Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots)

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Way, way, way too long,” Sydney says, unzipping her ugly ass jacket and revealing a rockin' body and some seriously fake ass tits. Even though I've known her forever, and she's admittedly kind of hot, I've never been interested in Sydney. Kissing her would be like kissing my own sister, and I don't go there. No thank you. “He lived a few trailers over from us with his bitch ass mother. He was always crashing at our place, didn't even mind that our dad was usually fucked up on crack.”

  “Anything was better than home at that point in my life, even if I had to see your mini-titties bouncing around every time you got out of the shower.” I look over my shoulder at Naomi's raised brows. “Sydney had a thing for going shirtless.” I pause, and a smirk takes over my face. Even though I'm hurting inside, even though Jesse's standing a few feet away with tears frozen in his eyes, the expression's so natural to me, it's impossible to fight it. “She also had, what, A cups? B?” I look pointedly down at Sydney's massive chest. “Where'd the big D's come from, baby?”

  “Fuck you, Turner,” Sydney says, adjusting the straps on her purple halter and turning fully to face Naomi with a hand held out towards me for emphasis. “You're really dating this guy? Like, actually in a relationship with him?” I turn around, too, away from Trey's pale face and look straight into the eyes of the woman of my dreams. They burn orange as flames, like lightning has struck the desert landscape of her eyes and managed to catch fire. I wet my lips, flick my tongue over my lip rings and know that she's watching the whole thing.

  “I, uh.” That's all Naomi comes up with. She shrugs and glares at the No Smoking sign by my head with narrowed eyes. “He really is an asshole, isn't he?”

  “For your information, not that it's really any of your business though, I got these tits to further my career.”

  “As a stripper?” I ask.

  “Yeah, as a fucking stripper,” Sydney says, getting up in my face. Her tattoos fill her arms and chest and neck, sea animals mostly – turtles, brightly colored fish, an orange octopus. She has a hell of a lot more now than the last time I saw her. “I'm proud of what I do, I make a lot of money, and I don't have to take charity handouts from my fucking baby brother.” Sydney's nostrils flare like she does when she's really pissed off. First time I ever saw this expression on her face was when Trey and I snuck into her room and cut up one of her dresses to make capes out of. I open my mouth to respond, but she doesn't let me. “I'm making my own way in the world, and while I may not be famous enough to collect snatch like trading cards, I'm going somewhere. I just booked my first photo shoot.” I raise my eyebrow. I don't mean to be a dick, but who the fuck thinks of being a stripper as having a career? What possible options are there for advancement?

  “For who?”

  “Tattoo Terror,” she states proudly. I ain't got a fucking clue what that is, but Lola does.

  “Oh, nice. That's fuckin' awesome, babe. You should be damn proud of yourself.” Her fingers curl around the edge of the bench and her eyes stay downcast. I don't know what went on while we were at the safe house, but from Lola's demeanor, it wasn't sunshine and Skittle rainbows. Ronnie sits next to her, his body pressed firmly against hers, fingers resting on her thigh. They really do make a cute couple. I try not to compare Lola to Asuka, but it happens anyway and I realize with a start that Lola seems like a better fit. I don't know the girl, that's true, and I'd definitely never say this to Ronnie, but Lola seems like she was made for him. Or vice versa. Anyway …

  “Tattoo Terror,” Naomi says when she sees that I'm not responding to the news. “Is a website that features tattooed women.”

  “Like, to beat off to or whatever?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes, face planting into her own hand.

  “That's exactly right, Turner,” Sydney says, no shame in her gaze, hands on her hips. She glances in the window at her brother and a frown teases her small mouth. “To beat off to. I'm being recognized for my exceptional ink, and my smoking body.” She slaps at her hip and the small metal belt around her waist tinkles like chiming bells. “So admire from afar because you're never getting a slice of this.” I crinkle my face up, but Sydney ignores me, turning back to Trey, standing on her toes and gazing in the room. “I'm getting paid five figures for this shoot.”

  “Made that shit in royalties since we got here,” I say, touching my pocket and fishing out some more gum. Can't smoke in the hospital, and I think it'd be kind of inappropriate to pull Naomi away for a fuck. I have to have something to do.

