Hard Rock Roots Box Set (70 page)

“I have no fucking clue,” I tell her, my eyes following the smoke that's trailing from the end of her cigarette, curling up into the dark sky like a smoke signal. “This is my last chance to get things right,” I say, and she jumps like she's startled, turning her eyes to mine. It's too dark for me to see clearly, but I think I see a flicker of fear there. Something's up with Lola. That much is obvious. But what is it? I haven't done much gossiping in the last few days, but maybe it's time to get back in there. Getting info while trying to go straight-edge is not going to be easy, but I have to try. Besides, Turner's still counting on me to keep Naomi safe.

I hear a woman's voice from the other side of Ice and Glass' van, and see a bobbing brown head moving towards the hotel. There are only two women in that band: Lola and Honesty, the hippie chick with green hair and lizard tats. That ain't her. I shift my body, so that my face is hidden behind Lydia's head and watch out of the corner of my eye. I don't want Lola to know I'm looking.

“Why's it your last chance?” she asks, voice cryptic as a fuckin' Rubik's cube. I have never been any good at that shit. Lucky for me, I've got other skills. As the brunette moves further away, skirting around behind the hedges on the other side of the lot, I get a glimpse of a willowy body that's half legs and cocky as Turner on a bad day.

Hayden Lee.

She isn't try very hard to be discreet, but at the same time, I keep catching her glancing over her shoulder, scouting the parking lot. Of course, nobody else sees.

“Hell no, fuck that!” Turner screams, pointing at a wheelchair that's waiting for him on the other side of the van. I peep through the open doors and give him a look. He sees me staring and raises his hands in the air like
what the shit, dude?
“I will use a wheelchair if and when the following conditions are met. One, I ain't got no fucking legs. Two, I'm paralyzed from the waist down. Three, I'm ninety-six years old. None of those apply to the current situation. You try to put me in that thing, and I will put you down.”

“Stop being a diva,” I tell him with a crooked smile. “Have a fuckin' Snickers.”

“Screw you, Ronnie,” Turner says, turning around and limping off across the parking lot, cigarette hanging loose out of his mouth. The glowing cherry marks his progress through the dark as he books it for the doors, medic dude following close behind. Milo ignores the situation with a roll of his eyes and helps Jesse to his feet.

“Too much methamphetamine tonight, Mr. Decker?” he asks as Jesse scrambles to his feet and wipes a hand across his mouth. He smiles at me, and I raise an eyebrow.

“Nah, just a little too much fun, eh, Terrabotti?” Jesse smacks Milo on the arm, and he sighs. “You want me to take the kid?” He asks me quietly, nodding his chin at Lola. I give him a look.

“You have puke on your mouth,
Mr. Decker.
Go sleep it off.”

Jesse grins and moves away, following after Treyjan while Milo waits with one of the bodyguards and starts locking up the van. I don't see any of the others – the vans with the other staff members or the ones with all our equipment. I figure Milo must've sent them elsewhere, to minimize attention or some shit. He's good at that stuff.

I turn back to Lola and step close, so close that I can feel the heat of her body prickling against me like static.

“This is my last chance because life is unpredictable, because it sucks, because horrible shit can happen at any moment. I have to treat
every
chance like it's my last one because you never know when it might be.” I lean over and kiss her mouth, no tongue, just lips against lips, a press of heat and a surprising flare of emotion that makes her take a step back. I open my eyes and watch her face. Her cheeks blanch and her eyes dart from side to side nervously.

“Ronnie,” she begins, but Milo interrupts us.

“Are you coming in?” he asks which really means I better damn well get my ass in there. Turner likes to fight our manager, but I never really had the energy to bother. I want to go out with Lola and Lydia, buy a fuckin' ice cream or some shit. Act like a normal person. But Lola's already backing away, smiling softly at me.

“We should go,” she says, keeping her gaze focused on mine. “I have to meet with my manager anyway.” With a shrug of her shoulders, Lola spins on her heel and moves away, disappearing like a dream into the bright lights of the hotel. I want to follow after her, grab her hand and pull her to me, kiss her mouth again and tell her that whatever it is, it's going to be alright. I've never believed that before, but I'm starting to. I'm starting to because while it isn't okay that Asuka died, it's starting to feel alright, like maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started loving these kids, started appreciating my friends. Started to heal my heart.

