Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (14 page)

I feel sick.

“What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?” Turner opens the door for us and lets us in, just in time for a group of girls to catch up to us and point their phones like weapons. Campbell sees them and goes berserk, shoving his shades back into place and kicking the door back open. The groan of pain that escapes his lips is almost enough to make me cry.
Ouch.
He stumbles over to the scabby little hos and snatches their cell phones, one by one. “No flash fucking photography, bitches,” he says and then tosses the phones out into the middle of the street. He flips them the bird and then spins right back around and limps inside, locking the door behind him.

The employees in the shop don't seem to mind. They're all gawking and grinning and whispering about us.
Here we go,
I say to myself.
This is exactly what Tyler Rutledge wants, isn't it? This attention, this fame?
I wonder if anyone recognizes me, or if this is all about Indecency. It's always all about Indecency. And Amatory Riot. I try to summon up some of that old anger, that jealousy and ambition that spurred me here in the first place, and I can't find it. All I can focus on is Ronnie's face and the silent tears that slide down his cheeks, slicing through the bloody splotches as they go. He looks like he's in a fucking coma or something, sitting there like that, eyes cloudy and unfocused.

I reach out a hand, and Turner stops me.

“Leave him alone,” he says, scowling at the growing crowd outside the window. This is certainly a different side to the man. I've only ever seen him eating the crowds with a spoon and going for back for leftovers. Right now, he just looks pissed off. “When he's like this, there's nothing you can do. Wait for it to pass.” I look up and see Treyjan staring at me with a blank expression. His mouth is pressed in a thin line, and he's rocking a softly sobbing Lydia. I'm not sure when the giggles changed to cries, but it breaks my blackened, decaying heart. I run a hand through my hair, sliding my fingers through the brunette strands for comfort.

“We should talk to him, try to snap him out of it,” I say, wondering where their ubiquitous manager is now. Off to the shitter, maybe? Seems like the only time he ever leaves the boys to their own devices is when he's in the toilet.

Turner rolls his eyes at me and throws his hands up in the air.

“We've uh, known you for like a day, princess. What makes you the big fucking expert?” I poke him in the chest, right in his stupid pink shirt and lift my chin up a bit. Makes me seem taller, you know? And right now, Turner's towering over me like a grizzly bear. I can see that he loves Ronnie a whole hell of a fucking lot, but just because someone's doing
their
best doesn't mean it's
the
best. Besides, they're men, what do they know about talking someone through their feelings? The guys in this band are the epitome of the socially stunted male that doesn't know how to process his emotions. They've all got three states as far as I can tell: pissed off, horny, drunk. Except for Ronnie. His dark emotions seemed so one-dimensional to me at first. I don't know that that's the case anymore.

“For your information, Mr. Campbell, we met on the third night of this tour. I had too many beers; you had too much cocaine and God knows what else. We fucked on the floor of your tour bus, and then you promptly fell asleep.” I smile at his baffled facial expression, and point at Ronnie. “Two days later, your friend here was stumbling around backstage. I pushed him into a closet and sucked him off, hoping to get a fuck out of the deal. Guess what? I got nothing.” I grab one of Turner's lip piercings and wiggle it around a bit. “So suffice it to say, I've had my eye on you all for awhile. You're emotionally stunted beings, and you could use a bit of help.” Turner smacks my hand away.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he growls, getting up in my face. He lifts the sunglasses up, so I can see his eyes, narrowed and suspicious, zoned right in on me. “This is
my
tour, check the posters, sweetheart. And this, this is my fucking
brother
right here. I don't know what your deal is with him, but I don't like it. Doesn't sit with me right.” He pauses and I can see the next thing he says is hard for him to admit. “The way he looks at you is just … Why do you think I gave him the condom?” Turner sighs and turns away, limping over to a chair and flopping into it, panting. His hand hovers over his thigh as he sucks in a massive breath. I can hear the crowd outside the window multiplying, like a virus or something, replicating, reproducing.

“I don't know what you're going on about,” I start, but our argument's interrupted by the reappearance of Milo, coming out of the bathroom looking like he's about
this
friggin' close to blowing off his own Goddamn head. He pauses next to a glass display full of croissants and looks up, pale face turning corpse white.

“Ronnie took his shirt off,” Treyjan whispers to his manager, wincing like a kid who's about to be scolded by his daddy. Fucking Christ, these guys are all twenty-eight years old. Time to grow a pair of big ones.

“My ex-boyfriend insulted Asuka to Ronnie's face,” I say, and all three of the men turn to me and just stare like I've sprouted horns out of my ass or something.

“Why?” Turner asks, voice quiet as I've ever heard it. It's probably the nicest thing I've heard him say yet. “Where is the little cocksucker? I'll crack his jaw in half, fuck that fucker up so hard, he'll be slurping Jell-O through a tube in his asshole.”

“Too late. He already got his ass handed to him,” I say, wondering what's going to happen to Cohen out there and not really giving a flying rat's ass about it. “The man pissed himself. Doesn't get much worse than that, huh?” I step up to Ronnie, and nobody stops me this time. Milo's too busy turning to the employees and trying to figure out if there's a back door or something we could use. Treyjan's got Lydia, and Turner, he's sitting there with sweat staining his shirt and dripping down the tip of his nose. That gunshot isn't treating him well apparently.

“Won't work,” he mumbles, putting his head in one hand and using the other to flip off the growing crowd. “But give it your best shot. If it does, maybe I'll forget about the key card.”

