Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (11 page)

“Aw.” I put my hand to my chest and pout my lips. “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me, Mr. McCann. Don't stop. Keep wooing me.” Dax's sad little mouth turns up into a small smile.

“Is that a no then?”

“That would be a no, I've never done bukkake before.”

“Thank god,” he whispers and I grin back at him. “No secret rock star lovers, love children, abortions or fanatical sociopath ex-boyfriends?”

I tap my finger against my lips for a moment.

“No, no, no, and no,” I say and then pause. “Unless, of course,
you
count as a secret rock star lover?”

“Maybe,” Dax says, still smiling. I feel so comfortable with him, like we've known each other forever. I keep trying to tell myself that he's just an energy suck, that I should distance myself as best I can, but … I like him too much. Way, way, way too much. “Except that we've only fucked twice and the first time I was kind of, a little bit drunk during the whole thing …”

“Still counts,” I say, getting a chill down my spine as I remember him slamming into me from behind, confessing that it wasn't Naomi he was thinking about in that moment.
Is he over her?
I glance his way and try to figure out how to bring that shit up. “Anyway, I was the one that initiated the whole thing. You just seemed so … sad. All of that crap with your dad, you know.” I purposely avoid the subject of Hayden and Tara. That moment haunts
my
dreams. I'm sure the last thing Dax wants is for me to bring
that
shit up.

“I spoke to him the other day, you know,” he finally confesses and without even registering what I'm doing, I reach down and curl our fingers together. Dax freezes for a moment and then squeezes his hand tight around mine, his fingertips hot, the black knit fabric of his fingerless gloves comforting against my palm. “He said … some shit that I'm not even sure I believe. Maybe I shouldn't care? It's just … I've spent my whole life thinking that if my mom had lived, that she at least would've loved me. Based on what Arnold said, maybe that isn't true at all.”

“Fuck that guy,” I say, bumping my shoulder into Dax. It's a balmy So Cal night so we're both sporting rolled up sleeves, our bare tattooed arms sliding together with the motion. I bite my lower lip at the goose bumps that spring up along my skin. I also may or may not start watering the downstairs lawn, if you catch my drift. “That man's sick in a way no doctor can cure. He's got a little black broken heart, and he isn't happy unless he's inflicting his disease on someone else. Be glad that he's not your dad, biological or otherwise. This is a fresh start for you, Dax McCann.”

“You, too,” he says, looking at me with those dreamy eyes of his. I call them gray, but I think maybe they're really blue? I don't know, but when I get caught on them, I have a real, real hard time looking away. “This could be your fresh start just as easy.”

“I guess so.” I drop Dax's hand and slide my fingers into the pockets of my black leather shorts. “Think there's a future for me in reality TV?” Dax looks over at me, but his face is sad again. I get it. His best friend's in the hospital, his dad isn't really his dad, his high school sweetheart and his lead singer are dead. He has a lot to be sad about. A ton. But all I really want is to see him smile.

Woo.

Like
that
line doesn't belong in a
Lifetime
made-for-TV movie. Yuck.

“I think you could do anything you wanted,” Dax says as the houses start to get smaller, the streets a little less clean, the streetlights a little less frequent. “Is that too douche-y to say?”

“You don't have to apologize for being the nice guy, Dax McCann,” I say as I pull out my phone and tap the app that'll let me call a cab. Once I do, I look back up at him. What did I say about getting rid of him again? Not sure how
that's
going to be possible with us living together. Hmm. I reach up and rub a thumb across Dax's lower lip, enjoying the shudder that passes through him at the touch. “It's
because
you're the nice guy that I like you. Now, I hope you brought enough cash to cover this cab because I'm broke as a dime store hooker on payday.”

Our ride reeks like hell, almost as bad as the body we left in KK's room. And the cabbie? Well, Christ on a cracker, he's got one of those mirror-leers. You know what I'm talking about ladies, the cab drivers that check your tits out in their rearview? I got a fuckin' kick out of it when Dax hit the back of the man's seat and made his fat, chubby neck snap forward. That was funsies all the way around.

