Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (25 page)

“They're probably just putting you on the cover so they can make you famous,” Turner starts, grinning big at me, a smoke dangling from the corner of his mouth, “and then kill you.”

The photoshoot for
Tin Dolls
is taking place at their warehouse in the West Hills, a massive structure of decay and rust that used to be considered a condemnable mess, but that's now being worshipped for its
industrial chic
flavor. Inside, the old building is decked out with polished concrete floors, modern art doubling as furniture, and an entire wall dedicated to the first cover of
Tin Dolls
Magazine. It stretches from floor to massive, soaring ceiling as a mural, the face of that bitch pop star, Cameron Koons gracing the page with her too-blonde hair and big, fake Hollywood smile.

I swipe a hand through my cotton candy pink hair and suck in a deep breath. I'm not nervous; Sydney Charell does
not
get nervous.

“I am freaking the fuck out,” I whisper to Dax as we move inside the building and watch as Brayden's guys fan out to search the place and cover all the exits. My eyes immediately go up, way way up, to the rafters, searching for the possibility of a sniper or something. I mean, I know I'm not exactly the number one hit target for the Hammergren or Harding family, but Naomi and Turner are here. I kind of get the feeling that one or the other of them is going to get shot at before the week is out.

“Take a deep breath,” Dax whispers, leaning over and breathing warm against my ear. “You're fucking beautiful, the prettiest girl they've had on this fucking cover.”

“Look, look at that. The
editor-in-chief
is here and she has no clue what to fucking do with me.” I point out a woman in a navy suit that's speaking in hushed tones to her secretary. “I don't have an agent or a manager, so she's got no one to talk to.”

“Manage yourself,” Dax says as he turns me around with his hands on my shoulders.
Holy moly, motherfucker, but he's handsome. And he loves me. Crap. I should say it back. But later, after
this shoot is over.
I bite my lower lip under my teeth as he rubs his thumbs in little circles on my bare skin. “You're good at that, you know, dealing with people, making stuff happen.” Dax smiles softly. “I heard from Trey's and Turner's very lips that they wouldn't have survived to adulthood without you.”

“Holy fuck bucket,” I groan as Dax leans down and presses a kiss against my mouth. His skin is cool, a soothing balm to my heated body. Without even realizing I'm doing it, my hands come up and curl in the front of his white Amatory Riot T-shirt. “This is going to be a long day, isn't it?”

“Maybe, but at the end of it, I'll be waiting for you,” he whispers, kissing me again and then taking a step back as the editor-in-chief herself walks this way, heels loud against the concrete floor. I make myself smile at her because well, we both know why she's here. It isn't often that the editor-in-chief would show up for a shoot, but this whole scene reeks of Paulette's influence, so I decide to grin and bear it and act confident as hell. Maybe this chick's just as scared of that bitch as we are? If so, then I should have a
really
pleasant goddamn day ahead of me.

“Miss …” A glance down at the iPad to double check my last name. “
Cher-el
?” she asks with a hint of a Mexican accent, her dark hair swept up into a bun on the top of her head, her lipstick as red as blood. Ominous, much? I try not to read too much into it. “Am I saying that right?”

“It's pronounced
Shuh-Rell,
” I say as I extend my hand, trying my best not to sound like a royal bitch. “Don't ask me the origin, I have no idea.” I make myself smile and, surprisingly, the woman actually returns it, shaking my hand with vigor.

“Araceli Solis,” she says as she acknowledges Dax with another smile and a handshake. “Mr. McCann. And I see you've brought a few friends?”

“If you haven't been reading the news as of late, this is Naomi Knox and Turner Campbell,” I say, gesturing back at the rock gods standing behind me. I'm surprised Naomi's even
up
and about, let alone standing there like an icon with attitude.
The bitch.
I remind myself to channel some of that star quality into my shoot today. If I can capture even an ounce of whatever that girl's got, then I'm golden.

“Wonderful to meet you all,” Araceli says as she waves over her assistant, a short dude with piercings galore and a sassy little gay walk. Hey, maybe I'm pigeonholing over here, but you don't often see straight guys with walks that fabulous. “This is my assistant, Vlad. He'll be taking you to hair and makeup, so we can get started. If you need a bottle of water,” Araceli begins as Vlad hands her a frosty cool bottle of Fiji and she passes it to me, “or anything else for that matter, let one of us know.”

With another smile and a wink, she moves away and I realize that she's actually wearing a pair of Iron Fist shoes with her suit. They've covered in the skeletons of grinning mermaids. Bad-fucking-ass. Overhead, the speakers start to break with one of Amatory Riot's darker songs, one that I never thought Hayden was able to pull off quite right … only, this track is a live recording from the last concert. Naomi's voice oozes down the back of my neck, sending a chill sliding down my spine as Dax's drums pummel the warehouse walls.

“Dude, there's some guy doing a line of coke in the bathroom,” Turner says with a sniff and a smile, his arrogant asshole face twisted into something wicked. “Maybe this photoshoot thing isn't gonna suck as much dick as I thought?”

“Yeah, well, nobody asked you to come,” Dax says as we turn around and I find Naomi with her eyes closed, listening to the song with her fists clenched at her sides. Dax watches her lip-synch the lyrics to her own song for a moment and then turns back to me, bringing my attention to the patiently waiting Vlad.