  “Congratulations,” Ronnie says, voice subdued. He starts to say something else, but Milo appears then with a drink carrier in each hand.

  “Coffee?” he asks, and his face is flushed with a warm sheen. Something good has happened. The tremble in his hands is about half as bad as it was when we left the safe house this morning. “Mr. Decker,” Milo says cheerfully, keeping his gaze carefully blank when it pans across Trey's window. In his own way, I know our manager really does give two fucks about us. And even though he's only a handful of years older, I get the feeling he thinks of us as his kids or something. Jesse takes the coffee, turning his back on Trey and leaning against the glass. Next coffee goes to Ronnie, then Lola.

  “What's going on, Terrabotti?” I ask, feeling overly suspicious. And a little pissy. Standing here under these fluorescent lights with the drone of machines and the sharp scent of iodine, I don't feel like anyone should be happy. Trey's not. It feels wrong if we're all anything but miserable in here.

  “Coffee, Mr. Campbell?” he asks, trying to pass one of the drinks to me. I ignore his offering and narrow my eyes. He gives it to Naomi instead. “Are you sure you don't want some? It might help you keep your energy up.”

  “What the fuck do I need my energy up for?” I ask, feeling a tiny prickle in my spine. “Are we playing a show?” Milo sighs and shrugs his shoulders, setting the drink carriers on a nearby water fountain.

  “I don't know when we're going to play next, but rest assured, America and I are working diligently on getting something set up. For now, I have other news.”

  “Better not be about a record deal with Spin Fast,” Ronnie says, obviously thinking about the info he and Naomi got from America. After knowing who was responsible for this shit, I wouldn't sign with Spin Fast if my music career depended on it. And besides, I already fucked that chick from Heartstrings, so I put in my due diligence. We're keeping our deal with them.

  Milo obviously doesn't get the reference and just shakes his head, pale blonde hair frozen in place with gel. It's all slicked back, nice and professional, clean, organized. Not a stray strand is out of place today. Looks like Terrabotti's in a good place. He wipes his hands down the front of his navy suit, pausing to adjust his purple tie.

  “Well,” he begins, chuckling a bit. But then his gaze catches on Trey, and he has to stop to swallow and gather himself together again. “I know you all know that the press is absolutely out of control. The fans are … I'm honestly surprised any human would behave this way, but you all understand that it's getting bad? Especially now with this crazed shooter. Who knows what these people will come up with next.” Poor Milo, I think with a sigh. Wish we could tell him everything. He might actually have some good suggestions. But it's not safe yet. As much as I really hate to admit it, there is a chance he could be involved. Slim, but it's there. Lola never mentioned anything about him, but people do tend to have nasty surprises up their sleeves. Fucking secrets. I glance down at the pen marks on my arm. The letters are still legible enough. I've got to remember to write it down before it all rubs off. Milo waves his hands dismissively. “Anyhow,” he begins, and his mouth puckers tightly. But not in worry, not this time. “What is the best way to diffuse a situation like this?” He claps his hands together and looks around at us.

  “Don't have a fucking clue what you're even trying to get at,” Jesse spits bitterly, and I shrug. This is why we hired the guy. I don't have any friggin' idea how to 'diffuse a situation'. I'm a hundred times more likely to start a ne
w one. At least I haven't posted any Instagram pictures of my dick lately. That's an improvement, right?

  “Okay,” Milo says, closing his eyes slowly, opening them back up and beaming around at the six of us. Josh is around here somewhere, probably got lost on his way to find the bathroom. Oh, but there's no need to worry about him because Brayden Ryker is here, too. Have no freaking idea where because I haven't seen the man, but every now and then the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I'm pretty fucking sure he's staring at me from some hidden crevice. “The easiest way to let the pressure out, is to remove the cork, correct?”

  “Are we talking about champagne here or something else?” I ask, chewing my gum and getting annoyed at the tobacco cravings screaming at me from inside my throat. “Just say it, Terrabotti. We don't have to play fucking Mad Libs here.”

