Hard Rock Roots Box Set (95 page)

“Separate vans?” Ronnie asks when he comes up behind his friend. Turner and I are still staring at each other. He, I think, is just looking at me for the sake of staring. It's unnerving. Me, I'm trying to fucking figure this out. It might seem simple from the outside, but most things are, right? It's the conflicted love/hate inside of me that's making this difficult. That and the fear. If I give myself to Turner, I'm taking a huge risk, a gamble. I tell myself that it's because I know he'll fail, that it's a risk not worth taking. In reality, I think it's because I'm sure he won't, that I'll dive in and drown deep, enter an underwater world where everything looks different, tastes different, sounds different. Can't say I'm ready for that.

“Yep,” I say, pulling my eyes from Turner's, wishing I was behind a guitar instead of standing here in the nippy friggin' breeze with my heart hanging from precarious blood vessels, swinging in the breeze like a metaphorical piñata. “You guys up front, us in the back.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Ronnie says with a wink and a smile. I guess the thought of seeing Lola again is tickling his fancy. Good for them. Ronnie's a nice guy, and he deserves a happy ending. Turner … jury's still out on that one. I watch as he moves away and Dax takes his place, limping over to me with a gentle smile on his face. His eyes move over to Turner and drop down to his bandaged thigh. Idiot wears the gauze over the top of his pants half the time because – surprise, surprise – they're too tucking tight to fit it underneath. Pretty genius solution, huh? He hasn't really been complaining about it, but I can tell it still hurts. Physical pain pales in comparison to emotional pain, so I figure he's just got other things on his mind.

“Who's the redhead?” Dax asks, blinking stupidly in a flash of bright sunshine that cuts through the clouds like a knife, highlighting the words on the backs of his eyelids.
Born Wrong.
Now that I know what it means, I respect him more for it. It's not easy to take a memory like that and own it.

“Naomi's wet dream,” Turner growls, moving away from me. The absence of him bothers me too much to mention, like I'm some clingy high school girl. The feeling puts me into a pissy mood, and I scowl at his back at the same time I check out the way the hunter green fabric stretches over his muscles. Nice, real nice.

“Some bodyguard America hired,” I reply and jump when a voice comes from behind me.

“Not just a bodyguard. Consider me an expert on personal safety.” I turn around and look up at Brayden Ryker's face. He has a nice smile, friendly, open. Kind of the opposite of Turner's. It makes me question his veracity. Yep. That's me, the ultimate cynic. “Naomi Knox, I presume?”

“You presume correctly,” I respond caustically, reaching out for a firm handshake. I feel nothing when my skin comes in contact with Brayden's, further confirming that there's something here between Turner and me, even if I wish there wasn't. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ryker.” He laughs and Blair bites her lip hard, smudging her bright lipstick.

“Please,” he says, turning his green eyes to Dax. “Call me Brayden. And you must be Dax McCann?” Dax nods and reaches out for a shake, ghost tattoos smiling wickedly up at me as his arm brushes against mine.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Please treat Brayden with respect. He's a guest here, and we're lucky to have him.” America smiles tightly, her smartphone smashed up against her face like life hasn't skipped a few beats between San Francisco and wherever the fuck it is we are right now. “I'll be riding back in his car at the front of the line. Try to behave yourselves while I'm out.” I don't mention that we did alright without her because that's not entirely true. Things were … passable, but it's definitely better to have America around, even if she is a flaming cunt from hell sometimes. Just like Indecency needs their pseudo father figure, Milo, we need our very own mommy dearest. We're all damaged here, people with bent souls and blackened hearts. Never hurts to have a guiding hand. “Yes. Yes, hello. I've been trying to reach you all day. Maybe try checking your messages?” America asks, forcing a laugh and moving away. I look around for Turner, but he's already on the van, arm stretched over the back of the seat, neck stiff. I could soothe his jealousy with a simple kiss, but I'm not going to. Fucker can deal for awhile.

“Sit next to me?” Dax asks as Brayden moves off to greet Kash and Wren. Again, Hayden is nowhere to be seen. I try to think about what Dax said, about her getting raped, being blackmailed into the position she's in now, but I can't drum up much sympathy. Sure, I'll cut the nuts off the fucker when I find him, but that still doesn't mean I'm going to throw my chips in Hayden's corner. She might be a victim, but she's also a bully. I can't let Dax forget that.

