Real Ugly

by C. M. Stunich

  Aw, shit.

  My mind starts to spin as soon as Dax's lips utter the word police, and then I'm thinking about my other big secret and the dirty mess I made back in Tulsa. The one that was videotaped without my ever knowing it. The one that's sitting on America's iPad ready to be seen by anyone that has access to it. God, I hope she was smart and finally deleted that thing. Strange that it never occurred to me to ask. I've never been good at subterfuge. Jesus and fuck and fuck and FUCK.

  Inside, I freak the fuck out. On the outside, I remain cool as a goddamn cucumber.

  “Why?” The word doesn't come from me; it comes from Turner Campbell. Dax keeps his gaze on my face, but answers the question. He's still wearing the same clothes he had on onstage which is rare for him – normally he makes a flat out sprint to the shower. It's kind of his after show ritual. They must've been waiting for me at the bus.

  “They say they're looking for someone.” Dax pauses and scratches the dark stubble on his chin. I try not to compare him and Turner because that would imply that I'm interested in one or both of them, and I'm not, but it happens anyway, and I decide that Turner has a better chin. It's thicker, more square, but not barbaric. Fuck. My teenage crush on him has come back raging harder than ever, despite the fact that I've already tasted what he had to offer and didn't find it all that great. Plus, he left me knocked up. Not a good way to start a relationship. Turner and I will never, ever happen. I'd rather die first.

  “Who?” Me, this time, asking as if I don't have a care in the world when in all reality, I have two. Two really, really big cares. Felonies actually. I mean, I haven't been charged with them, but why would the police be here looking for me if it wasn't about that? I didn't stab anyone … Well, not recently anyway.

  “Your … brother,” Dax says, and my heart plummets to the dirt beneath my feet. Shit. Dax licks his lips and looks down at the ground with his gray eyes, like two gravestones right there on his face, all the contemplative quiet of the dead right in two round orbs. Doesn't hurt that he has them tattooed all over his arms, two full sleeves of dead people and dead things – ghosts, skeletons, zombies. I try to swallow but my mouth is dry as this fucking desert. “I didn't know you had a brother,” Dax continues, and his voice sounds kind of hurt though I'm not sure why.

  I listen to the sound of the kids leaving in their shitty clunkers, shouting at one another because their ears are too fucked up from the bass to hear anything otherwise. They're sporting our tees and slapping our band stickers on their bumpers, and they think we're just so fucking cool and amazing and carefree, and they have no idea how much shit all of us are in. Being a 'rock star' really just means someone that makes music that fucks up a lot. It's true. Check it in the dictionary.

  “I don't.” My words are calm, emotionless. I want to slip the shades back on, but I'm starting to think I'm using them as a way to hide. And I don't hide. I might fight or I might run because at least with those two options, I'm making a conscious choice. But hiding? It's like waiting around for someone else to make a decision for you. I don't like that. The secrets are bad enough. I try not to look at Turner during this exchange. I was just about to tell him the rest of the secret, just about to clear up this last, little thing and finally be able to wipe this shit from my mental board of things to do. How come bad stuff always seems to happen all at once?

  “Oh.” Dax pinches at the front of his green and black striped shirt and looks confused. “But they said they were looking for an – ”

  “Eric Rhineback?” I ask, and then I take out a cigarette and start walking. Both boys follow me like lost, little puppy dogs. Well, Dax is kind of like a puppy dog; Turner is more like a tramp in heat, searching for a nice, warm bitch. My lip curls. “He was the son of the last foster parents that I had.” I shrug and continue on, rounding the end of the bus and heading straight towards the pair of people in blue uniforms. “Though I'd hardly call him a brother.”

  “Why would they come here looking for him?” Dax asks, making me wonder that very same thing. Why indeed. I don't answer that question, because I can't and instead pick up the pace, so I can get this over with and switch back to Turner and our little problem.

  “Naomi Knox?” one of the police asks as I step up close and flash my ID. I don't even answer the question verbally, just flick my cigarette at them. The male officer, this big, fat dude with a mustache, tries to smile at me, while his female partner glares at me from behind her blonde dike cut. Overcompensating much?

