Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots)

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Marry me, Knox,” he growls, biting my lip, diving into my mouth with his tongue ring, scraping it against my teeth. “Say yes now, or I'll ask next time we're onstage, in front of thousands. I'll even put a ring on your goddess finger.”

  “Try and I'll break your face,” I pant back at him, letting my body go and my mind wipe itself clean. The violence I felt towards Hayden fades away in the warmth and the water and the feeling of fullness inside where Turner's cock completes me. Even though I don't want it to. Even though I do.

  We grunt and grind against the wall until the water goes cold and we're both panting, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Stupid, cocky, arrogant, little asshole with his head on straight and his body rock solid and his music that warps my soul and destroys my mind. I'm letting the devil prick me with his horns and I'm enjoying every minute of it. The secrets are out of the bag and Turner knows everything now. He's one of a few people on this planet I can be completely and fully honest with. From hated enemy to trusted friend. The fuck is wrong with me?

  “Turner,” I gasp, but I can't iterate anything. My words have been ground to dust by the rough pummeling of his cock, his hot mouth against my skin, the scrape of his lip piercings on my throat. “Turner.” I try again, but nothing comes out. One of the first times in my life I've ever really had trouble saying what I feel. There's so much going in inside, too much going on out. “Turner.”

  “Naomi.” A word, soft like smoke, twirling and snaking around my wrists, my waist, sliding into me with every movement of Turner's hips. “Naomi.” My name like a song, torn from his mouth on the end of a screaming gasp. I hold him tight while he comes, body buried inside of me, letting my head fall back and my fingers play across the spasming muscles in his back. “Naomi.” One more time, a sigh, a contented noise from a sated Rock God.

  I slip my hands back between us like a barrier, pressing them flat against his pecs. I can feel that unyielding pulse down below, the slow build of pleasure at the base of my spine. My body's ready to fucking come, like a volcano about to blow, but to do that, I have to let my heart go again. And I can't. I'm scared. I'm having a hard time admitting it to myself, but I'm terrified that this new thing, this spark, this connection, that we're building is going to get ripped away from us before it even begins.

  “What's wrong?” Turner asks, voice breathy and rough, full of male satisfaction but tinged with worry. “Let me take you over the edge, baby. Whatever you want to do. Whatever you want.” I'm breathing hard, body pulsing as I reluctantly untangle myself from Turner, my feet slipping to the floor. “Lemme take you into the room. I'll show you a good time, Naomi.” I don't answer him. I can't. My mind is on a loop now, dragging my spirit through the mud, blinding me to the beauty I've got right in front of me. Right in fucking front of me. “Naomi?” Turner's hands touch the sides of my face, smoothing across my wet flesh as we both shake and shiver in the rush of cold water. I close my eyes and luxuriate in the feel of skin on skin. “What's the matter?”

  There's so much I could say, but I'm not sure I'm ready yet. I could tell him about the birth mother who hates me, or the adoptive parents that I actually liked. I could talk about the first night I heard Chuck Rhineback raping his own daughter, or the time I saw McKenzie Rhineback hit her in the face with a baseball bat. I could tell him that I don't feel like I've ever had a life that was fully my own and now that I'm actually getting there, someone's threatening to take it away.

  Instead, I reach down, slide my hand past his crotch and poke him, right in his gunshot wound.

  Turner hisses, but he doesn't move back.

  “You can't scare me away, Knox,” he says, and I smile. Might be dark in here, but I know he can hear it in my voice.

  “Watch me,” I whisper, and then I'm stepping out of the bathtub and disappearing into the bedroom.

  Trey's still alive, and Naomi's avoiding me like the plague.

  Those are the only two things I'm aware of this morning. I've given up trying to touch Knox. Every time I go for her, she pulls away, teasing me with the scent of cigarettes and toasted vanilla almond whatever the fuck soap. The scent's already got my dick up and at 'em, and I've got a raging headache from the screaming that's taking place in this house. Drama, drama, drama. I don't do drama.