I sigh, deep and heavy, expelling my emotions into the cool air.

“I gotta make a phone call first, okay?” I tell Milo. “Just gimme like, five minutes of privacy.” I stare at him, but his pale blue eyes tell me I've played this game before. I've made
lots
of 'phone calls' that resulted in drug deals gone wrong, in me lying passed out on the street, in a whole horse trailer full of smelly ass shit. I slip my phone from my pants and hold it up to him, keeping my other arm tight around my sleeping daughter. “Five minutes.” With a sigh, Milo waves me off to face my fate.

I move over to a curb and sit down, stretching my legs out in front of me. It's fucking stupid as fuck, but I wish Lola was here, sitting next to me, calling me a dumb shit pussy for being afraid of my parents. If I close my eyes, I can still feel her body clenching mine, hear her cries echoing around the parking garage. Considering I'm holding my kid, I better keep 'em open then.

I scan through the contacts until I find the number and then sit there staring at it for so long that Milo clears his throat, the sound echoing across the pavement. I look up at him, at the bodyguard in the black shirt next to him, hands crossed in front of his body, fingers gripping his wrist. How did we even get here? Is it sad that I don't know? I've spent so much time fucked out of my head that I can't even remember when we stopped being wannabe teenage punks and turned into full-blown rockers with our own staff of who the fuck knows how many. I have no clue how much money is in my own bank account, what rank on the Billboard charts we are, how many Facebook followers we have. I feel like half a person, stuck in the mindset of an eighteen year old boy whose dreams got shattered the same day he decided he was going to make something of himself. Now that I'm awake, I can feel that flicker of excitement deep down, that urge to be the best I can be, to prove to the world that I'm not just a run of the mill loser from SoCal.

I hit dial and close my eyes tight, waiting for the ringtone to stop, for a familiar voice from forever ago to slip into my head.

“Hello?”

It's my mother. Suddenly my throat gets tight, and I can't find breath to pull into my lungs. I'm a grown ass man, but I can't stop the shaking in my hands and arms. I open my mouth but no words come out.

“Hello?” My mother sighs like she's tired, and I realize with a start that it's fucking three o'clock in the morning here. That makes it one her time.
Shit.
First mistake. I should've waited until morning.

“Mom, it's Ronnie.”

Silence. It's been years. How many, I'm not sure. To their credit, my parents tried to keep in touch with me. They tried to guide me through Asuka's death and get me out the other side in one piece. It was my fuck up, not theirs. I think back to the last thing I can remember my father saying to me.
If you want to lay down and die, Ronnie, then that's your choice. But I won't help you dig that hole.

“Why are you calling in the middle of the night?” she asks, and I think I hear tears in her voice. “Four years without a
single
phone call from you. The only reason I know you're even alive is because your manager calls us on Christmas.” She sniffles, and I have to fight back the tears. This is hard enough. The last thing I need is one of my bandmates coming out here and seeing me cry like an ugly bitch. Maybe later, I'll take some time for myself in the bathroom. Right now, I keep my face stoic and my voice calm. I don't want to startle Lydia either.

“Mom … how are you?” I can't dive into this subject. It's too much. Too, too much. What I'm going to be asking of them is
huge.
I can't raise my daughter until I figure out if we're still in danger, until I find out why Naomi was kidnapped, who the masked pieces of shit that stormed the bus were, why Hayden Lee walks around here with a wicked smile on her face. There are still too many unanswered questions. If I jump ship and bail now, I'll be an even worse man than the drug addict I was just a few weeks ago. Lydia doesn't need half a father; she deserves a whole one.

“Ronnie, what is this about?” I sniffle and take a deep breath.

“Dad okay?”

“You're father's fine,” she says, lowering her voice. “He's asleep now. We both were. Now can you please tell me what this is all about? I won't lie to you, son. I'm upset and angry with you. Of course I'm glad you called, but I can't pretend there's nothing wrong. We have a lot to talk about.” She pauses and I can hear her rustling around, probably playing with the pearls around her neck. My mom's a little old fashioned, wears her pearls rain or shine, day or night. She's a real high class fuckin' lady, and I say that with all due seriousness.

