Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (14 page)

“Wow, I didn't realize you felt so fucking passionate about it,” Dax replies, his voice low and dark. I can't tell if he's pissed or … nope, he's amused. The left corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile. “Yeah, yeah, why the hell not?” Dax lifts up his arms in surrender. “It's as good a reason as any, right? I smoke too much dust and I don't question that. I sign a contract after a crazy TV producer tells me she's going to kill me, I don't question that. So why this?” Dax pauses and his smile flickers like a broken lightbulb. “Why this.” More of a statement than a question.

I take a deep breath, but for once in my life, I'm kind of at a loss for what to say. Dax is hurting still. And that's okay. He has reasons to be upset. I remember him saying something vague about his dad last night. I'm going to have to dig until I get the full story. If it kills me, I'll dredge those secrets up and out of him. There's at least
one
thing that Turner's got right: secrets fucking suck.

Good thing I don't have any. Nothing to exploit. Nothing to play with.

Let's see how the Hammergrens like them apples.

Brayden motherfucking Ryker is staring at me.

Way to ruin what's starting off as a pretty decent morning. Well, other than the puke. But I only thew up a little and Dax didn't see, so things are still rockin' as far as I'm concerned. Still, no vodka tonight. Or ever. Ever is good.

“Mr. Ryker,” I say as I cross my arms under my tits and glare back at the big redheaded brute across the hall from me. He's wearing a pale pink T-shirt that only makes him look scarier than usual. Or maybe it's just the holstered guns at his sides, I'm not sure. “Can I help you with something?”

“Have a good time in the cemetery last night, Miss Charell?” he asks casually. Only … his casual also has a slight hint of
menace
imbued in it. Let's just say, I'm not the man's biggest fan. Chills flicker over my skin as I tap my booted foot against the floor and give Brayden Ryker a look that says I'm not playing games today.

“So you're not as shitty at your job as you led us to believe?” I ask as he shrugs his shoulders and stands up straight, pausing next to a decorative side table and adjusting the blue and white vase that's sitting there. I watch him for a moment as he steps back and speaks quietly into an earpiece. I look at his face, back at the vase, and then at him again.

Fuck.

“Wait, wait, don't tell me—there's a camera in there?” I ask, but Brayden Ryker's ignoring me as he fiddles with the surely very expensive
vahse.
“Or don't answer me. That's fine, too.” I take a step back and glance up at the space above my doorway. There's a new camera here, too, and it's not so well hidden. I can clearly see it there, glaring down at me with a round bulbous eye. Christ on a cracker. This shit is actually happening, isn't it?

What have I gotten myself into?

“I hope you've given some thought to our conversation in the van, Miss Charell,” he says as I glance over my shoulder, checking to see if the bathroom door is still closed. Yup. Dax excused himself to take a shower and hasn't come out yet. I thought about joining him, but I thought he, too, deserved the chance to possibly throw up without my seeing. New relationship, new boundaries. We'll figure it out.

“It's a little hard to think about something you don't quite understand, Bray. Can I call you Bray?” I don't wait for him to answer. Don't care. “If you really want my help, and I can't understand why you'd want or need it, then you're going to have to elaborate. Basically, you told me rich people are trying to murder me because they're bored or pissed or something like that. I'm a trailer park chick, Bray. I need the CliffsNotes version.”

Brayden gives me a look that isn't nice at all. In fact, he looks downright frigging pissed.

“Are you trying to take the piss with me?” he growls, but I have no clue what that means so I just stand there. Uh, West Coast American slang is all that's in my dictionary. Sorry. “Are you fucking joking?” he snaps when I don't respond. “Because I don't like it when smart people play dumb.” Brayden smacks the vase and it rolls off the table, crashing to the floor by his boots as he spins on me and descends in camo pants and that goddamn old-lady-pink shirt of his.

“Cool it, dude,” I say, lifting my palms and backing up another step. I'd rather stand my ground, but hey, I know when to give a little. The guy's got pistols and all I have is a massive hangover and a sore pussy. I'm totally cool with the second half of the equation, but I don't really want to get in a fight with someone who's made of muscle. “I just want honesty, okay? Why'd you dump Cohen's body in Ronnie's bathtub?”

“Because Paulette told me to,” he growls as he pauses a few inches away from me and runs a huge hand over his face. “And if yer smart, you'll also do what she says. Last time I refused a Harding or a Washington, they killed my daughter.” The shock that flickers over my face is impossible to hide. “Yeah, that's right. My baby girl.” Brayden's voice breaks and he sucks in a huge breath. “Now, I have to protect her sister. If that means following orders, then I'll follow them.” He pauses and scans the hallway with a practiced eye, the moss green of his irises darkening dangerously. “But that doesn't mean I have to do a good goddamn job at it.”

Something Ronnie told me rings around my head like a pealing church bell.

Sometimes, it's best to feign inadequacy and let the cards fall as they may.

That's what Brayden said to Lola and Ronnie the night we all went to the club.

Bingo, bitch.

“So you purposely suck at security? At protecting people?” I ask, trying to puzzle my way through this. Lord knows if I don't, nobody else will. Dax and Ronnie are the next smartest people here and they've got penises. Can't count on them for shit.

“When it suits me, aye, I do.” Brayden takes a step back from me, his breath harsh and uneven. I've never seen anything but stone cold professionalism in the man's rugged features before. Weird, much? I nibble my lower lip and look down at the cold marble floors. I know they're expensive and shit, but I hate them a little. Just a little.