  “Just shut the fuck up!” I scream after awhile. Cannot friggin' take this anymore. If I have to sit in this house for more than a day or two, somebody's going to get it. I try not to think about the fights Trey and I always have. We've always taken our frustrations out on one another. Not the best way to cope with the world, I guess, but it works for us. I need him. Sounds gay, but it's true. At least he's still alive. Milo got a call from Trey's stripper whore of a sister, Sydney, while I was still sleeping. He's hanging on – barely – but there's a chance he'll pull through and that's all I need.

  The voices stop and everyone turns to look at me. Hayden Lee narrows in on me with a blue eyed glare that pleads violence. She's pissed about last night, but I figure she should consider herself lucky. If Naomi had gotten her way, Skinny Bitch might be dead right now. And she'd have deserved it, too. Betrayal like that is punishable by death in my opinion.

  “I can't listen to you bitch anymore. Just be quiet.” I stand up and shake myself out, looking over at Naomi who's been on the end of Hayden's needling for the past half an hour. Combine that with a little bit of Dax, some America, a hint of Milo, and I'm just about ready to blow my brains out.

  “Maybe we should jam?” Wren asks from the corner, sprawled across a chair like a wraith from down under. Dude's so high he's flying a damn kite. Fucking Christ. I flip him off and lean forward, gripping the arm of the couch with tight fingers.

  “Jam? You want to jam while my friend's lying half-dead in a hospital bed? Fuck you.”

  “Never said you had to come with,” he mutters under his breath, threading his fingers through his dirty blonde hair and rolling his eyes up and over to the window at his right. Cold as balls out there right now. And empty. I never realized how much I like the constant chatter and the music and the smoking and the fucking. People swarming everywhere, life hitting me and spreading out like water on rocks. It's a constant cycle of pain and pleasure, anger and joy, fucked up bullshit and clear as cock truth. I miss the shit out of that, and I'm happy as hell to be a part of it. “Why don't you hit a bowl and calm down a slice?”

  “Why don't you try to sober up before you rot from the inside out, motherfucker.” I flip the druggy bitch a big one and turn around, tucking my fingers in my pockets and searching Naomi for some clue that she's still here in this dimension. I hate to admit it, but I need her right now. I need that support, that strength. My bandmates aren't strong enough to hold me up. They have enough shit to deal with on their own. I study her, thinking of last night and wondering what, if anything, I did wrong. Or maybe she's caught on her own special set of hang ups. Who the fuck knows? “Milo,” I snap, drawing my manager's attention up and away from the laptop he's pounding across, fingers flying like he's playing a one man symphony from God. “Any news?”

  “Since the last time you asked?” Milo checks his watch and then sighs, reaching up to adjust the pale blue tie he's got on. “Which was about an hour ago. Nothing. Trust me, when I know, you'll know. I'm not exactly thrilled to be here either.” I wrinkle my lip at him, but I don't get into it. I could fire his ass anytime I want, and he knows it. If he's getting lip with me then he must be pretty upset. I look at Naomi's manager with her arm in a sling and a bandage on her forehead. Her blonde hair is just so, in a perfect bun atop her head like a fucking librarian. I know exactly what she is, can see right through her power bitch attitude. Secrets layered on secrets layered on secrets. I know what she told Naomi last night – heard it straight up from Ronnie this morning. But that's not all she wrote. Not by a long shot. America Harding is hiding something bigger and badder up that modest little skirt of hers. Something nasty. Hopefully, she lets it out before it gets so rotten that it destroy
s us all from the inside out.

  I sigh and look back at Naomi who's staring down at a notebook on the table, carving into it with slow, careful strokes. I know she knows I'm looking at her because she slows down, sliding the pen up into her palm and leaning back in her chair. Still won't fucking look at me though, and it's driving me Goddamn nuts. My hands clench into fists by my sides and I let my eyes close for a moment, just long enough to gather myself. I count to ten, doesn't fucking help, and then flick my eyes back open with a scowl, turning around to watch Ronnie crawl up off the sofa and over to the phone again. I think he's called Lola a good four times in the last hour. I get that he's worried, though. I do. Especially with the way everything went down. Naomi's right though, about her still being alive. I'm sure she's got a pulse and all, but what about her sister?