I shrug.

“Why the fuck not?”

I look up at the safe house, flip it the bird and kiss the tip of my finger. I was operating under the assumption that we'd be stuck here for weeks. I guess it had never occurred to me that the shooter would actually turn himself in. Bravo, Mr. Hammergren. Bravo. I turn around and follow Dax into the van. Watching him struggle to climb in is a challenge. I want to reach forward and give him a boost, but I keep myself back. I'd rather not step on any toes. Dax might be a nice guy, but he's still a guy. Pride issues and all that.

I start another cigarette.

“Might be waiting here awhile,” Dax says as he settles himself in the center row. I shake my head, taking a drag of my smoke. I glance over my shoulder and grab a snapshot of Hayden's snatch, revealed like a fucking Christmas card, all wrapped up in a red and green thong with a slit down the center. The wind picks up her black miniskirt and shows the world what the world's already seen. I mean, she's fucked pretty much every guy out here. Turner. Ronnie. Treyjan. Dax. Wren. And those are just the ones I know about for sure. Hayden doesn't bother to fix her clothing, just marches down the stairs in thigh highs, garters, and a pair of black boots I've seen before.

She isn't smiling.

I crawl in after Dax and slide the door closed, giving us a brief moment of privacy. Unless the van's bugged. But then, Mr. Tall, Redheaded, and Irish ought to have figured that out already, right? America's acting like he's the answer to all of our prayers. His gaze felt like a radar when it swept over my body, cataloguing and taking notes. I think this is as private a moment as we're gonna get.

“What did you tell Hayden?” I ask Dax, scooting in close enough to him that our thighs touch. He licks his lips and blinks his eyes slowly. I pay no attention to the rising bulge in his pants. I won't play love triangle with him and Turner; I can't. “Did you tell her you told us what she said?” Dax shakes his head, dark hair falling into his face. He rakes it back and tucks some behind his ears. It doesn't stay put for long, but at least his eyes are clear, gray as the storm before the tornado.

“I didn't tell her anything. I'm still angry with her. I didn't make any claims that I wasn't. She came to me, and I listened. That's it. Naomi,” he says, turning towards me, bumping our knees together. “I'm soft on Hayden because I feel sorry for her. Anybody can see she hasn't had the easiest life. But I'm not in love with her. I don't want her like that. The only woman I want is you.”

“Dax, please,” I say, looking out the front windshield and into the back of the first van. I can see Turner's blue-black hair, the tattoos on the back of his neck. I like that he's angry with me, and I hate myself for it. I love that jealousy; I crave it from him. I lick my own lips and turn back to my friend. “I told you I can't do this right now. I'm not looking for love.”

“But you think you found it with Turner, right?” he pleads, leaning in, wincing at the pain in his side. He could've died in that tornado, and it would've been because of me.
For
me. “Right?”

“I … I don't know, Dax,” I say, but that's not the right answer, and we both know it.
No more secrets, no more than necessary anyway.
“Yeah. I guess … I think I love him.” I push my hands into my eye sockets and rub at my face. “Or maybe that's just leftover emotion from before.” Another lie, more to myself than it is to Dax. “Or not. Fuck. I have no fucking clue.” I drop my hands and stare into Dax's eager gaze. “You see? Do you freaking see why I've been avoiding this shit? I can't do this. I can't wander around hunting billionaire sociopaths and wannabe rock stars when I'm worried that if I let myself go, Turner won't catch me. Or even if he does, that he'll drop me at some point. If I give him my heart and I catch him cheating or … whatever else, I'll lose it. I can't do this again. I just can't.” Dax leans in fast and quick, snatching a taste of my lips when I least expect it. Where Turner's mouth is hot, dangerous and scalding, Dax's is cool, soothing like ice to a burn. He tastes like spearmint and candy canes.

The kiss only lasts a second, but it punches me right in the jaw and leaves me gaping. I should probably punch him in the face, but I don't. I just sit there and let my eyes slide out the front windshield.
Did Turner see that?
Not likely. He's still sitting there, tense but not enraged. If he'd seen, I have a bad feeling Dax might've ended up with a pair of broken legs.
Fuck.

