Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (13 page)

“Bit of shopping never killed anyone,” I say, but inside I hear a different story.
But a tight tongue can, a little lie, a friendly smile.
I snatch a white shirt with a purple fairy on the front, holding it up for Ronnie's inspection. He simply shrugs. I add it to green dress and keep going. Things are going all peaceful and domestic when Cohen decides to walk in, ruin it and fuck up my day.

“Lola,” he says, and he doesn't try to hide the disgust he feels for me in his voice. “I want to talk to you for a minute.” This isn't about Tyler Rutledge or even Ice and Glass; whatever it is that he wants, it's strictly personal. Even though we're not together anymore, he tries to treat me like his whore. I won't put up with it. Enough is enough. I rub my arm, remembering my tumble down the stairs and my jaw gets tight with anger.

I curl my fingers gently around Lydia's and guide her away from Cohen and the smell of cheap booze and man perfume. The asshole layers it on like it's fucking pixie dust or some shit. No amount of smelly
sex machine
spray will ever take away that slight tang of desperation that clings to him like dryer static. Cohen Rose wants to be Turner Campbell so bad it's not even funny. Thing is, he never will be. He doesn't have charisma or a heart of gold buried in bullshit; he doesn't even have
talent.

“I'm a little busy, Cohen,” I tell him, looking up to find Ronnie with a frown on his face. I try to pretend that everything's okay, sliding clothes around, squinting at ugly floral patterns.
Little girls aren't all born with glitter shooting out of their assholes. Some us have personality, thank you very much.
I grab a black lace dress that might possibly be something that was intended for a funeral and keep that.

“Yeah, well, that's your problem. Get your ass out here.”

The woman behind the counter jumps like she's been slapped, and I see her hand hovering hear the phone on the counter. Ronnie remains perfectly still, clutching the rocker baby shirt in his hand. I focus on him, fighting the urge to retreat to the bathroom and drink some more. It'll help me feel better, but it won't get me out of this situation, out of any situation. I'll still be a murderer in a band full of murderers, and my heart will still be permanently damaged.

“I think she already gave you her answer,” Ronnie says calmly. He doesn't sound pissed or aggressive, just contemplative. “You're welcome to leave now.”

Cohen stares at him with a stupid facial expression, something akin to what you'd expect to see on a retarded Chihuahua. He sniffs and runs a hand through his bleach blonde hair. A while ago, not as long as you'd think, it was dirty blonde and kind of scruffy. It gave him this look that just made girls smile, this sort of lost-boy-save-me thing. Now, he just looks like a Ken doll, straight down to the blue contacts he's wearing in his eyes today. I switch my gaze to Ronnie, to his dirty white tank and his muscular arms, the rose tattoos on his bicep. He's so fucking raw, untouched,
human.
Without realizing that I'm doing it, I take a step towards him.

“What do you have to do with any of this?” Cohen asks him, and I can almost see his mouth twitching with secrets. When he smiles, they cut up his face and make it shatter into a cubist painting, something with sharp lines and weird eyes. I look away, heart pounding.
Is that what I look like? Is that what I'm going to look like if I don't put a stop to all this?

“Check this,” Ronnie says with a sigh, yanking up his pants and marching across the clothing shop in three big strides. He's so fuckin' tall. I love it. Long legs, good hips, a nasty freaking rhythm. I shiver. I don't want to have to get into anything with Cohen here, not with Lydia watching, so I'm pleased that Ronnie's taking charge. I hope he asks him to leave for the sake of his daughter or some other noble shit. More nobility in the world? Now isn't that a thought. “You can either walk out of here now, or I can drag your ass out kicking and screaming and
then
I'll beat the fucking shit out of you. How does that sound?”

Cohen wets his lips, his tongue like a fat pink salamander poking out of his mouth. He's getting ready to say it.
Oh, God, no!
I scream inside my head.
Don't take it that far. Not just out of some stupid need to boss me around. It's not worth it. The pain you'll cause
isn't
worth it.

The world around me goes silent. I see Cohen's mouth move like a cruel joke.

“Heard a rumor about you, that you're such a fucking loser because some Asian chick you were banging got cut in half.” Cohen draws a line across his midsection. “Sliced up like a fuckin' steak.”