  “Lola?” My attention snaps right back over to Ronnie before I get a hold of myself and clamp down on my pulse. Somewhere in the kitchen, Hayden Lee is standing with a cup of coffee, eyes focused this way. Whatever I – we – do here, she'll see and snitch the shit out of. Tyler or Stephen or whoever the fuck he is doesn't need to know more than necessary. I get out a cigarette and light up, pretending I don't give a fuck that my friend's finally gotten through to his new girlfriend. “Yeah. Yeah. Cold as fuck, sparse as shit. Got the indent of a spring in my back and a cold Goddamn shower, but other than that, everything's fine.” Ronnie leans against the wall near the door and closes his eyes. The relief at finally getting ahold of her shows in his face and posture. He really gives two shits about this chick, good for him. I've always wanted Ronnie to move on, to be happy, but now that I'm in love with Naomi, I don't even know how that's possible. Gay as it sounds, I can't imagine living without her. Just wouldn't be worth it, none of it would. “So, how's your family? Talk to them lately?” Fishing for info, nice. Nice. I keep listening, smoking my cig and leaning back against one of the chairs that's tucked into the dining room table. The only other sounds in the room are America's and Milo's keyboards and the scrape of Naomi's pen. I thought the yelling was bad, but maybe, just maybe, the silence is worse. “That's good then. Uh huh. Yep.” Ronnie gets out his own smoke and puts his foot against the wall for support.

  “I think a jam session is exactly what I need right now,” Hayden pipes up, her voice cutting straight through Ronnie's and blocking out the conversation. Not that I can get anything from it. Nobody could. He's good like that, McGuire is. He not only knows how to get gossip, but also how to keep it off of him. With the whole kid thing, he's the talk of the town right now, but I know he'll do anything to keep the monster from growing. I take a drag and hold the smoke tight in my chest, waiting for one of the members of Amatory Riot to respond to that statement.

  “Fantastic.” America slams her laptop closed and stands up, taking her cup of coffee with her. “With this … rodeo we've been living for the past few weeks, practice has hardly been a priority, and it needs to be. We're not sounding our best lately, and nobody wants to pay to see a sloppy performance.” I turn around and watch Naomi raise her face to America. Behind her, Hayden sniffles and adjusts the bandages on her black and blue face. She looks like some kind of candy bitch from Charlie and the Goddamn Chocolate Factory. Violet Whore-regarde or some shit. I scoff and turn away.

  “Like Turner said, how appropriate is that?” Naomi asks, voice low, directing some sort of hidden message towards her manager. Whatever it is, America ignores it and sets her coffee down after a careful sip. She swipes at some imaginary dust on her skirt and snaps her fingers, startling Wren half out of his chair and waking Dax up from a nap in the one opposite. He looks better today, but not great. Tornado ass kickings apparently don't go ever well with the Little Drummer Boy.

  “Was it your friend who got shot, Naomi? As far as I can tell, you have little to nothing to do with the man. Using his accident as an excuse to be lazy is far more insulting than simply participating. I understand your kidnapping was traumatic, but the person responsible is dead and his sister incarcerated. I forgive them both for what they did to me. It's time you moved on from this and got back to work. We have a tour to finish, one that, if I understand Mr. Terrabotti correctly, could result in some international bookings as well.” Naomi stares at her manager with narrowed eyes. It's obvious that America's putting on a show. What's not obvious is why she's trying so hard. Is it just Hayden or something else? She knew this Tyler Rutledge guy, so I'm sure she knows a whole fuckload else, too. Are there more people involved than Lola knows? I try not to get too deep into thoughts of conspiracy and whatever the hell else. If this Stephen Hammergren dude is really after us, then he's got ways of looking in on us without using a spy. Maybe he even knows everything we do? The question here is: why the fuck does he care so much?

