Real Ugly

by C. M. Stunich

  C.M. Stunich

  Sarian Royal

  Real Ugly

  Copyright © C.M. Stunich 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  ISBN-10: 193862355x (eBook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-55-4 (eBook)

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  "Optimus Princeps" Font © Manfred Klein

  "El&Font Gohtic!" Font © Jerome Delage

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  for the world's coolest cats,

  in no particular order. you may not have fur, but you still rock the alley.

  Jennifer Martinez, Leanne Jacobson, and Marlena Fein.

  thanks for being wicked awesome.

  There's a metamorphosis happening right before my eyes. I'm watching a devil shed its skin, shrink its horns and grow wings. The dark haze in the air is lifting, banished by the bright lights of the stage. Even metaphorically, a trick like that is hard to pull off. I'm impressed. Or I would be if I didn't hate the asshole so much.

  “He looks like a fucking angel,” I whisper as I sip my beer.

  “What?” Blair shouts, cupping her hand around my ear. I swipe some hair away from my face and lean over, so that she can hear me above the booming of the bass. It pounds down through the wood of the stage, into the concrete, and across the floor where it catches on the rubber soles of my boots and ricochets up through my bones. If I close my eyes, I can see it tainting my blood, forcing my heart to pump faster and faster, until I feel dizzy from the beautiful poison in the air. The phrase slaying the crowd wasn't made up off the top of someone's head; if the fucks on stage do it right, it really does feel like the music is killing you softly.

  “Turner Campbell,” I yell back at her, my lips brushing against the small, black plugs in her earlobes. “He looks like a fucking angel up there.” Blair leans back and raises one pierced brow at me. Her blue eyes say that I'm full of shit. I take another sip of cool, cool amber and watch as she turns her heart shaped face to the stage. Her gaze rakes Turner from head to toe and then slides across the heaving, thumping crowd, landing right back on me.

  “A fallen angel,” she shouts. Pauses. “Maybe.”

  I shrug and ignore her pointed stare, watching Turner as he moves across the stage, lights glistening off the blue-black highlights in his hair and making him look like he has a damn halo on his head. His brown eyes scan the crowd, catching on faces and holding them as he purrs into the microphone and caresses it like he fucking owns it. I bet every bitch in here can practically feel his hands on her body, taste his tongue in her mouth. What am I shitting myself for? They've probably all had a nice, big slice of the real thing anyway. Let's just say that Turner's reputation proceeds him.

  Devil.

  I have to remember that he's not just a devil, but The Devil.

  I take another sip of beer and try to focus on something else – the crowd of people clusterfucking at the bar, the mosh pit up front, Blair's white feather eyelashes. Nothing works. My gaze finds Turner Campbell again and stays there, focusing primarily on his lips and the words that tumble out of them.

  “What the hell did you do to leave me broken, barren, and bleeding? What gave you the fucking right?” Turner sucks in a massive lungful of air, blowing his hot breath across the microphone and breaking my heart with a single gasp. I'm not alone. The crowd starts to hum, men and women alike pulsing with the heat and the energy of the song. Goddamn, that's good, I think as I allow myself to sink against the cool concrete of the back wall. Doubt those lyrics are his though. Fucking hypocrite. Just yesterday I walked in on Turner fucking a roadie over a PA speaker. When he saw me, he just pulled out and left the girl there with her panties around her ankles. She cried for a half a fucking hour. Devil. I want to hate him, but it's really hard from down here. I like it better when I'm backstage, when I can look at him hitting on groupies and roadies, watch him running his fingers across the lips of a dozen girls in a dozen cities. It's a lot easier to hate him that way. How am I going to make it through six months of this?

  I finish my beer and push away from the wall, dropping the empty bottle on the edge of the bar before sneaking out a side door. My hands slide across a collage of torn stickers and scribbled Sharpie as I heave the heavy metal out of my way, snatching one last glance before I go at the lead singer of Indecency. Sweat slides down the tattoos on his neck and soaks into the fabric of his black T-shirt. Ironically, it's one of ours. Amatory Riot. I doubt he even really knows who we are. I bet one his roadie bitches dressed him this morning.

