Oh.
Travis.
My head snaps up to America's blue eyes as Turner's footsteps move around the side of the couch and pause on the other side of the cabinets, flames dancing across his dark form as the candles flicker and smile on the blackness around us.
“What did you just say?” His voice is quiet and dark, like velvet wrapped around steel, soft but deadly. Ready to strike.
“He was the love of my life,” America whispers, voice so low I can barely make out the words. She clutches at her chest with her free hand, twists the fabric of her button up shirt with rigid corpse fingers. “Travis Gaborone. I loved him with everything, everything I had and everything I'll ever be. I loved him and then I lost him.” Her eyes tear up, staining her face with liquid I never thought I'd see. I take a step back and bump into the edge of the table. “And it's all my fault. All my fucking fault.”
“Travis' death was an accident,” Turner says, moving a few feet closer to me. “What happened to him was an accident.” America laughs, and it's dry as dirt, harsh and gritty.
“What happened to Travis,” she says. “Was murder.”
“The fuck are you talking about, bitch?” I snarl, moving forward, getting in America's face, pushing her back with shaking hands. She pushes me right back and we get into a grapple that Naomi has to break up, moving us apart with quiet strength and presence more than anything else. What she doesn't know is that I'm not afraid to fuck up some bitch who's spewing lies about my best Goddamn friend, the friend who's been gone for a long, long time. Seven years without him. It's been a fucking ride, that's for sure. So, cast on her arm or no, I will beat the crap out of anyone who talks shit about Travis Gaborone, 'specially when they've got no right. No fucking right. “Travis was hit by a car when he was crossing the street. That's it. Ain't nobody ever said otherwise.”
“Yeah?” America asks with another laugh, one that makes my skin crawl. This chick is tough as nails with a thicker shell than Naomi Knox. Scary. “Hit by a car and then backed over. Yeah, that's right. The person who hit him went into reverse and ran over his body. Again. And Again. And again.” My blood starts to boil and the muscles in my jaw get tight, working hard as I grind my teeth together. I never got to see Travis' body, never got to hear the details of the accident. Just like with Trey, with Naomi, the law doesn't give a fuck how much love you got for that person. If you don't fit into their narrow ass bullshit definition of family, you can just forget about kissing your friend goodbye. Too fucking bad for you. And Travis' parents never said a thing, not one damn thing.
“How the hell would you know that?” I bark at her, trying but failing to keep my voice at a reasonable level. There's nothing reasonable about this shit. “How the fuck?!” I turn away before I hit her and move over to Naomi, wrapping an arm around her waist and burying my face against her blonde hair. I've never had anything like this, anyone like this. I close my eyes and breathe her in, feeling the pounding in my chest slow. If I wasn't so fucked in the head right now, I might feel good about this. Instead of drugs or drunken pussy, I've got Naomi, Goddess of Rock with legs for days and a smile so sharp it could cut. “How the fuck?”
“Because he was my fiancé, that's how,” America growls back at me, getting defensive. “You might not have known me, but I knew all about you. You and Ronnie, Jesse, Treyjan. Indecency. I was at every show. Every single fucking show.”
“Then how come I don't remember your ass?” I ask, moving back and turning towards her, letting my fists curls at my sides. The light from above the kitchen sink throws shadows across America's face, turning her perfect complexion into splotches of light and dark, intensified by the whisper of candles behind us. “Think I'd recall catching Travis tongue some yuppie bitch in the back of the venue.”
“We were careful to hide our relationship, so careful,” she whispers, hands shaking as she fingers the edges of her sling. And then her gaze snaps back to mine. “Besides, your head was so far up your ass back then, you couldn't see what was right in front of you.” America takes a step back and holds her hand out for something, Naomi's cigarette apparently. She hands it over without a fight.
“But why?” Naomi asks, standing stone still, eyebrows crinkled up and face full of questions. “Why even bother?”
“Because I knew what he'd do if he found out. Because I was afraid of him. Because I was already married.” America looks down at the fingers on her broken arm, reaching down with her other hand to touch a tan line on her ring finger.