  “What?” I snap because, well, the best way to make yourself look innocent is to act like you could give a rat's ass less about what's going on. I tap the ash of my cigarette onto the guy's shoe. Behind me, I hear Turner and Dax settling in to watch. Obviously, I'm not going to be getting rid of either of them yet. The male officer squints at me like he doesn't quite understand my behavior. I don't smile or apologize.

  “Miss Knox, we're here looking to find out if you've had any contact with Eric Rhineback.” Already, I'm shaking my head. I drop my cig to the ground and put it out with the steel toe of my boot. All around us, people are scurrying to avoid the eyes of the cops, putting halts on their drug deals and switching out joints for cigarettes.

  “I haven't talked to Eric since the investigation,” I tell them, trying to forget what is probably the worst memory I've got next to the whole Turner-baby thing. The angst, the anxiety, the stomach aches. Ugh. If I had to go back to that again, I'd kill myself. When the whole stabbing incident occurred, I almost did. Being scrutinized and torn apart by law enforcement sucks. I mean, I get that they're trying to do their jobs, but shit, the pressure sucks. “Why would he be here? I'm on tour. We barely stay in one place for a day.”

  The male cop nods like he was expecting me to say this, but the female cop is glaring at me and stepping forward like she really, really wants to find some excuse to nail me right now. I stretch my arms above my head and lock my hands together.

  “He's wanted for the murder of Chuck and McKenzie Rhineback.”

  I stare at them both and try not to betray my feelings with my face. I used to be real good at that, but Turner keeps sniffing me out, so I don't know, maybe I'm starting to lose it.

  “Oh?” I ask, trying to sound surprised. “I thought he'd been cleared as a suspect?” Okay, yeah, I'm fishing for information, but who wouldn't in this scenario. The female cop smiles but avoids my question.

  “Well, if you think of anything, you give us a call. His car was spotted on the interstate day before yesterday by one of our patrols. We looked up friends and family that might be in the area, and you're the only possibility that popped up.”

  I scowl.

  “Yeah, well, I'm no friend of Eric Rhineback's.” I shrug and try to ignore the questioning eyes that are burning into my back and front. America is staring at me like I'm about to get a big, fat spanking and get sent to my room without dessert; Turner and Dax are burning me up with questions, and I can't even see them. Jesus. Now, I just want to go to bed. I'd been planning on dropping some acid, but the last thing I need right now is to end up running down the street buck naked thinking the devil's about to stab me with a pitchfork. The LSD will do that to you, you know. Sensing that my answer wasn't enough, I add, “But I'll call you if he shows up.” I think of my phone. “I no longer have a mobile device, so if you're wanting my cell records … ”

  “No need for anything as drastic as that,” says Mustache Cop. “Just be careful. The guy … ” He pauses and looks into my eyes with moist, nervous ones, like he's imagining the crime photos. They're pretty gruesome; once you see them, you don't forget. “He's a psychopath and a murderer.” I nod and watch as America oozes down the steps and schmoozes the shit out of the officers, using her good manners to pick up where my bad ones left off. In her white suit and red heels, she looks like a force to be reckoned with. Good. Maybe they'll think twice before coming out here again.

  I turn around and glance at Dax and Turner. I should finish my conversation, bu
t I'm just not in the mood anymore. Like I said, one secret at a time is all I can handle and right now, I can't decide whether to be happy or sad. After all, I've just been questioned about a guy who's getting charged with a crime he didn't commit. And I know that for a fact.

  Since I'm the one that committed it.

  I light another cigarette and turn around without another word, disappearing onto the bus with only my thoughts for company.

  The next morning when I wake up, the first words out of my mouth are, “The video?”

  America doesn't even look up at me, keeping her eyes on the Facebook page she's perusing, making sure there are no nasty comments left for us, no negative reviews, no perverts. America likes to make dirty things clean. Good for her.

  “Do you honestly even need to ask that question?” she says as I stare at the back of her neck, at the freckles that crawl out of her shirt and into her hair. I look at them for awhile and then pop the top on a can of beer. I don't tell her thank you or anything like that, just turn around and start back towards the shower.

