Real Ugly (15 page)

I turn around and glance at Dax and Turner. I should finish my conversation, but I'm just not in the mood anymore. Like I said, one secret at a time is all I can handle and right now, I can't decide whether to be happy or sad. After all, I've just been questioned about a guy who's getting charged with a crime he didn't commit. And I know that for a fact.

Since I'm the one that committed it.

I light another cigarette and turn around without another word, disappearing onto the bus with only my thoughts for company.

The next morning when I wake up, the first words out of my mouth are, “The video?”

America doesn't even look up at me, keeping her eyes on the Facebook page she's perusing, making sure there are no nasty comments left for us, no negative reviews, no perverts. America likes to make dirty things clean. Good for her.

“Do you honestly even need to ask that question?” she says as I stare at the back of her neck, at the freckles that crawl out of her shirt and into her hair. I look at them for awhile and then pop the top on a can of beer. I don't tell her thank you or anything like that, just turn around and start back towards the shower.

Hayden beats me to it and tosses her dirty tank from last night at my head. I bat it away with a growl and narrow my eyes. She's standing naked and proud in front of me, arms crossed under her small breasts, and doesn't even give a shit that Kash is watching her from his place on the bunk next to me.

“Heard about your troubles last night,” she says and I come
this
close to punching her in the nose. She has a small one that's sort of upturned with tiny nostrils that float too high above her thin lips. If I were gay, I'd much rather fuck Blair than Hayden. I reach into my bunk and pull a box of cigs out from beneath my pillow. Not responding to Hayden is probably the best thing I can do. After all, she's the one I told everything to back then, the one that encouraged me, the one that watched from the closet and absorbed my secret, ate it up and saved it for later, so she could throw it up in my face. God, I can't even believe we used to be friends.

“And?” I ask, trying to sound bored. If she knows I'm annoyed with her, she'll get worse. Always does. At least she doesn't know
that
secret, the Turner one. She has no idea that we ever slept together, that I was ever pregnant. Thank God. The bitch is bad enough with one secret under her belt; two would kill me. Or her. Yeah, probably her. Not that I like to make a habit of it. In fact, murder is sort of something I'd never like to repeat. The blood doesn't just stain the hands; it stains the soul, too.

“Seems like you might want to be extra nice to me right now, don't you think?” I stare at her, but I don't say anything. She swipes some hazelnut hair over her shoulder and gazes at me with the big Bambi eyes that make men (and women) go nuts. Hayden nibbles her lower lip. “I mean, I'm just saying, the cops left a card and said to call them if anything came up. Since they're investigating a murder, I thought maybe – ”

I cut her off by flicking cigarette ashes at her feet.

“Fine. I get your point. What do you want now?” When Hayden smiles, slow and wicked as sin, I know I'm in trouble. Whatever it is she's going to say is going to push me over the edge and into the frothing waters of hell. Fuck.

“Turner.” That's it, nice and simple. Kash grunts and pulls his curtain up, giving us some semblance of privacy. Can't say I blame him. He hates Turner; every guy here hates him. It's just a simple fact of life on the road with Indecency. He probably hears chicks arguing over Turner Campbell a dozen times a day. You know those fucking horrible T-shirts? The ones that say
Mrs. So-and-so?
Well, Indecency's merch stand sells tanks with Mrs. Campbell on them. Get the point?

My answer, short and just as simple. “No.”

She leans back and looks me up and down, sizing me up although she knows good and well how far she can push me. She's been doing it for years, ever since we got Amatory Riot together. I should've never gone back to Tulsa, shoulda kept running and held my head low.

“Oh?” I can't explain my answer to her because I can't explain it to myself either. I could give her Turner. I mean, all I need to do is spend five more minutes with the man, let the cat out of the bag, and watch him shift gears real, real fast. Instead, I just stand there and smoke my cigarette. Gray swirls fill the small space, get caught against the black curtains that cover the bunk beds and sneak into the open door of the bathroom. “Really? Tasted something you liked?” I look at her, and all I can think about is Hayden and Turner fucking, and then I just want to hit something
hard.
I keep my fingers relaxed and my face stoic.

“I won't try to stop you if you're going to pursue him,” I tell her, and that's the God honest truth. I won't. Why bother? Even if I was interested (which I'm not), then blocking Hayden wouldn't do me any good. Turner has to learn to say no to temptation or that fantasy family he's dreaming about will never happen. He's weak willed, I think. That's his problem. He wants and wants and wants, and he gets so much that he's never figured out how to just say no. “But I'm kind of working some shit out, and he's a part of it.”

Hayden's blue eyes go wide and she crosses her arms behind her head, giving me a full body shot of her curvy figure, her trim waist, the little rose tattoo under her belly button. Even with me, she can't help herself. She has to flirt and flaunt because that's what she does best. Sometimes, I almost feel sorry for her.

“So he knows?”

“Goddamn it, Hayden,” I snarl, letting my temper slip a little. “Of course he doesn't.” She laughs, and the sound isn't pleasant, not in the least.

“Then you won't have a problem handing him over?” I make a face at her and cross one arm over my chest.

“Hand him over?” I say, disturbed that she even thinks I have that ability. “To hand him over, I'd have to have some sort of claim over the guy, and I can assure you that I do not. You want me to play handmaiden for you? Fine. I'll cut your steak into little pieces and wipe your ass, but if it's Turner you want, you'll have to figure out a way to get him yourself. Grow some balls, Hayden, and do your own dirty work.” I reach under the waistband of my jeans and snap my thong at her, spinning away without another word and storming into the front of the bus, frustrated that we're on the move.

