“I love that song.”
“Sure you do.”
“Fuck, Naomi. Can't I freaking compliment you without getting my nuts torn off? I love your music, all of it. Even if it's about me.” I don't answer him and dig around in my pockets for a cigarette. A lot of it is about him, that's true. But not all of it. I wonder if I should tell him what's what? The flame on my lighter burns bright, heating up my hand as I cup my fingers around it and ignite the end of my smoke. “When we finally get Hayden's ass kicked to the curb and you take over full time, there's not going to be any stopping Amatory Riot. You guys are good now. Without that anorexic snot bag, you'll be great.” Turner holds up a cigarette and I pass him my light.
“Question is, how do we get rid of her? How do we stop any of this? America might know more, might know a lot even, but that doesn't fix the problem.” I pause, glancing over my shoulder at the bodyguard. If he's not listening in on us, I'd be surprised. We keep it vague. “I've been thinking,” I start and nearly leap out of my skin when Turner grabs my hand again, clasping my wrist hard, holding me with unfamiliar fingers. I can't fight the surge in my gut that tells me they should be familiar, that I should know every whorl on his fingertips, the shape of his nails, the wrinkles in his knuckles, the map of colorful tattoos. It's like every bad romance novel I've ever read. I could probably count 'em all on one hand, but the plot's always the same, always like this. This overwhelming something that bites you in the ass and takes a fat chunk out of your cheeks. I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them slowly.
“Just hold my fucking hand,” Turner whispers against my ear, giving me goose bumps. “Just lace your fingers with mine and hold on like your life depends on it, like our pulse is dependent on this one, single connection.”
“Fuck you.” It's all I've got. Turner just smirks at me, but I don't let go. He needs this, I tell myself, thinking about Trey again. I don't let myself realize that maybe I might need it, too.
“So you were saying?” he prods as we continue along the trail, around a copse of taller trees and a rocky hill with a muddy rock slide bleeding down into the earth. We pick our way around the boulders, the bald dude traipsing along behind us.
“I think we should tell everyone.” I pause, nibbling at my lip, trying not to pay attention to Turner's or the silver rings through his flesh. “That we can trust, that is. Wren, Kash, Blair, Jesse.” I hesitate for a second. “Trey. If they're all targets, too, that means shit could be happening to them that we don't even know about. We have to coordinate this fucking crap or we're screwed six ways to Sunday.” I look at Turner, my body thrumming and singing and pulsing in response to his skin against mine. Mighty hard to remind myself why I'm so conflicted when we're standing like this, so close the warmth of his body is seeping into mine. Stupid, cock sucking motherfucker. He's got charisma and charm like Hitler had charisma and charm. It's fucking evil. Seriously, evil.
“You sure that's a good idea? Look what happened to Trey after I announced that shit onstage.”
I give him a look, eyebrows raised.
“You don't seriously believe that was all you, right? How easy is it, you think, to hire a hit man? Or for that hit man to get setup just so in a nearby building? I don't think this was something spur of the moment, Turner. This guy – Tyler or Stephen or whoever – knew what he wanted to do long before it ever happened. We're just lucky Treyjan isn't dead already. Or anybody else for that matter.” I turn forward and notice that the trail swings around to the back of the house. The foliage here is so thick that it'd be impossible to see this pathway from any of the windows or even the back patio. But from here, looking up through bare branches tangled together like vines, the house is easy to spot.
Turner doesn't respond, but we keep moving, towards the fence and the fading paint that covers the wooden slats. Once upon a time, I bet this place was the shit. It has that look about it, like it used to be the jewel of the ball. Now it's just tired and worn down. Kind of sad if you think about it.
“So how do we broach the subject? One at a time or in a group?”
“One on one would probably be easier, don't you think?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
When we hit the gate in the back of the fence, Turner opens it and pulls me through, slamming it shut behind me before the bodyguard can follow us. He pushes my body up against the wood and presses his face in close. His breath smells like toothpaste and cigarettes and the bulge in his pants doesn't lie: he's feeling what I'm feeling right now. It's mutual. It's really fucking mutual.