“
Look the fuck away if you can't breathe, if you can't answer this call to arms. Look away if the truth hurts so good you can't see. If you don't stand up for the strong, you'll only be one of the weak.
”

“Ready?” Vlad asks me, a headset perched on top of his dark hair, his arms crossed over a T-shirt that says
Tin Dolls
in cursive pink. He holds out a nicely manicured hand for me to take.

“For the road,” Dax whispers, pressing a small bottle into my palm. It's Fireball Whiskey. Nice. “Good luck, and I'll see you on the other side.” I blow him a kiss with freshly painted pink fingernails and then reach out to take Vlad's hand. When I emerge, I'll be a fucking star, baby.

Vlad takes me through a maze of fabric dividers, all in white, like a yard full of fresh laundry hung out to dry. Only, I'm pretty fucking sure this laundry is handwoven silk or some shit.

I smile and run my pink nails along one of the “walls” as we walk into the hair and makeup studio. Technically, we're still in the same warehouse with the soaring steel beams and the rust and the
industrial
charm, but this is a whole different world back here. In the distance, I think I can hear Dax's voice above the low din in the room, but maybe that's just wishful thinking? This thing I got with him, man, it is
bad—
but in a way that's so damn good.

I force my fingers through my hair and make myself pay attention. There'll be time to ogle my new man candy boyfriend later. Right now, there's … all of
this
.

There's a row of mirrors to my right, topped by big round bulbs, like an old fashioned dressing room. The whole look reminds me of that one rare summer when my dad pretended he was going to get clean, and he took me to the local ballet studio to meet the teacher. I didn't think I'd ever see lights any brighter or more promising than those. Of course, that shit all turned out to be a big fat lie. Dad was high again before I ever got to take my first class, but this is different. This time,
I
call the shots. And it's my life. And I'm going to fucking
make it.

I suck in a deep breath as I try to take it all in, stomping my feet a little to rid myself of the anxious feeling that's taking over my body. Fortunately, even though there's a pretty big crew back here, nobody seems to notice. They're too busy buzzing around, moving clothes and makeup from here to there or talking amongst one another. The sound of hangers being shoved across racks is almost deafening, masking the chatter of the employees, so I have no idea what they're saying. I have to blink several times just to force it all to make sense. The lights are bright, ricocheting off the sea of cosmetics that line the white desks on my right and revealing an almost literal fortress of clothes, clothes, and more clothes on my left.

Too bad I won't get to wear any of it.

“Would not want to get lost in there,” I joke as Vlad pulls out a fancy baroque chair in gold and introduces me to this person and that person. Basically, I don't remember a fucking syllable to any of their names. Things like
Mezz
and
Apple
and
Mystery.
You know, typical bullshit Hollywood names that everybody will hate in like, ten years.

I sit for a while and stare at myself in the mirror while people tease my pale pink locks and decide how to style me.
This is freaking crazy insane,
I think as I meet my own eyes and Dax's voice pops into my head.

Sydney, I think … no, that's a cop-out. I love you.

I suck in a harsh breath and curl my fingers around the armrests of the chair. Nobody seems to care that I'm having a small panic attack over here, so I close my eyes for a moment and breathe. Sitting here, in this place, with all of this … this
stuff
happening around me, it makes me think. About Dax. About his feelings. About
my
feelings.

The first second I saw him, I knew. I mean, it was an animal-lust sort of a knowledge, like
dude, I really want to mate with this guy.
But now? He's sensitive enough to count, but he's not weak. And he's unlike anybody I've ever met. He's got this goofy side to him that he tries to hide but that comes out anyway.

Oh, and he's got a big dick. And six pack abs. And really fucking awesome tattoos. And pierced junk. Hey, I'm not trying to be shallow here or anything, but this stuff counts, too, you know. If it didn't, I'd definitely be in line for marrying a chick.

I sigh and run my hands down my face before one of the makeup artists bats them away and says something about my lips that I'm sure I never want repeated in polite company.

I'm in love with Dax.

I open my eyes again and feel a rush of warmth come over me. If he were back here right now, I'd grab him by the hand, shove him into the forest of designer clothing and ravage him until he couldn't get it up anymore. As things stand, I have to get through this photoshoot first.

“Up, up, up,” one of the women—at least I think she's a woman—says to me, gesturing to a 'dressing area' in the back that's basically made up of a curtain strung between two of the divider walls. “Take your clothes off,” she snaps and then she's gone, leaving me to peel my skintight dress down over my hips as I survey the fare that's been laid out next to me. Dresses, shoes, lots of different kinds of panties … huh. I shrug my shoulders and get to it, trying on about a dozen items before it's decided.

Guess Naomi was right. I'm pretty much going to be wearing nothing.

In the end, I wind up with a pair of heeled boots, a thong, a robe, and some stickers—that I'm not even allowed to put on myself. Questionable Woman ends up coming back with
skin glue
that she slathers generously across my nipples before covering them with two black stars.

Next time I look at myself in the mirror, even
I'm
turned on.

I feel my freshly reddened lips curl into a smirk.

Wait'll Dax gets a load of
this.

And even better, wait until he hears me tell him I love him.