Digging in the pockets of my shorts, I manage to find a cigarette and when I raise an eyebrow at Brayden, he supplies the light.

“The Harding family is nearly gone,” he tells me in low tones, breaking open a whole cache of secrets that we could only guess at before. “But Paulette's a Washington now. And the Washingtons don't like the Hammergrens anymore than the Hardings.”

“What's the endgame here, Brayden?” I ask, checking again for a crack in the bathroom door. Nothing. My pulse flutters when I think about Dax coming out, his wet hair mussy and tousled. Oh, be still my heart—and my pussy. Not sure who's pulsing more. Maybe this whole dating thing'll be fun? Hah. Ha ha ha.
If
we live through all of this. If. “Who do we want to win, and how do we make that happen, Bray? All of this,” I wave my hand around the hallway, “needs to go away.”

“Trust me,” he says with a bright, white smile.
What big teeth you have,
I think with a small shiver as I puff on my cig and tuck the fingers of my left hand into my front pocket. “You definitely
don't
want the Hammergrens to succeed. At this point in time, you've just pissed them off royally. They want you all dead. Paulette … she wants both bands to succeed because that's what her sister wanted. Money, fame,
infamy.
Oh, and Tyler. Don't forget about Tyler, America and Stephen's son.”

“Travis' son,” I correct and Brayden shrugs.

“Just do what I say and things'll be alright. If you piss me off, you might end up dead.”

A frown creases my mouth, but I decide not to mention how many people already are. Or how many people came close for that matter.

“At least I'm not in the band,” I joke with a slight shrug of my left shoulder and a wink. “If everyone else drops dead, I can just take my brother's money and run.” It's a joke, not a very good one, but Brayden turns to look at me with a deep, deep frown.

“Oh no,” he says, his words weighty and far too serious for a sunny Sunday morning. “When you walked into this, you put your name on their list. As soon as they get the chance, they'll put a bullet in you, too.”

I'm not sure how to describe Dax's facial expression. The skin around his nose is crinkled and his eyes are wide as fuck, but his mouth is twisted into a disturbing semblance of a smile. I think. Might be a grimace.

“Why do you have grass stains on your knees?” Trey asks, settled comfortably back in his wheelchair. I ignore him and fold my hands behind my head while I wait for …
something
from the collective group of assholes and idiots in front of me.

“That's the dumbest shit I've ever fucking heard,” Turner spews because well, I just sort of see everything he says as projectile vomit spraying out of his pretty little mouth. “You mean to tell me all of this is just some rich guy's version of like, the Colosseum or something? Just a bunch of fancy assholes watching people die for fun?”
Interesting analogy, not sure that I'm positive Campbell even knows where or what the Colosseum is, but okay.
“I thought this was about Travis and America and their frigging kid.”

“It
was
,” I start, but Turner's already flicking his hand at me, arm laden with multi-colored
Mrs. Turner Campbell
bracelets.

“That's the dumbest shit I ever heard. Fuck that redheaded ginger bitch. I'm rich now and you don't see me paying homeless people to beat each other up.”

“Although that'd be kind of sweet,” Trey chuckles and I slap him in the back of the head. Dax almost gets a full smile for that, but it fades back into that weird wide-eyed look immediately after. Maybe I shouldn't have told them all about the whole 'bullet' thing?

“Don't be a piece of shit asshole, Trey,” I say with a dramatic eye roll. “
Turner.
”

“Hey, screw you, Sydney,” Turner snaps back, sending a visible ripple of hatred down Dax's spine. Those pretty gray eyes narrow and his mouth twists to the side in anger.

“Why the
fuck
do you think it's okay to talk to her like that?” he snarls, getting up in Turner's face. I'm pretty sure they're about three seconds short of a brawl. “If it weren't for your band and your buddy's stupid mistake, she wouldn't be involved in any of this crap. She wouldn't be risking her
life
to help you guys out.”

“You think you can talk about Travis like that, you motherfucking emo
bitch?
You don't know shit about fucking
shit.
I will whoop your ass so hard you can't see straight.”

“Bring it on,” Dax growls back just a split second before I step between them, my back to Turner and my hands against Dax's chest. The contact between us ignites in an instant, turning my body to ice, freezing the words in my mouth as I look up and into his face. Dax swallows visibly as he reaches down and wraps his hands around mine.

“Oh my gaaaaawd,” Turner moans as I flick a quick glare over my shoulder and find him running his hand down his face. “Can you two, like,
not
right now? We've got business to take care of.”

“You sure you don't want to go find some homeless people first?” I snap, taking a deep breath and carefully—
carefully—
extracting my hands from Dax's fingers. We exchange another look, one that says volumes about how this new 'relationship' of ours is going to go: it's going to be a fuckfest.

I straighten my tits and pretend there isn't a serious moisture problem happening downstairs.

“The Hammergrens and the Washingtons,” Ronnie begins, sitting on the bed next to Lola. He sounds thoughtful, like he's been analyzing the information while the rest of us were dicking around. “Are the kind of people with resources we can hardly even imagine. You think we've got money now, but it's literally just a drop in the bucket when you're talking about people like this. Just think of the Waltons.”

“The who?” Turner asks, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “Aren't those the people from
Little House on the Prairie
or something?”