“I swiped it from your back pocket, you lazy shit. Next time maybe you should pay attention when a woman's groping your ass?” I smile at his baffled facial expression and turn back to Ronnie, pressing my fingers to his temples. He's so tall, I don't even really need to kneel down to gaze into his face. Just a little lean that's probably flashing my ham wallet to all the stupid fucks outside …
Oh well. Maybe this'll grab the top story spot instead.
The thought of seeing Ronnie's miserable face plastered across the web makes me want to cut a bitch. “Hey,” I whisper, running my nails down his skin, tracing the path of the tears that've finally stopped. No response, not even a flicker of recognition. “Oi, you in there somewhere?” I touch his lips gently and then move forward for a kiss. It's pretty fucking stupid when you think about it, but somehow I imagine an X-rated version of
Sleeping Beauty
or something – only
I'm
the fucking prince.

My mouth meets his, and it's like kissing stone. Ronnie just doesn't respond. At first.

I force my tongue past his lips, grab his chin and hold him still while I kiss him with everything I've got. I don't admit it to myself, but deep down I know this is my last chance at redemption. This
has
to work. He has to snap the fuck out of it, and I have to tell him about Shannon, if nothing else. We have to save Shannon. And not just for her (because I really am a selfish prick). I need to prove to myself that somehow I really am special, that I'm not just a farmer's daughter come from nowhere tryin' to make something of herself. I want to do something that'll actually make a difference in this world, if only to a single person. Even if I can do just this for Ronnie, maybe he can find it in his heart to forgive me someday.

I lift a hand up and barely, just barely, put my fingertips against his chest.

With a start and a scrambling of feet, Ronnie is up and grabbing me around the hips, slamming me back into a bistro table. His mouth feeds at mine hungrily, asking, begging,
commanding
something. His hands trace my body underneath my jacket, putting on one hell of a show for the crowd outside. The hard bulge of his growing erection presses against me insistently, demanding the same price as his mouth.

Love.

We're a hell of a long ways off from that, but I can see the flicker of something in the distance. The question is: do I chase after it? And if I do, would I even live long enough to get there?

When the lights in the venue dim, I let my head fall back and close my eyes, waiting for Turner to make his way out to the stool that's sitting center stage. That's right. A fucking stool. That's what you get when you decide to go all
Rambo
and roundhouse kick the fuck out of some glass doors. And with an open wound, no less.
Fucking moron.

I listen to the murmur of the packed crowd, all these people that flocked here to see us even though we're days late and missing half our freaking act.
Shit.
My head is pounding already, and I haven't even started to play. This is gonna be a fun time, oh yeah. I try to wrap my mind around the memories that slide away like fish in a stream. I remember that backwoods bleach blonde piece of trash coming into the store, remember his words cutting me like blades, but I don't know what he said. I don't try to bring that up in my mind though. I'm no idiot; there's only one thing he could've said that would've sent me off the deep end like that.

Asuka.

Fuuuuuuck.

I open my eyes and look back at the audience. My timeline goes like this: scrawny Turner wannabe shows up, Lola is kissing the crap out of me. That's it. My knuckles are bruised to shit, and Milo is freaking out about a possible lawsuit from Cohen Rose. 'S all I know.

“Yo, Wichita,” Turner says, quieting the crowd instantly. The lights are still off and the hush of gossip is clinging to the air like dew to a spiderweb, ready to fall at the slightest disturbance. I'm viral now, how cool is that? My daughter's going to have plenty of memories to cling onto when she grows up. YouTube (or whatever's hot shit at that time) videos of me destroying a man's face while she clings desperately to a girl in a bra and zebra heels. Laughing. Laughing while I pummel some dude because he insulted the one person I ever wanted to be with. I hope she's doing alright with Milo. He borrowed some bodyguards and took her to a hotel just a block away from here. Unfortunately, I ruined the whole purpose of us coming here. We thought we'd outwitted the press? Maybe at first. But not anymore. Frankly, I'm fucking terrified to leave this building. I don't know even want to consider the logistics that'll be required to make that happen.
Hope we don't get mauled by a mob here tonight,
I think.
I want Turner and Naomi to have a real shot at it.
I don't even think about myself.

I refocus my attention on Turner. Without Milo here to keep him in check, there's a pretty good chance he'll make an ass out himself. Shit, what am I even blabbering about? He always makes an ass out of himself anyway.

“So, I pretty much fucking hate you,” Turner continues, swinging the cord of his mic around. I can't see him, but I can hear the sound of it slapping the wooden floor of the stage. Laughter bubbles up from below, pricking my skin like bee stings. Of course they like it. They like whatever he does. He could drop his pants and take a shit right here and they'd fawn all over him like he was the second coming of Jesus. “I'd much rather be anywhere but here, but hey, beggars can't be motherfucking choosers, huh?” The stool creaks as he stands up. Not a good move on his part. He's going to end up with some septic oozing sore that'll take his leg if he's not careful. “I'm going to sing for you, but you have to promise to be good little girls and boys,” Turner hisses this part out and the lights come on slowly, highlighting his blue-black hair, the paw print tattoos on the back of his neck. “Leave my best friend and his fucking daughter alone.”

The crowd explodes like a bomb's gone off, flinging their bodies towards the front of the stage, clambering over one another shouting things like
Let me be your baby mama, Ronnie!
mixed in with the usual
Fuck me, Turner!
. I close my eyes and push their voices out. Can't listen to that shit right now.

“
I've gotta talk to you, Ronnie.
” Lola's voice, the first words I heard when I snapped out of it. “
It's really important.
” But we never did get to talk. There were too many people, too much chaos. Milo basically tore us apart, terrified that Ice and Glass might press charges. When I flick my eyes to the side, I feel like I can see her there, feel her heart beating in the space between us. I have no clue what she'd want to say to me, but as soon as this is over, I'm going to find out.