Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (3 page)

“Listen here,
mate,
” I hiss, tapping Cohen's forehead with the black metal bottle. “If you touch me again, I'll cut your fucking hands off while you sleep. And probably your dick, too, if I can get the stomach to touch it again.”

“You are dead, bitch,” he growls back and lunges. I don't hesitate in pressing the red button down and spraying that worthless dog in his buggy eyes. He screams and drops to the carpet, flailing like a roach and kicking the railing with his boots. “Whore!” he screeches as I cluck my tongue and slip on my shades. It wouldn't do to get any of that garbage in my eyes.

I step over Cohen and turn around, letting a frown pull at the corners of my lips.

“Guess I'm not the only drama queen in residence,” I say. “Nice performance. Bravo.” And then I spin away before the tears can fall. I'm over Cohen, but it still hurts. It'll never stop hurting. I know that.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I fly up the steps and into the hallway, taking off at a run that leaves me panting and dripping snot down my face. I'm tough, I know I am, but sometimes, it just doesn't feel like it.

When I step into my hotel room, I find a note on the side table. It's from our sponsor, I know it is. Who the fuck else would be sending me a letter? My dad's back in Queensland convinced I've lost my damn mind, and my sister's off in France pretending she likes being married to a man that makes cheese for a living.

“He came by to see you,” Honesty says as she sits down on the edge of the bed and gives me a tight-lipped smile. Her green hair hangs in wet sheets around her face as she runs a comb through the smooth strands and rocks back in forth in time to her favorite song,
The Bird and the Worm
by the Used. We've probably listened to it a hundred times since we got to Oklahoma. It's not that I don't like the tune, because I do, but Goddamn, I'd like to smash her computer and flip on the fucking TV for a change. I could use a useless distraction. Maybe a reality show about girls fighting over the world's largest dick or something like that.

I sigh and plop down on my own bed, putting my face in my hands. I don't bother to hide the wet streaks on my cheeks or the snot clogging up my nose. Honesty's seen me at my worst and while I wouldn't call her a friend exactly, she's not half-bad at keeping secrets.

“Keep the door locked,” I tell her and she grunts noncommittally. I glance up and slip my sunglasses off, sniffling and wondering why, why, why I was too stupid to stay away from abusive pieces of shit. I'd rather suck on Honesty's bloody tampon than deal with this crap anymore. It's just getting old, seriously fucking old. Mom must've started some sort of Stockholm syndrome thing with me. Maybe I like getting treated like moldy shit on the bottom of a hog's heel? Maybe that's my thing?

I pinch my skin and wish the snarky bitch facade I put on for Ronnie was real. I'd like to be a better woman, a stronger woman.
And that's why you're doing this. Once this is over, you can have everything. Everything. Fucking everything.

“Tyler was – ”

I cut Honesty off.

“Don't call him that,” I tell her. The man with the azurite eyes and the pale lips is a demon in disguise. The others might not see it, but I do. When he comes around, I go away. I don't like him, not one bit.
And yet you're his bitch. Funny how that works, isn't it, Lola?
“Mr. Rutledge. It's Mr. Rutledge.” I refuse to call that devil by his first name. We aren't on easy terms, in my opinion. I won't go casual and forget where I am or what I'm doing.

“Okey doke, Ms. Fancy Pants McGee.
Mr.
Rutledge was here earlier looking for you. He has some more things he'd like to go over.” Honesty stands up and sweeps her hair on top of her head, stabbing it through with a decorative chopstick. The lizard tattoos on her back smile at me with soulless eyes as she slips her shirt off and flashes me her tits. Honesty doesn't have any sort of filter. Neither do I, fortunately, or I might be offended when she strips off her fuckin' knickers. “It's about the new album.” She pauses and looks up at me. “Or so he says.”

“What's wrong with the new album?” I ask. I didn't write any of the music, none of us did, but when we looked over it as a group, we all agreed it was good. Maybe good enough to take us that extra step, drag us just a little closer, close enough that when … when it's all said and done, we'd be gods.

A fist pounding at the door makes us both jump.

“You stupid bitch. You open this fucking door, right now!” I ignore Cohen. He can stand out there and scream his black, rotting heart out. Nobody will care. This floor is made up entirely of the bands and our crew; the hotel staff knows better than to interfere.

“How the hell should I know?” she asks as she steps into a pair of black pajama pants and turns to the mirror for her nightly tit check. Honesty's convinced that she has breast cancer, and makes me check her boobs at least twice a week. “I'm just the bassist.” She spins and nearly puts my eye out with her friggin' nipple.

I lean back on the bed and rest my spine against my bag. I wish I could open it up and change out of these tight pants. Most women will deny it, but if you wear shit like this for too long, your vag starts to sweat like crazy. I'd like to put on a pair of cotton undies and hit the sheets, but I'm afraid to open my suitcase. This happens to me every night, but I can't stop it. I can't seem to get rid of the source of my fear. I want to, but I can't.

