Hard Rock Roots Box Set (89 page)

I switch my focus to the emo bitch in the back, hair falling over his face, skin still ashen but better than it was yesterday, much better. His eyes are tired, but they're locked onto Naomi, zoned in. His fingers are clutched around a pair of drumsticks like he can just imagine that he's touching her body, squeezing tight, getting ready to fill her up. A growl escapes my lips unintended. Can't believe I'm still sitting up here gettin' pissy with Dax. He doesn't mean shit. This thing between me and Naomi, it's all about us. He doesn't factor in. I've got to prove myself to her.

While America yells at her bandmates, Naomi lets her eyes swing up to mine, catching me by surprise. The whole time I've been standing here, she hasn't looked at me once. This time, she does, and she even gives me a small smile and a shrug before sliding her hand along the fretboard of her guitar. Better than fucking Viagra (not that I'd know), but I get it up in less time than it takes her to tilt that bad boy up and flick a lick across the head. Pretty damn sure I just wet my fucking pants.

I check behind me to make sure nobody's come through the upstairs hall while I've been watching the practice session and then turn around to check the group below. Only Dax is looking at me, and I could give a shit less what he does. I sneak a hand down to the throbbing pulse in my pants. There's one instant there where my mind freezes up and tries to cool my heated body, reminding me in a sickening whisper that Trey is still injured, that he could still die. But I push that back and focus on the Goddess of Guitar that's standing below, flirting with me in a baffling display of vulgarity.

I am definitely in love with this chick.

I don't think about the weirdness between us last night or the cold shoulder from earlier. Not important. Doesn't matter to me. Only this, this matters. I stand up, so Naomi can see the full image of my fucking glory, that painful press of flesh squeezed up in jeans that are almost too tight. The denim is practically fucking my dick, clenching it tight against my flesh and holding on like the pussy I wish I was having.

My hand falls down to the waistband of my jeans, flicks open the button and dives inside. I look back at Dax and smirk. With a roll of his eyes, he turns away and focuses back on Naomi.

“That new song we were working on before we left for Seattle, let's try that one,” Hayden suggests, and Naomi stops to tear her gaze from mine, letting her dirty fingers do the talking as she grinds her new Wolfgang against her crotch and fucks my brain so hard I come all over my own thoughts.

“Excellent idea, Hayden,” America says, uncrossing her legs and standing up, smoothing her beige suit jacket out with her good hand. “Let's start by having Naomi sing it, just to give us some direction.” She smiles nice and tight, case closed and moves away, gesturing with her hand for Hayden to back off. Wish I could describe the look of horror on Skinny Bitch's face, but I'm not paying attention to her. My focus is all for Naomi.

The sensation of my hand across my flesh is surreal, like it's not me but Naomi who's stroking me proper, nice and tender but still firm. Oh so fucking firm. I scrape my teeth over my tongue ring, tasting hot red copper in my throat.

“Sounds good to me,” my goddess says, moving up next to Hayden. The two of them lock gazes for a moment before Naomi takes control, slipping her eyes across me, making me growl again as I caress myself, making my dick as much a prisoner to this woman as my fucking heart is. “You mind?” she asks, and Hayden spins away with a mumbled curse, stomping up the few stairs to the raised area of the room where Spencer and America are waiting, poised against the countertops of the second kitchen.

Naomi licks her lips, grips her baby hard and closes her eyes.

I watch the play of emotions on her face, the flow of her hand as she strikes up the tune and pulls the band along with her like it's second nature, like anyone can do what she does. Almost nobody can.

“
I can't believe I was ever that stupid,
” she starts, and somehow, I know this song is going to hurt so good. I close my eyes for a moment, but I can't keep them closed. I have to look at Naomi, watch the fall of pale sunlight across her perfect face with her slightly crooked nose, full lips, orange-brown eyes. Her blonde hair is like spun friggin' sunshine, and the way her body moves behind that instrument is mesmerizing. “
And I can't believe I was ever that young. That my heart beat that fast. That my voice sung that bright. I can't believe I ever fell in love with you.
”

Naomi's voice carries the words in a way Hayden's never could, drawing on all of that emotion that's stuffed deep down, that's roiling around inside of her, pushing her blood through her veins, pulsing inside of her beating heart. I watch as it flows out of her hands as she fucks the guitar, fingering her pick like it's a sex toy. I match the rhythm of my hand with her instrument, drowning out the beat of Dax's drums and the sinful song of Blair's keyboard, so that there's nothing in that room but me and her. Just me and fucking Naomi Knox.

