Real Ugly

by C. M. Stunich

  Shit.

  Even sober, Turner Campbell still recognizes me. My face at least, if no longer my name. As hard as that is to believe. I saw it in his eyes. I knew taking that jacket over there was a mistake. I should've just thrown it away. Then why didn't you, Naomi? Did you actually want to see him? I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair. Watching him onstage last night wasn't the smartest move to make. It almost made me forget, and I can never, ever let that happen.

  “Thanks for last night,” Hayden says as I walk past. She's leaning against the side of the bus smoking a joint and wearing a purple jersey that does nothing to cover her small tits or her lacy panties. She doesn't even care that half the roadies have hard-ons, and the other half are trying to melt her with laser-eyed glares. I snatch it from her lips and throw it to the ground, pulling the door to the bus open and hopping up the steps. “Hey!” she shouts, way too slow on the uptake. She drops to her knees and digs around the shrubs for it.

  “It's seven o'clock in the morning, Hayden.” She doesn't remember last night at all which is a fucking blessing. She'd either be furious about fucking Turner or ecstatic. Frankly, I'm not sure which and that scares me. Nobody bothers to fill her in.

  I pause in the kitchen and stare at Kash and Wren slumped over bowls of cereal, milk dribbling from their chins as they scoop soggy bits into their mouths and focus on the wall with twin zombie stares. Looks like I'm the only one who didn't have a good time last night.

  “Was he as pleasant this morning as he was last night?” Dax asks, scooting past me and diving into the cabinets above the stove. I stare at his shirtless back and try to focus on the words etched along his shoulder blades. Born to Bleed. I lean against the counter and close my eyes. I guess there's no sense in pretending, but I do it anyway.

  “Who?” Dax snorts and slams the cabinets closed, taking a bag of pretzels along with him as he spins to face me.

  “Turner. Who else? You know, I had no idea how easy it could be to hate someone. What a fucking entitled asshole. He thinks because he dropped a couple hundred thousand albums that he owns the world?” I shrug and pretend I'm not interested in this conversation. I can't be. I don't have time for this. I've got better shit to do. Like write new music. God knows I'm the only one that'll fucking do it.

  I open my eyes and look up as Hayden stumbles onto the bus and glares at me, flipping me the bird before retreating into the back and collapsing onto her bunk. Hey, she can hate me all she wants, but I need her to sing tonight. And as long as I don't push her too far, our secret is safe. With a sigh, I push myself forward and head off in search of our manager. She's great at composing Tweets, starting threads, and blogging about us, but when it comes to real life shit like making sure we get to our next gig on time, eh. I could do a better job. I check the bunks in my search for her and come up empty-handed. All I end up finding is Blair jacking herself off which actually doesn't interest me much. She's a pretty girl and all, but I was born with this horrible affliction that leaves me attracted to men. Why haven't they invented a cure for that shit yet? Check the facts. It's the world's deadliest disease. I kid you not.

  I slip out the front door and narrowly manage to miss an argument between the boys. Could be about politics, religion, or whose cock is the biggest. I don't fucking give a shit. All I know is that it's the last thing I want to get in the middle of. I'm in a bad friggin' mood today. I knew this tour was a bad idea. Only two weeks on the road and you're already losing it. You thought keeping your distance would keep you safe? Hah. You were wrong, Naomi. Dead wrong.

  I pound down the steps and let my eyes sift through the crowd carefully. The parking lot's finally coming alive, drawing partiers out of the woodwork just in time for them to remember that they actually have jobs to do.

  “Naomi.” It's America. Good. Found without a search. I turn to face her and notice that her smart phone isn't glued to her face like usual. Immediately, I suspect that something's wrong and narrow my eyes.

  “What?”

  America pauses a few feet away from me and draws a tablet from her purse, sliding her fingernails across the screen without taking her gaze from mine.

  “I've got some good news and some bad.”