  “The answer is yes. Yes. We remove the cork.” He holds up a finger, and I roll my eyes over to Naomi who's got a gentle smile plastered across her face. I want to kiss the fuck out of it, and then maybe ask her for a blow job. I ignore the tickle in my crotch that says Mr. Happy wants to fucking play. Screw him. He'll have to wait. I cup my junk and pretend I don't hear Sydney sighing irritably next to me. “To diffuse the press, to satisfy them, to get these rabid fans off our backs, we have to give a little something. We have to talk to them.”

  Groans go up from Ronnie, Jesse, and me, all at the same time. Normally, I'll all game for talking to reporters and shit. Kind of live for that crap. But not with Trey in the hospital. Nuh uh.

  “Screw that,” Ronnie says, squeezing Lola's hand hard. He leans down and sets his coffee on the floor. “I'm not talking to anybody. Ask Turner.”

  “Ditto,” Jesse says, but I'm already shaking my head, and putting my hands on my hips.

  “Nah, nah, nah. Until Trey wakes up, I am off limits to the public.” I pause. “Unless it's a show. I will sing the shit out of a show.” I point over at Naomi. “And she'll play Trey's part.” Surprisingly, Naomi doesn't protest. Must mean she knows our songs well enough to perform them. That really does make me smile.

  “I knew you all were going to say that, but,” Milo begins, looking down at Naomi. “The offer is for both bands, Amatory Riot and Indecency.” He holds up his palms before we can start protesting again. Naomi's lips are pursed tight, and I can tell she's not into this at all. She's just learning how good the spotlight can feel; I don't think she's ready for this kind of stuff yet. “If not all ten members are present, the deal is off.”

  “Ten?” I ask, feeling my body go cold. Six members in Amatory; five members in Indecency. That makes eleven.

  “Trey's hardly in any state to do an interview,” Milo whispers, and I feel my lips curl up in a snarl.

  “Don't you think I fucking know that?” I growl back at him, but he doesn't budge. This time, Milo keeps his ground. This stupid interview must be important to him. “And there's the friggin' clincher right there, Terrabotti. No Trey, no TV, no magazine, no website. I don't want to talk to anybody.”

  “Not even if it was with Rollin' Strong magazine?” he asks, and I swear, my heart stops beating in my chest. “In conjunction with Live Music TV and Rockersbloodpills.com?”

  Silence descends in the hallway, and I can't stop myself from looking over at Trey. He doesn't move, but the breathing machine at his side contracts like it's gasping for him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ronnie says, blinking rapidly when I turn back to face him, like he can't quite believe what Milo just said. “You mean, the world's most fucking popular magazine, television station, and website want to interview us, all at the same time? Are you fucking with us?” Milo laughs and shakes his head. His phone is vibrating in his pocket, but he hasn't bothered to pick it up. That's weird ass fucking behavior for the man. He's normally got the damn thing glued to his face.

  “We've kept you apart from the media. All of these … tragedies have kept you from seeing it happen. I don't think you have any clue what's gone on out there. Give us a few more weeks, and we'll be a household name.” He looks at Trey again; we all look at Trey again. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. It's what Trey would want for you all.” I spin around and give Milo a look that could kill. “It's what he'll want when he wakes up, is what I'm trying to say,” he adds before I can rip him a new one.

  And it's true.

  If Trey wakes up and finds out we bailed on Rollin' Strong, he'll cut my balls off in my sleep.

  “Do we get the cover?” I ask. “Of the magazine?”

  Milo looks me square in the eye when he responds.

  “Not we,” he says. “You.”

  “Did Milo tell you about the interview offer?” America says when we finally make it back to the hotel. I'm giving Turner some time with his friends to talk this over. I don't need to talk to my band members; I know exactly what they're going to say: fuck yes. All except for maybe Dax.

  “Uh, yeah, he did. Does everyone else know?”

