Real Ugly

by C. M. Stunich

  As I'm leaving the bus, I run into that drummer dude again, the one with the ghosts on his arms. At first, I think he's going to move away and let me pass like he did that first night we met, but he doesn't. He actually blocks me at the door, stepping in front of me with his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed so tight that it looks like all the blood's been drained out of his face.

  “Why her?” he asks me, gray eyes searching mine for an honest answer. Luckily for him, that's my policy anyway. Plus, I'm in a pretty good fucking mood. I just smirk when his gaze catches on the wet stain on my pants. I wear it like a badge of pride.

  I rub my chin for a moment and try to figure out how to phrase this while my head is swimming with bursts of images – an elevator, Naomi's upturned face, a bathtub. It's not much yet, not enough to actually put together anything solid, but the more time I spend with her, the more I remember our first night together. It's kind of shocking actually that anything at all has come back to me. Normally, when I lose a memory, it's gone for good. Not this one apparently. Instead of responding with words, I turn around and show him my bare back. I don't even have to say anything; he sees it.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, but he doesn't sound defeated, just annoyed. I turn back to face this dude, the one who has such a massive fucking hard-on for Naomi that it's practically blocking me from the door all on its own.

  “What's your name again?” I ask him, trying to keep my tone low. Sure, I'm a little pissed off at this guy, but that just means I have to be more direct, fight harder. Anyway, I'm not worried, I've never lost a girl to another guy before. Somewhere in the back of mind, I know that isn't going to be the problem. The problem is going to be Naomi. She still hates me.

  “Dax.” Just the first name again. Guess he doesn't want this to get too personal. Too bad it already is. I take a deep breath and glance down at my bare feet.

  “Well, Dax,” I begin, knowing without knowing that whatever I did tonight was a step in the right direction. “Naomi Knox isn't like any other woman I've ever met.” I shrug because I'm not going to spill my heart out to this guy, not a chance. And anyway, I need to get out of here quick before Naomi wakes up and comes out to find me with my hands shaking and my skin flushed. If she finds out how much I just enjoyed that, she'll gain the upper hand. Yeah, I have to let her know how I feel, but I don't want her to just find out; I have to say it in my own words, on my own time. If that makes any sense.

  “No, she's not,” he confirms, swallowing hard and letting his eyes flutter closed. He's got words tattooed on the backs of his eyelids, but they're hard to read in the dim morning light. When he opens them, he looks at me with a challenge in his eyes. “And once she realizes that you're bad news, she'll move on, and I'll be here. I'm not giving up. I haven't even started yet.” I smile back at Dax and I know that my face is getting a real wicked look on it right now. I'm not worried. Maybe I should be, but I'm not.

  “You challenging me to a duel? Should we lock horns like a bunch of horny deer?” Dax stares at me, stoic and silent. “Alright then,” I say, holding out my hand, knowing somehow that this is all for shit. Naomi's the one who will decide everything. But whatever, we're men and we're both pumped full of enough testosterone to fuel a small airplane. “You're on.”

  Dax shakes my hand, and I leave the bus promising myself that I don't feel any less confident. I wonder if that's true.

  I can hardly sleep when I get back to the bus. I end up tossing and turning so damn much that Treyjan actually climbs out of bed, grabs me by the shoulder and rolls me onto the floor. I hit the ground with a grunt and come up ready to fight. Luckily, Ronnie's still awake and able to step in, separating us before anything bad actually happens.

  As soon as he does, Trey crawls back in bed, tossing a glare over his bare shoulder at me, and Ronnie and I end up at the table with Josh and three cups of coffee. I'd rather not be sitting here with the little blonde fuck, but that's just the way it is, I guess. He stares at me with an accusatory gaze for so long that I end up chucking a small creamer at his face. It explodes on impact and makes him look like he just got jizzed on.

  “What the fuck is your problem with me?” he shouts, standing up and nearly spilling all the coffee. I ignore him and lean back. Yeah, I'd like to beat the shit out of him, but I'm kind of still riding that Naomi high. She's good for me, I think. Again, Ronnie steps in and cools the anger simmering in the air. I mean, for a drugged up whore, he actually gives good advice and says some pretty wise shit. I think it comes from fucking up so much. He knows exactly when to stop, how much is too much, how little is too little, that sort of thing.