Dax pays the dude exact change—no tip—and waits for me to climb out of the car ahead of him. Once the asshole speeds off with a peal of tires, he finally takes a look around and realizes where we are. I'll give you a hint: it ain't Beverly Hills.

“Shit,” Dax murmurs as he glances around the dirty streets, looks up and examines the broken streetlights above our heads. “We don't even have to worry about snipers out here. I think drug dealers and pimps will do just fine.”

“Oh stop that,” I tease, tossing a wink over my shoulder at him. Being alone together like this, out in the real world, it's making me a little giddy.
God, I really like this guy, don't I?
“Your Midwest is showing, country boy. Now, make sure there aren't any cops around and gimme a boost.” I wink at Dax and run my tongue over my lower lip. He doesn't miss the motion, his eyes darkening in response as he steps up and grabs me from behind, taking hold of my hips.

I suppress a groan as he lifts me up and I grab hold of the wall. This one's a hell of a lot shorter than the one surrounding the mansion. Not as many fangirls to keep out of a cemetery, huh?

“You did that on purpose,” I murmur as Dax hauls himself up to sit next to me, straddling the brick and cement wall that surrounds the cemetery. I reach up to tuck a chunk of blonde behind my ear as we exchange a long, lingering look. I feel like the hair on the backs of my arms are standing up straight, lifted by the electric flow pulsing between our bodies.

“Maybe,” Dax admits in a low voice, pulling his gaze away from me with a visible effort and grabbing his first look at what lies on the other side of all this mortar. “A graveyard?” he asks and I feel myself grinning, reaching over to flick my fingers against his tats.

“Don't tell me you're scared, Dax-y Boy. Come on. Let's wake up the dead.” I slide over the edge and land with soft feet in the grass. It's green as hell, almost neon in the moonlight. That's ten times creepier to me than the cement headstones dotting the landscape. Green grass in a desert. Is it any wonder that I moved the hell out of LA when I had the chance? Not that Detroit was awesome either. I don't even know how I ended up there. I guess I've never felt at home; I think I've been searching for it all this time.

Dax lands next to me, so fucking sexy in his buckled up boots and his dark jeans. I'm not even a hundred percent certain he's aware of how hot he is. Which makes him hotter. Plus, he's like the complete opposite of Trey and Turner. That's exactly what I need right now.

“I figured we'd be left alone if we came out here.” I move over and kneel next to a gravestone, running my fingers against the dates.
1955-1984.
Twenty-nine years old. Same as me. Now that's not ominous in the least.

I stand up with a shiver and look over at Dax, his gray irises highlighted by the silver shafts of moonlight. His eyes are ringed in liner, the
Born Wrong
tattoo on the backs of his eyelids covered up with black.

“Dead bodies do tend to freak people out,” Dax says, running his fingertips across the top of a curved headstone. “I doubt we'll run into any fangirls out here.” He pauses and focuses his attention on the inscription, tilting his head to the side as he studies it. “Hopefully we can avoid bodyguards, roadies, and reality TV producers, too.”

“They'll survive the apocalypse you know, reality TV producers. Them, and Turner Campbell.”

Dax chuckles, touching his hand to the headstone before moving away and finding a nice, cozy spot at the base of a mausoleum. It's as tall as he is, twice as long, and locked up tight. The family name says
Carter.
Good. As long as it doesn't start with a fucking
H.
I've about had all I can take with Harding and Hammergren and whatnot.

“Bright pink, covered in yellow skulls. Picnic blankets sure have come a long way,” Dax says as he opens up my bag and spreads the fabric across the ground. “Whatever happened to plaid?” I wrinkle my nose and shake my head, sweeping my hands up and over my hair.

“Puh-lease, did you expect anything less than style out of me? I mean, come on. I've got swag for days.” I give Dax another wink and flop down next to him while he draws out a pair of glass bottles from my bag of goodies.

“Vodka and … more vodka. Interesting choice. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you brought me out here to get me drunk.”