I run my hand through my air and take a deep breath.
One thing at a time,
I tell myself, wondering if Eric really is going to get pinned with his parents' murder. It would be a load off my shoulders, that's for sure, and I wouldn't even feel all that guilty about it. He knew what was going on with his sister, and he didn't do a damn thing to stop it. I did. That was me. And if I had to make the choice again, I'd still do it. A good person escaped that situation and two bad ones died. Me, I consider myself a neutral, so I guess I'm still in the gray. I wonder if there will ever be a tipping point for me.

Thirty seconds later, I remember the date and my mouth goes dry and my throat closes up.

March 15
^th
.

Shit. I was so preoccupied with secret number one that I forgot about … My stomach churns like crazy and my hands start to shake. Happens to me every year. I get overwhelmed with could-haves and might-have-beens and my whole life starts to seem like one big fraud, like I'm not really living it, like I'm just existing. And it's not just the baby, and it's not just Turner. It's everything. Just everything.

“Dax,” I say, and he snaps to attention like a shoulder. I realize then and there that he's really into me. It's hitting him hard, I see. Where before he tried to play it casual, now he's up in arms. He rises to his feet and takes a step towards me. When I spin to face him, I don't smile. Don't want him getting any ideas. “Can I borrow your phone?”

He frowns.

“To call Turner?”

“Does it fucking matter?” I snap at him, and snatch the phone away violently when he hands it over. I storm into the back, not caring that I'm probably waking Blair and Wren, and step into the second bathroom, plopping my ass down on the toilet lid. It's only then that I realize I don't have his number. That it was blocked, unlisted. Jesus Christ.

I slam the screen of the phone into my forehead, and let the empty beer can fall to the floor at my feet. Reaching behind me, I flush the toilet to get some privacy and practice the words that are floating around inside my skull. When we get to Reno, I want to make sure that I'll still be able to say them.

“Turner,” I begin, and I glance up sharply, seeing my reflection pale and frustrated in the mirror that hangs from the back of the door. My eyes are huge, not scared, but nervous maybe. Just a little bit. The question isn't why, because I know that answer somewhere, deep down. It's how come? How can I still be into Turner? How can I still care what he thinks about me or what he has to say? How? How? How? “Turner,” I start again, and I don't let my voice get dry or crack, don't let my emotions break through the perfect mask I've plastered over my face. “Turner, there is no kid because there was no baby. Six years ago to the day, I had an abortion.”

I spend the rest of the day moping around the bus, tapping my index finger to my lips, nursing a six-pack and an entire carton of cigs. Dax offered me some stronger stuff, but I don't think it'll help. Somehow, I imagine that any advanced narcotics I choose to partake in will only exemplify the feelings churning in my gut. Right now, I need to deal, and I need to do it with as little help as is humanly possible. I have to figure out how to get through this.

See, this abortion is both a big issue and a nonissue for me. Do I regret it? Hell no. Do I feel remorse about it? Fuck yeah. And I blame Turner. I blame him for leaving me alone with a decision I wasn't ready to make at all, let alone by myself. I blame him for seducing me, for preying on my infatuation with him. And the whole condom thing? Yeah, maybe I should of checked, but I was losing my V card to a rock star, and I was not quite seventeen, and he, he was the one that should have taken care of that.

I crush my empty beer can in one hand and toss it into the trash. Seconds later, Blair rescues it and moves it to the recycling bin. I ignore her. I ignore everyone, even America when she starts to bitch about practice and how lax we've all been. Fuck, she should just be glad I'm even functioning at all. Last year, I just laid in bed and watched Indecency music videos. Yup, I'm a glutton for punishment.

I crack the top of my next drink and try not to imagine what it would be like to have a six year old right now. I figure that it'd be just like it is now: a perfect blend of heaven and hell. Life likes to be balanced, you know? Things can't all be rosy and cheerful. I smoke my cigarette and pace back down to the end of the bus, pausing to glance out the windows on either side.

As the highway flashes by in stretches of pavement and metal, I think about how I felt when I pissed on that goddamn stick way back when. Adoption was never an option for me. Call me selfish, but it was my way or the highway. Maybe that's because I know firsthand what it's like to be adopted – or not. If I put someone in this world who had to experience even half the shit I did, I'd never forgive myself. So yeah, I guess I know where Turner's coming from. I wonder then, how he'll feel when he finds out. I want to believe that that arrogant, cocky, son of a bitch will be happy, glad he's free of baggage, but I know otherwise. Turner
wanted
that kid. Why? I have no fucking clue. To put together a perfect fantasy family? To soothe his own insecurities and shortcomings?

“He should just go knock up one of his groupie bitches,” I whisper under my breath, pressing my forehead to the glass of the window and letting my lashes kiss my reflection. I don't think what I did was wrong: I was seventeen, pregnant, homeless. And my hands were covered in blood, both literally and figuratively.

I killed my foster parents. Both of them. While they were sleeping. Some mother I'd have made.

I think that's what makes this day hurt so much. I lost a possibility, a chance at something different, because I was too damaged to even give it a shot. My birth parents, whoever the shit they were, fucked me; my adoptive parents screwed me; the foster system destroyed me. And Turner? He was just icing on the friggin' cake, baby.