Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots)

by Stunich, C. M.

  I rub at my bare arm and sigh. I couldn't wear those clothes for even a second longer, so as soon as he went into the bathroom, I stripped them off and piled them up with his near the door. I can agree to burning them. Who wants to wear an outfit with that kind of memory attached to it?

  A knock at the door snaps my attention up, and I stand slowly, cautiously. Hey, can you blame me? Haven't gotten dealt a lot of aces lately, if you catch my drift. I grab the robe off the back of the bathroom door and slip it on, tying the belt loosely around my waist. There aren't any peepholes here, so I lean against the teal painted wood and ask who's there.

  “It's me.” A cough, a sniffle. “It's Dax.”

  I unlock the door and slip it open a crack. Part of me wants to hide the fact that Turner's in here and the other half is wondering, why bother? Doesn't everybody know at this point there's something going on between the two of us? I'm afraid I might be the last one to really figure out what that is. Love. I said I loved him. Yeah, but … But I still hate him. And those two emotions cancel each other out, right?

  I peep out at Dax who's rocking slightly back and forth on his feet, eyes cloudy, skin blotchy with old bruises. He should be in bed, sleeping, not standing here at my door like this. I frown and open the door further.

  “What are you doing? You should be sleeping,” I say, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind me. I wonder what Turner will think when he gets out of the shower and finds me missing, but I can't just let Dax stumble around like prey for Hayden to hunt down.

  “I just wanted to … thank you. For telling Hayden off. I just don't have the energy for it right now.” I raise my brow and give him a look. His dark hair is hanging limply, dirty and sweaty, and his makeup is all but gone. It's not often I get to see Dax without dark eyeliner smeared around his gray eyes.

  “That's the only reason you hunted me down?” I ask, hooking my arm with his and starting him back down the hallway. The runner beneath our feet is worn and dirty, uncomfortable against my feet. Or maybe I'm just being overcritical because I'm so fucking tired. I'm no stranger to all-nighters, but hit men are a whole new thing for me. Dax sniffles again and closes his eyes for a moment, letting me guide him. The words on his eyelids, Born Wrong, smile back at me. I have no clue what they mean, and I've never thought to ask, but I promise myself that one day soon I will. But then, I guess you never know when you're going to get shot at from a nearby building, so … “The tattoos, on your eyelids, what do they mean?” I ask as we approach the door to the room next to mine. And Turner's. Mine and Turner's. Ours. We're officially sharing a room. I damn near shit my pants at that one. I swallow back the sudden burst of anxiety when Dax smiles at me. It's a sad smile, but at least it shows he's still all there. His sallow skin and shaking hands might say otherwise.

  I knock on this door and then try the knob. It's unlocked.

  “When I was born, I, uh.” He sniffles again and rubs at his swollen nose. The tornado really fucked him up. The doctors said it looked like he'd been hit by an SUV on the highway. He's actually pretty fucking lucky to be alive. “I killed my mom.” I check the room, but don't see anybody and decide to pull him inside, shutting the door behind us before Hayden can find him. I don't want her with Dax. I'd rather slit his throat first. She's poison of the worst kind, a slow disease that eats the heart and rapes the soul. I shiver and thank Jesus I have that picture in my pocket. Oh crap. Better dig that out before you burn the clothes, genius.

  “That's … fucked up, Dax. I'm sorry.” Dax doesn't say anything else, just moves slowly over to the bed, stumbling a bit over the area rug that covers up the dark hardwood floors. “If it makes you feel any better, my mom was a fifteen year old homeless girl who, when I finally got in touch with her, also at age fifteen, told me I was a rape baby that she'd rather see dead than on her doorstep.” I try to smile, but it's not a very funny story. And one that I've never told anybody about before. Not even once. The burst of honesty surprises me, and there I go again, thinking about Turner. Secrets kill. And maybe they do, even if you're not intentionally keeping them. I take a deep, freeing breath while Dax sits down slowly, grunting in pain. When he looks up, his smile's a little more real. He reaches up a hand to my face, and I let him. We've been friends for four years, and I've been a bitch pretty much the whole time. I'm sorry that he likes me, really sorry about that. It's not a fate I'd wish on anyone. Turner Campbell, you poor bastard. You have no idea what's coming. I swallow again and take a step back. Dax doesn't stop smiling.