  I drop the door shut behind me, not caring that the sound of it slamming is like a gunshot in the still air outside the Pound. I'm glad our set is over because it would be hard to follow an act like that. No matter what I think of Turner, his band is good. I guess they'd have to be since they're the headliners. Still …

  I put a cigarette between my lips and light up. The tangy coastal air feels good against my moist skin and the breeze smells like salt, waking me from the buzzed trance I was nursing and thrusting me back into the real world. Not always a good thing.

  “Hey, Naomi,” a voice calls out from the end of the alley. I don't turn my head because there's only one person I've ever met that sounds like a demonic version of Mickey Mouse. “Hayden got drunk and vomited all over the bathroom. There's like three inches of fucking puke in there.” Wren pauses next to me and tucks his skinny hands into the front pockets of his acid washed jeans. “It smells like tequila and it's making me sick.” I take a drag on my cigarette and close my eyes. The music from inside is drifting through the walls and poking the bare skin on my arms like a chorus of needles. I sigh and flick my smoke to the grimy cement.

  “So clean it up,” I tell him as I crush the butt to ashes with the toe of my stiletto boot. “I'm tired of being Hayden's bitch.” Wren watches me, but doesn't say anything else. He knows I'll do it. That I'll walk in there and pick our lead singer up off the floor, wipe her down and strip her naked, put her to bed and tell her a goddamn fairy tale. I'm no stranger to cleaning up Hayden's messes. I just have to get my head in the right place before I do it. Wren shifts his weight to the side and continues to stare. “Fuck, don't just stand there and stare at me. You know I'll friggin' do it. Gimme a minute, why don't you?”

  I turn away and start down the alley, back towards the front where bouncers in black shirts wait, passing around a silver flask and sharing a joint. They know me, so they don't say anything, just watch as I step into their circle and reach out my hand. Both items make their way to me quickly.

  “I love your shit, Knox,” says a man with bright blue eyes and a tattoo of a dragon curling up his left arm. I swig some of the alcohol from the flask. Ugh. Cheap whiskey. I wipe my hand across my mouth and hand it the person standing next to me.

  “My shit?” I ask as I pinch the joint between my fingers and slide it into my mouth. I take a nice, long drag and wait for the smoke to fill my lungs and cloud my brain. I can't look at Hayden if I don't get fucked up first. Ever since that day, the sight of her makes me sick to my stomach. God, I hate that bitch.

  “Your music. It's good shit.” I blow white smoke into the air and smile with tight lips.

  “If you ever call my music shit again,” I say as I pass the joint to dragon-boy. “I will kick your fucking ass to the curb.�
�

  I make out with dragon-boy for awhile and stop just short of second base. He seems pretty pissed off, but I'm not a fucking whore, and I'm just not that into sex right now. My head feels light and fluffy, like it's been stuffed with cotton, and I'm having trouble walking. I have to stop in the alley and sit on the dirty cement, so I can take my stilettos off. It isn't easy to navigate in four inch heels, especially with the alcohol and the THC roiling around inside of me.

  I throw the leather boots over my arm and stumble back to the bus, fully expecting to find Hayden right where Wren left her – drunk and drowning in puke. When I open the door, I get a whole other story.

  “Right there, baby,” Hayden is growling, hands curled around the edge of the countertop. Behind her, Turner Campbell is thrusting his dick like he's in a fucking marathon or something, gripping her skinny hips with white knuckles and squeezing his eyes shut tight. He doesn't even look up when I ascend the creaky steps.

