Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots)

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Good evening, Naomi,” she says softly, arms stretched out to the walls on either side of me, penning me in, fencing me here in this room. My blood gets hot and my pulse starts to pound. Dark hallway, no bodyguards, no cops, no roadies. “Having a nice little late night chit chat?” I look straight at her and wonder what other secrets she's hiding. Only one way to find out.

  And that's to beat them out of her.

  I swing up hard and hit Hayden in the jaw with my fist, listening to the sound of movement from behind me.

  “Naomi!” It's America, moving up close but unwilling to touch the frenzy that I've become. I hit Hayden again in the face, slam her back into the wall. She starts to fight back then, reaching up for my hair, pulling it hard as she knees me right in the stomach. The air goes rushing out of me, but I can't stop. I'm in an absolute frenzy now. Years of torture. Years. We've been friends since I moved in with the Rhinebacks, way back when I was fourteen years old. She was good to me, so good that I even told her my secret, about the things they did and how I was going to take care of it. And she asked to watch, and I said okay because I wanted someone there by my side, someone to tell me I wasn't the monster I felt like I was becoming. And so what did she do? She waited for me to run around the country in a panic and when I came back to her, she started blackmailing me. Thus, here we are today.

  “You can't just shit in the faces of everyone in your life and expect to walk away clean!” I screech as we stumble apart briefly. Blood is streaming down her face, staining the white tank she's wearing. I feel wetness on my skin, but I can't be bothered to check for it right now. A door is opening up beside me.

  “What's going on out here?” Kash. I ignore him and point at Hayden, full of so much frustration that I know I'm only capable of doing three things: fucking, fighting or playing. That's it. Since my guitar – my new guitar, the mysterious replacement come from thine enemy – is packed in a box, and the only man in the world I feel like fucking is asleep upstairs. Guess what?

  Besides, Hayden Lee is so overdo for an ass whooping that it's not even funny.

  “Come and get me bitch, do your best! It doesn't mean SHIT to me anymore!” she rages back, standing up and spreading her arms wide. “Take your best shot!” I don't waste a single second, zoning in on that memory of her attacking me in the parking lot, of her leaving me on that disgusting trailer to be raped and tortured.

  My body slams into hers and knocks us both to the floor, me on top, her below. Just where she belongs. Exactly where she belongs.

  My fists pummel her face like drum sticks on a kit, smashing into her skull with no pity, no remorse. Hayden is screaming and clawing at me, but I can't be stopped. I'm mad. Pissed. Frustrated. She's betrayed us? She's trying to get rid of us? After all we've been through as a band? We're getting sold down shit creek without a paddle? Fuck, we're even at risk of being killed, and she's okay with that?

  A part of me knows she's not entirely to blame, but I don't care. I'm hardwired for violence right now, and she's in my way with her snotty smile and her tiny tits and fuck all. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She screwed Turner and she screwed Dax, and she doesn't love anybody but herself and her own fat fucking ass.

  Nobody tries to stop me. I'm not sure why. I just keep beating Hayden, harder and harder and harder until she stops struggling and finally, finally somebody comes to pull me off.

  “Knox! Snap out of it. Knox!” I kick and struggle as I'm dragged back, leaving Hayden a groaning, crying, shaking mess on the hardwood floor. I spit at her as I'm pulled away and spun around, face to face with Turner Campbell. “Naomi!” he shouts, his voice coming to me from far away, like he's underwater or something. “Naomi, come on.” I push back against his chest and he lets me go. My robe is gaping open and my bare body is covered with blood, some of it my own, some from Hayden. The smell, the sight of red, it all takes me back to that night, and my knees get weak.

  My gaze snaps up and sweeps the people around me – Turner, Ronnie, America, Kash. I hear footstep from upstairs, more people, more judgement. I can't let them see me weak. I stand up straight, pushing the thoughts from my mind, closing my robe up with a shaking hand. When I glance over my shoulder, I see that Hayden's passed out.

  “Excuse me,” I say, and then I push through the crowd and out of the room, Turner pounding along behind me.