I lick my lips and turn around as Honesty crawls onto her bed and collapses. I doubt she has hers anymore. I bet I'm the only one who has it.

I take a deep breath and pull a bottle of vodka out from the front pocket.

Yes, I have a problem. I admit it. At least I'm not eyeballing it. Yet.

I take a swig and grab the zipper. Chills slither across my skin as I remember that night. I'd do anything to forget, but I know that'll never happen. I could be eighty with Alzheimer's and I'd never forget.

The zipper comes undone, inch by painful inch. And inside, lies the source of my fear.

Inside, lies a mask.

Lola Rubi Saints. Grew up in Giru, Queensland, Australia. Twenty-two years old. Plays drums for Ice and Glass. Has a tattoo of a pretzel on her right ass cheek.

I know who she is. I just forgot. Or rather, I was having trouble putting a name to that face. That beautiful, fucking face.

I bite my nails and lean back against the headboard. Lola Saints. God. Did she really give me a blow job or was she pullin' my chain? I can't figure that out. That, or her. I know she broke up with Cohen Rose just after the tour started and that he was abusive. Yeah, I'm still the Goddamn gossip king. Was she really interested in him, or was she interested in me?

I smile.

“Dude, are you even fucking listening?” Turner asks, putting his hands on his hips and blowing hot air in my face. Naomi left a while back, but he refuses to leave me in peace. Turner slaps the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “We have to figure this shit out before Naomi fries.” I look up at my friend's face, concerned with something other than drugs and sex. It's mind blowing. We've known each other for
years,
and I've never seen him like this. It gives me hope, it really does.

“Why don't you just spell it all out in case the cops are listening?” I ask him, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. I'd kill for a line of happy dust right about now. I slap my hands on my face and drag them down. “We've got to lay low and let the cops pin this all on Katie Rhineback. That's the only way we're ever getting out of this shit hole.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“I'll ask around and see what everybody knows, but I don't think anyone saw. Don't you think if they did, that they'd be all over that? Ever heard of blackmail, Campbell?” Turner purses his lips and huffs angrily.

“There's more to all this than just a crazy fuck out for revenge.”

“Yeah, I know, but we're not going to get anywhere with that until we get out of this. Baby steps, buddy. Baby steps.” I rise to my feet with a groan and stare at myself in the mirror. I'm lucky as hell. The drugs haven't ravaged me the way they've done to some of my friends. My face is still reasonably smooth and my teeth are all there. Good for me.

You don't need drugs, Ronnie. You have me.

I touch a hand to my chest and try not to collapse to my knees. Why? Why do I have to hear her voice in my head every fucking day? It's not enough to kill her in a car accident, to sever her body in half and toss pieces of her across the road like a broken doll. No. The universe just wants to fuck me so hard that I split right open and break.

“You alright?” Turner asks, even though he knows I'm not. I haven't been right for ten years. Yeah, okay, so some people will tell me to get over it, but real grief doesn't disappear. You can hide from it, but it'll always be there. How am I supposed to get over the love of my life? The person who touched my soul and made me realize what it was like to truly live? They say move on, but that's only because they don't understand. They can't possibly.

“I'm fine. Go back to your room and leave Naomi alone.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I turn to look at him. “Seriously. Give the girl some space, Turner.” He flips me off and turns away, but not before pausing by the door. I know he doesn't like leaving me without a roommate, but Jesse's disappeared, and I'm kind of happy about that. It'll give me some time to collect myself.

And maybe wander off in search of Lola.

I don't know why, but I feel guilty about wanting to seek her out. I know Turner wouldn't care. Everybody knows I sleep around, but … this feels different. I can't place my finger on it, but it's there.

“You wanna do some blow or something?” he asks, and I shake my head. I turn back to the mirror and lean forward, rubbing some excess eyeliner away from my eyes. There are massive black circles, hiding underneath a thin layer of makeup. I've had them for years.
Years
. I'm just chronically tired, I guess.

“I'm going straight-edge,” I tell Turner, and he laughs. I don't blame him. He has every right to doubt me. Even I doubt me.

“I'll believe it when I see it,” he says and then opens the door. There's a moment of silence and then I hear him say, “What the fuck are you doing?”

I turn around to find Milo with a little girl in his arms and a white as cock face.

“Who's the kid?” Turner asks as my heart stops in my chest and my blood goes cold.

The little girl's covered in blood and shaking like an addict on their first day sober.

The little girl.

My
little girl.

I know what a dad should do. Or at least I know what mine would do. He'd march across this room and take the girl in his arms, hold her tight. I know that because I had a fucking awesome dad. It's a wonder I turned out as shitty as I did.

“There's … been an accident,” Milo manages to stammer out, shifting the girl from one arm to the other. Lydia. Yes. That's her name. This little red-headed girl is Lydia. I hate to admit that I've only met her once. Instead of running across the room and checking her for injuries, brushing her hair back from her face and asking if she's alright, I stand there like a tool and lean against the dresser for support.