“Mom, I need your help,” I tell her, looking up at the sky, praying for a miracle. What if Lola's right and she does say no? Then what? I can't even think about it. Lydia needs to be safe. I wait, but she doesn't respond, waiting patiently on the other end of the line. “Lydia,” I begin because I'm sure my mom knows I have children. She admitted to me once that she searched for me online a lot. At first, to see if I'd end up in a morgue somewhere so she could claim my body. Later, because she followed tabloid articles and gossip columns.

“She's okay?” my mother asks, her voice high and frantic. “God, please tell me she's alright.”

“She's safe, Mom. Sleeping in my arms at the moment.” I smile, and it doesn't feel forced. Even the withdrawals haven't been so bad. Do I feel like a million bucks? No. But I'm not lying on a dirty couch screaming and trying to claw my eyes out. Things have been worse. “Have you been watching the news lately?”

“Your father and I just got back from our anniversary trip,” she says, voice low. I'm really freaking her out right now. I assumed she'd have heard something, but now that I know where she's been, I doubt it. “We were in Africa for a week, Ronnie. What is it?” My mom and dad don't believe in cell phones or laptops on their trips.
It's about life, not technology, Ronnie.
Told ya, old fashioned. Guess Indecency's not quite an international sensation yet.
But we could be. We
will
be.

“Lydia's mother, Chelsea Stark … ” I begin, wondering how much she knows exactly about my life and my kids.

“What about her?” my mother asks, sounding panicked. “I hope you're deciding to finally act like a man and take responsibility. I hope this isn't something horrible, Ronald.” I cringe at the sound of my full name.
Ugh.
I guess I don't really have room to complain. I'm not the one with any moral high ground here. “You know, we reached out to that girl after we found out she was having your baby. Every summer since she was born, Lydia's been coming here to stay so her mother could focus on taking classes at the community college.”

I feel my whole face fall, dropping straight into the cavernous fucking pit that's my stomach. Fuck. Fuck. And fuck. Why couldn't Chelsea be a deadbeat bitch like Turner's mom? I imagine her sitting at a table in some library somewhere studying, thinking about her daughter and how much she misses her. I get the urge to throw up but push it back. What's done is done. Chelsea is gone. I can't bring her back. But I can save the others. If they're really in danger and I'm right about all this, I have to stop it before it goes too far.

“Chelsea's dead, Mom.”

Silence.

“She was murdered in her apartment, and then her body was found … ” There really is no delicate way to put this. “In my manager's hotel room. With Lydia.”

“Oh God!” A wail and a stifled sob.

“Mom, Lydia's alright.”
Physically anyway,
I think, but I don't say that aloud. How can I tell my mother her granddaughter was found covered in her mother's blood? The granddaughter I didn't know she knew, that she's spent more time with than I have. “But I can't have her stay here with me.” A gentle sobbing breaks through the line, taking hold of my soul in a crushing grip. Chelsea was obviously well loved by my mother, and I treated her like a throwaway. I don't even remember the night – or day – that Lydia was conceived. Just one fuck in a string of screws, just another face, another body. “I don't want to freak you out, but there's something going on here. The cops … the
FBI
… whoever are looking into it. But it's all one big clusterfuck. Something's not right, and I won't feel okay if I keep Lydia here.”

“Come home.” My mom's words, just a slight whisper, so low I can barely hear them over my daughter's breathing. “Bring her and come home, Ronnie. It's not too late to build a relationship, not with her or me or your father.”

“Mom, I love you,” I tell her, and my chest gets tight again. There's that heart attack feeling, sleeping beneath my ribcage, ready to kill me, punish me for the shit life I've led. Maybe it's because I haven't used my heart at all in the past few years? Could just be too much for the poor fucker. “And dad, tell him I love him, too. But I can't come back. I'm a target in all this. I don't have many details to give you, but I can ask this. Take Lydia for me? Not forever, just for now. Just until I figure this out.”

“Ronnie, I try to pretend it doesn't bother me, but I cry everyday. I don't want to lose you. This is a chance for a fresh start.” She sniffles, and I can see her in my head, running her hand through her blonde hair, looking up at the ceiling for answers from God. “Oh, Chelsea. Poor Chelsea.” I understand that my mom's probably in shock. I don't blame her. It's not everyday you get a call like this.