“Why the hell would you do that?” I ask him, scooting back a few inches and leveling him with an angry glare. He's no Turner Campbell, but the kiss
is
different than anything I've ever felt before. It's like kissing death, but in a good way. Like having a bite of that final rest, tasting soothing comfort and reassurance. I swipe my hand across my mouth and glare.

“Give me a shot, Naomi.” Dax touches a gloved hand to the dancing skeleton graphic on his chest. “We don't have that kind of rotten history together. And I'm not that kind of guy.”

“What kind of guy is that, Dax?”

“A Turner kind of guy. An attention whore, a slut, an explosion just waiting to go off. You wouldn't have those same kinds of worries with me.” Dax scoots a little closer, and I move back. A second later, Kash yanks the door open and crawls in the back with a sigh. I'm sure he's ecstatic at the thought of getting back with his girls, the poor two saps who have no clue they're being strung along in a tangled triangle. I don't want that geometry in my life, baby. Not going to happen. Though Dax does kind of have a point.

“I can't force myself to fall in love, Dax,” I whisper as Wren comes up to the van, grumbling under his breath about being jerked around like a teenage boy's pecker. Dax reaches out a hand and places it gently on my knee. This time, when I glance out the window, I can tell Turner sees. But all he does is smirk at me. All he does is
smirk.

“No, but you can convince yourself not to fight it. Give me a chance. Let me in. Just see what happens.” I stare into his face, and I have no clue what to say to that.

Chapter 8
Turner Campbell

Sydney Charell.

I sure would like to slap this bitch
. That's the first thought I have when the vans pull into the parking lot and that ginger lumberjack fuck Brayden what's-his-face climbs out of his car and starts sweeping the lot. I think it's all for show. I have no faith in the guy, but whatever. Another muscle bound idiot roaming around never hurts, right?

Sydney's standing in the middle of a parking space, a few feet away from her pink convertible, the one she begged Trey to help her buy with the money from our first paying gig. He gave in, little punk that he is. I'm surprised to see that the piece of junk still runs. No clue what make or model it is. All I remember is that when she took us for a spin in it, it smelt like moth balls and cheap perfume. Wonder if that's changed in the last ten years? I mean, it's not like Trey hasn't offered to give her money. He's constantly sending checks that she returns, cash that she donates. Pride is a real problem in that family.

When Brayden signals that it's alright for us to get out, I rocket right past Ronnie and move across the lot, getting in Sydney's face. She doesn't budge. She's seen me in astronaut underwear, naked in a kiddie pool, in a school play. I figure it's impossible to find me intimidating after that, even if I really would smack her.

“I want to see him,” I demand, refusing to budge from her side until she gives in. I'll wait all night if I have to. All freaking night. Sydney looks up at me from under the fringe of blonde bangs that skim the tops of her eyes, cut straight across, just like the bottom of her chest length hair. All hard lines and rough edges. I like the softness of Naomi's hair a hell of a lot better.

“Why are you getting in my face, Turner? I didn't stop you from seeing him. If you'd recall, that was the hospital.” She blinks her blue eyes and blows smoke in my face. Sydney looks pretty much the same as the last time I saw her, four years ago in Detroit or some other shit hole. Trey made us stage an intervention, head down to the strip club she was working at and try to talk her down. Didn't work. Either Sydney likes stripping or she just doesn't think she can do any better. “You can see him, okay? I don't have a problem with that.”

“Then let's go,” I say, looking away, glancing back at Naomi. She's watching me, waiting for me to invite her over. Or maybe just checking to see if I'll do something stupid? I try to smile at her, but she doesn't return the expression. Maybe she's still thinking about Dax's pathetic attempt at flirting? Putting his hand on her knee, just so. Little pussy bitch. I'm not worried about him. I try not to feel sick.

I look back at Sydney with a roll of my eyes.

“Hey Sydney,” Ronnie says, moving up next to me, eyes already searching the doors of the hotel, waiting for Lola, desperate for her. Me, I'm hoping she doesn't show up. Seems like it might blow her cover or something. But love doesn't think like that, and well, it might have only been a few days but I'm pretty sure these two are in deep. It's easier for outsiders to notice that kind of connection at first. Sometimes, when you're down in the trenches, the mud obscures your view. “I'm down to visit Trey. Long as you don't mind if I bring a friend?”

Sydney shrugs, her puffy jacket crinkling as she stays huddled against the cold.