Real Ugly (12 page)

“Lemme guess,” Dax begins, watching me from under a dark mop of hair that falls across one of his gray eyes. “You can tie a cherry stem into a knot, too?” I grin and blow out another ring, watching as his eyes fall to the page and move down the row of illegible phrases I've just scribbled. I don't answer his question, but in case you're wondering, that would be a big, fat yes.

I lean back again and cross my arms over my chest, trying to push Turner's face out of my mind. I want to tell him everything, or I did rather, but then he had to go and throw out that
you owe me
bull which just makes me want to hit him. And he kept saying
our kid, our kid.
There is no kid, and there's definitely no
our,
just a ghost of a memory that haunts me every damn day. Turner Campbell may not be the sole reason that I have trust issues, but he sure as shit didn't help. He could've cured me, I think, but instead, he dragged me backwards and left me in this state. Angry. Distrusting. Determined.

I finish my cigarette and flick it in the ashtray near my elbow.

“Jam with me?” I ask them, and get two surprised faces in response. Normally, I write songs on my own, and when I'm happy with what I've got, I show my shit to the band and let them layer in their own parts (so long as they don't fuck with my riffs). Today, I'm feeling social. Could be the death of me.

Blair and Dax exchange a look.

“Oh, come the fuck on,” I say, slapping my palms flat on the table and standing up. “I didn't ask you to join me in holy matrimony; let's just play some shit together.” I move away from the table and pause when my phone starts to buzz on the counter, shaking like an epileptic in a fit. I pick it up, glance at the number and then move over to the sink.

“Turner?” Blair guesses, and I nod as I turn on the water and drop the phone into the drain on the left – the one with the garbage disposal. A second later, I flick the switch and a horrible grinding, screeching sound emanates from down below. It's like an alley cat got in a fight with a semi-truck – and won.

The noise is enough to bring America sprinting from the back, iPhone still pressed to one ear, perfectly polished and shimmering in a nude suit and black pumps. She looks like she's on her way to a luncheon at the country club, not a rock concert.

“What in the God's name of fuck was that?” she snarls, and I smile, happy to see that our language is really rubbing off on her. I turn off the disposal and the water and step back, spinning to face her with a nasty grin.

“Just taking out the trash is all.”

The jam session with Blair and Dax goes so fucking well that I almost forget about Turner and the half-secret I shared with him. The one that I'm going to have to finish sometime in the near future. After all, if I learned one thing from trying out my new song, it was that it wasn't finished. The story that it's based on doesn't have an ending, so how can I expect the tune that's based off it to?

Anyway, I'm smoking a cigarette and watching the roadies unload our shit when he saunters up behind me and blows smoke in my ear. I'm so not worried about running into him that I don't even bother to turn around. I've got my music high right now and there is nothing in this fucking world that can beat that. Even crackhead Wren agrees with that one.

“Why are we playing Tucson when we skipped LA? Seems kind of fucked up, huh?”

I don't answer the question because I'm actually kind of shocked to hear his voice. For a few blissful, perfect hours there, he did not even fucking exist. I don't answer the question and instead keep my gaze focused on Spencer's back. She has these bright, butterfly wings tattooed on her shoulder blades, the perfect compliment to the creamy mocha color of her skin. I admit, I'm kinda jealous. My skin is so pale that all my tats look like stickers, like they've just been stamped there and aren't really a part of me. Pisses me the fuck off.

“I think I was pretty clear when I told you to stay the hell away from me, Turner.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and watch as he steps up next to me and puts it out. My gaze remains focused straight ahead. I start to hum the melody to the second new song I started today, the one about dead birds. Yep, even stalkers can be inspirational. My mind wanders back to
that
issue for a moment and quickly dismisses it. One thing at a time. That's about all I can handle right now.

“Yeah, but, uh, Knox, finding out that you and I procreated ties us together just a bit more than your typical set of strangers, huh?”