  “What the fuck, Hayden?” I ask, but she's so out of it that she doesn't hear me. Turner does, I can tell, but he doesn't respond either. Doesn't stop. The wet sound of their bodies sliding together makes my stomach twist dangerously. Vomit climbs my throat, but I swallow it back. “Hey, motherfucker,” I snarl, forgetting instantly about that angelic presence I saw on stage. It was all a trick of the light, a nice, fat slice of show business that he shoved down everybody's throat – including mine. He's back to being a devil again. How could I have ever forgotten? After what he did to me before, I should slit his freaking throat and toss him out the window, let the stray dogs in the alley finish him off. “Get off of her! She's fucking wasted, you asshole.” I throw my boots on the floor and move forward, putting one hand on Turner's chest and shoving him back. He stumbles and hits the cabinets with a grunt, sliding to the floor with his dick hanging out of his pants and his shirt bunched up around his midsection. Bits of spiderweb peek out at me from under the black fabric of his tee, crawling down and wrapping his cock. He's even got tattoos on the damn thing. You'd think I'd have noticed that before, but I guess I was too busy getting my cherry popped to think about much else.

  “What the hell?” he moans, putting a hand to his head and rubbing at his forehead with fingers wrapped in ink. When Turner pushes his hair back, the edges of star tattoos wink at me from his hairline. He's obviously trashed as shit, too, and doesn't make even a halfhearted attempt to stand up on his own. I roll my eyes and ignore him, throwing an arm around Hayden's waist as she tilts to the side and threatens to topple over. I don't have much love for the bitch, but if she dies, Amatory Riot is pretty much screwed sideways. It would be a sort of love/hate thing for me if she were to fall and crack her head open.

  “Goddamn it, Lee,” I growl at her as I drag her boney ass across the floor and kick open the doors to the sleeper section of the bus. Hayden is still covered in puke, so I force her to stumble into the shower and let her slump the floor. I turn the water on cold.

  “Shit!” she shouts, her voice trailing off into a moan. Hayden's head slams into the tile wall and she starts to sob. “What are you doing to me?” she cries as I step back and run a hand through my hair. Blair is glancing at me from her position on the floor of the second bathroom, a sponge in one hand and a bucket in the other. Looks like most of the vomit is gone.

  “Thanks,” I say, but she's already shaking her head, tossing the sponge into the bucket and sitting up. The knees of her jeans are soaked through and her white tee is stained with something questionable. She looks pissed.

  “Don't thank me, Naomi,” she says as she stands up and leans against the door frame, popping a cig in her mouth as she relaxes against the wood. “This is Hayden's oversight, Hayden's tequila, Hayden's mess.” Blair takes a drag and throws the cigarette into the bucket. “Stop taking responsibility for her shit.” I don't respond because Blair doesn't know what happened between Hayden and me. If she did, she'd understand. I don't like her thinking I'm Hayden's lapdog, but what can I do about it? The bitch has shit on me for days. God, I am so super fucked. I shrug and turn around, ignoring the grunts of irritation from the bunk on my right.

  “Fuck you, Wren,” I snarl as I move past him and take note of the other bunk. Looks like Kash is in tonight. What a surprise. Kash is having some kind of fucked up affair with two chicks – the driver for Indecency and the bassist from Terre Haute. He almost never spends the night on our bus.

  I pause in the doorway and stare down at Turner Campbell and his flaccid dick.

  “Get up, Turner,” I bark at him, moving forward and poking his leg with my toes. “And get the fuck out. Go.” He moans, but he doesn't move. I think he's even drooling on his shoulder. Pathetic. If your groupies could only see you now. “Turner. Get the hell off of my bus.”

  “What is your problem?” he whispers, sharp lips barely moving with the words. He sounds lucid enough, but he looks like shit. I put my hands on my hips and try to make a judgment call. It isn't easy with my head swimming like the Northern Pacific. I could go and grab one of Turner's band members, see if they'd come and get him, but I dread going on that bus in the middle of the night. That is, if their stupid ass bodyguard will even let me pass. Besides, the odds of finding anybody in that band that isn't trashed at this hour are pretty slim.

  “Stand up,” I command as I watch his hand travel between his legs, snap the empty condom off and toss it onto our carpet. My lips curl into a sneer, and I end up grabbing his arm and dragging him up off the floor. His skin is hot to the touch and sweaty as hell. Please don't OD on my bus, you stupid fuck, I think as I struggle to pull the world's biggest asshole to his feet. I don't like the man, by any means, but if he dies then I'm guessing they'll probably cancel the rest of the tour, and that would be a big ass, fucking drag for me and my band. Guess the least I can do is prevent him from drowning in his own vomit tonight. If keeping him on his back and wiping dribble from his chin will keep my dream afloat then the rest of the world be damned, I'll fucking do it. I can always take pictures as backup and sell them to the tabloids if everything goes to hell.