  “I'm … so sorry, Naomi. I didn't know that.” I shrug and look around the room. It's pretty much the same as … ours. Only difference is the coverlet is green plaid instead of white lace. That, and the door's a burnt orange color instead of teal. How exciting. I examine the cuts and scrapes on the back of Dax's hand.

  “Yeah, well. It's alright. She didn't ask for me, and I shouldn't have gone looking for her. I was just so desperate to get out of my foster house at the time, I wasn't thinking straight.” I lick my lips, almost wishing I could wet Dax's for him. They're so dry, scabby and flaky. He got beat to shit with debris, flung around like a piñata. Poor Dax. “Anyway, she wasn't dead, so … ” I raise my hand up uselessly. “I really am sorry. I shouldn't have asked.”

  “I'm glad you did,” he says with a sigh, leaning back on the bed, shirt riding up to his expose his perfect abs and a sneak peek of the tats that are hiding there. Occasionally, Dax goes shirtless on the bus, so I've seen them, even though we've never fucked. I've had sex with Wren – once – but that's it. I try not to make it a habit to sleep with musicians, especially ones I know. Other than Turner and Trey, that's pretty much it. You can't trust a rock star, ask anyone that knows. Guitarists are always whores; drummers are too dedicated and too intense; bassists too inexperienced, and lead singers are trouble. Stereotypes maybe, but stereotypes are there for a reason, right? “And don't worry about my mom. I didn't know her, no apology needed. It's just, I was just born wrong. My dad never did forgive me for that.” Dax closes his eyes and sighs, resting one hand on his belly, the other on the bed. “Thanks for helping me in here. I know you're probably … busy.” His voice gets a snappy bite on that last word. So he does know Turner's in there. Oh well. I sigh.

  “I'm never too busy to help a friend, Dax,” I say, and I do mean that. Especially after what I saw last night. Most especially after that. “But you never did tell me why you really came to find me.” I look down at him, at his chest, the slowing breaths that indicate to me that he's almost out.

  “I came,” he whispers and then pauses, voice trailing off, getting far away and dreamy. “Because I don't ever want it to be too late to say I love you.”

  “Dax,” I snap, tugging the robe tight across my chest, like he's said something inappropriate, told me I have hot tits or some shit. But he's already out like a fucking light and here I am, standing in his room panting like I've just run a marathon. I growl under my breath and snatch the throw off the end of the bed, grabbing his legs and pushing them up onto the mattress before covering him up with the blanket. Love, love, love, love, love. I'm so sick of hearing that word get tossed right and left like it doesn't mean shit when in reality it means everything.

  I've only ever loved three things in my life, and none of them worked out for me.

  I hear the words in my head like I said them yesterday. Somehow, that memory right before I passed out is one of the sharpest ones I have. I said what I meant, and I meant what I said. I guess I just never stopped loving Turner. I've been carrying this torch around with me for years, holding it in my heart, letting it melt the flesh all around. Now, I'm too screwed up and bent out of shape to be normal.

  I leave Dax's room, making sure the lock on the doorknob is pressed in before I close it. I keep getting these horrible images in my head of Hayden sneaking into his room and riding him while he sleeps. I would not put rape past her. At this point, I think she's capable of anything.

  “Ugh.” I
choke on my own thoughts, grabbing the door to the teal bedroom and opening it. I'm so focused on Dax and Hayden that I don't see Turner's out of the shower until I get inside and close the door behind me. When I glance up, I startle, jumping a bit when I catch a full nude profile of him, wet and steaming, staring down at his wallet with a weird look on his face. When he sees me staring, he grins and grabs his junk in his hand.

  “Couldn't stay away from this for long, eh, sexy?” I swallow hard, pretend my cunt isn't raging at me to jump his bones. I feel like I should be respectful of Trey. Even if Turner wants to pretend nothing's wrong, something terrible is and I don't know how exactly how to process that. I look over at the nightstand and see that he's emptied both of our sets of pockets there. My picture of Hayden – which is a copy, of course – is sitting next to the ugly cream colored corded phone. Definitely a piece of technology that predates me.

  “I had to help Dax get settled in a room,” I tell him, trying out that whole all honesty, all the time bullshit. The last thing I need is a rotten secret festering inside of me, right next to my melted, twisted heart. “He was stumbling around waiting for Hayden to rape him.” I shrug, keeping my eyes off Turner's rapidly rising cock. “Couldn't exactly leave him to that kind of fate, now could I?”