“
Most of all, I can't believe that I wanted to believe. I wanted to believe you'd be there even though I knew you wouldn't, even though you'd already said goodbye. I can't believe it. Can't believe how silly I've been, how much I've lied to myself.
” Naomi takes a massive breath, sighing across the mic. The speakers sing with the sound, smiling to the heavens, angels dropping dead with the beautiful poison of her voice. And all the while, I'm stroking my shaft, pulling heated gasps from my own throat, up on display on that balcony for anyone to see. Only nobody will. Nobody that walks in that room will be able to look at anything but Naomi. “
And I can't believe that I still believe.
”

“
Still believe,
” Blair's voice, gentle where Naomi's is a little rough and raw, soothing over some of that pain with a milder inflection. “
Still fucking believe.
” Dax is in there, too, mixing some masculine with that powerful thrust of feminine fuck all.
Think I might be becoming a big ass Amatory Riot fanboy.
I pump my cock vigorously, trying to match the rise and fall of the music, climbing towards a dual climax that I know is only going to leave me sore and wanting for her. For that sizzle she brings to my bones, for the crushing feeling of
other,
that frequent reminder that there's something besides the self out there, a wild rush of beauty and feral ferocity that I can't wrap my fingers around no matter how hard I try.

“
And I do. I still believe. I can't believe it, but it's true. This belief will be the death of me, but it's the only thing that ties me to you. And I believe that you'll return, that my heart won't always remain in two.
”

Naomi swipes at her guitar like she's finishing it off, choking the last of the life out of it at the same time she's milking the sweet passion of the music with the flick of a pick and a growl forced between sweet lips. I let my head fall back as the speakers reverberate with the last of her words, spilling myself into my own hand, wishing with every fucking pulse of my wired cock that it was her body beneath me.

“
And I still, still believe in you. And I can't believe anything will ever change that. And if I believe, and you believe, and we believe, there might be hope for us just yet.
”

Chapter 5
Naomi Knox

Huh.

Turner Campbell thinks he can just crank the love pump and what, I'll swoon into his arms?

“You sounded good today, too good,” he says in my ear when I come out of the room, my skin on fire and my body tingling with the dual fucks of music and desire. I'm horny as shit and there's only one person here that I know could really do something about that. But after last night … I'm not sure if I can hop into bed with him just now. I can't have him looking too deep into me or he'll see how scrambled up I am inside, how conflicted. I deal with my own shit, that's how things work. Besides, I can see that he's not alright, not really. If I've learned anything about this man, it's that he's good at putting up a front, but he's not at his best. Can't say I blame him, but I think … he needs me. It's been a long while since anyone's needed me. For whatever reason, this brings my mind full circle back around to Katie. She needed me all those years ago, and I stepped in for her. Look what good that did all of us. Fuck, she might still need me, but I'm not sure how to help her. She killed her brother in front of a butt ton of people. Gonna be hard to get off on that. “I blew a fat fucking load thinking of you, sexy.”

I roll my eyes.

“Turner, please,” I say, heading straight for the front door and into the cold air. It stings my sweaty skin like a swarm of bees, pushing sensation into every square inch of exposed flesh. I shiver. “Do you realize how unattractive that sounds?” I look down at his hand, at the stars and paw print tattoos, the color bled across pale flesh, the art. And suddenly, inexplicably, I just want to curl my fingers around his.
Trey, Trey, Trey. Think of Trey and how bad he's hurting.
Call it an excuse or whatever, but I can't stop myself. I reach down and take Turner Campbell's hand in mine.

A pregnant pause follows, one full of past mistakes and future promises, wishes and dreams and music and sex and all sorts of other things I can't even begin to puzzle out.

I swallow,
hard.

Hand holding. Much more innocuous than sex, right? Yeah. Not by a fucking long shot.

The veins in my hands heat like water over fire, warming to a critical boiling point and pumping that heated blood through my body, setting my heart aflame and drenching my pussy in hot hot liquid that scalds my freaking thighs and … brings a toasted pink to my cheeks. The ones on my fucking face, not down below, though I don't doubt that those are red as fuck, too.