“You won't last,” I tell him as he pushes up my skirt with his free hand. The other one remains wound around my fingers. Turner raises a dark brow at me as the bodyguard clears his throat on the other side of the fence.
“Hey, fuck off, fucker. We're busy here,” he snaps and focuses his attention right back on me, eyes warm and shining, uncovering things that I don't want uncovered. I look away, at a cluster of dried up shrubs nearby. “Last, baby? You don't think I'll last?” He smirks. “Watch me.” Turner reaches down and unbuttons his pants. I'm not sure that I want to have sex with him right now. All of those doubts are pushing up and through me, threatening to drown me in their clambering. Sex has always been nothing to me, a biological impulse, a game, a pastime. I had no idea it could strip you bare and leave you wanting. It almost makes me sick to my stomach.
“I mean you won't last with me, Turner.”
“And why's that?” he whispers, still not getting it, letting go of my hand to lift me up against the rough wood of the fence. My bare ass scrapes against it, sending a thrill through my blood.
“You're a fucking party boy piece of shit, Turner. You can't change. Maybe for awhile, but it won't last. And I'll never stop challenging you. It'll get old. You'll get sick of me.”
“Is that what's been bothering you?” he asks me, teasing my slick pussy with his cock. It feels too fucking good to say no. And why not? If I'm right, then this is just a bit of fun, isn't it? A brief slice of time for me to enjoy myself. That's how I've always done things, so why not keep on that same path? If I assume Turner's nothing, and he turns out to be something, yay for me. If I assume he's nothing, and he fucks me over royally, then I won't be the worse for wear. I love him, I do. I think I can accept that, but that doesn't mean it's going to be easy. I just can't let that love consume or control me. “You're afraid to take the plunge, not because you don't want to fall, but because you're afraid of what might happen when you hit the bottom?”
I stare at Turner hard, keep my face as mean and nasty as possible. Doesn't work. Kind of hard to stay pissy when your pussy's throbbing like a dirty heartbeat. Turner doesn't make it any easier, sliding his rock hard cock against my wetness, slicking up against me and grinding me into the creaking fence. Somewhere behind us, the bodyguard's waiting, maybe getting off on this, maybe not, I have no fucking clue. Better not be filming it though. I wrap my legs around Turner's torso and squeeze him tight, pulling him as close as possible. After all, it's cold as hell out here and I'm bare assed and getting ready to dance the dirty deed with Turner Campbell, sworn enemy. New friend. And he has been a good one throughout this shit. He really, really has.
“Just shut the fuck up and screw me.” He moves forward to kiss me, and I put a hand on his chest, holding him back. “With a condom.” Stupid fucking asshole, his smile never falters. Turner leans in, pressing his mouth against my collarbone, flicking his tongue ring over my clavicle. When he speaks, his voice cuts into my flesh, bleeding me all over his chest, opening me up with simple vibrations, manipulating the very air molecules surrounding us. How he does it, I'm not sure I'll ever know.
“I'll put it on one-handed, like a fucking boss.” He grins, scraping my skin with his lip rings. Despite the icy crispness of the air, the metal's warm, almost scalding. I want to roll my eyes and cuss him out, but it feels so damn good that I end up just weaving my fingers through his dark hair, squeezing it tight. I like the feeling of c
ontrol that gives me over him, even though I know that it's false, that controlling Turner is a pipe dream – kind of like controlling me. We can match each other blow for blow. You have no idea how rare that is.
“Yeah, yeah. Like a fucking boss. Just cover your stump before you hump, bitch.”
Turner gives me a smirk that makes me want to smash his face in. And kiss him. Fucking Christ.
“You know how I know I love you?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks heating again. Blush. I'm fucking blushing. How the fuck? How the friggin' fuck? That's not my Goddamn style. Sanguine cheeks are better left for virgin brides and high school prom dates.
“If you spew anymore perfervid prose, I might puke. Cut the crap and let's screw.” The fingers of my free hand trail down the tattoos on his neck, brushing down over the cotton of his band tee. Underneath there, my name is carved in ink, permanently stamped into his flesh for all the world to see. I try to drum up some of that hurt from before, reminding myself how he didn't even know my name was there. Six years of wearing my brand on his flesh and he had no idea. I get it, it's on his back, and he has a fuck ton of tattoos, but really? Really?