  Hayden beats me to it and tosses her dirty tank from last night at my head. I bat it away with a growl and narrow my eyes. She's standing naked and proud in front of me, arms crossed under her small breasts, and doesn't even give a shit that Kash is watching her from his place on the bunk next to me.

  “Heard about your troubles last night,” she says and I come this close to punching her in the nose. She has a small one that's sort of upturned with tiny nostrils that float too high above her thin lips. If I were gay, I'd much rather fuck Blair than Hayden. I reach into my bunk and pull a box of cigs out from beneath my pillow. Not responding to Hayden is probably the best thing I can do. After all, she's the one I told everything to back then, the one that encouraged me, the one that watched from the closet and absorbed my secret, ate it up and saved it for later, so she could throw it up in my face. God, I can't even believe we used to be friends.

  “And?” I ask, trying to sound bored. If she knows I'm annoyed with her, she'll get worse. Always does. At least she doesn't know that secret, the Turner one. She has no idea that we ever slept together, that I was ever pregnant. Thank God. The bitch is bad enough with one secret under her belt; two would kill me. Or her. Yeah, probably her. Not that I like to make a habit of it. In fact, murder is sort of something I'd never like to repeat. The blood doesn't just stain the hands; it stains the soul, too.

  “Seems like you might want to be extra nice to me right now, don't you think?” I stare at her, but I don't say anything. She swipes some hazelnut hair over her shoulder and gazes at me with the big Bambi eyes that make men (and women) go nuts. Hayden nibbles her lower lip. “I mean, I'm just saying, the cops left a card and said to call them if anything came up. Since they're investigating a murder, I thought maybe – ”

  I cut her off by flicking cigarette ashes at her feet.

  “Fine. I get your point. What do you want now?” When Hayden smiles, slow and wicked as sin, I know I'm in trouble. Whatever it is she's going to say is going to push me over the edge and into the frothing waters of hell. Fuck.

  “Turner.” That's it, nice and simple. Kash grunts and pulls his curtain up, giving us some semblance of privacy. Can't say I blame him. He hates Turner; every guy here hates him. It's just a simple fact of life on the road with Indecency. He probably hears chicks arguing over Turner Campbell a dozen times a day. You know those fucking horrible T-shirts? The ones that say Mrs. So-and-so? Well, Indecency's merch stand sells tanks with Mrs. Campbell on them. Get the point?

  My answer, short and just as simple. “No.”

  She leans back and looks me up and down, sizing me up although she knows good and well how far she can push me. She's been doing it for years, ever since we got Amatory Riot together. I should've never gone back to Tulsa, shoulda kept running and held my head low.

  “Oh?” I can't explain my answer to her because I can't explain it to myself either. I could give her Turner. I mean, all I need to do is spend five more minutes with the man, let the cat out of the bag, and watch him shift gears real, real fast. Instead, I just stand there and smoke my cigarette. Gray swirls fill the small space, get caught against the black curtains that cover the bunk beds and sneak into the open door of the bathroom. “Really? Tasted something you liked?” I look at her, and all I can think about is Hayden and Turner fucking, and then I just want to hit something hard. I keep my fingers relaxed and my face stoic.

  “I won't try to stop you if you're going to pursue him,” I tell her, and that's the God honest truth. I won't. Why bother? Even if I was interested (which I'm not), then blocking Hayden wouldn't do me any good. Turner has to learn to say no to temptation or that fantasy family he's dreaming about will never happen. He's weak willed, I think. That's his problem. He wants and wants and wants, and he gets so much that he's never figured out how to just say no. “But I'm kind of working some shit out, and he's a part of it.”

  Hayden's blue eyes go wide and she crosses her arms behind her head, giving me a full body shot of her curvy figure, her trim waist, the little rose tattoo under her belly button. Even with me, she can't help herself. She has to flirt and flaunt because that's what she does best. Sometimes, I almost feel sorry for her.

  “So he knows?”

  “Goddamn it, Hayden,” I snarl, letting my temper slip a little. “Of course he doesn't.” She laughs, and the sound isn't pleasant, not in the least.

  “Then you won't have a problem handing him over?” I make a face at her and cross one arm over my chest.