“You were … married. And engaged?” Naomi asks while my head spins in my circles and my stomach tightens up with emotion. I hate talking about Travis; we all do. Our lost brother. The pain is still so intense that I have a hard time even thinking about it without wanting to light up, shoot up, or fuck up. And I thought I knew everything about that night. I spent days on that street corner with candles and flowers and weeping fans. How could I have not known this? Bitch has to be lying. Has to be. Has to. Has to. Has to.
“Oh, don't get all high and mighty on me now, Naomi. You're certainly one to talk. Murder. Abortion. Drugs. You can't judge me!” she screams, and I take another step back. The raging blaze of ire in her voice is enough to set this whole place aflame. I spare a glance for the bodyguard, but he hasn't moved, and his face registers nothing. I hope we can trust him. Not that it matters anyway, right? Because this has got to be a lie. Or maybe I just wish it was. “I wanted to leave Stephen, but I couldn't. You don't understand how he is, what he's capable of.”
“Stephen Hammergren. Tyler Rutledge. You were married to this guy?” Naomi asks, and in her voice is an incredulous horror that hasn't started to sink into me yet. My soul's still getting used to the massive dick that's been shoved up in me, filling me with the sticky cum of reality. Yeah, it's fucking gross.
“I think I'm going to be sick,” I whisper, but nobody's listening to me. At least, I hope nobody is. If we're getting eavesdroppers, we might be fucked. I figure I should make a round through the hallway, check up the stairs, but I can't move. My feet may as well be chained to the fucking floor. Travis was murdered? For loving a woman we didn't even know about? My brain collapses into a memory of Travis, Jesse, Treyjan, Ronnie and I at Asuka's funeral. I can see the coffin in my mind like it was yesterday, white and gleaming, sterile and perfect, a ridiculous dichotomy of purity covering up the splash of ugly death inside. That was a bad day for all of us, but Travis kept a smile on his face, thanked our friends, our fans for their kind words, like he was a shield for Ronnie, absorbing some of that pain like a sponge. I miss the shit out of him.
“I was.” America's words, so quiet the crackle of the burning cherry nearly drowns them out. “I was married to him, and I was working towards a goal, his goal. To be a lawyer. At the time, I told myself he simply wanted success for me. Now, I know he was just grooming me to be at his side when he took over the world.” Her smile slices through the air, vibrating the molecules and making it hard to breathe. I snap my lips closed and suck in breath through my nostrils. I pat my pant pockets down looking for a joint. There's a good time for everything, right? Right? “But when I met Travis at a party, I … I changed. I saw Stephen for who he was, and things just went downhill from there. Down a slippery slope of blood and horror and fear like you wouldn't believe.” America finishes her cigarette and drops it into the sink with the broken glass. “You think this is bad now? Hit men? Murdered women? This is nothing compared to the hell he put me through when I tried to leave him. My parents are dead. My sister is dead. My soul mate is dead. Stephen Hammergren gets what he wants when he wants it, and if he can't have it? Nobody will. Nobody.” She sniffles once more and closes her eyes as I step back and pull out a chair, sinking down to the green cushion with a groan, putting my face in my hands.
Secrets.
They will fuck you every time, right up the ass, no reach around, no thank you, and sure as shit, no lube. No fucking lube. If ever there was a plague on humanity, this is it. Worse
than the black plague, this shit is epidemic.
“I fucking hate secrets,” I growl against my palms. “Rotten, festering, rancid, rank, sour ass BULLSHIT!” My hand comes out and smacks the lit candle, smattering the table and the wall with hot wax as it rolls off, the flame sputtering to its death as it falls to the floor with a clatter. How am I going to tell Ronnie this? Jesse? I swallow hard and try not to black out, fly into a rage that'll make Stephen Hammergren look like a mewling kitten. Treyjan. How am I supposed to tell Treyjan this? What if he doesn't make it? What if he never knows that that shot to the head is all because of this. This bitch in a beige suit and pantyhose. I want it to be a lie so bad I feel like I'm giving myself a fucking hernia. But you know how the worst shit ever is always true? Always fucking true. It's usually the good stuff that's a lie.