  “Shit, Naomi,” he growls, and I drop his arm like it's poisoned. Turner falls to his knees in front of me and leans against the wall, head hanging down between my legs and hands flat on the floor. “Just leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  I stare down at the back of his neck, at the inky paw prints that climb his spine and disappear into his dark hair.

  “What did you just say?”

  Turner groans and lets himself slump fully against the cabinet before he opens his mouth and vomits right past that beautiful, little tongue ring of his. What a friggin' douche, I think, and then before I can stop it, my brain adds, that remembers your name. Hearing the three syllables of my earthly monicker pass through his lips was nothing short of a shot to the back of the head. I didn't even think that he knew the name of my band, let alone mine personally.

  “Ah, shit,” Blair says from behind me, making me jump as she sidles around me and stares down at the growing stain on the carpet. “This is great. Just great. Now we get to drive all the way to San Diego with the smell of Turner Campbell's puke.” She smiles at me with tight lips. “But hey, what's new, right? I feel like we're eternally in this fucker's shadow.” She kicks Turner with the pointed toe of her red heel. “Still think he looks like an angel?”

  I sigh.

  “Just shut up, Blair, and help me pick him up.”

  She frowns at me and tucks some of her blonde and black hair behind an ear while I dig my arms under Turner's pits and try to drag him to his feet.

  “And what, pray tell, are we going to do with him once we get him up?” she asks as she bends down and joins me, tits practically spilling out the top of the tight corset she's got on. All three of us groan as we shift Turner's comatose body between us, leaving his legs dangling on the ground like perverted puppet masters in the world's worst marionette show.

  “Just put him in my bed,” I say as I ignore another pointed stare
from Blair.

  “He's totally out, Mi. I doubt he could even get it up right now.”

  “Blair, seriously?” I ask her as we dump him on the bottom bunk and shove his legs up onto my black comforter. “I'm not even going to respond to that,” I tell her as I hear a whimper from the bathroom and suddenly remember that I've left Hayden in an ice old shower. Oops. Blair and I exchange a look, and she sighs.

  “Yes, I will clean up Campbell's puke as long as you don't start apologizing for him, too.”

  “Fuck him,” I say.

  “Good girl,” she tells me and spins away on her heel while I retreat back to the bathroom and switch off the water. Hayden is curled into a fetal position, sobbing, and while that's not unusual, it's kind of disturbing to watch.

  I grab a towel from under the sink and throw it to her. It hits her in the face and falls to the floor. Hayden lets out a wail that makes my teeth hurt, and I suddenly regret grabbing the bitch before she fell. Should've let her crack her head wide open, I think as I step forward and start to strip her down. She doesn't protest, just flops around limply and lets me tear off her expensive, designer clothing that's supposed to scream 'I'm a rebel!', but instead just makes her look like a fucking tool.

  “Come on,” I say to her as I grab her by the wrists. Don't need any help lifting this bitch. She weighs, like, maybe eighty freaking pounds. “You stupid, anorexic, motherfucker,” I snort as I drag Hayden into the hallway and practically shove her onto the bunk opposite Turner. As soon as her wet head hits the pillow, she starts to snore. I watch her for a moment and turn away, catching a glimpse of Turner's shuttered eyelids and gently parted lips. Believe it or not, he looks like a fucking angel again. I flick one of his lip piercings with my fingernails and move back into the kitchen/living room area with a sigh. The pot and the whiskey have already abandoned me and left me alone with nothing but stark, white reality. “Is it wrong to hate someone so much it hurts?” I ask Blair as she sprays the rug with some sort of organic cleaner that I just know isn't going to work. The last one she used was made out of tropical fruit and smelled like bubble gum; the piss stain on the hallway floor is still there. Enough said.