Real Ugly

by C. M. Stunich

Neon lights flicker overhead from the crooked piece of plastic that hangs from the ceiling, swinging back and forth slightly with the air from the vent above the stalls. Graffiti and stickers cover most of the yellowing tile, and the rest is stained with God only knows what. I lean back against the door and keep smoking. The coke intoxication is starting to hit me now.

  Naomi leans over one of the sinks and lets her blonde hair fall around her face like a curtain.

  “Go away, Turner,” she says, but there's no heat behind her words. Well, not anger anyway. I guess there's plenty of … something. Lust, I guess? I'm not sure. I stare at her, let my eyes glide down her body, from the firm set of her shoulders to her round ass, the leather boots that cover up the tattoo of my name. I flick my cigarette onto the floor and start to check the stalls, kicking in the doors as I move down the line. Naomi raises her head and watches me in the dirty mirror. Somebody drew devil horns there in red lipstick and they just happen to line up perfectly with Knox's head. How trippy is that? “What are you doing?”

  “Oh come on, Naomi. You know what needs to happen just as well as I do.”

  “Um, actually, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about, so just spit it out for me and let me hear it.” Naomi turns around and waits for me to finish. Good. There's nobody in here but us. Somebody knocks at the door and Naomi tells 'em to screw off.

  My smile gets a little bigger.

  “You know it; I know it. We gotta fuck, Naomi.” She rolls her eyes at me.

  “You're a real piece of work, you know that?” she asks, vehemence dripping from every syllable. I take a step forward and she stiffens. I pause and light another cigarette, watching as her eyes trace the lines of my lips as I slide it in nice and slow.

  “And you're not? You come at me spouting some shit about a dangerous bitch on the loose and refuse to explain yourself. Are we talking about that skinny, anorexic chick? The one with the small tits.”

  “Jesus fuck,” Naomi whispers, letting her eyes close for a moment. “Hayden Lee. You don't remember screwing her, do you?” I shrug and tap some ashes on the floor. Not a big deal; they join up with wads of toilet paper, gum, even a few dirty T-shirts. Interesting.

  “Not really, no. She must not have been all that impressive then.”

  Naomi's face drops for a moment before she picks herself back up and starts towards the door. Fuck. Wrong thing to say. I chase after her, but when I grab her elbow, she pushes it back hard and hits me in the stomach. For a second, my anger gets the better of me, and I end up grabbing her rough, too rough maybe and spinning her around, slamming her wrists above her head.

  When I kiss her, she bites me so hard that I bleed, but I don't stop, not even when she tries to knee me in the balls.

  “Go to hell, Turner,” she says, looking me in the face, tensing her muscles as she tries to get free from my grip. “Never again, I already told you that. You and me, not gonna happen.”

  “Doesn't have to,” I whisper against her face, my breath heating her skin, making her squeeze her eyes tight. When they flicker open, they're full of rage. “Just once. That's all I'm asking. Then you and I can move on and forget the past, the tattoos, the abortion.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she growls, and I can see it right there in her gaze. She fucking hates me. Loathes me. The emotion's so powerful that I almost step back, almost. But then I notice a twinkle hidden deep down in there. I think it's lust. I drop one hand between her legs and slide my fingers up her inner thigh. Oh fuck yeah. It's hot and moist down there. Ready. She's ready for me. An image surfaces in my mind briefly, a passing blur of color and heat, slickness wrapped around my cock. Naomi. I lick my lips. I have to have her again. I have to. There's no other option. “You're not the one that suffered.”

  I bend forward to kiss her again, and she breaks free, shoving me back so hard that I hit the stall door and nearly fall into the toilet. When I right myself again, I see that Naomi's turned around and is in the process of unlocking the door. I move forward fast and slam her into the dented wood, sliding the zipper down on my pants, listening to the click of metal teeth.

  “Tell me you're not interested,” I whisper in her ear, noticing with pleasure that she shivers and squeezes her fists into two, tight little balls. “Tell me to stop and go away, and I will. I'll never bother you again.” Risky gamble I'm taking here. If she tells me to leave, I don't know what I'll do. I'll be so obsessed with this chick that a thousand women, a thousand hits won't be able to cure me. This is my last chance to escape. Or became enraptured forever. Again, I ignore the side of myself that knows better. Old habits die hard, right?