  “Bad first,” I spit, letting my eyelashes flutter closed for a moment. A cigarette makes it out of my pocket and into my mouth, crackling nice and pretty with hot, orange light. America watches it with unveiled disgust, but doesn't lose her white-toothed smile. I stare at her, tearing her apart with my eyes, trying to figure out what would convince a Harvard grad to take up managing a rock band. I mean, it's not like the woman went all buck wild and dyed her blonde hair black, painted her nails with tiny skulls, and started sporting plaid minis. She still wears dark slacks and cream colored blouses, slicks her hair back into severe buns, and uses only neutral eye shadows. She looks and acts the part of a stuck up lawyer, but she isn't one. I mean, yeah, she passed the bar exam and all, but other than a brief internship, she's never practiced.

  She stares right back at me and never flinches; the locks remain tight and the chains wrapped. Whatever secrets America is hiding will remain in the dark. Unlike mine, apparently.

  “I got a little home movie sent to me last night. I was going to show you then, but when I got back to the bus, I found you in a bit of a sticky situation.”

  I blow smoke out and huff at her.

  “Sticky situation? The only thing that was sticky was the cum Blair and I had to scrub off of the carpet. The shit that was going down wasn't mine.” America blinks at me, but remains stoic. Her white, white skin glows with well placed spots of blush and the best moisturizer money can buy.

  “Really? How odd then that I'd receive this the very same night that Turner Campbell made his debut on our bus.”

  The tablet is handed over to me, and I watch as I reach out and grab it with sure fingers. Whatever this is, I can handle it. I can handle anything.

  I spin the screen around and watch the video.

  Seconds later, I'm around the back of the bus throwing up.

  I can handle anything. Anything except this.

  My secret.

  Well, one of them anyway.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask America as we sit on the bus and sip coffee. We're over two hours behind schedule, but nobody can find Turner Campbell and much as I hate the stupid fuck, the circus can't leave without its ring leader. I'm kidding myself if I don't acknowledge that at least half of the fans that show up to our gigs are there not just for Indecency, but for the lead singer himself. He practically fucks them with his voice, splits their souls in half and enslaves him. I hate him, yes, but I cannot, cannot, cannot deny that.

  “What you really mean is, does this change anything?” America holds her mug in two hands and sips carefully, letting the Brazilian blend sit on the back of her tongue before she swallows. Her knuckles are bare except for a silver wedding band. America is single. I don't want to know what that means. “And no. It doesn't.” She sets her cup down and drums her fingertips on the tabletop. “Not unless you want it to. This changes nothing for me.”

  “But you're a lawyer.” Her lip curls, and I can tell that I've said something I shouldn't. Oh fucking well. What's new? “Shouldn't you be … I don't know. Calling the cops or something?”

  America laughs, and it's dry as hell. As arid as the fucking desert we're getting ready to travel through. She clacks her pretty pearly whites together and scowls at me. It's the first time I've ever seen an expression like that on her face, and it throws me off.

  “I can forgive a lot, Naomi. A lot. But don't act like you know me.” America slams her palms on the table and stands up. Before I can even get a grip on the situation, she has her phone at her ear and is screaming something into it. I set my coffee down and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Okay, Naomi, let's get the facts straight. America saw something that should have her turning your ass in, and instead, she's mad because you called her out
for what she is. Or what she should be, I guess is the right way of phrasing it. Um, what the fuck?

  “Why are we still here?” Hayden asks, sliding back the pocket door that separates the bunks from the kitchen. “Shouldn't we be on the way to San Francisco already?” I lean back and kick my boots up on the table.

  “San Diego, sweetie. We're already in San Francisco.” Hayden narrows her eyes at me and watches as I light another cigarette and put it in my mouth. It's the least horrible vice I have, so I embrace it. Two packs a day keeps the shrinks away. “Remember? We played The Pound last night.”

  “Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, Naomi,” she says, tucking some of her brown hair behind her ear and blinking at me through gobs of dark eyeliner. She's smeared so much across her blue eyes that she looks like a robber. In a lot of ways, she really is, so it suits her I decide.