  “Naomi,” he calls out as I sweep down the hall and up the stairs in a rush. When I pass by Dax's room, I pause. A second later, he comes out and sees me standing there soaked in crimson, panting hard.

  “Naomi?” I look at him, at the ghost tattoos on his arms and his soft gray eyes. Turner might be right; Dax might really be an emo bitch. But that's what's good about him. There's a softness there that I just don't have anymore. I start off down the hallway without responding, hoping I can get to the room before Turner does.

  No chance of that. Soon as I start inside, his hand comes slamming into the door above my head and pushes it open, leaving plenty of room for him to come in behind me and lock it tight. I head immediately for the shower. I can't get there fast enough. I look down at the counter when I walk in the bathroom and spot Turner's bag, gaping open. Inside, buried amongst his clothes, there are enough illegal substances to kill a horse. I stare at it for a moment, grab the bag and toss it out into the room. Unfortunately, Turner gets in between me and the door frame before I can slam it shut.

  He's panting, too, and his pupils are wide, fingers shaking as he wraps them around the edge of the countertop.

  “Leave me the fuck alone,” I snap at him, feeling my knees quiver and shake. I feel so dizzy right now, so so dizzy. I just want to slump against the wall of the shower and slide down, let the hot water soothe over me.

  “Why?” he snaps right back, challenging me. “What did I do now?” I grab my hair and let the stress I've been decompressing open right back up and overflow.

  “Left me alone and pregnant. Still don't understand why you can't see that this is a problem, a road block if you will. We can't have a relationship, Turner. I don't know what I've been thinking. I've been weak about this.”

  “This is you trying to rationalize the pain, Knox. Let it go. Tell me what you think about me, how much I hurt you. I'll stand here and listen. But when you're done, you and me, we're golden.”

  “Turner, go the fuck away.” I say, stumbling over and sitting down on the edge of the bathtub.

  “No.” He stands there in black sweatpants and looks down at me with a look of pure confidence. I will not turn him down. He cannot be turned down. We're meant to be. I can't even stand it. I look down at the faucet and turn on the water. Turner grabs my shoulders and pulls me up towards him, smashing me to his chest. “Marry me, Knox.”

  I snort.

  “That's stupid,” I say, hearing a slight lisp in my voice. My mouth is definitely swollen. Told you Hayden could fight back if she wanted. I hope she dies down there, drowning in her own blood.

  “I mean it,” Turner says, face so close to mine that I could kiss him if I wanted to. If I wanted to. “You said you loved me, and I know sure as shit that I love you. Let's do it, get hitched. Make love. Have babies.” I shove him so hard that he lets go of me, and I slip, falling into the tub and cracking my head against the tile with a curse.

  “Fuck!” I scream, letting the hot water cascade down on top of me. “Stop trying to comfort me here. Leave me alone. You don't need me. You don't even need those stupid fucking drugs. Go rest, go wait for news from your friend.” I try to pull myself up, but Turner's already there, yanking me to my feet, wet and soggy and bloody. “Stop focusing so much on me and worry about yourself.” I say, turning away from him. He comes up behind me, sliding his hands around me and touching my bare belly, moving his fingers up to massage my breasts. I try to ignore him, but I think we all know by now that it's pretty much impossible to ignore Turner fucking Campbell. “This isn't about me right now.”

  “No, this is about us,” he says, displaying a strange wealth of
feeling I hadn't thought him capable of. I push the shower curtain back and let him slip the robe over my shoulders and onto the floor.

  “This is about Treyjan.”

  “Treyjan will be fine. He has to be fine. He just,” Turner pauses and blows a puff of hot air out against my neck, making my spine curl, drawing a gasp to my lips that I bite back under a curse. I lean over and adjust the water temperature, pretending I don't feel his cock pushing up against my ass, straining against his ugly ass sweatpants. “I believed you'd be okay and you were. I have to think the same thing about him. He's fine and everything is okay until I know otherwise.” Turner grabs onto my hips with his fingers, questing across my flesh, sliding his hands up across my back, along my spine. My heart starts to gallop in my chest. “If I could walk in there and take fucking care of him, I would. And if those … ” Turner grinds his teeth together and the pressure of his hands on my flesh gets tighter, more intense. I turn back around to face him, forcing him back a couple of inches with just a stare. “Those cock sucking quack psychopathic fucks would let me in, I'd be sitting by his side like a faggot lover, holding his hand or some crap.” Turner breathes out sharp and reaches his hand down his belly, past the spiderwebs and the bats, hooking his fingers around the waistband of his pants. “But right now, I'm stuck here, and I can only be okay with that if I'm with you.”

