Hard Rock Roots Box Set (54 page)

I crack my knuckles and roll my head around on my sore neck. I have not been sleeping well. I miss my damn bus. Stupid mother fucking tornado. I hate the Midwest. Scary ass fucking shit out here. I mean, the people are alright, but I don't think I could ever get used to a giant funnel appearing out of the Goddamn sky and fucking us royally, flipping buses and shit.

“The van's out front, ready and waiting. If we could get out there
before
the horde grows any larger, I'd much appreciate it.” Milo's talking, but nobody's listening to him.

“What's the problem? You liked it, didn't you?”

“For fuck's sake, Turner. You're such an asshole.” Naomi Knox slides a cigarette between her lips and looks up at the ceiling like she's praying to a God I know for damn sure does not exist. If he did, Asuka would be here right now, smiling at the play by play between them. It's a little ridiculous, I'll be the first to admit. But it's cute. Sort of.

I get out a cig of my own and light up, snapping the Mrs. Ronnie McGuire bracelet against my wrist to hold back a surge of craving for something stronger. Nicotine's going to have to do for the moment. The cops here aren't playing games. They've already arrested a half dozen of our roadies on possession charges.

I lean against the wall and wonder if they'll ever figure out that it
wasn't
Katie Rhineback who stabbed that cop. She's confessing to it, sure, but they know as well as we do that she is bat shit friggin' crazy. But if they ever do find out it was Naomi, that girl is going to fry.

“We have to get going, man. Deal with this shit later.” Trey is pacing the door, anxious to get back to the hotel and drink himself into a stupor. I keep wondering if I should drag him into the fold. He's headstrong and stupid as shit, but he loves Turner like a brother. If he knew what was going on, he might be able to help.

“Listen to your little friend, Turner, and fuck off.” Naomi flicks cigarette ashes at Turner's chest and then slaps him when he grabs at her wrist.

With a sigh, I push off the wall and move around them to the doors. Based on their body language, I'm guessing this little tête-à-tête is going to go on for a while. I pat Turner on the back as I pass, and then pull my cig out of my mouth to catch my breath. The air back here is stale and hot and dusty, almost stifling.

“You got a light?” a voice asks from the shadows to my left. The accent sounds familiar, but when I turn to look, I know sure as shit that the face is not. I'd remember a face like that.

The girl in question raises both her brows at me and holds out a cigarette. It hangs limply between us.

“Have we met before?” I ask, because unless she's a rogue fan who's managed to escape the horde of bodyguards Milo's hired, then I am plum dumb fuck out of luck when it comes to placing her. And I know everybody, and I mean
everybody
on this damn tour. I've slept with half of them, and fought with the rest. I chit chat with the best, and I know who's who – from the lowliest roadie to the most infamous tattooed self-proclaimed badass. I slip my lighter out of my jeans and fire her up.

The girl snorts and raises her bug-eyed sunglasses up with her other hand, teasing me with a hint of bright blue eyes and a little crinkle between her eyebrows.

“I sure as shit hope so, Mr. McGuire,” she says and drops her shades. “I gave you a blow job in a utility closet once upon a time.” She kisses the words out, letting them slip and slide over her lips, so that I can feel each and every one of them caressing over my cock. My body responds, much to the mystery girl's amusement. She laughs at the erection I don't bother to hide and takes a drag from her cigarette. “I was told that if I wanted information, I ought to come to you.” She smiles at me and blows a fresh cloud of smoke into the hazy air.

The crowd is tearing up the venue on the other side of the cement wall behind me. It sounds like they're getting ready to start a riot or something, shouting Turner's name, Naomi's, screaming for that backstabbing bitch, Hayden. When I was growing up, I always wanted to be a rockstar. One, because I liked music, and two, because I was lazy as hell and thought it would be an easy job. Could not have been any more wrong about that. If I knew back then that I'd make it this far, I'd have probably gone for a nine to five, and not because I'd like it, but because it would take less gusto, less courage. Those two things have been in short supply for me for a long, long while. It's only recently that I've been able to grab onto them again, and already, they're being drained from me like pus from a septic fucking wound.