“Because you're the only fucking person on this planet I let talk to me like that, the only damn one. Anybody else would be curb stomped and covered in blood by now.” I keep my eyes focused on his, doing my best to pretend there aren't a dozen windows looking down on us right now. Anybody could be watching. Let 'em watch and see, I think before I can stop myself. Let 'em look and know that Turner isn't interested in them, that he's only interested in me. I pull his hair tighter and he grunts, fumbling around down below, knuckles knocking against me as he puts the condom on. One-handed.
“Whore's trick,” I whisper, but he just smiles. I'm starting to wonder if there's anything I can do to turn him off. Every day it seems his resolve grows, morphs and twists and turns inside of him until he's built up this reserve of patience for me. It's scaring the fucking crap out of me.
“Useful,” he whispers back, and then he's sliding deep, pushing inside and thrusting all my doubts and fears out the Goddamn window. It's what every girl – every person – dreams of in a lover. And I've found it. And I have no clue what to do with it. And it is scary as fuck. “I love you.” Words whispered in my ear, blocking out the sounds of our bodies melding, hot and incandescent like flames. I should be able to say it again, no problem, right? But even the pleasure he's raking with every thrust of his cock can't get me to open up and say it. I guess I'm afraid, but I don't really know. Certainly stubborn. I can't deny that.
I close my eyes, so I can't see the look on his face, the complete abandonment, the possessive smirk. Turner knows what he wants; it's just me that's having the problem. The sex between us has always been explosive, un-fucking-real, but I'm messing it up with emotion and introspection. In my head, I imagine that Turner and I have just met up sweaty, backstage after a show, just ran into each other. He does't remember he has my name tattooed on his back, but I know. And when he smirks and approaches me, I open my arms and take him in for one last taste, just a lick of salt, something to burn my mouth and make me remember why I shouldn't care. Why I shouldn't, but I do. Even in my own fantasies, I can't lie to myself. But it helps. It does help.
The moan bursts from my throat like it's been fighting to escape for a long time, like this sound is one I've been carrying around in my heart for years and have only just now gotten up the courage to let out. I scramble at Turner's hair, biting my lip, crushing him between my thighs as he moves inside of me like he was born to do it. I hate to say it, but the whore has skill. There are some benefits to fucking a guy who's been everywhere and seen it all. He knows how to use it and isn't afraid to show off.
I let my fantasy overwhelm me, smashing my emotions down until they're like far away stars, glinting in a sea of darkness. I pretend I don't know that I really am falling for him, falling in love with a guy who left me young and scared and pregnant. I pretend that I don't know I'm finally forgiving him, that I don't care about the past anymore and only want to see the future. I let my fears go for the moment and worship the ardent simmer of our bodies. It's so hot, there might as well be fucking steam in the cold air around us. The fence creaks as our bodies slam into it, protesting the abuse. But it doesn't matter, none of it matters. It's just his cock in my pussy, animalistic and friggin' raw. Like a good show, like a rock ballad sung from on high. I'm playing a song with my body and he's singing the lyrics, following along where I tell him to go until it's time for the climax.
I come first, showering him in wet heat and woman, and he follows right after, grunting and growling, fingers curling around my hips as we drop together and come back up for air, panting and gasping and pretending there isn't a man on the other side of this fence waiting for us to finish.
In my fantasy, I get to walk away and pretend that Turner means nothing, that he'll forget about me come tomorrow.
In my reality, he looks me in the face when I open my eyes, brushes hair back from my forehead and tells me with his gaze that he will never forget me, not in a year, not in ten. Whether I want to or not, I've secured myself a place in the heart of the rock scene's baddest bad boy. The one I wanted, and then didn't, and now crave so hard I'm practically drooling. Don't betray me, Turner, I think as he drops my feet to the ground and presses a kiss to my forehead. Don't let me down.
And somehow, I know that he never will. Even if I won't let myself believe that.