  “Naomi,” Turner says and his voice is low and harsh. I look up at his face and watch as he tosses the wallet back onto the nightstand. He's naked and pretty, muscles taut, tattoos bright and beautiful, shimmering like wet paint. His dark hair is hanging into his face, a black curtain eclipsing some of the pain in his eyes. He's breaking down, losing some of that practiced control and perfection.

  I have never seen anything so fucking beautiful.

  My breath continues to come in rapid fire bursts, like gunfire, burning my throat and making my lungs tight. I almost want to turn around and run, barricade myself in another room and sleep away the entire day and night. How can I do this? How can I be his rock when I never had one of my own? Because, Naomi, you're strong. And … because no matter what you do, you'll always love this little fuckheaded bastard prick.

  Turner doesn't say anything, just tries to smile again, but I've already heard that little fracture in his voice. He's not okay, not happy, not prepared for this. I don't think any of us were prepared for what this tour would bring. Love, death, fame, betrayal. Too many big life events crammed into one short time period.

  I take a step forward and start to untie my robe. I need to shower, but … I think I need to be with Turner first. And not just because I flooded the basement between my thighs.

  “Dax is such an emo bitch,” Turner says, lifting his chin up and breathing out. The star tattoos at the edges of his hairline draw my fingers like magnets and before I know it, the robe is gaping open and I'm straddling Turner's legs, running my hands through his hair. I kiss his forehead like my lips are possessed, drawn to the taste of ink in his skin. Doesn't hurt that he smells like vanilla soap and shampoo. “He wants you so bad it makes my dick hurt. He's got a rager for days on you, Knox.”

  “It's Naomi,” I correct him as his hands slide up the backs of my thighs, teasing my dry, dirty flesh with his hot, wet skin. His head presses up against my breasts while the lines of our bodies connect with a sizzle. “And what Dax does is none of your business.” I scoot back a bit, not liking how heavy this is getting so fast. Turner's emotions are clawing at me with rigid fingers, desperate for some sort of consolation. I don't mind being that for him. God knows I find him attractive, but I can't ever forget that one, little detail. Not ever again.

  “Condom?” I ask and Turner's face goes white as a sheet. He grabs onto my hips and pushes me back a step, rising to his feet and stumbling over to our pile of clothes on the floor. I follow him with my gaze, checking out the firm roundness of his ass as he bends down and starts digging through the fabric. So much for the ultra prepared bad boy act. “No balloons left in party city, Turner?” I snap, trying not to be mean. This intimate stuff is not easy for me; the last thing I want to be doing is standing here looking around for a stupid sheet of latex for his mystical divining rod. That wild, frenzied moment onstage was a freak mistake born of fear and uncertainty. I'm still paranoid about it. I can't get pregnant again, not ever. Just the thought is almost enough to dry up the downstairs.

  “FUCK!” Turner screams, throwing his pants against the wall and climbing to his feet. He looks around the room frantically and snaps his fingers. “One sec,” he says, grabbing the doorknob and starting to open it. His momentum slows dramatically and then he's just slamming the door and leaning his forehead against it, struggling to breathe. I stare at the Naomi Isabelle Knox tattoo on his back, let myself get absorbed into it. When I close my eyes, I can almost feel the chair beneath me, the needle against my ankle. Turner sat there the whole time, watching me with half-lidded eyes, smiling. Sure, he was more fucked up than a crack baby off the bottle, but there was something there. I knew it then just like I know it now.

  “What's wrong, Turner?” I ask, feeling awkward as shit standing there while he has some sort of breakdown completely nude. We're not fucking husband and wife. We're not anything yet really. Yet, yet, yet. I sit down on the edge of the bed.

  “Might seem stupid to you,” he says, turning around and licking his lips, brushing some wet hair from his forehead. Turner reaches up and touches the piercings on his mouth for a moment before storming across the room and disappearing into the bathroom. I watch as he pauses in the mirror and pulls out both piercings, tossing them into the soap dish with an angry hand. The red plugs in his earlobes come out next. I have no idea what he's doing until I see him start to wash them. Checking for blood, I think. Or just having a man-trum. I'm not entirely sure.

  “What's stupid, Turner?” I ask as I stare at him, feeling a sudden wash of fatigue burn straight through me, tugging down my eyelids and making my limbs feel heavy. I stand up and throw the robe to the floor, reaching out for the covers and tugging them down. I stare at the white sheets with sudden tears building in my eyes. And I have no fucking clue where they're coming from. Sexual frustration, maybe? I dash them away with a snarl and flop into the bed, sitting up and crossing my arms over my tits.