  “I hate you,” she tells me, and I can hear in her voice that she means what she says. But she doesn't tell me to stop. I let my cock spring free and release her, using my hands to slide her skirt up her hips. Naomi's got on a nice, little thong leaving her ass bare and perfect, sexy and round. I tease her crack with my dick, watching as sweat beads on her skin and slides down her legs. I want to spin her around, so she can see me, watch me fucking her, but I'm afraid she'll run if I do.

  “Do you have a condom?” she asks, voice muffled a bit, like she's afraid the sound will break the heat between us. Not going to happen. I feel like I'm drowning in a pool of molten lava. Every inch of me is on fire right now, sizzling, giving me an unbearable ache that has to be filled. God, I'm horny as fuck. I release her hips and grab her shirt, pulling it down her arms and tugging it off, tossing it into the sink next to us. Mine follows close behind, so I can press my skin against hers, grind us together into the dirty bathroom door. “Turner.” Naomi's voice is no-nonsense right now, like I can tell she won't take any of my shit. Not that I blame her, but as I stand there and feel her body with my fingers, bits of memory start to come back to me, and I realize I don't want to use a condom.

  Part of me wants to mess with her, tell her I put one on already, satisfy the desire that's grabbing hold so tight I can barely breathe. But I don't. For once, I think of someone other than myself. I don't realize it yet, but hey, there it is. I reach into my back pocket and pull out a condom. The package is custom with Indecency's logo on the front (Ronnie's idea, not mine): red with a white goat's head, black horns, X's over the eyes, tongue lolling.

  Naomi starts to struggle, and I let her go, taking a step back, so she can get a full shot of me. I kick off my boots and push my jeans down, so I'm standing there butt friggin' naked. I like it better that way, seems more natural or whatever. Naomi faces me and locks my gaze with hers, retrieving a pair of sunglasses from her pocket. She slides them up her nose and purses her lips. “Can I see it?”

  “Sure.” I hand it to her with a grin, knowing all the while that she's gotta be checking me out. Has to be. My ego won't let me think otherwise. “Best balloons in party city.” I think she rolls her eyes, but I'm not sure. Fucking shades. Naomi spins the package every which way looking for what, I don't know, but when she's satisfied, she lifts her chin and reaches up to undo the front clasp of her bra. It falls to the floor along with her skirt, but she leaves her boots on. Clever girl.

  “This is going to be quick, impersonal, and then it's going to be over? Is that understood?”

  “Don't have to tell me twice,” I say as Naomi wets her lips and steps forward, peeling open the condom package and removing the rubber. Lube glistens on her fingers as she switches it from her left to her right hand and curls her fingers around the base of my cock, obscuring the bat tattoos that wrap my shaft, caught in spiderwebs. Winged, but trapped. Desperate to be free, but doomed. I liked the symbolism, so I got it done – thankfully it's a tat I can actually remember getting.

  The condom goes on quick and then Naomi steps back, leaving an entire foot of space between us. The air goes cold and then hot; music throbs like a dirty heartbeat, shaking the walls and killing the lights.

  I see Turner standing there naked, abs tight and body slick with heat and sweat. His thick cock stands up proudly between his legs, just another piece o
f art added to that perfect body. He's so covered in tattoos that it's hard for me to take them all in: spiders, wolves, paw prints, bats, webs. He wets his lips, flashing me his tongue stud for just a moment before the light in the bathroom goes out with a spark.

  A second later, our bodies crash together so hard it hurts, and I find myself on my back on the dirty, disgusting fucking floor, my hips cradled in Turner's hands, his cock pressing eagerly at my opening. It happens so fast, sliding in balls deep before I get a chance to think this through, to protest.

  I blame the cocaine.

  The music continues to blast from outside the door, and I can hear people screaming, shouting, begging for more. It's loud but not loud enough to block the guttural groans clawing their way out of Turner's throat, blending in seamlessly with my rapid breathing, so that we're practically playing a song of our own. I want to think of it as a requiem, but somehow I imagine that it's a prelude.

