Real Ugly

by C. M. Stunich

  “Cool your jets, Turner. I said I know a little.” He pauses and smokes for a minute before continuing. “I'm guessing you already know the basics, so I'll skip right to the good stuff.” Ronnie smiles. “Naomi Knox is your typical disgruntled foster kid. She doesn't have any family, blood or otherwise living, and she started playing guitar when was thirteen. She's a big fan of Monster energy drinks, and she won't fuck anybody on tour – not a manager, a roadie, or even a fellow musician.” Ronnie pauses and pulls the joint from his mouth with one hand while he tugs on a black plug in his ear with the other. “That's not to say she's a vestal virgin or anything like that. I've seen her bring people back to her bus.” Ronnie pauses again and a grin splits his face. “Not like you though, Turner,” he amends. “Nobody's as a big a fucking whore as you.”

  “Hey, thanks for nothing,” I tell him, flicking some cigarette ash at his face before I start back towards the front and bump into Milo. He looks me up and down, and I raise my brows at him. Guess he decides that I look okay and doesn't start any shit, scooting back, so I can slide past him.

  Well, fuck. I feel like I know even less than I did when I started. I wanted a full history on this girl, and I got a smattering of useless fucking facts. Fine. That's fine.

  A smile breaks my lips as I glance out the window and see the welcome sign for San Diego. Time for me to do a little digging. When I'm done with this girl, she won't even know what hit her.

  I pull out my phone and dial a number.

  As we roll into San Diego, I get a phone call.

  I grab a quick glance at the screen and see that the number's blocked. Not a good sign. I reject the call and slip it back into my pocket.

  A notebook lies open in front of me, filled with scribbled, black drawings of wings and crying faces, swaying trees, and grinning demons. Whenever I can't write, I draw. Someday, maybe when I finally escape from Hayden's shadow, I'd like to draw our own cover art. I look up at the bitch in question and send her a silent fuck you. She's got on another of her Hot Topic outfits today – a black corset with buckles and a pair of designer jeans that came pre-ripped. I want to tear her red stilettos off her feet and stab her in one of her too blue eyes.

  “Got anything yet?” she asks me, like I'm some sort of lyrical machine. Hayden likes to play front woman and bask in the glory of masturbating boys and jealous women, but she doesn't do shit for this band. I mean, I'm sure her time is so much better spent taking topless photos for Tin Dolls Magazine, but it would be nice if she actually contributed something other than her tits and her voice.

  “No.” I don't justify her actions by saying anything aloud. Seems like Hayden will go out of her way to piss me off. Whenever I've voiced my displeasure, she seems to get worse, so I've learned to keep (most) of my thoughts to myself. I drum my fingers on the table and pull my phone out when I get another call from the mystery number. Reject, again. I slam the screen down on my notebook and slide my hands over my face.

  “Are we there yet?” Dax asks, appearing in the kitchen dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts and a sheen of droplets from the shower. Hayden watches him like a hungry lioness and licks her lip, but he ignore her.

  “Thirty-two minutes and counting,” America says without ever pausing in her frenzied texting spree. “Get dressed and be ready to go. Thanks to Mr. Campbell, we're running horribly late. We'll be lucky if the venue even lets us play our set.”

  I sigh and pick up my pen, brushing ink across the blue-lined pages. Pen and paper are so much more inspirational than electronics. I find it unbelievable that anybody gets anything creative done on a computer. I like to cross words out and draw arrows and kiss the page; I like to feel the words under my fingertips, pressed so hard into the paper that they've let deep grooves. I think the day handwriting disappears for good is the day humanity is really and truly fucked.

  Another call comes through from the mystery number, and I answer it.

  “Who the fuck are you and what the hell do you want?”

  “Wow. Your foster parents never taught you any manners?” My heart catches in my chest.

  “Who the fuck is this?” I repeat, my pulse racing in my veins. America's pried her eyes from her iPhone and is staring at me with a frown on her face. She can tell something's wrong. Luckily, everybody else in my band is a fucking idiot and doesn't notice the sweat on my forehead or the quiver in my voice. The other person on the line has to be the one that sent me that video. Who else would call and answer with such a cryptic message?