  “When I need a condom and I don't know where any are,” he starts and then pauses, pushing away from the sink and stalking out of the bathroom, all haughty and arrogant again. Like I've said before – picture book. This dude flips pages like a children's book. Happy here, pissed off there. It's enough to give me a headache. “I go to Trey. I talk to Trey.” He slaps one hand against the other for emphasis, snarling out the words. “I always ask Trey.” And then he pauses and moves across the room, snatching the curtains in his hands and throwing them together like they're two rivals at war.

  “I'm sorry, Turner,” I say with a sigh. I'm trying here; I really am. But this is all new territory for me. I hope he understands that. “I'm sure somebody has one. I'll … ” I almost choke on the words. God, this is so weird. I don't have adult conversations like this with people. I just don't. I meet up with random guys and we screw real quick. I don't need to look for condoms because they always have them. If they don't, we don't fuck. “I know Trey's really important to you.”

  He spins to face me, chest heaving, cock hard as sin. My eyelids flutter. I want it so bad, but no glove, no fucking love. I try not to groan in disappointment.

  “When you were missing, I believed you'd come back.” Turner points at his chest with a fierce finger, jaw clenched tight, breath coming in quick bursts. “I believed when nobody else did, and now … Trey. I have to believe he's going to be alright, even though nobody else does.” Turner puts his hands up to his face and snarls, making this wild cry of frustration in his throat that does absolutely everything for me. It's like one of his stage sounds mixed with real, honest to God, human emotion.

  “Turner, come here,” I tell him, moving the blankets aside and trying to feel the sting of the air against my skin. Whenever I'm with Turner, I can feel my na
kedness like it's on radar. I can't just walk around with him in the room and not care about the skin I'm showing. His gaze is like fire and his touch is molten. The sexual tension between us won't go away, no matter how hard or how often we fuck. It's always there, boiling beneath the surface, getting ready to singe and sear and cauterize. I shiver, but it's not fucking cold. I shiver because when the bed dips and he climbs into it, my body goes nuts and attempts to perform a coup against my brain.

  He slides in next to me, but doesn't touch me, just scoots down and puts one of his hands under his head, gazing at me with shimmering darkness in his brown eyes. My throat closes up, and I find it hard to breathe. I want to wrap my body around him, feel him moving deep inside of me, teasing my hot flesh, igniting that spark into an all out explosion.

  “I've never been cock blocked by a fucking condom before,” Turner whispers and there, right there. Angel. My heart stops and my skin gets tight, like it's been pulled across my flesh and stretched so taut I can't move. He looks like an angel again. This has got to be the most emotionally vulnerable I've ever seen this man, this devil, this fuckin' rock star with a hard ass and a bad friggin' attitude. I touch my fingers to his cheek and blurt it out before I can stop myself, running my hand down his face and across his full lips.

  “You look like a fucking angel.”

  As soon as the words are out, I feel better. Honesty. I guess it all comes down to honesty. No wonder Turner's such a blabber mouth dumb shit. He just blurts whatever he feels whenever he feels it, and while there are all sorts of things wrong with that, it must make him feel pretty damn good. The cocky arrogance makes a whole lot more sense to me now.

  As soon as he hears this, he smiles. And he doesn't look like an angel anymore. Turner looks downright wicked.

  “You're only saying that because my dick's not singing to your sweet spot.” He crawls towards me, draping his upper body over my midsection, closing his eyes like he's fighting hard not to just grab me and fuck me. Good for him because if he tried, I'd have to break his balls off. Never again. That can't happen ever again. I take a massive breath and hold the air in my lungs, focusing on the back of Turner's neck and the paw print tattoos there, the feel of his stubble against my belly. We're both pretty experience rich but life poor, you know what I mean? I've tried drugs most people have never even heard of, fucked more people than I remember, took human lives. But I don't know anything about having a relationship. I've never slept with the same person this many times in a row. And I've definitely never had a guy rest his head on my bare belly before. To think the first man I'd ever let into my life like this would be Turner Campbell. Hah, if you'd asked me a month ago if I'd see myself here, I would've spit in your face. “If I was inside of you,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my skin. “You wouldn't be saying that. You'd be calling me a demon from hell.” He grins against my belly and slides down, scooting between my legs.