I bend down and pick up Lydia, who through some cruel joke of fate is laughing at a butterfly decoration that's hanging from the wall. I press her body against mine, holding her tight, and watch over her shoulder at a soul stripped bare with nothing left to lose.

Ronnie's whole body is stiff, not slumped like it usually is. A muscle in his upper back twitches.

“You listening to me, faggot? Or maybe you don't care about that bitch anymore. Too busy sucking roadie dick, I hear.” Cohen flashes me a smile that I think he believes I'll find charming. I've never seen anything more disgusting in my entire life.
Ridiculous cad.
Ronnie stands there staring for a minute and then reaches down, grabbing onto the hem of his shirt. Up it goes, over his head and onto the floor. His muscles stand out sharply against his pale skin, a perfect canvas for the tattoos on his chest and side. My mouth might've watered just a bit there.

“What the hell?” Cohen asks, wrinkling his nose up and backing towards the door. “Are you fucking nuts?” Ronnie sniffles and cracks his neck, letting his head fall back while he takes a deep breath. When he drops his head back down, he has an angry smile on his face. It's like a slash of fire in the snow. My eyes widen and my knees feel weak from a rush of hormones.
Holy hot shit. Hellllooo, Ronnie McGuire.

“Watch the rings, babe,” I say, figuring out far before Cohen ever does that he's about to get his ass kicked. And from a guy who usually drags around his very own storm cloud. How poetic. Ronnie lifts a hand to acknowledge me, and his smile gets just that much wider.

The bells at the front of the shop jingle and Treyjan Charell walks in, eyes widening when he sees his friend standing shirtless in the front window of a children's clothing store. Not an easy thing to explain, that one.

“Ronnie, shit,” he says, biting his lip and lifting his shoulders up to his ears. “Dude, don't. It's not worth it, man.” From the way he's staring at his friend, I'm guessing this is something he's seen before. The missing shirt must be a dead giveaway.

“Take your shirt off,” Ronnie says, face still, voice low and dark. Cohen gives him a once-over that says he's not impressed. But he should be. Ronnie's got a nightmarish pall hanging over him right now. That bottled anger is just
waiting
for any chance to pop out and tell the world how pissed he is, how unfair life is, how fucked over he's gotten by fate. Cohen “Chode Holder” Rose is about to get a tiny taste of it, just a driblet.

But it is going to
hurt.

“Why?” he retorts, feeling threatened more by the guy at his back than the one in front. Treyjan, however, simply steps aside and leans against the wall with a sigh. Ronnie adjusts his pants and meets Cohen's eyes, holding him there.

“Because I wouldn't want you to get blood on it.”
Hold, two, three, and … four.
Ronnie closes the distance between the two of them in a split second, snatching Cohen up by the front of his black
A Good Girl for Every Bad Boy
T-shirt. He walks them backwards and then shoves Cohen through the door, sending him stumbling across the pavement until his back slams into a silver SUV. I watch through the window, hands shaking, desperate to go out there but unwilling to make Lydia suffer through anymore traumatic events than I already have.
You're a bad person. One that's even worse than most because you can't and won't accept it. That's the scariest fucking thing there is.

“He only goes shirtless for the good stuff,” Treyjan says, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and smiling at me. He moves out the door before the shop owner can focus her screeching on him. She's yelling something about the fight, and the police, and hoodlums, but I'm not really listening. I dig around in my jacket pocket, come up with a couple twenties and toss them onto the counter.

“Keep the change, okay mate? G'day.” I pause. “Oh, and calm the fuck down.” I flip her the finger, run over to Ronnie's shirt and grab it. By the time I get outside, the boys have already migrated down the street a ways. And it's not because they're locked in mortal combat, no. Cohen's trying to make a run for it.

“Fucking psycho!” he's screaming, blood pouring from his nostrils in two miniature waterfalls. Ronnie's not running after him, just walking, moving like a fucking predator who already knows he's caught his prey. When he catches up to Cohen again, Ronnie grabs him by the shoulder and flips him around, shoving him up against the wall of a nearby building. All around us, people are starting to stare. Unlike the whiny pussy bitch running the clothing sore, it only takes them a second to start making connections. After all, we're less than three hours away from Oklahoma City.