  “Hand him over?” I say, disturbed that she even thinks I have that ability. “To hand him over, I'd have to have some sort of claim over the guy, and I can assure you that I do not. You want me to play handmaiden for you? Fine. I'll cut your steak into little pieces and wipe your ass, but if it's Turner you want, you'll have to figure out a way to get him yourself. Grow some balls, Hayden, and do your own dirty work.” I reach under the waistband of my jeans and snap my thong at her, spinning away without another word and storming into the front of the bus, frustrated that we're on the move.

  I run my hand through my air and take a deep breath. One thing at a time, I tell myself, wondering if Eric really is going to get pinned with his parents' murder. It would be a load off my shoulders, that's for sure, and I wouldn't even feel all that guilty about it. He knew what was going on with his sister, and he didn't do a damn thing to stop it. I did. That was me. And if I had to make the choice again, I'd still do it. A good person escaped that situation and two bad ones died. Me, I consider myself a neutral, so I guess I'm still in the gray. I wonder if there will ever be a tipping point for me.

  Thirty seconds later, I remember the date and my mouth goes dry and my throat closes up.

  March 15th.

  Shit. I was so preoccupied with secret number one that I forgot about … My stomach churns like crazy and my hands start to shake. Happens to me every year. I get overwhelmed with could-haves and might-have-beens and my whole life starts to seem like one big fraud, like I'm not really living it, like I'm just existing. And it's not just the baby, and it's not just Turner. It's everything. Just everything.

  “Dax,” I say, and he snaps to attention like a shoulder. I realize then and there that he's really into me. It's hitting him hard, I see. Where before he tried to play it casual, now he's up in arms. He rises to his feet and takes a step towards me. When I spin to face him, I don't smile. Don't want him getting any ideas. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  He frowns.

  “To call Turner?”

  “Does it fucking matter?” I snap at him, and snatch the phone away violently when he hands it over. I storm into the back, not caring that I'm probably waking Blair and Wren, and step into the second bathroom, plopping my ass down on the toilet lid. It's only then that I realize I don't have his number. That it was blocked, unlisted. Jesus Christ.

  I slam the screen of the phone into my forehead, and let the empty beer can fall to the floor a
t my feet. Reaching behind me, I flush the toilet to get some privacy and practice the words that are floating around inside my skull. When we get to Reno, I want to make sure that I'll still be able to say them.

  “Turner,” I begin, and I glance up sharply, seeing my reflection pale and frustrated in the mirror that hangs from the back of the door. My eyes are huge, not scared, but nervous maybe. Just a little bit. The question isn't why, because I know that answer somewhere, deep down. It's how come? How can I still be into Turner? How can I still care what he thinks about me or what he has to say? How? How? How? “Turner,” I start again, and I don't let my voice get dry or crack, don't let my emotions break through the perfect mask I've plastered over my face. “Turner, there is no kid because there was no baby. Six years ago to the day, I had an abortion.”

  I spend the rest of the day moping around the bus, tapping my index finger to my lips, nursing a six-pack and an entire carton of cigs. Dax offered me some stronger stuff, but I don't think it'll help. Somehow, I imagine that any advanced narcotics I choose to partake in will only exemplify the feelings churning in my gut. Right now, I need to deal, and I need to do it with as little help as is humanly possible. I have to figure out how to get through this.

  See, this abortion is both a big issue and a nonissue for me. Do I regret it? Hell no. Do I feel remorse about it? Fuck yeah. And I blame Turner. I blame him for leaving me alone with a decision I wasn't ready to make at all, let alone by myself. I blame him for seducing me, for preying on my infatuation with him. And the whole condom thing? Yeah, maybe I should of checked, but I was losing my V card to a rock star, and I was not quite seventeen, and he, he was the one that should have taken care of that.

  I crush my empty beer can in one hand and toss it into the trash. Seconds later, Blair rescues it and moves it to the recycling bin. I ignore her. I ignore everyone, even America when she starts to bitch about practice and how lax we've all been. Fuck, she should just be glad I'm even functioning at all. Last year, I just laid in bed and watched Indecency music videos. Yup, I'm a glutton for punishment.