“America … ” Naomi begins, but then the words fail her and she stands in silence, the weight of a revelation crushing our souls to shit. And I was having such a nice day, too. I wasn't shitting my pants thinking about Trey. I was relaxed to the ways of the universe, confident enough with Naomi in my arms. Calm. Now, I'm a live wire, ready to electrocute some motherfuckers and send them to an early grave. Oh, man. If I thought my rage was intense before, this is nothing. I feel like I've just descended into a new level of hell, something that little bitch Dante never saw in his inferno. This shit is so on. Stephen, Tyler, whoever the fuck he is wanted a war? Well, he's going to get one, and he better hope we're never alone in a room together. Can't guarantee he'd make it out of there alive. Or whole. I start getting these lurid fantasies about pulling fingernails off this cocksucker.
“When the phone calls stopped, and the threats, when I had nothing left to lose, I thought it was over. I guess he was just biding his time.” I hear her swallow hard, but I don't look that way. I can't help but blame her. Frankly, I'd like to grab America by the hair and smash her face into the countertop. But the other part of me, the Turner Campbell I'm just getting to know, wants to protect her. For Travis. Because that's what Travis would want. Now that I have Naomi, I know what love's like. You can't control it or tame it, and it can't be stopped. It's like a herd of fangirls, ready to trample you into the dirt. And he obviously loved this girl enough to sneak around with her, to try and keep her safe. He died for her. I have to remember that.
I reach up to my face and find that there are tears there. Fuck. I snatch the place mat off the table and wipe at my cheeks. Ain't nobody gonna see me sitting here crying like a fucking baby. I'm bigger than that. I can do better than that.
“Ever wondered why I asked you to stay away from Indecency?” America asks with another parched laugh, directing her question at Naomi. “Did you ever pick up on that? Though I can't blame you for this. I wanted you guys on tour with them, made it my life's fucking work. I can't seem to stay away. Even though Travis is gone, I can't separate myself from his memory.” She sniffles again, but it doesn't sound like a fresh cry. That there is a call to arms, a gathering of the spirit, a last hurrah to the pain. I turn my face and watch America gather herself together, kicking off her slippers, letting her face fall back into that self-assured arrogance that I recognize so well. “And now people are dying for it, for me. Remember how I said I thought I was supposed to die on the tour bus? Lola's right – that wasn't their mission at all. I'm not supposed to die; I'm supposed to suffer. To suffer as long and deep as possible. And you're all coming with me, strapped into a plane set to crash. For that, I'm truly sorry.” America slicks her hair back with her good hand and straightens her shoulders, moving her gaze from Naomi's to mine. I wrinkle my lip at her. “But the reason we're not all locked in some basement torture chamber somewhere is because I have resources of my own.” Behind me, I hear the sound of the bald bodyguard standing up. America hears him, too, and nods her head at me, acknowledging the man and his quiet presence with trust and authority. “And I'm about to call in a favor. Stephen's just getting started. If we're not careful, this situation, believe it or not, actually has the capability of getting worse. Much, much worse. We're almost lucky he's such a maniacal sociopath.” She gives us a crocodile grin, one that's as fake as the flowers in the center of this ugly ass table.
“I just … fuck.” That's all Naomi has to say. Me, I recognize the glint in America's steel blue eyes. It's a flicker of fight, and I'm definitely in for one.
“Lock and load?” I ask as I hear footsteps creaking across the floorboards upstairs. A minute later, I can hear Hayden Lee humming as she descends the staircase. America glances over to her left, like she can see straight through the cabinets and into the heart of her leading lady. When the bitch finally comes into the kitchen and sees us all, she smiles.
“What did I miss?” she asks, innocent as sin, wicked intention wrapped up in a skinny body and tiny tits. Hayden tucks some hair behind her ear and acts like she's not wearing a lace nightgown that shows off her flat ass cheeks.
“We're discussing battle plans,” America says with another smile, one that puts a chill in my blood. For a second there, I almost feel sorry for this stupid fuck, this Stephen Hammergren.
Almost.
“I can't even fucking wrap my mind around this,” Naomi says from her perch on the edge of Dax's bed. I try not to be jealous that he's sitting close enough to touch. Their thighs are like this fucking close. I grit my teeth and try to think about something else. Not that it's hard, man. Take your frigging pick. There's a whole shit storm raining down around us. Grab a turd, any turd. They all smell like crap. “So I'm guessing this is pretty rough on you guys.” Naomi takes a deep breath and curls her fingers into the fabric of the ugly ass comforter, black painted nails digging into the fabric like knives. “I'm so fucking sorry you have to go through this.”