I shiver and pull out another cigarette. The lights of the venue are casting strange shadows around us, making the air look like it's full of ghosts. I wonder briefly if one of them is our kid and then shake off the guilt with a violent snap of my head, giving Turner my best narrow-eyed death glare.

“Really? You're going to pull that bull now? Why? Because you have daddy issues and need to soothe your tortured soul? Give me a break, Turner, and get the fuck over yourself.” He's staring straight back at me, and his face is changing from soft and understanding to pissed off. Apparently, I said something I shouldn't have. Oh well. What's new?

“You don't know shit about me,” he growls, clenching his fists so hard at his sides that his tattoos look like they're about to pop off and take flight, join the ghost-shadows flitting in the air. “So stop feeling sorry for yourself. I didn't purposefully try to fuck with your life. We screwed, and I left. It wasn't you; it's just what I do. Girls proposition me; I fuck them. It's life. It's nature, whatever. We had a good time, and you got pregnant. It happens.” Turner pauses, and I think I hear him mumble something like,
just not to me.
His callous attitude about the whole thing makes me want to rip off his balls, but then I remind myself that I'm not supposed to care. Slicing off some of his prized man bits would show too much emotion, so I grab the rage that's boiling inside, and I put a lid on it, clamp it down and keep it hidden. Later, tonight, when I get a hold of my guitar, I'm going to take a note from this dickhole and play it so hard it bleeds.

“Glad to know that that night meant so much to you.” I smile and start to walk away. Being around Turner is not a good idea. I knew that when I was offered this gig; I should've walked away then. Now the noose he threw around my neck so long ago is starting to choke me. And I thought I'd chucked it? Pathetic. Even now, even as I'm standing here hating him with every ounce of my being, something about him is drawing me forward. Could be the fire in his brown eyes, the color that burns there so bright it blinds. Despite his callous attitude and his
all be damned
bullshit, Turner has enough passion to light the sky on fire. He does it with his music, but for some reason, it doesn't seem like he's capable of translating the good in him to real life.

I can't be around someone like this.

I have a hard enough time with my own issues. I need to be around people who know what they want and how to take it, who understand their strengths and play them hard, who fight to overcome their weaknesses. That is, if there are any people like that who actually exist.

Turner paces alongside me, all tight, twitching muscles and clenched teeth. He brushes the hair off his sweaty forehead with an angry hand, and I know he wishes he could just hit me. Glad to see he isn't sexist, that he'll attack any threat head on. But if he touches me, he's going down. I am a lot stronger than I look. I've been fighting off men twice my size since I turned ten.

“You know what I meant,” he grounds out, tucking his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans. They kiss his skin so tight that I can practically hear the smacking of lips. That denim is freaking
painted
on Turner's legs. Doubt there's room for underwear in there.

“Do I?” I ask him, forcing my steps to slow, so he has a chance to explain himself. Right now, I'm heading straight toward Dax and Kash. Once I get there, Dax will chase Turner off. Or he'll try anyway, and I really, really don't want to deal with that shit.
So hurry up then,
my logical mind tells me. I ignore it, much to my detriment, I'm sure.

“I just meant that it wasn't personal, Naomi. I didn't mean for this to happen to you, and I … ” Turner trails off, and I have no choice but to turn and look at him. The sound of his voice was … strange, like he was embarrassed about something. I can't even imagine the man having that emotion, so it's a pretty big deal to me.

I stop walking, and Turner does the same.

“What?”

He looks at me like I'm crazy and steps back, running his fingers through his blue-black hair. The star tattoos on the edges of his hairline flash at me, highlighted by the bright lights on the sign at my back, the one that has both our bands' names plastered across it in two foot tall letters.

“I've never forgotten to use a condom before. Not with anyone. Not even once.” I laugh so hard that tears come to my eyes, and I have to bend over to take a breath. Blonde hair falls over my shoulder like a curtain and obscures my face.

“Really? Is that the best line you've got, Turner? Jesus, I thought you were better than that.”