  “You are such a fucking bitch sometimes,” Naomi says, rising to her feet with a groan. I look at her just in time to snag her gaze, holding on tight and narrowing my eyes. She looks at me, but she doesn't give me anything to go off. “Sorry, Turner.” She looks over at Ronnie who's still on the phone and then back at me. “Maybe after this we can go for a walk or something?” I nod and watch as she picks up her notebook, moving after her manager with a maniacally grinning Hayden Lee at her heels. When she passes by me, she actually reaches out and squeezes my biceps with her fingers, sending a scalding thrill through my blood that makes me grit my teeth and slide my tongue ring across the roof of my mouth. Fuck. My dick gets more rigid than a Catholic school teacher, and my heart pounds like a hammer against my chest.

  I turn as she goes, heading down the hallway with her bandmates, stuck on her like fucking glue. One year, ten, a hundred, and I'll never get tired of Naomi Knox. That's how I know I love her. I know because all the other girls I've been with haven't meant shit. Being around them for more than an hour or two was like torture, like I was drowning in them and not in a good way. When Naomi's not around, I'm parched, dry, desperate to be soaked with her wet. I shiver as Ronnie hangs up the phone, and Wren and Dax struggle after their manager and her crew.

  “Man, detox's a bitch. Don't know how much more of this I can take.” Ronnie rubs his hands down his face and gives me a look. “You want to get in line with Snow White, my friend?” he asks me and gestures up at the stairs. I shrug and follow after him, dropping my cig into the ashtray on the table behind the couch. I doubt Ronnie's really up to doing some blow, but it's a good excuse to get us up and out of that living room. The roadie chick's busy cleaning the coffee table off, and Milo's sighing and flipping pages in a notepad next to his computer. The bodyguards stay downstairs, too, which is a big motherfucking bonus.

  “She's alright?” I ask him quietly as we hit the landing and continue up. Ronnie's got this intense look in his brown eyes that I haven't seen in forever. It's thoughtful, but not so introspective you feel like he's about to drop away inside of himself and disappear for eternity. I'm glad to see he's back, and that he's on my side. He's fucking smart as hell. Never had trouble passing his classes when he really tried.

  “Lola's fine,” he replies, scratching at the snake tats on his throat. He's got on clean clothes again today, another good sign. Might be covered in sweat and shaking like a whore off the pipe, but he's all there upstairs today. “And she said she saw her sister, but only through a window. They didn't get to talk. Lola doesn't think Poppet even knew she was there.”

  “What about my … ” I can't even say it. I feel so guilty, like my antics onstage got Trey shot. If I'd kept my fat ass mouth shut like Ronnie had asked, would Trey still be with us? On the road and not holed up in some shit box in the middle of fuck ass nowhere? I can't shake that feeling that we're here because of me. “My declaration. Did anyone talk to her about that?” Ronnie sniffles and wipes at his nose with his wrist before unlocking the door to his room and holding out a hand for me to enter. I move inside and take a look around. Same boring ass décor as mine and Naomi's. A double bed with dark blue blankets, some pictures of cottages on the walls, one of those fau
x stone electric fireplace things. Tacky as all fuck off.

  Ronnie moves into the room and looks around like he's searching for something.

  “I hope there aren't any hidden cameras or mics in here,” he says with a sigh. “If America isn't shitting us, and Stephen Hammergren really is behind all of this shit, we're fucked. The guy has more money than a dozen small countries put together.” Ronnie hikes up his loose ass pants and then runs his fingers through his hair. It's clean and shiny for once. It's an odd new trend for him. I light up another cigarette. Might as well nurse the least deadly demon in my arsenal of darkness, if you catch my drift. Better to smoke a pack a day than hit up hell's kitchen for some smack. Ronnie sits down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, cig still hanging from his lips. “And honestly, I can't see that it's even feasible that she's telling the truth because then, why the fuck are we still alive? This guy could have swat teams descend on us. He could hire some kook to cook up ricin poison and lace our food.”

  “Um,” I snap my fingers. “Unless he's a Goddamn sociopath who wants to see us suffer. You ever thought of that? To some people, it's not the end that justifies the means. It's the process that they're after, you know? Like, my momma for example. She could've knocked me out with a single hit, knew exactly how to do it, too. But that's not what it was about. It was about the pain. So she held back. Maybe that's what this dude, this Stephen guy, is doing.”