Getting America alone is a lot fucking harder than you might think. If I didn't know any better, I might say she was avoiding me. I ignore the gentle ache between my thighs and chase her down, cornering her in the kitchen after pretending to take a fucking nap on the couch. Turner really is asleep, snoring with his head pillowed on one of the ugly plaid cushions. I almost went too, resting there like that with my head on his chest. It was … nice. I won't say that I was completely comfortable with it, but I liked it.
“Are you trying to piss me off?” I ask her, putting my hand on the edge of the countertop and staring my manager down. She looks slightly disheveled, an appearance I'm not entirely comfortable with. Her hair is down again and her makeup is smudged, blurry, like I'm looking at a photograph that's out of focus. In her hands is a wine glass and a green bottle, something ridiculously high brow and overly expensive, I'm sure. “You drop a hint and then flip a switch, acting like nothing at all is going on here.” I pause and take a few steps back, examining the hallway for eavesdroppers. As far as I can tell, there's no one but the bouncer in the living room with Turner. I drop my voice and take a step in closer. “You never told us how you know what you know.” I look at her, but she won't meet my gaze. Not out of meekness, of course, but just like she doesn't care. She's staring out the front window at the darkening sky like it's far more interesting than this conversation we're not having.
“Naomi, this is a conversation better left for later.”
“And why is that? When is it going to get better than this? More private? America, I don't know what you know or how you know it, but you better spill before anybody else gets lined up in a sniper's crosshairs. I'm sure that next time, they won't miss.” I purse my lips and turn away, moving barefoot across the tiled floor and onto the hardwood. I have no idea where Hayden went and that's bothering me. I feel like I should slap a GPS on her back. Wherever the bitch is, whatever she's doing, I'm sure it's not anything good.
“Have you ever considered that maybe that isn't why I'm holding back? That maybe there's something personal about the information I'm carrying?” Her voice is snippy, hard as ice and twice as cold. I pause next to the dining room table and look down at the green candles arranged in the centerpiece. Pine Paradise the stickers say. On impulse, I slide my lighter out of my pocket and toast the wicks with flame.
“To be honest with you,” I say, stepping back and examining the flickering glow dancing across the chocolate brown walls. It's kind of cozy in here, I guess. Well, when you look at it with squinte
d eyes maybe. I pull out a cig and use the candle to light up. “Never even crossed my mind.” I turn to look at her, smoke trailing out behind me, surrounding me in a ring of gray that hangs in the stagnant air like smog. “As far as you've always been concerned, the past is the past and what you've already told us is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You went to Harvard, you studied law, you passed the bar exam. Then you found us and the rest is history.” I raise my hands up and drop them back by my sides, holding my smoke between my lips. “So forgive me if I haven't been considerate of your feelings regarding the matter.”
“He was the love of my life,” she blurts, and I stop, frozen there like an irregularity in time, like something outside the normal flow of space and existence, an abnormality, a freak. America sighs and then turns in a storm of flurried emotions, smashing her wine glass into the basin sink. The wine bottle falls from her fingers and hits the floor, exploding into a million colored pieces, washing her slippered feet in wasted grapes. I watch as this woman, this soldier, this person who always acts as if she's perfection incarnate, breaks down right in front of me, collapsing emotionally into a heap of rage and pain. America grabs her face with her good hand, letting the sling swing by her side as she slams her back into the cabinets and lets out a controlled shriek into her palm.
“He?” I ask, glancing over at the bodyguard. As usual, the man's like a statue, frozen and emotionless, but listening. Always listening. Hey, this is the same guy that sat idly by while Turner and I fucked against a fence, so maybe he's alright, but you never know. You never freaking know. “Tyler Rutledge?”
“Travis,” she snaps, dropping her hand and snarling at me with white, white teeth, moving forward, through the puddle of alcohol, slippers soggy and squishing. From the darkened living room, I hear Turner stirring, sitting up with a start and a groan.
“Travis?” I ask, trying the name out on my tongue. Obviously, it's a fucking common ass name, but I feel like I'm missing something. Travis. Travis. Travis.
Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) Page 9