“It's true,” he snaps, voice so rough that I have to look up at him. His eyes are narrowed on me, and his full lips are flat and straight. He looks like a different person when he's pissed. The Turner Campbell I'm used to seeing is always smirking and is so cocky and arrogant, that anger doesn't even seem to be an option. After all, to be angry about something, it has to bother you, and Turner likes to give off this impression that he's immune to the world. Or above it. Probably both.

“And I'm supposed to believe that shit?” I say as I stand up and reach my hands into my bra, adjusting the girls for maximum cleavage exposure. Turner watches with hungry eyes, and starts pitchin' a tent, if you catch my drift. Glad to see that I'm not the only one with a sweaty back and a pulsing crotch.
So we have sexual chemistry, how is that surprising? You're both young, relatively good looking, it happens. Just remember what happened last time you gave into it.

I take a step back.

“If you can't even remember us fucking, how do you know that's true? How many girls have you fucked that have escaped your recent memory, hmm? There could be a dozen Campbell bastards running around by now.”

“No.”

That one word is strong as steel.

Turner and I stand there staring at one another with this sort of burn in the air between us, like we're both about to catch on fire.

“I know what happens to kids who grow up without dads.”

“They turn into rock stars?” I say, and immediately regret it. I don't know why. The guy plucked my cherry from the tree, ate it, and ran off before I woke up after. He didn't use a condom (maybe half my fault, but shit, I was the inexperienced one in the situation) and left me pregnant, homeless, and confused. The idol I'd looked up to had been relegated to devil, and I had a person growing inside of me who needed things, things that I couldn't give or didn't know how to give. Food, shelter, clothing. Love. Most especially that. And stability. You can't give something you've never had. Check the laws of science; it's impossible.

“I know that you're the only one. Don't ask how, but I just know.” Turner shrugs and then sighs, dropping his anger into the hot desert air before reaching for a joint he's got hidden in his front right pocket. He offers it to me, but I decline, and he lights up. “I also know that you hate me, and that you're pissed at me, and I get it. Believe it or not, but I do.” Turner puffs on his joint for a moment. I watch him and wonder why my knees are starting to feel weak and why my thighs are shaking like they can't hold the weight of my life anymore. I hate that feeling. Makes me sick to my stomach. I wait for it to pass. “But I want my kid, Naomi. No matter how you feel about me, how little you think I deserve him or her, I have a right to know everything. Bringing a person into this fucked up, shitty existence is something I don't take lightly. Wherever they are, I'll find them.”

My throat is dry now, and I'm having trouble breathing. I swear to god that I'm about to pass out. I want to blame it on the heat, but I can't. It's Turner. It's always been Turner.

“What if you had to quit?” I ask him, voice breathy. Turner hears it, too, and takes a step forward, wetting his lips, holding his hands out, so that his fingers brush the thin hairs on my arms. I hate him, and yet I want him so bad it hurts inside. But after what he did to me, can I ever forgive him? Do I want to? Why am I even asking myself these stupid fucking questions? Even if I did admit to myself that in some fucked up, Stockholm syndrome type of way that I liked him still, he'll never change. He's always be an arrogant, cocky whore, and there's nothing I can do about that. “What if you had to quit the fucking and the drugs and the booze and the … ” My words trail off and my breath catches in my throat as Turner leans in so close that I can see the beads of sweat on his upper lip, hear the thumping of his heart. “And the music? Would you do it?”

“Well,” he begins, and I realize now that I'm paralyzed, that I can't drag my eyes from his. I should be kneeing him in the balls right now, watching him suffer with glee, but instead I'm standing here and breathing in the smoke from his joint, gazing at him like one of his stupid groupies. Fuck me sideways. “I know that I love that kid. I know for sure, even without meeting 'em. I mean, with you as a mother and me as a father, how could we go wrong?” Turner tries to grin, but it falls flat. He's trying to come across as self-assured, but it isn't working. He's nervous right now, and he's thinking too much and too hard. My guess is that he's been thinking about this non-stop since I told him. “And I'd do anything for love.”