  “Sit down, Josh,” he says as I smirk and bring the coffee to my lips, clinking the mug against the piercings on either side of my lip. “Wipe yourself off and relax.”

  “Look, I'm tired of being shit on because I made out with the girl he likes. It's getting old. Besides, she fucking came onto me.” My lips purse and my free hand curls against my thigh, but I keep the anger back. And I am so fucking proud of myself for that. “Besides, he doesn't deserve her anyway.”

  “Alright, that's fucking it.” Ronnie reaches out a hand and stops me as I rise to my feet. There's a limit to everything, especially my newfound patience. Apparently, Josh wants to see just how far he can push me before I snap. “I'm tired of listening to this shit.” Ronnie faces me and waits until I'm fully seated before he speaks again. When he does, he sounds tired and worn out, like he could go at any minute. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. I don't want to lose another friend. As if he can sense what I'm thinking, Ronnie brings up Travis.

  “He's not here to replace him you know.”

  “Bullshit.” Ronnie smiles sadly.

  “He's not. Nobody will ever replace Travis.” I roll my eyes and try to keep calm, drumming my fingers along the back of the bench.

  “Don't start spewing that love all, peace to the masses bullshit, Ronnie.” Josh looks between him and me, face set in a frown. “Travis played bass; Josh plays bass. He's a replacement.” A shitty one. I keep that last bit to myself and get out a smoke. I don't know why I'm trying to sit here arguing loss with Ronnie. He knows more about it than anybody.

  “Turner,” he begins, taking the lit cigarette from my hand and forcing me to go back for another. “Can I give you a little bit of advice?” I shrug.

  “Sure, why the fuck not.”

  “Be careful,” he begins, putting out the cig even though he hasn't smoked it yet. He's getting distracted and his eyes are starting to gloss over with memories. In a few minutes, he'll retreat to the bathroom to shoot up some meth. “With Naomi, I mean. Take this shit seriously, okay? Because once you fall in love, really fall in love, so deep that you feel like you're fucking drowning in it, you'll never be able to find a replacement. Travis was our best friend, and he always will be. Bass or not, he was there in a way that nobody else will ever fill. It's the same thing with love – once she holds that spot, you'll never be able to get it back.” He leans in close to me, and I notice then that his hands are shaking. “Do you understand me?”

  “You sound like a fucking fag,” I tell him, but his words make my stomach hurt and my head spin. I know they're true, and they scare the shit out of me.

  A knock on the door startles us all out of the conversation, and I'm the first one up, padding across the floor and clicking the lock on the handle. Outside, it's just starting to get dusky, fading from day to night. Our useless fucking bodyguard is missing, but there's a box. I move down the stairs to pick it up and bring it back inside. There's no name on the package which kind of freaks me out. Normally, I'd throw shit like this away. Today, I'm feeling ballsy.

  “What's that?” Ronnie asks, getting up from the table to come stand behind me. I shrug as I grab a knife from one of the drawers and slide it under the tape.

  “Probably some naked pictures and a few used pairs of panties,” I say with a grin. We've had worse delivered. I unfold the flaps and the grin dies right where it b
egan, melting down my face with a spark of fear and a jolt of rage. Inside the box is Travis Gaborone’s baseball cap.

  When I wake up the next morning, I feel like shit.

  “Stupid fucking pills,” I snarl as I struggle to sit up and run my hands down my face. Cold air hits my tits, and I realize suddenly that I'm naked and that my headphones are still sitting on my pillow, blasting music into the darkness.

  Turner.

  So he really did come, then?

  I think about the implications of that and then shrug them off. Can't think about that right now. I can't even imagine what would happen if he decided to take all of his energy and focus it one me. I'd never escape. I grab my iPod and switch it off, flinging back the curtain and checking to make sure I'm alone before I scramble out of bed and search for some clothes to throw on. I settle on a green Terre Haute tank, some acid washed jeans, and a pair of black heels. I have no clue what time it is right now, but since I didn't fall asleep until dawn, I can guess that the show isn't too far off. In the distance, I can hear the rumble and murmur of voices, the sounds of trailers being opened, equipment being dragged across the cement. Yep, it's just about that time.