  Shit.

  My hands curl, fingers clawing at the tiles, sliding through bits of soggy toilet paper and discarded tampon wrappers. I should be disgusted, but I'm not. I'm excited, thrilled even. All this time hating Turner, wishing him ill, wanting him dead, has built up into this angry sexual fervor that begs me to ride him until my heart explodes from my chest and my fingers draw blood from his back.

  I drag my nails down his spine, wrap him so tight that our sweaty bodies slide over one another, mixing heat and warmth, skin against skin. His balls tease my ass, and his mouth drops to mine. I nibble his tongue ring harder than I probably should, hurting him with my teeth while he grinds his hips so hard into mine that I feel like we're both going to break, that our bones are going to shatter and leave us a messy, dirty puzzle on the floor.

  We don't speak. Why bother? We have nothing to say to each other with words that we can't say with our bodies right here, right now, rutting on the floor like a pair of wild cats, tails flicking, ears back, claws bared.

  Turner breaks away from me and goes for my nipples, using his stud to flick them hard and bring chills over my body while goose bumps spring to life and betray me, letting him know how damn much I'm enjoying all this.

  And I shouldn't be.

  He fucked me over before, left me with that horrible decision …

  But I still don't hate him as much as I should. Why? Why? Why?

  I arch my back and press into him, drawing myself off the cold floor as much as I possibly can, letting Turner slide an arm beneath me, so he can prop me up. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I sit up and end up straddling Turner somehow, draping my arms over his neck and drawing his face back to mine.

  And suddenly, the lights are flickering back to life, highlighting our faces with brightness and shadow both, making me see him, his expression, the desperation there that he doesn't even know he has. That passion he's carrying around, that intensity that he hides behind the arrogance and the fucking and the drugs, is showing and it's starting to stick to me. It was only a matter of time, really. I think I'm just hitting him at the right place, right time. But you know that isn't entirely true. That first night, you two had a connection. You knew it; he knew it. He might've been fucked out of his mind, but he didn't get that tattoo because he was drunk. He got it because he liked you then, just like he does now. Turner doesn't want someone who'll roll over and take it. He wants someone who fights. He wants you.

  I call bullshit on my brain as Turner reaches up and grabs my glasses, throwing them so hard that they smash into the wall behind me and shatter into a million pieces. I grab his chin with my nails, pressing so tightly that little dots of red show up, highlighting his pale skin, the stubble on his jaw, that cocky smile.

  “You're wet,” he says, and I kiss him, just so he'll shut up. Doesn't close his eyes though. The bastard leaves those wide open and stares straight at me, does the one thing I don't want him to do and crawls inside, figuratively that is. My hips start to slow, pausing that ridiculous grinding motion I've been swinging, and Turner goes nuts.

  With a growl, he grabs me and presses me down so hard it hurts, lets his head fall back, so I can bite and kiss the tattoos on his throat. I think of him onstage, how he can switch from his angel persona to his devil one, just like that, and my body squeezes tight, drags an orgasm screaming from his mouth at the same moment it pulls one from mine. Like some fucking fairytale couple, we come together, and my heart stops and time stops, and then I'm up and stumbling away, grabbing my skirt, his T-shirt.

  I throw the two pieces on, panting, sobbing even though I don't know why. When I grab the door handle and tear out of there, Turner is too slow to stop me.

  I stumble back to the bus and climb on, shoving past Dax and Hayden, disappearing into my bunk and clamping my headphones around my ears, cutting out the world. I turn the music up so loud it hurts, makes my head spin in wild circles.

  I can't.

  I don't.

  You cannot love someone you don't know, I remind myself, thinking back to our first time. I know of Turner. I've read articles about him, watched him onstage, listened to his music. That doesn't mean I know a damn thing about the real guy hidden underneath – other than that he's a complete and total asshole. A whore. A drug addict. There's just nothing to like basically.

  Still, I keep my headphones on and I rock back and forth to the music with the curtain closed and my eyes squeezed shut so tight that they hurt. I don't expect Turner to come after me since that was the deal we made, but somehow, I hope that he does. And I don't. And I do. I'm such a fucked up mess that I actually forget about Katie and Eric and the double homicide I committed. Pretty intense, huh?