  “Why not? That's what you are, isn't it? Only seems fitting.” I give her a tight-lipped smile and stand up, moving to the window to flick back the curtain. If Turner doesn't come back soon, I'm going to go after him myself, and God help me, he'll wish his return had been voluntary.

  A hand sweeps my hair back and lips kiss my ear with poisoned words.

  “You're getting awfully arrogant these days, Naomi. Think you're good enough to play for God now?” I continue to smoke my cigarette and I don't pay Hayden any never mind. I know how far I can push the bitch, and I'm not there yet.

  “Did you send it?” I ask her casually, curling my fingers around the counter. If she did, I'll know, no matter how she responds. A quick glance over my shoulder shows me Hayden pouting her lips in the reflection of the oven. She isn't even listening anymore.

  Good.

  Then it wasn't her.

  Fucking question is then, who was it? Nobody knows but us, just me and the bitch herself. And America. And whoever sent it.

  Fuck.

  “We made it up, and we played it through, and our lives were never. The same. Again.” Hayden sings the lyrics to our most popular song and, like with Turner, I almost forget for a moment why I hate her. Then I turn around and see her shaking her ass and grinding her crotch up and down the fridge door while she searches for a drink, and I remember nice and quick. God, I wish you would just fucking disappear, I think as America returns from wherever it was that she went.

  She looks at Hayden for a moment and the corner of her mouth twitches just so.

  “Turner's back,” she says with her toothy smile stuck back across her lips. “With his majesty's blessing, we can now get this show on the road. Oh, and Naomi?”

  I put my cigarette out in a glass ash tray and look her right in the face.

  “Yeah?”

  “Earlier, I forgot to tell you the good news.” America fetches a pair of sunglasses from her front pocket and slides them up her perfectly straight nose. “The charges against you have been dropped. Looks like you're going to get away with murder.”

  Naomi Isabelle Knox. Lead guitarist for Amatory Riot. Twenty-three years old. Hot as hell. Mean as sin.

  I ask around; I get answers. What can I say? I have a face that's hard to resist. I spend the majority of the drive stalking her online, scoping out pictures on her band's website, raiding their Facebook page, scanning their blog. Naomi herself doesn't have an online presence for shit. All the info I've got on her is generic and unhelpful. I know that we've met before, and I'm determined to find out where. Don't know why I'm so obsessed with it. Maybe I'm losing it one fucking binge at a time, but that's okay. Live fast and die young, right? I want to leave a beautiful corpse.

  I stuff my phone into the pocket of my jeans and stand up, slipping out from behind the table and making my way to the back where there's a small sofa and not much else. Hey, it's nice, but it's still a fucking bus. Might be a long way from the yellow piece of shit I used to ride to school, but that doesn't mean it's a friggin' mansion.

  Ronnie is laying on his back, shirtless, sleeping away a hangover that makes my migraine look easy. He's been really into dropping acid lately, so I figure that's probably it.

  “Hey bitch.” I poke him with my boot. Ain't no way I'm touching that motherfucker. Let's just say that Ronnie isn't as discerning as little old me. Turner Campbell never forgets to bring balloons to the party, if you catch my drift. Ronnie … well, let's just say that half his fucking check goes to child support. The asshole has like, four kids or some shit.

  He groans and turns away from me, burying his face in the red leather cushions, probably drooling all fucking over them, too.

  “Get the fuck up,” I command him, planting my hands on my hips. If you need answers about someone on the tour, just ask Ronnie. He's either fucked them, shared drugs with them, or had a fight with them. Probably all three. Ronnie's bisexual, so he makes sure to canvass the entire traveling party from roadies to managers to guitarists.

  “Leave me alone, fucker,” he snarls as he bats his hands at some imaginary someone above his head. I kick his ass, literally. The scenery is fading to black outside and I can tell from Milo's anxiety attacks that we're almost to San Diego. The closer we get to our destination city, the more often he freaks out. Sometimes it seems like Milo Terrabotti has more issues than the rest of the band combined. Either that or the straight-edge little bitch's refusal to self-medicate isn't as pretty a practice as it is a thought.