  The hurt starts to creep in then, my throbbing jaw, my split lip, my sore belly. Hayden's got some fucking fight in those skinny, anorexic limbs of hers. Don't know where it came from. She had a pretty pastoral fucking life. Lived outside the city on a farm with two brothers, a horse, and seven cats. Where all of that mental screw up came from, I have no clue. Maybe her life was too good, too perfect. Sometimes people that have never bled, have never wanted for anything, start to seek out pain just to feel something new. Gods help her if that's the case.

  “Stop spouting Harlequin Romance crap, Turner. I don't want to hear it. Go back in the bedroom and whack off, take another nap. We can work this … thing out between us later.”

  “Naomi.”

  “What?”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Turner moves in close, clamping his moth down around mine, tasting me and reveling in it. I can feel his whole body tighten up and his muscles clench in anticipation. Anticipation that we can't fulfill. I try to pull back, but Turner keeps a firm hold around my waist, sliding something up my belly with his other hand. When our lips part for just the smallest moment, I see that he's got a condom.

  “Where the fuck did you get that?”

  “I have my ways,” he says and cuts me off with another kiss, drowning me in white hot heat and longing that I don't want him to have. How can he? After all this time, I'm getting exactly what I want? It doesn't seem right. In fact, it's downright cruel. And I'm afraid to want him back, terrified really. Because if I admit to myself that I do, and he hurts me again, I might just slice off his dick and be done with it.

  Seconds pass though and I don't pull away, and the steam fills up the bathroom and warms up the cool tile and the dingy red walls. My hands move over his body, touching, feeling, bringing up memories of him onstage with his mic clutched in his fingers and his body dripping sweat. Turner's like an M&M or some shit; it's impossible to eat just one. Now that I've had a taste, I want all the colors. I kind of hate myself for it.

  “Position?” he asks, retreating enough that we can talk but still close enough that our lips are touching. His hands grab my breasts, caressing the flesh with greedy, questing fingers. He's using me to stop thinking about Trey. Fine. I'm using him to forget about everything. It's a win, win situation. And that whole marriage thing, that was just a joke, right? Better fucking be.

  “What?” Turner smiles against my lips, burning me with sharp edges and wicked intentions. Shit fucking Christ Hell in a handbag motherfucker. “What now? Can't you ever just fuck and not yabber on like an old lady?”

  “I don't usually get the privilege of experimenting and whatever. It's normally just wham, bam, thank you ma'am, you know?” I glare at him, keeping my eyes level with his face. If I look down and see hardened nipples and taut flesh over stiff muscles, a skull tattoo or that stupid ass star that says Respect, I won't think as clearly.

  “No, I don't know.” Turner moves in closer, reaching down with one hand to push his pants out of the way, letting his dick free to poke and prod at me, tempt me into doing things I wouldn't normally do. Still waiting on that magic potion that cures interest in men. It'd be awfully nice not to crave salami with my crackers. “Are you saying all your roadie bangs and one night stands with groupies haven't been all that fulfilling for your sexual cravings? You better not be saying you want to experiment with me.”

  “What's wrong with that? I'm telling you you're the only woman I want to experiment with. I think you fucking rock, Naomi Knox. That's pretty much it. I won't rest until you're mine and that's that. Get over it and quick. We've got a life to live.”

  “You're such a fucking asshole,” I tell him, but when he reaches back and flicks off the lights, my inhibitions go with them. Our mouths crash in a tangle of tongues and teeth, painful and pleasurable all at once. I don't know why we're always like this, fighting at the same time we're fucking. It feels like the two emotions shouldn't be able to clash like this, to tangle and twist, send us spinning in circles on a fucked up merry go round from friggin' nowhere. But every time he touches me, I feel this … thing inside of myself that pisses me off and makes my brain explode into clouds of color. It's sick that I get a kick out of it, even sicker that it turns me on, makes me so wet I feel like I'm swimming in a pool of mercury, going insane at the same time I'm finally figuring out what it is that I want.