I look down at Ronnie who's sitting frozen in this brown tweed chair, face like ice, clear and cold. I can see right through him, straight down into his soul. Even though I'm still a little skeptical of this Lola chick, I can thank the Gods of Rock for her right then. Without that spark of hope flaming bright in his chest, I don't know that Ronnie McGuire would be getting through this all without a knife to the throat. I've always worried he'd commit suicide one day. This clusterfuck coulda been the clincher, man.
“Not your fault, Naomi,” he says, but the words are barely there, as clear and temporary as the cigarette smoke in the air. Never did find a joint. Guess that's a good thing? “Nobody's fault but this guy's … this Stephen fuck.” And then Ronnie grits his teeth and squeezes his hands so hard that the muscles in his arms bulge and tense, veins popping, tattoos sliding over all of that rock hard fuck-you-up strength. Ronnie might've lived the last decade in a drunken, wasted stupor but he has drummer arms. Ain't no little drummer boy like Dax. My friend knows how to fuck a kit so hard it'll show up the next day pregnant. In the blink of an eye, he's up and grabbing the small table next to his chair. The vase of fake flowers topples to the floor as he swings it hard as he can against the wall.
“Fucking Christ, man!” I shout as splinters rain down around us, showering the room in rough wood and hardware. “Jesus.”
Ronnie moves over to the wall and puts his hand on it, sliding the other down his face as he pants, back rising and falling with harsh breaths.
“I can't even believe this shit. I can't even … How do I tell my kids that their mothers are dead because some guy couldn't handle letting go? Because that's what this is all about, really. Some jealous prima donna BITCH is trying to take everything from us. Everything. Me, you, Trey, Naomi. Look at Lola! He's already stripped her of her morals and her humanity, and now he's got her sister. How the fuck? How the friggin' fuck cock sucking bitch son of a WHORE does something like this happen?”
“It's definitely gotten out of control,” Naomi says, shaking her head, blonde hair falling over her face. When she sweeps it back, my heart skips a beat. I drag my eyes away from her and stay focused on Ronnie. If he hadn't just raped the shit out of some furniture, I'd be congratulating him for get
ting in touch with his emotions. He's been dead cold for so long. “And I thought this all had to do with Eric and Katie.” She laughs, but the sound is far from pleasant. “All that really happened was that this guy dug into my past and raised their asses like the undead. This is unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable.”
“This is more than that,” Ronnie says, and I can tell that if this Hammergren bitch was in the room, that Ronnie's shirt would be coming off. He wouldn't even wait around long enough to find out why. That guy would be dead in a pulpy mass on the floor before you could say dickwad. “This is the evilest fucking shit I've ever heard of in my life. The web is just massive, huge. There are threads connecting everyone and everything we care about, tying it all back to this gargantuan conspiracy. If I didn't know any better, I'd say this was a load of horse shit.” Ronnie turns around and leans against the wall for support. He's sweating like crazy, soaking his shirt and sticking it to his chest. At least it gives me a good look at him. He's gained a lot of weight lately – which is a good thing. Guess I'll have to stop making Stick Skinny Ronnie jokes.
“But it doesn't change anything,” I say, digging out a crumpled stick of gum from my pocket and tossing the silver wrapper to the floor. I need to develop new habits, something to keep my mind off the smack and the booze and the wild pussy. Eh. Maybe not that last one. Naomi's more than enough to keep my dick occupied. I get hard even thinking about her, and when I whack it, I can only come when I imagine her enveloping me, taking over, consuming my soul from the inside out. Fucking romantic, huh?
“Fuck it doesn't,” Ronnie snaps at me, biting down on his lip, hard. “This changes everything.”
“And how's that? Huh? We still have to kick this fucker's ass, make sure we come out on top of this Goddamn clusterfuck. Travis is still dead, and he's been gone for a long time. All I know is that vengeance is due, and I'm getting ready to collect on the fucking late fees. We can't let this trip us up. We have to push forward and take steps to climb out of this crap. Otherwise, we're all going to be pushing up daisies.”
Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) Page 10