  “Of course,” America responds, slathering some red lipstick onto her mouth. I look around her hotel room. No bodyguards. With Brayden around, a whole lot of the hired help has disappeared. Well, at least the ones from around our rooms. Ice and Glass, Terre Haute, and Burning the Bleeding have their own people. The only security guards I saw were the bald guy that America trusts, and the bouncer that used to stand outside Indecency's bus, the one that always smiled at me. “They're all in. Provided you're onboard, I plan on making some phone calls tonight, maybe get something set up for tomorrow. Far too much time has been wasted on this tour.” America puckers her lips and sets the tube down on the top of the dresser. “Besides, the best way to keep Stephen off our backs is to stay public.” I don't argue that that didn't exactly help Treyjan out much. “Give Brayden some time to work his magic. In the meantime, we're going to have to figure out a way to utilize that Australian girl to do some undercover work for us.”

  “Her name is Lola.”

  “Either that or kick Ice and Glass off the tour entirely. I've considered it, but I'm afraid then that 'Tyler Rutledge',” America makes quotes with her fingers. “Will panic and do something drastic. I firmly believe staying our course is the most viable option. And the safest, too.”

  “Can I get a word in edgewise?” I ask as she moves away from the dresser and across to the bathroom. I lift my hands up in frustration and let them fall back by my sides.

  “In the meantime, I think we need to schedule a visit with this Katie character.” I choke on my own spit and shake my head, moving around the end of the bed towards America's sprightly form. Sometimes, I find myself convinced that she must use. She's always so full of energy, going from here to there in the blink of an eye, and she never slows the fuck down. I've never asked, but it seems like a strong possibility. If she does, she'd never admit it. Drugs would imply that she had some kind of weakness, and America acts like she has none. But I've seen it. It was real ugly, but it was there. Travis Gaborone. The way she acted, like she'd never heard of Indecency before she started working with us. I bet she really knows all their old songs by heart.

  “Why? That door seems pretty open and shut at this point. Katie was a pawn; Eric was a pawn. She's in a nuthouse, and he's dead. They'll … ” I drop my voice and move towards her, but she's already flicking the lights off in the bathroom and breezing past me. “Blame my parents' death on either her or Eric. And the cop, she's confessing to that, too.” Yes, she knows about that. I've told America everything. If I can trust her with the secret of my parents' murder, I can trust her with this.

  “She really did kill the cop.” America pauses next to the dresser again and steps out of her heels, switching them out for a pair of black flats. She pauses and looks up at me. “You did say you were in, right? You have to be in. This interview is everything for us.” I shake my head. There's too much going on all at once. Why did you become our manager? What was in it for you? What are you trying to prove here?

  “How do you mean?”

 
; “Pardon?” she asks, lifting her foot up and sticking her finger in the back of the shoe to adjust it. She looks perfect and polished still, no sign of the massive breakdown lingers near this bubble of professionalism. Fuck no. America'd shoot it down before she'd let that tragedy touch her facade of calm. It's almost like she's walking around drenched in one, big, fat lie. Turner's openness is starting to become more and more appealing to me. At least I know what I'm getting with him. And I still need to tell him about Dax's kiss. That, and his proposition. I haven't had even a single second to get him alone since, but the secret is burning a hole in my pocket. I need it gone. It's like I'm allergic to the fuckers now.

  “I stabbed that guy. It was the same guy, too. I recognized his picture.” America drops her foot to the ground and kicks it against the carpet a few times to adjust the shoe so that it fits just so.

  “Yes, but he didn't die from a stab wound. He died from blunt force trauma to the head. He was working for Stephen – of course, nobody knows that but us – and he went after Katie. When he tried to apprehend her,” America smacks her hands together. “She smashed him in the skull with a baseball bat and killed him. So you're off the hook on that one.”

  “How do you even know that?” I ask her, sitting down heavy on the edge of the bed. I can't even begin to describe the wash of relief that's flowing through me. I feel like I've been pumped full of helium, like I could float away at any moment. I didn't kill that man; it wasn't me. That is a friggin' load off.

  “Brayden. If you ever have any questions, there's your answer. Brayden, Brayden, Brayden.”

  “So, who the fuck is this guy, where did you find him, and why didn't you hire him sooner?” America just laughs at me and grabs her purse from the table near the door.