  “Marry me, Knox,” Turner says as we part lips and I step back, over the edge of the tub and into the stream of scalding water. I don't bother to turn it down though. It won't help. It's already hot as Hades in here. Figure we both might as well get used to it since that's where we're going to end up one day, toe tagged and earmarked for a trip straight into the depths of hell. I feel around in the dark, molesting Turner's pecs with my hands until I find his taut nipples. I pinch the shit out of them, squeezing so hard that he actually growls at me and lifts his fingers up to my wrists, squeezing me right back. He pushes me against the tiled wall and steps in, pressing his body against mine. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

  “I think you're full of shit,” I grind out, trying to ignore his heavy erection pushing into my stomach, teasing me into oblivion, trying to scramble my brains and drag me down into Turner la-la land. I reach down and grab his cock, hard. Turner hisses, but he keeps a tight grip on my wrists, holding me captive somehow, someway. I almost wish I could see his face. Almost. But then I might have to punch him in the mouth. Sex with the lights off works better for us.

  Turner leans in close, brushing his wet lips along my ear, nibbling the small silver rings with gentle teeth, clacking his tongue ring against the metal.

  “Don't pretend you don't like it, Naomi. That you're not dripping wet down there.” Turner finally releases me, giving me the opportunity to take advantage, gripping him tight and sliding my hand up and down his shaft, one, twice, three times. He grunts, but he doesn't stop what he's doing, diving in between my legs and fingering my wet slit. “And look at that, you're soaking.”

  “That's the shower, genius,” I snarl back at him, feeling the water spray off my lips against his face. His laugh only makes me grip him even tighter, squeezing so hard I hope to fuck it's painful. Doubt that though. Turner's probably been whacking it since before he could walk. That, and he's fucked everyone under the sun, so his poor, abused little love muscle is probably half-immune to touch.

  “Don't fucking lie to me, woman. I know love juice when I feel it.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Don't be a dickwad, man. I know a premature ejaculator when I see one.”

  I pump him hard and fast, water splashing up around us, mixing with the spray from th
e shower. Turner doesn't let this stop him, moving his own hand inside of me, sliding his fingers deep until he hits knuckle. And all the while, he fucking chuckles this low, sultry male sound that both disgusts me and excites me. An unwelcome moan tears up from my chest and my nipples peak so hard they'd cut fucking diamond.

  I move my hand faster, grip tighter. I want to get that satisfaction of feeling him break under me, of turning that masculine chuckle into a whimpering moan, maybe even a scream. I know we both got off listening to Ronnie and Lola fucking in the bathroom. Why try and deny that?

  “I bet you could never make me scream like he did to her,” I say, and I know even without seeing his expression that he knows exactly what I'm talking about. Turner withdraws his hand, leaving me with a shocking gasp and a loose grip that he pulls out of. There's a moment of him fumbling around and then he grabs my hand, guiding me back to his shaft, showing me that in his own way, he does care.

  The condom is already on.

  We stand in silence for another second before he leans in and whispers to me.

  “Watch me.” Turner surprises me by grabbing my hips and lifting me up, slamming my back into the slippery wall. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, my legs around his waist.

  Just those two little words and then he's sliding in deep, slamming his pelvis against mine and filling me up all the way with a guttural groan that reminds of the stage and the music and the looks he throws down into the crowd, hooded eyes, smirking lips, a gaze that has brought fuck knows how many women to their knees in worship.

  “You make me fucking sick to my stomach,” I tell him, and I feel his smile against my neck as he thrusts into me, smashing my body against the wall, pinning me between slick tile and hard muscles, a body that's like chiseled friggin' marble. The only thing that gives him away is the tightness in his arms, his back. He's fucking to forget. “This is for Trey,” I whisper back at him, both hoping that he can and can't hear me over the sound of the water and the slick sliding slap of flesh on flesh. “Just to keep you going until he gets out. Just until then.”