  Even Hayden leaves me alone for the rest of the night, and nobody complains about how loud the music is, even though I play it non-stop until we leave the next morning, pulling out of the parking lot and starting down the highway like nothing's different.

  Everything is.

  When I climb out of bed, I go straight for the shower and wash my skin so hard it hurts and turns a pale shade of red. I dress myself in Turner's tee (don't ask me why) and a pair of skinny jeans. I don't bother with undergarments, but I do slip on a nice, thick pair of boots, keeping that tattoo on my ankle as closed in as possible. I can't believe that I actually cut it. Now, it hurts so bad that I have no choice but to think about it. Constantly. Fucking Christ.

  “What happened to you last night?” Hayden asks, staring straight back at me, all blue eyed and bushy tailed. I want to punch her. Instead, I sit down and force myself to eat the pancakes that America just whipped up. As she starts in on her usual morning bitch session, I take a look around the table. At least I'm not the only one that looks miserable. Dax looks like he wants to shoot himself between the eyes; Kash is green in the face; Blair has a permanent frown sewn to her lips, and Wren is so hung over, he can barely sit up.

  Hayden scoots closer to me and scoops some hair behind my ear, leaning over to breathe hot against my skin.

  “I need to talk to you in private,” she tells me, licking the side of my jaw. Blair watches her do this and makes a What the fuck face? which I have no choice but to look away from. If I don't let Hayden get away with little teases like this, I can't fight her on the big ones. Like the Turner thing. At the thought of his name, my pussy goes into overdrive and my whole body feels sick. I'm both horny and absolutely repulsed at the same time. With a groan, I bury my face in my hands and then stand up.

  Whatever it is that she wants, it's going to be bad. I just know it.

  Without asking questions, I follow Hayden into the back and watch as she makes herself comfortable on my bed, reaching into her pocket and drawing out a small container. From inside, she picks out a hit of acid and places it under her tongue.

  I put my hands on my hips and watch her carefully, examining her from head to toe in case there's something I should be clueing in on. She's got on enough makeup that she looks like she's ready to start work over on second street, and the pink tank she's got on is see through enough that I
can see her nipples. Classy.

  “What?” I ask her. I'd like to get this over with before she starts tripping and ends up with hallucinations of demons trying to rape her. God, I hate it when this bitch is shit faced. She's a real train wreck, almost worse than when she's sober.

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “No,” I say automatically, although I already know that I'm going to do it. I touch a hand to my belly and refuse to think of Turner Campbell. “What?” Hayden sits up suddenly and her eyes shift from side to side like she's paranoid or something. Or maybe she took drugs I don't know about earlier in the morning. Who the fuck cares?

  “Tomorrow night, you're going to sing for me,” she says and my eyebrows shoot straight up to my hairline.

  “What?” Hayden wanting to not only give up the spotlight entirely, but give it to me? What the fuck is going on here? “You're tripping hard. I'll come back later.” I start to walk away, but she reaches out and wraps her fingers around my wrist, reminding me of Turner's strong grip and the feeling of his hard body pressing against mine. My nipples harden instantly, and I tear myself away from Hayden.

  “Do this for me, and I'll stop,” she says, sitting up and then leaning over so that her head nearly touches the bed and the rumpled, black sheets. “I'll stop holding … that … over your head.” She snaps her gaze up to mine, and her blue eyes are desperate, coated with a fine sheen of wetness. “America is going to flip out if she … ” Hayden sits up suddenly and glances around me, but our manager is off composing a Tweet or some shit and isn't here to eavesdrop. Spencer's music from up front trickles back and gives us even more privacy. “I need you to keep her distracted until it's too late, until you get onstage. Just tell the crowd I'm on the rag or something.” I wrinkle my nose at her.

  “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” I say to her, plating my hands on my hips, feeling bruises there, indents where Turner's fingers claimed me. I drop my hands to my sides. “I do this, and you stop ordering me around? Stop asking me to clean up your puke? That sort of thing?”