Am I blushing?

Am I really standing here gaping at Turner Motherfucking Campbell and
blushing
?

I throw his hand off and clutch mine to my chest, clomping down the steps in my boots and hitting the pavement on the driveway with a crunch of dirt and gravel. I'm torn between wanting to protect myself, my heart, and wanting to help Turner through this shit.

“Come on,” I mumble at him, but he's already following after, a bobbing source of heat at my back. Trailing about ten steps behind us is one of the bald bodyguards in the black
Security
shirts. No fucking rest for the wicked, I guess.

“What the fuck was that about?” I ignore him, moving forward, walking through the naked forest and listening to the sounds of sleeping foliage and tense anticipation. Spring's supposed to be starting, but I don't see signs for fuck. All I see are barren branches and gray sky. Depressing.

“What was what about, Turner?” I ask, using the image of Hayden's angry face to cheer myself up. When America asked me to sing, she basically put a gun to our lead singer's head and pulled the trigger. That bitch was so pissed, I could see brains on the wall.

I smile.

“Don't bullshit me. If there's anything in life that makes me sick to my stomach, it's a lie. Don't fucking lie to me.”

“Did I lie?” I ask him, savoring the memory of my fists against Hayden's face. “I just asked you a question. What was what about?”

Turner rolls his eyes, keeping pace with me, dark hair hanging over his brow, falling just barely into his brown eyes. His lips are perfect bow ties, devilish when he scowls, angelic when parted. Right now, he's somewhere in between, working his jaw to keep the anger back. He doesn't want to piss me off. Good for him. He's finally figuring out how this shit works. I draw my gaze away from his face and keep my eyes searching for some kind of trail, something for us to follow other than the road.

“That … the hand thing, and the … ” Turner gestures up towards his face and then down at his crotch. Eloquent. So fucking eloquent. “Playing with your guitar when you knew I was watching. And last night, I still don't understand what I did to piss you off.” I can't answer any of his questions because I don't even have the answers to them. Hot and cold. That's me. This whole fucking thing isn't easy. And to tell you the truth, the whole murder mystery crap is the
easiest
part. Falling in love sucks. It's like being dragged into a black hole. Once you get caught in the orbit, that's it. There's no getting out. The gravity of the emotion crushes you down until you're nothing but that, just this bit of life floating around desperate for the touch of that other person, the feel of their hand, the kiss of their lips. Needless to say, this has never happened to me before. It's weird because my life right now is at its best and its worst, all at once.

“Don't push me right now, okay?” Silence. I look over at Turner who's not speaking, even though his whole face is squinched up tight, and he looks pissed as hell. I turn back forward and keep walking, spying a trail to our left. “I just want to walk. And you, you need to walk, too. So just keep moving.”

“I love that song.”

“Sure you do.”

“Fuck, Naomi. Can't I freaking compliment you without getting my nuts torn off? I love your music, all of it. Even if it's about me.” I don't answer him and dig around in my pockets for a cigarette. A lot of it is about him, that's true. But not all of it. I wonder if I should tell him what's what? The flame on my lighter burns bright, heating up my hand as I cup my fingers around it and ignite the end of my smoke. “When we finally get Hayden's ass kicked to the curb and you take over full time, there's not going to be any stopping Amatory Riot. You guys are good now. Without that anorexic snot bag, you'll be great.” Turner holds up a cigarette and I pass him my light.

“Question is, how do we get rid of her? How do we stop any of this? America might know more, might know a lot even, but that doesn't fix the problem.” I pause, glancing over my shoulder at the bodyguard. If he's not listening in on us, I'd be surprised. We keep it vague. “I've been thinking,” I start and nearly leap out of my skin when Turner grabs my hand again, clasping my wrist hard, holding me with unfamiliar fingers. I can't fight the surge in my gut that tells me they should be familiar, that I should know every whorl on his fingertips, the shape of his nails, the wrinkles in his knuckles, the map of colorful tattoos. It's like every bad romance novel I've ever read. I could probably count 'em all on one hand, but the plot's always the same, always like this. This overwhelming
something
that bites you in the ass and takes a fat chunk out of your cheeks. I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them slowly.