  I step into the bathroom and play with my hair, swirling it into a messy bun on the back of my head. A quick slash of eyeliner, some gray shadow and dark lipstick and I'm done. I like to look good, but I'm not a fussy chick. That's Hayden's role here.

  I check around to make sure that she's gone and then jack a pair of her sunglasses. I doubt she'll even know I took them considering she's giving up the spotlight tonight to go take care of whatever it is she's so damn worried about. I'm singing tonight. I try to keep that thought out of my head, pretty damn certain that if I let it, it'll take hold of me and fuck me until I'm too nervous to even set foot on that stage. Being the center of attention isn't my thing either. That too, I leave to Hayden Lee. She thrives on that kind of shit. Me, not so much.

  Dax and America are sitting at the table when I come out, but neither turns to look at me which is a bad sign. They pretend like they're not watching which makes it all the more obvious that they are.

  “Sorry about the late night conjugal visit,” I say which makes America cringe and swivel to face me with clenched teeth. I pour myself a cup of coffee and drink it black, leaning against the counter and praying to god that I won't get any more plastic doll heads in the mail today.

  “Yes, well. Hmm.” That's all America says, but I can tell she's holding back. What she really wants to do is tear off that stupid red tie she's got on and leap at my face, claw my damn eyes out and tell me to stay the hell away from Turner Campbell. Instead, she just spins back to face Dax who still won't look at me. I feel like I should apologize for some reason, but I know how stupid that is. I don't owe him anything. He has a crush on me. So what? That's not my problem; that's his.

  I finish my coffee and toss the mug in the sink, too riled up to sit still. Besides, there's so much going on, all I have to do is reach a hand into a hat and pull out a name. Eric, Katie, Hayden, Turner. If I don't start dismantling these mysteries, I'm going to drown in them.

  Fortunately for me, one of them is waiting right outside the door.

  “Hello, Eric,” I say as I turn towards my former foster brother and admire the cream colored suit he's got on. The sharp cut of the shoulders and the perfect tailoring at the waist tells me that this, too, is one expensive fucking coat he's got on.

  “Naomi,” he says, glancing around like he thinks the cops are lurking around the corner. I light up a cigarette and watch as he shifts his feet nervously. “Did you find them?”

  “I told you I'd call if I did.” I pause. “They were stolen.”

  Eric freezes for a moment and then nods, short and crisp, like this is all just a business transaction to him.

  “Okay. So the police really do have them … ” He trails off and rubs at his perfectly shaved chin, gleaming like a damn baby's bottom it's so fucking smooth. “But why do they have my fingerprints on them and not yours?”

  “Good question,” I ask him as I move closer and grab the flask he's just removed with trembling hands from his pocket. “Why don't you ask it a little louder, so the whole camp can be sure to hear.” Eric lets me shoo him away and over towards the same spot Turner and I were sitting last night. There are some teenagers nearby smoking pot, but we ignore them. They're already high as kites. “Have you heard anything from Katie?” I ask, wondering where that bitch is. She's really starting to get to me. If I let it, the paranoia could really become a problem.

  “Nothing,” he says with a sigh, adjusting his black tie and watching as I take a massive gulp of whatever it is he's got. Whiskey. Good whiskey this time. Nice. I hand it back. “But the police are still out looking for me.” He sighs and sits down on the curb, burying his face in his hands. I watch unsympathetically. I mean, I feel bad for the guy, but if it comes down to me or him, he's the one that's going down. Call me cruel, but it's just survival. And his parents probably would've killed all three of us eventually, so in a sense, he owes me one. “I don't know what to do. Even if I find her, that won't change anything. Somehow, I got it into my head that if I brought Katie back, things would be different. They won't be though, will they?” I just shrug and keep smoking, glancing over my shoulder occasionally to stare at Indecency's bus. It's at least twice the size of ours and a hell of a lot nicer, and that's saying a lot because ours costs as much as a fucking house.