  There's a long span of silence and then a deep exhalation of breath, like whoever's on the other end of this line is pissed off.

  “This is Turner Campbell.”

  Oh.

  I frown, but at least my heart can stop trying to explode from my chest. America stands up and moves over to me, holding out her hand for the phone, but I shake my head. I got this, I mouth at her.

  “How the hell did you get my number?” I snarl at him, feeling horribly violated. I want nothing to do with this man, haven't wanted anything to do with him since he left me after taking my virginity. And the worst part of it all? He doesn't even remember doing it. I feel sick. What's that old saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? I used to worship Indecency, Turner in particular, and now … even the sound of his voice gives me chills.

  “The Internet is a beautiful, beautiful thing,” he responds, and I can hear the smile taking over his voice. This man flips moods like a picture book. One page, a smiley face, the next, a frown. That's dangerous fucking behavior. Besides, the deeper he digs, the more likely he is to hit things long buried. I want my secrets kept six feet under, thank you very much.

  “Leave me the fuck alone, you psycho stalker,” I say and draw the attention of everyone on the bus. Hayden swoops in close and tries to listen while Blair gives me a sympathetic smile from across the room. I hear Turner scoff and then the call ends abruptly. A few seconds later, it rings again, and I answer with a, “What, you didn't get it the first time? I said to fuck off.” I swear to God, I can hear his jaw clenching, can practically see veins bulging out of his throat. I bet he's all red-faced and pissed, just like he was the night that he saved my life and fucked me both at the same time.

  “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “That's what I have a manager for. Call her. Milo's got her number.” I get ready to hang up again, but pause when Turner laughs. It's too cruel, and it makes my toes curl and my body heat up from below. I am so screwed if that little sound can get my pussy pulsing and thrumming like a good bass line. I should be immune to this shit by now.

  “Oh, this isn't about music. This is personal. Come out for drinks with me after the show tonight.” I frown and my body goes from hot to cold in a New York minute. I don't like the way he's talking to me. He's not asking; he's telling. I hate being told what to fucking do … I get enough of that from Hayden. But then, is he the one that sent the video? I mean, I can't outright go and ask him, but it would make sense based on the timing, especially if he knows more than he's letting on about what happened between him and me.

  “Give me one good reason why I should go out for drinks at two in the fucking morning with some asswad who cares more about his eyeliner than he does about the women he sleeps with?” The phone goes dead silent, and the only sound is Kash's laugher ringing out from behind the pocket door to the bunk beds. I bet he's just eating this shit up.

  “You really are a frigid bitch, aren't you?” he asks me which just makes me want to go all buck friggin' wild and take his head off with my guitar. They don't call 'em axes for nothing. “Come out with me tonight.” He pauses. “Or don't. Your choice. Hope you make the right one.”

  And then he hangs up on me and doesn't call back.

  That son of a bitch.

  I set my phone down with a trembling hand and try to puzzle out what's going. Either Turner's just being an asshole or he knows. Do I take a chance on that?

  “Who was that?” Hayden ask
s, tossing her hair over one shoulder with a flick of her red fingernails. She smiles down at me with a wicked look that makes me stomach twist uncomfortably. No matter if Turner knows or not, Hayden does for sure, and I can never, ever forget that.

  I stand on the right side of the stage and watch Terre Haute finishing up their set. They're good, but not good enough. I bet they won't last out the year. I pull my cigarette from my mouth and toss it into a nearby trash can. Not normally a good idea, but I'm not the only who's done it, so I figure it's alright.

  My eyes dart around, searching for Turner with each flick across the room. I've been expecting him to come after me this entire time, but he hasn't set foot off that ostentatious fucking bus of his. I wonder what he's doing there, if he even cares that we're about to play in front of a few thousand people. Maybe that's small fucking beans to him now; I don't know, but what I do know is that if I see him before I go onstage, that I'm going to be wrecked. And I don't want to be. I don't like to get trashed until after I've played.

