sister, Katie, standing with her dirty dress and plastic purse. She's at the edge of the parking lot, next to a toppled bus. She doesn't look bothered by the devastation. She doesn't even
see
it. Her purse falls to the ground with a crash that sounds too loud for plastic on cement, like something else is falling, too, like her sanity is smashing down right along with it. And then she starts to run, bare feet whispering across the lot as she skitters, moving in a way I've never seen another human move – with grace and fucking violence intertwined around the bareness of her soul.

“Katie?” Naomi asks, but her sister doesn't look at us. She has black angel wings on her back, guiding her forward, bringing tiny tears from the sky in the form of rain. It splats on our cheeks as we watch. She skids to a stop next to Eric and bends down to pick up a wooden board from his back. At first, I think she's fucking helping the asshole, that this whole plot is even more sick and twisted than it was before, that she has hardcore Stockholm syndrome.

Eric doesn't see her, doesn't even look up.

Katie whispers something that nobody else can hear, that's meant solely for the ears of God. Or the Devil. Yeah, probably for him.

And then she drops the board.

Naomi and I cringe as it hits Eric in the head and drops his chest back to the pavement. He whimpers and tries to stand, but she isn't finished. She hits him again. He collapses a second time with a strangled cry. There's so much going on that nobody but us sees at first. And Katie keeps going. She has a purpose in mind and
nobody
is going to take her from it. The board comes down. Eric grunts. Again. The crack of skull.

“You! What the fuck are you doing?” The gruff voice from behind us doesn't stop Katie. She starts to slam that board down with a renewed vigor, splattering her face with blood, soaking her dress with the spray. “Drop your fucking weapon and put your hands in the air!” Katie swings again and a warning shot is fired into the gray stillness above our heads. She drops the wood by her side and looks down at the bloody pothole of Eric's skull. When she raises her hands above her head and drops to her knees, tears of joy are rolling down her face.

I hold Naomi close to me and try not to think the one thought that we're both feeling.
There goes the problem. That solves it. This is it, right? The rest of the little details, the unanswered questions, can be worked out later. The threat is over, erased with violence and tiny, porcelain hands so used to abuse they can stand innocent no longer.

The cops cuff Katie Rhineback and keep guns trained on her tiny form. A man in an
Ice and Glass
shirt checks his pulse. He shakes his head and purses his lips.

In the midst of the chaos and destruction, somebody spins America's silver wedding band around their finger.

Chapter 1
Ronnie McGuire

What a fucking idiot.

I'm sitting at my kit watching one of my best friends hop around the stage like he's gone completely mental. There's blood leaking from the wound in his thigh, staining the white bandages and drawing little gasps from his throat between verses that the crowd actually seems to
like.
They're diggin' this tortured, wounded bad boy schtick. Me, not so much.

“Dumb ass,” I growl out under my breath, slamming my sticks so hard I'm pretty damn sure one of the fuckers is going to snap right in half. Wouldn't be the first time. Anyway, this shit is getting stale. I'd like to move onto the next town, please and thank you. But no. No. Stupid ass cops think holding us here while they investigate shit is going to help. Why can't they just book Katie Rhineback and be done with it? It isn't like a good two dozen people are eyewitnesses to her brother's murder. Guess the dead cop they found in the woods spooked 'em.

“
Battered and broken, bleeding for you.
”

I follow up Turner's hook with some backup vocals. I hate backup vocals.
Shit.

“
Bleeding for you.
”

My friend tilts his head back, letting his shades slip down his sweaty face. From the shadows, I'm pretty sure I can see a hint of Naomi Knox, arms crossed over her chest, lips twitching somewhere between love and irritation. Yup. That's the honest truth right there. Those two have it, whether they know it or fucking not.
Forgive me, Asuka, but these stupid fuckers make me want to fall in love again.
Doubt I'm going to find someone in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma though.

“
Why can't I forget you? It's not like I want to, but, baby, call me crazy. I cannot move on.
”

Jesus, I hate this friggin' song. The day Turner wrote it, I almost socked him in the face. I know he was trying to help, but to be honest with you, it just kind of makes things worse. Even all these years later. Even after all these fucking years.

I can still see Asuka's smile, still hear her voice, still feel her body brushing against mine, soft and perfect. My love, my one, true love.

I smash my cymbals and kiss the sound with a spin of my sticks. I'm no Gene Krupa, stirring up dixieland or any of that shit, but I'm alright. I hit my solo running with a double bass beat and tune out the audience like I always do. Turner might eat that crap with a spoon, but I'm happy back here, cloaked in shadows, worshipped but forgotten. That works for me. It's been a long, long time since I've had the desire to be the center of attention.

“
Without you by my side, I think I'd have rather gone and died.
” Turner pauses and licks his lip, sliding his eyes to the side of the stage in a move I doubt anyone else would notice. But I know the asshole too well to miss it. He's checking with Naomi. By God, the man is actually considering someone else's feelings. Well, I'll be damned.

And then he grabs both sides of his shirt and tears, splitting the fabric and letting it hang in strips from either shoulder. I roll my eyes and keep playing, pumping my foot pedal, listening to the cry of the guitars cut through my ears and warp my brain. I don't know what Naomi thinks about that, but when I look back towards stage right, she's gone, melted into the dark shadows behind the curtain.

Maybe they'll have another fight tonight? Or maybe not? What does it matter? They're already out the gates, so there's no turning back. I just hope Campbell knows how good he's got it.

The crowd surges forward, frantic and frenzied, a mass of faceless faces, howling grins. I've
never
seen crowds like we've been having lately. With each nightmare, each tragedy, our popularity is growing. At this point, it's almost stifling. I can't help but think how much worse it's going to get, because it is. There is no fucking doubt in my mind about that.

I watch Trey playing angry, swiping his strings like they're to blame for this whole situation. It's nobody's fault, really, but he blames Naomi. It might've been her sister that got us stuck here, but that's just the dandelion swaying up there in the Goddamn breeze. Down below, there's a root. I don't know where it is or how it got planted, but as soon as I do, I'm going to tear that fucker out.

I let the tempo hit my soul and keep my hands in motion as my mind wanders. I don't need it to play, never have. Music isn't about the brain anyhow; it's all about the spirit. I'm pretty damn sure that's why I'm still alive today. Even when I wish I'd died with Asuka, I can play. As long as I can keep a beat going, I'm going to stay on this earth. It's not an easy thing to commit to, but I made that decision long ago, and I intend to keep it.

“
Keep my sanity, leave my pain, without you here, I'm losing it. I'm pretty sure I've fucking gone insane!
” Turner growls this last bit out, lifting his mic away from his lips as he bites off the last word in a scream. Next thing I know, it goes flying and he's storming off the stage while people scream and clamber over one another, barely held in check by the last vestiges of humanity that cling to their tired, dripping forms.

I finish the song with the rest of the band and then twirl my sticks a few times before chucking them out into the crowd after Trey's guitar pick. Let the vultures pick the meat off those bones before they go for ours. I duck out from behind my kit and slide into the relative safety of backstage, taking some small amount of comfort from the cops and the bodyguards that line nearly all the walls. There's a lot at stake here, for us, for them. That creep, whatever the fuck his name was, might be dead, but he wasn't solely responsible for Naomi's kidnapping. It could happen to any of us, at any time. Or worse.