“Is that … ” a girl with a shopping bag starts, stops, licks her lips and gets out her phone. “Is that Ronnie McGuire?” she asks, tilting her head to the side like she can't quite possibly be seeing what she thinks she's seeing.

“Who?” her friend asks, squinting.

“The drummer,” Shopping Bag Chick replies, exasperated. “From
Indecency.
Duh.” The friend's hands clamp over her mouth and she lets out a little shriek that kind of makes me want to strangle her with the skanky panties she's got sticking out of her jeans. “Don't just stand there, film it!”

I ignore them and take off running, heels clacking along the pavement, baby clothes flapping on my arm. Lydia's still laughing which is a freaking miracle. I don't know what I'd do if she was bawling her eyes out over this. I keep my hand on the back of her head to keep her from seeing what's going on down the block from us. Seeing Daddy beat the ever living shit out of some scum bag might not be the best way for the two of them to get acquainted.

I pause a few feet away, next to Treyjan. He's just standing there, smoking a cigarette, completely unconcerned. I mean, I won't say I'm not enjoying watching Cohen get what he deserves, but there's already a crowd gathering around us. As soon as they see Lydia and figure out who she is, they'll be swarming. This kid doesn't need reporters. What she needs is her dad.

“Here,” I say, knowing that Ronnie trusts his bandmates completely. Treyjan stares at me like I'm crazy. I just sigh and snatch his cigarette away, tossing it on the sidewalk and putting the baby in his arms as gently as I can. He takes her, but he doesn't look happy about it. “She's just a kid, don't be a pussy. And she doesn't bite.” I pause, tossing a glance and a wink over my shoulder. “Hard.”

I take off towards the two men, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Fuck, it's not easy to run in heels. Fashion over function I guess.

Right now, Ronnie's on top of Cohen punching the fucking shit out of his face. He's not holding back. The muscles in his arms are quivering, and his face is stoic, frozen and far away, like he's not even here anymore. The crunching sound of his fist hitting Cohen's nose, lips, jaw, it's painful just to hear. I've got to stop him before he takes it too far, before there's no coming back. Once you cross that line … something happens inside. I can't describe it, but it feels like I'm rotting, pieces of me blackening and dying every damn day.

“Ronnie!” I scream, grabbing onto his neck, tossing my arms around his throat and pressing my lips against his ear. “Ronnie, can you hear me?” He stops swinging and for a second just sits there like a statue with Cohen groaning and writhing underneath him, bloody and bruised and quivering. I think I even smell piss. The fucker's gone and peed himself.
Pathetic.
“Ronnie, come on, your daughter needs you.”

“Asuka,” he whispers, and the word is so powerful it hits me like a train. Angels would weep for this man if they heard him speak her name again.
Asuka.
Ronnie's my target, the one member I'm assigned to make suffer, to bring down as low as I can get him. He doesn't have to die, not like some of the others, but they want him smashed and destroyed. They want me to take whatever's left of his soul and grind it to dust beneath my heels.
They. They. They.
But not me. Not me.
I can't go through with this.

“Ronnie, come on, we've gotta go.” He lets me pull him off Cohen and wrap my arm around his waist. I can't even enjoy the feel of his body against mine. The weight of his emotions, the weight of mine, they're mixing together until I feel like I shouldn't even be standing, that I should just collapse to the ground and let myself go. But that's never really been my style.

“You okay, man?” Treyjan asks as we pass, turning on his heel to follow us. Ronnie doesn't look at him, doesn't even look at his daughter. He's in a completely different world right now, one where we're all just distant dreams. For him right now, it's just Asuka that he sees. There's blood on Ronnie's face and neck, blanketing his tattoos in a thin layer of crimson that drips down his chest with the beads of sweat that are cutting pathways across his skin. At least none of it's his, not that I can tell.

I guide him down the street and to the doors of the café where Turner Campbell sits pouting, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at the street with eyes that promise there really is some sort of intelligence burning there. Who knew the rock star was a real boy, huh?

When he sees us, his eyes get huge and he shoves his chair back, limping to his feet and scrambling around the table towards the door. He's got a pair of shades pushed up on his forehead and a baseball cap covering his hair. No, not
a
baseball cap.
The
baseball cap. The one I had to find by searching through old pictures of Travis Gaborone.