“Dax McCann,” I say with a pretend gasp, putting my fingers to the orange octopus tattoo that stretches over my shoulder and onto my chest. “You think so poorly of me.” My eyes twinkle as I nod my chin at the duffel bag. “Keep digging and maybe you'll get a better idea of the other debaucheries I have planned.”

“Beer,” Dax says, digging the forty ounces out and laying them in the grass. “Is this … moldy pizza?”

“It's not moldy!” I snort as I reach over and snatch a foil wrapped piece from his hand. “And it's only three days old. It's perfectly good.” I unwrap the pepperoni slice and find … that it is kind of moldy. Huh. Guess I just didn't notice. Back in the day, Trey and I would be lucky to have three day old moldy pizza and chunky milk for breakfast. During that time in our lives, eating anything at all was better than going hungry.

I set the pizza aside anyway as Dax emerges with a handful of condoms in his hand and a raised brow.

“Holy shit,” he says with an exhale as he lets the tiny squares clatter back into the bottom of the bag. “Speaking of reputations, you must think pretty fucking highly of me if you think we can get through all of that.” Dax pauses and then his face gets real serious for a second. “Sydney …”

“Whatever you're gonna say,” I tell him, glancing sidelong at Dax's profile. “Don't.”

“Why not?” Dax turns to face me, his features twisting with agony for a split second before he wipes them clean. “I fucking … I owe you.”

My brows go up.

“Owe me?” I turn to look fully at him, at his bow-tie lips parted with frustration, the slight crinkle of his skin around his nose that shows he's pissed off. With me, with himself, with his dad, who the fuck knows. “You think I did any of this so someone could owe me? Then you really don't know me all that well do you?”

“No, I don't,” Dax says with a sigh, running his gloved hand over his face. Always with those fingerless gloves of his. I'm not sure why, but I like 'em. “I don't know anything about you, Sydney. Nothing other than the fact that I
want
to know you.” Dax pauses again. “Or that you're the kind of girl who takes care of a guy she barely knows, gets herself embroiled in a bunch of shit to help out her baby brother.”

“You've got me pegged, Mr. McCann,” I say, my heart fluttering strangely in my chest. I feel like the teenage girl I never got to be, the carefree lip-biter with a crush and a faint blush across the cheeks.
I want to fall in love.
Jesus Christ, I must be going insane. “Philanthropist Extraordinaire, the stripper with a heart of gold.”

Dax snorts.

“It's truer than you might think,” he says and I shrug, glancing across the grounds, at the twinkling lights of the city. “So will you let me say it?”

“Say what?” I ask, hoping we don't get shot or mugged or … worse. Graveyard, middle of the night, East LA. Eh. Maybe not the best idea in the world, but Beverly Hills is so … not like anything I've ever been a part of before. Too polished. Too perfect. I needed to get the hell out of there for a second to think. It's not that I'm not grateful for the upgrade—nobody really
prefers
eating moldy pizza and chunky milk, living in a single wide with a crack addict—it's just that I'm not sure I'm ready for more.

Maybe not in that, maybe not in …
this.

I take a deep breath and meet Dax's gaze.

“Thank you,” he says, and I feel an icy shiver tickle my spine as his fingers slide across the blanket and find my hand, curling around the wash of blue and green tattoos that sweep up over my knuckles in a tidal wave. “You … I don't know why, but you made everything …” Dax swipes his other hand over his face. “Nothing's been okay for a long time, but … livable. Sydney, you made things livable for me.”

“By being the big spoon?” I joke, raising my brows at Dax. I know he's being serious; I can see it in his face. But I'm not used to serious. And I'm not used to thank you. I extract my hand and lean over Dax's lap, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the pocket on the side of the bag. I don't miss the fact that he's hard as a rock under those dark jeans of his.

I sit back with a huff and light up.

“Thank you,” Dax says again, but I pretend not to hear him, smoking my cig in long, slow drags, gentle puffs of gray into the night air. “For being there.”