The shouting of the audience is giving me a headache, and the lack of drugs in my system is actually making the words
less
clear. Detox is a bitch. I rub at my temple with my fingers and blink at the girl, hoping to hell she'll give me her damn name before these people surge up and rip us all to pieces, eat our flesh and sacrifice us on some homemade alters in their parents' basement.

“Yeah,” I tell her, sniffling and running my hand across my face. “I'm pretty much the gossip guru of the camp. What's up?” I look the girl up and down, examining her small round face, her sylphlike body and her plump lips. I'd like to get more than a blow job from her, preferably in a state of mind where I can remember it.
How do I not know this chick?
I wonder, tilting my head to the side.

Her hip is cocked out and her mouth is twisted in a wicked smile. She might be a foot or more shorter than I am, but she looks miles tall. She's got a confident air around her that commands attention, especially from somebody as lazy as me.

I smoke my cigarette and wait for her to respond.

“Come on, ya wanker, you seriously have no clue who I am?” She drops her cigarette to the cement floor and crushes it out with her purple velvet heels. Fancy. I lean forward and put my hand on the wall next to her head.

“No, but I'd like to find out.” I run my hand up her side. I mean, call me crazy, but she approached me. Anybody who uses the word blow job in their opening line is probably interested, right? I'm no Turner Campbell, but I like to make my rounds. If she's interested, I'm willing.

“Oi,” the girl snaps, stepping under my arm and spinning back around to look at me with pursed lips. “If you can't remember my name, there's no way in fuck I'm screwing you, so piss off. All I wanted was an answer to my question. If you can't give me that, we're done here.”

I sigh and turn, slumping back against the wall and sliding to the floor with my knees to my chest.

“Hah! You want your dick sucked? Ask one of your fucking whore roadies. This shop is closed,
sweetheart.
” The girl and I both flick our eyes over to Turner and Naomi. She throws a bottle of water on his chest and soaks him before tossing the plastic to the floor and storming past me, breezing between me and the girl like we're not even there. We don't exist to her in that moment, nobody does. Only Turner Campbell. I know because I've been in love before. It's a selfish fucking emotion. You never read about that in romance novels, but it's the truest truth there is. Love is selfish. Period. End of sentence.

Naomi opens the door like she's going to head out and pauses when a surge of raging fanatics press inward, forcing her back. She slams the door and then hits it hard with both palms, growling out a slur of curse words before spinning away and disappearing into the bathroom.

Turner isn't far behind.

“Watch your ass,” I warn him, and he flips me off before heading in after her.

“She better watch
hers
,” he mumbles, and I roll my eyes.

“Fun couple, ain't they?” the girl asks me, drawing my attention back to her killer body and her tight jeans. They're covered in Sharpie graffiti that I don't even try to make out. I'm too tired, too fucked in the head right now to read tiny, scribbled words on some chick's pants.

“If you want information, it's going to cost you.” I take another drag on my cig and flick it away carelessly. I don't care who picks it up, and not because I'm like Turner and just expect someone to do it. I just really don't give a fuck. I think I'd be a hoarder in another life or something. Getting up and cleaning, taking care of shit, not something I'm capable of. I feel like I'm floating through life in a daze, hitching a ride on a cloud of smoke and sex and music. Recently, I've felt like the clouds might just be lifting for me, but who knows? Could be a false alarm. I should stop living vicariously through Turner.

“You're going to charge me sex for information? Sounds a bit steep to me.” I look up at the girl's massive sunglasses. They cover half her fucking face.
Asuka never wore sunglasses.
I shake my head to clear it. I promised myself that I was going to try to stay away from these kinds of thoughts. They don't help. All they do is remind me what I've lost and how good I had it. Remembering Asuka is one thing, but obsessing over her has got to stop. If it doesn't, I'll never make it to my thirtieth birthday.

Leave off the shades, Ronnie. I like your face better when I can see it.

I purse my lips and sigh.

“Just your name, doll,” I whisper, and I have no idea how she hears me over the din in the next room. Maybe that should've been my first sign?
I can hear you from a thousand miles away, and I'll come from a million. I can taste the beat of your heart on my tongue, and smell the flavor of your passion. In the darkness, you're my light, and you'll burn away the pain.

“Lola,” she says and her Australian accent cuts through the fog in my brain and makes me smile. “Lola Saints.”