  “Oh God, I'm so nervous,” Hayden says, stretching her arms above her head and not looking at all like she's ever been nervous about anything. She says this before every show, no matter the size of the crowd. I think she believes it makes her seem more down to earth. It doesn't. “We are so fucking going to rock this,” she continues, talking just to hear herself speak. The rest of the band sticks to their vices and I'm pretty sure I see Kash and Dax buying acid from a trashy looking dude in a skirt.

  I tug my ripped T-shirt down in the front and don't bother to fix it again when it rides up. I've worked hard to have a stomach worth showing off and I didn't get a tattoo below my belly button to keep it hidden. I trace my fingers over the angel wings and mouth the words that rest between them. Real Ugly. That's life. Fucking hideous and hateful and bloody. I wish I could see it otherwise.

  “Don't let it get to you,” America says from behind me. I jump a bit and almost knock over Terre Haute's front man, Rook Geary. He glares at me, but doesn't say a thing, sliding around me and disappearing into the darkness outside. The roadies rush the stage like fucking Oompa Loompas, dancing around and dragging equipment away, so they can set up for us. I almost feel sorry for them, but then I remember that half of them are here so they can fuck and buy drugs on a daily basis. Fuck them.

  “Let what get to me?” I ask, but I already know what she's talking about. That damn video. That damn ass motherfucking video. I cannot even imagine who recorded it or how or why they've waited all this time to scare me with it. The events that took place on that screen happened when I was sixteen years old, and I just cannot figure out the time lapse. Unless, of course it was Hayden. Coulda been Hayden.

  I watch her giggling and flirting with Dax, and I still find that pretty hard to believe. She might be a crafty bitch, but she's a crafty bitch without a brain. Still equally as threatening as whoever sent the video, but incapable of subterfuge.

  “If you ever need to talk … ”

  “Yeah,” I say as I take out another cigarette and find myself left with an empty pack. Fuck. I toss the box in the can and light up. “You're probably the last person I'd come to.”

  “Good,” she says without even a hint of a smile. “Because I was going to tell you not to come to me. Talk to Blair.”

  “Hah. Thanks, America. Perfect fucking advice.” I take a long, hot drag and let my head hang back, blonde hair teasing the bare skin of my shoulders. I can't imagine spilling my guts to anyone, let alone America. Even the thought of pouring my heart out makes me shiver.

  I lift my head up and watch as our equipment is dragged out and positioned just so. Dax's drums in the back. Blair's keyboard on the right, just behind Wren's guitar. Kash's bass goes on the left side of the stage next to my Wolfgang. And Hayden, of course, goes right in the fucking center.

  I close my eyes for a moment and tune out everything – the crowd, Hayden, America. When I play, I dive so deep into myself that I come out the other side a different person. So introverted that I'm extroverted, you know what I mean? No. No, of course you don't. Nobody does, and that's always, always, always been my problem. I take a little note from Turner's book and throw some arrogance and swagger into my step before I move out, stepping over duct tape and cords, past the set list that's been stuck to the ground near my feet.

  There's a crowd out there somewhere, a big ass fucking one, and in the back of my mind, I know that they're cheering for us, for me maybe, calling out the names of songs, pulsing and throbbing like a heartbeat. I sense them, but I don't see them; I don't hear them. My fingers slide under the guitar strap and lift it over my head. Settling that comforting weight over my shoulders makes me feel like I'm right where I was always meant to be. My hand slides up the neck and my fingers kiss the strings.

  This fucking guitar costs more than any car I've ever owned, and I think I'm in love with it. Hell, I have more feelings for my Wolfgang than I've ever had for a living person. Call me cold if you want, but my guitar's never let me down. People have. You do the math on that one.

  This baby lets me take my low E string from an E note to a D and back in a flash without having to retune. It can cry like a baby and scream like a devil; it's got angel wings and horns both, and it'll kiss you at the same time it fucks you. Not many dudes can top that, right?

  I close my eyes again as Hayden's voice switches gears in an instant – from wannabe rock star to freaking rock goddess. I don't know how she pulls it off, but when she's onstage, I forget to hate her so much. She's got lungs for days and a set of pipes that remind me of an old-timey organ mixed with the screech of eighties hair metal. I don't ask how that's even possible, but I do my best to enjoy it.