  “You just have to fight through it. You know you're innocent, so tell the damn truth. They'll figure it out eventually.” I think back to the massive amount of questioning I was subjected to after the murder. I'm still having a hard time believing I got away with it, figure there has to be some other reason, some freak accident or loophole or sloppy police work that messed things up on their end. I mean, I was all over that crime scene. Eric, too, for that matter. And even Hayden was there, watching from inside the Rhineback's closet. I swallow hard.

  “Really? You really want me to do that? You'll be brought back in, too, you know.” And he's right, and I do know, and I absolutely cannot go through that again. Eventually, they're going to catch me in a lie and I'm going to be fried. If I'd shot them in the head, nice and clean, kept the videos of them torturing Katie then maybe I'd be alright. But I didn't. I killed them by stabbing a pair of scissors into their throats. Police kind of frown on that sort of thing. It's so much harder to claim self-defense in a situation like that, but I wasn't thinking clearly. After I found the videos, saw so much worse being done first-hand. And then when they came after me, beat me till I bled, promised worse the next time. A person can only handle so much.

  “Guess not,” I say as he once again drops his head into his hands. A few seconds later, Eric's shoulders begin to shake and I guess that he's crying. Pussy. I didn't even cry after the abortion. Not before it either. I walked through those doors with a neutral face and stayed stoic for days after. God, I hate Turner. I hate him. Hate him. Hate him. Maybe if I repeat it enough, I'll be able to keep that emotion and that emotion only in my heart and ignore the other one that's been there since I was sixteen years old, the one that refuses to die. It's hard to kill love, isn't it? Even false love. It's like a persistent weed, one that has to be pulled out by the root and burned. I sigh. “Well, at the very least, you could be a bit more careful. I saw your car idling last night by the exit. Like that wasn't fucking obvious.”

  Eric's eyes snap up to mine, a bright, piercing blue that cuts straight through me, reminding me of Katie and how she looked at me right before I left.

  “And let me guess, that wasn't your car.”

  “It must've been Katie,” Eric whispers, and I describe to him as best I can what the damn thing looked like. I realize as I start to do this that I need to be paying more attention. I can hardly remember anything other than the color. “Did you see where it went?” he asks me. “What direction?” I shake my head and Eric groans, letting his shoulders droop for a second before h
e perks up again. “If we checked the parking lot, do you think you could find it?” I shrug my shoulders, but I think I could, so I follow up with a nod.

  “Yeah, sure, maybe.”

  “If I find her, maybe I can get her to confess to sending the scissors in and … ” Eric trails off, and I can see wheels turning inside his head.

  “You're going to pin this on her?” I ask, feeling annoyed as fuck with this man. I can't believe I ever had a crush on him, gave him my first kiss, let him hold my hand. I'm a terrible judge of men. Or I was. Now, I know better. Just like I know to stay clear of Turner Campbell. I need to start taking my own advice.

  “What else do you want me to do, Naomi? It's either her or me, and we both know damn well that she's guilty.”

  I scrape the inside of my cheek with my teeth, using the sharpness of the pain to keep myself in check.

  “I thought you wanted to protect her,” I say nonchalantly, hoping he'll change his mind about this. I mean, pinning the murder on him is one thing. Pinning it on Katie, as crazy as she turned out to be, sort of defeats the whole purpose of my saving her in the first place. That girl's been locked up enough in her life. Yes, I'd prefer it if she'd stop sending videos of me murdering people to my acquaintances' phones, but I also don't want to see her in jail. I want her to live a nice, long, healthy, happy life far, far away from me.

  “You don't know how bad it's gotten,” he tells me, shaking his head like he can't come to terms with what's going on around him. “I had to have her committed.”

  “So you've said,” I tell him as I fish out another cigarette. Eric takes a sip from his flask and stands up, letting his eyes slide over to the flow of traffic on the highway. I wonder, and not for the first time, where he might've gotten that suit from. What business ventures does he have going on now? I almost don't want to know. I follow his gaze over to the cars and then back, glancing surreptitiously over at Indecency's bus, just to see if I can catch a glimpse of Turner. My lips purse and I end up getting angry with myself. “But you never bothered to give me any details. Like, what, she changed her hair to match mine? Her name? No, no, no, wait. She has a shrine dedicated to me in her bedroom with a dream catcher made of my hair. Is that it?”