Chapter 2
Lola Saints

I didn't sign up for this.

My heels clack loudly across the pavement as I walk alone towards the doors to the hotel. I'm the only member from Ice and Glass that was on the bus, so I'm feeling a little left out. Bands are a little like high school cliques, you know? Ronnie tried to sit next to me, talk to me, but I couldn't even look at his face.

I can't do this.

I clamp my hand across my stomach and smoke a cigarette with my other hand. I feel like I'm up the stick, nine months along and ready to pop. God, I wish all I was getting ready for was birthing a damn baby. That'd be half as hard as this.
He's such a nice guy.
I wonder briefly why I couldn't have got Turner as my target. The man is such a bloody fucking wanker. I'd have no problem cutting his balls off and feeding them to him, but Ronnie McGuire … He's not like that. He's sad. Just really, really sad.

“Shit,” I whisper as I push through the glass doors and step into the muffled silence of the lobby. Oklahoma City is a long way from home, but right now, it's where we're staying. The tour is stopped until the cops or the FBI or whoever decide what to do with us. It wasn't what the big fuck upstairs wanted, but it's what he got. I don't let myself think that he deserves it.
He gave you everything, took you from a fucking cane cocky's daughter to something bigger, better. And you can have the world, too, the whole world. All you have to do is this. All you have to take care of is him.

One of the hotel employees starts to say something about my cigarette but pauses when I give him my best bitch glare. It penetrates through my sunglasses and stings that pale freckled fucker right in the ass. Doesn't hurt that I can pinch my lips like a sour lemon either.

I hit the stairs and forgo the elevator, just so I can stay away from Indecency and Amatory Riot. As far as I'm concerned, they're both dead and buried. Or they will be, if we all do what we're told.

“Fuck me swingin',” I groan as I run my hand through my hair and move up the stairs like an old lady. My joints hurt and my face is killing me from that fake smile I plastered on earlier. Poor Ronnie. He thinks the only things I care about are the nightly whereabouts of my stupid ex. Friggin' germ leech can go fuck himself for all I care, but I had to ask. Because I was told to.

I swallow hard and hit the wall with my back, mimicking Ronnie's slide to the floor as I collapse and take a deep breath. Looked like the whole damn world was on his shoulders when he fell. Me, I have a much shallower excuse. I just don't like being told what to do. And frankly, that's
all
I've been doing lately.

I put my cigarette out on the ugly carpeting. Doesn't really matter anyway. Nobody's going to notice the little burn mark hiding between the brown, red and yellow swirls on the floor. I bet most people keep their chins up here just to avoid looking at the hideous shit.

“Didn't sign up for ugly carpets,” I mumble. “Or tornadoes.” My nails scrape across the carpet. My mom always said that I was prone to fits, that I was too emotional. Last thing I ever said to the stupid scrag was that she could go fuck herself. I'm up and down and screwier than a Slinky, but that's just the way it is.

A door opens on the landing next to me and in steps the pathetic scum dog himself, Mr. Cohen “My Dick's the Biggest and my Balls Hang the Lowest” Rose.

“Get off the fucking stairs and get your ass in here.”

I smile and reach into my jacket pocket for the miniature vodka bottle I stuck there.

“Go screw yourself, Cohen,” I tell him as I take the top off and toss it over the railing. There's a brief moment of silence before I hear the clink of it hitting the floor. “I'm working right now.”

“Bullshit,” he growls, stalking down the stairs and grabbing me by my upper arm. The vodka slips from my fingers and spins twice before hitting the floor and exploding all over my shoes. “You're not doing
crap
right now, you Goddamn lazy fuck. You should be in there riding Ronnie's cock until it falls off. Instead you're sitting here getting drunk like the piece of shit you are.”

I spit in his face and he releases me, leaving me struggling for balance on the narrow stair. I don't even get the opportunity to knock him out because I lose the battle and fall, spinning down the stairs like the vodka bottle and slamming into the wall on the next landing.

My side screams in pain and leaves me clutching my belly while Cohen drops down the steps towards me, the chains on his boots clinking. I hate being this helpless in front of him. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Why the fuck would God think it was okay to give a guy like Cohen a massive muscular frame and six and a half feet of rock hard muscle while I'm left fun sized and barely scraping five five?