  I let Hayden's voice in, but I refuse to accept anything else, continuing to block out the crowd while I find myself somewhere deep down and drag her screaming out the other side. By the time my fingers begin to move across the strings, I've got a smirk on my lips and a pair of dark sunglasses on my face. Don't know where those came from, but who cares? I could play in the dark; I could play blind. I don't need to fucking see to know that I'm rocking the crowd's collective face off.

  I keep my gaze narrowed to a pinpoint in front of me, locking onto Wren as he swings his head down and smashes the stage with his feet, further riling up the sweaty, heaving mass in front of us. Hayden's already got them in a frenzy, sliding her fingers down her belly and teasing the edge of her pants. She knows how to put on a show; that's for sure. Lucky for us that most people think she's the hottest fucking piece of shit on two legs. In a genre dominated by cock, we've got the one thing that lets us breakthrough the walls of a stubborn crowd – a sexed up leading lady. I'm not proud of exploiting Hayden, but she seems okay with it, and I'm the first to take advantage.

  “Forget,” Hayden breathes, kissing the microphone, sucking it back with a heavy breath. “Forget me forever. I've destroyed you one too many fucking times.” Her chest rises and falls as she moans into the mic, drawing cheers and swirling up a mosh pit below the stage. Arms and legs fly out and flail about, lost in an ecstasy that transcends the physical and pulls the spirit out through your fucking nostrils, a modern day mummification through sound.

  “Bleeding, broken, buried beneath,” I growl into the mic stand, doing my best to harmonize with Hayden and not overpower her. A part of me wishes I could, that I could take over the stage and stand under that spotlight, woo that crowd, bring them to their knees with my voice. The rest of me knows that'll never happen. I don't know if I've got the strength to spill my guts on stage like that. The guitar is hard e-fucking-nough; it teases the soul and nips at the spirit, but when I'm standing back here, I can at least pretend they don't see me open and bare before them. Ignorance is bliss, right? “Torn and trembling, take me in your arms, but know that it'll be the last time. The last. The last. The last FUCKING time!” My scream echoes out and paralyzes the crowd, sliding through the gray matter between their ears, soaking in, tainting them with my poison.

&n
bsp; Wren slides across the stage, and I move to meet him. We're just two dancers joining up for a waltz, spinning in circles with our music, stepping into one another and moving back. Our spines line up and we sink into that shit, fucking our guitars and grinding them into their crotches as we bleed pain and suffering and longing into the crowd. It's my music after all, so it's just reflecting what's inside. Hayden might sing it, but it belongs to me. Me. Me. Me.

  Through my sunglasses, I see a face just offstage, hiding in the shadows with a smirk.

  Turner. Turner fucking Campbell is watching me screw this crowd with my axe, and I can't breathe. For a moment, I'm afraid my fingers are going to slip, and I'm going to blow this whole gig, but the inner me, the one I dragged out, turns up the notch on my smirk and slides my tongue across my lips. Oh my god! What the hell am I doing? I flick it out and suck it back in, melding into Wren, sliding against him like we're screwing back to back. And I don't even like the guy. I don't like either of these guys, but I can't stop myself. The music's taken over me, and will do what she fucking pleases.

  I watch Turner watching me, and see that his brown eyes are glittering dark, like a night sky filled with stars. It's so off-kilter with his personality that it really throws me for a loop. Once again, I find myself having trouble hating him. Seem to be having a lot of trouble with my loathing abilities as of late. Guess when I get onstage, I am just fucked.

  Our duet ends and Wren pulls away leaving me cold. And in the middle of an impromptu solo. Shit.

  Luckily, Amatory Riot has functioned as a unit long enough for the others to follow me, modifying our song right then and there. The crowd goes fucking wild, and the air escapes my lungs. The lights overhead shift and I find myself bathed in color. My eyes shift to search for Turner again, and I'm glad I'm wearing these shades. If he knew I was looking for him, I'd never live it down.

  A gasp goes up on my right and Turner appears out of nowhere, snatching my mic from its stand and grabbing Hayden around the waist. He makes a little come on gesture at me and then leans forward and grabs my lips with his.