  “I need some dirt on a chick I met this morning,” I tell him, hoping to grab his attention. Ronnie gossips worse than my eighty year old auntie. “Something about her has got under my skin and I'm itching for a little info here. Think you can snap yourself out of it long enough to tell me her story?” I smile as Ronnie sits up and runs his hand over his pale face. “Besides, you know we've got another show tonight, right?”

  “Another?” he groans as he leans back and lets his mouth hang open wide, flashing me silver fillings. The stubble on his chin and cheeks crawls with shadows as lights flicker up and over us before disappearing into the night.

  “Yeah, man,” I say as I pull out a cigarette and light up real quick. “That's why they call it a tour, you know? You travel around; you play music. Or are you too fucked up to remember that we're chasing a dream here?” Ronnie snorts and snaps his lips shut.

  “Your dream, maybe,” he tells me as he fishes out a joint and holds his hand out for a light. “Whatever it was I was after, is long gone now.” He breathes deep and sighs, slinging his arms up along the back of the sofa, resting his grungy boots up on the table. If Milo saw this, he'd have a friggin' fit. Don't know why he cares so much anyhow; it's my fucking bus. “So, what's this mystery chick's name?” Ronnie lets his shadowed lids flutter closed, and a smile teases the edges of his lips. “And why the hell are you so interested in her? Last time you were this into a woman, you were trying to get the manager of Heartstrings Records to book us.” A harsh laugh escapes my throat as I lean back against the door frame and pull a drag on my cig. “You must be crap in bed because as soon as she banged you, she was up and running like her life depended on it.” Ronnie chuckles and opens his brown eyes. His pupils are so big they look almost black and kind of creepy, surrounded by shots of red veins that seem to pulse in the changing light. Normally, I'd blame that on the drugs, but this time, I think it has more to do with his past than anything else. Poor bastard.

  “Hey, I showed her a good time that night. It was her fucking mistake to leave her phone on the nightstand. Her husband called, and I answered.” I shrug and brush off the past with a wave of my hand. I don't like to live in the what's been; I'd rather live in the now. The what's been wasn't all that great to me, and the now's been like some kind of fucked up fairytale. I sing; I sell records; I own the fucking world. The one thing I always wanted, I've got: respect.

  Except from that girl.

  Even thinking of her now is getting my blood hot and my fingers tight. I squeeze my cigarette hard and try not to let her get to me. It's hard though; I can still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek, see the disdain
in her eyes. I grind the cherry of my cig into a glass ashtray and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Naomi Knox,” I say, and I watch as Ronnie's face registers the name. His mouth twitches and he scratches at the snake tattoos that crawl out of his shirt and around his neck.

  “Huh.” Just that one word. Now I'm even more intrigued. Ronnie's staring out the window with a wistful expression, letting his joint dangle from his lips while he thinks. His Terre Haute tee is stained with sweat, and I know it's just a matter of time before Milo bursts in here and starts shouting about appearances and image and all that crap. Me, I've already showered and done my hair, applied a slash eyeliner around my eyes, and slipped into a black tee with a bleeding heart on the front. I've got on a new pair of jeans and a custom pair of hi-tops in solid black with our band logo on the side. Ronnie might not have a problem going onstage looking like he just stepped out of his double wide, but I do. I already lived a major part of my life doing just that. I've got money now, and fame, and respect, and I want to look the part. “Yeah, I know a little about Naomi Knox.”

  “A little?” I ask, leaning forward a bit. I feel like a kid sitting around a fucking campfire, waiting for a ghost story or some shit. I get pissed off all over again and lean back with a scowl. Ronnie smirks at me.

  “Damn, Turner. You really are all wrapped up in this, huh? Something happen that I should know about it?”

  “Do you know something or not?” I snap at him, feeling these little lines of fire open up in my veins. My blood gets hot, and I have to squeeze my fists tight to keep from getting angry again. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I get, and the last thing I need to be doing right now is starting some kind of shit with another band.