“I'm going to dinner downstairs. There's a restaurant in the lobby that looks promising. Care to join me?” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, and Brayden Ryker can't be hired. You don't hire the man. You plead your case to him and hope he takes mercy on you. Until Trey's shooting, I didn't have enough to convince him to show up.”
“Three dead women weren't enough?”
“Close but no cigar. Hiring a professional hit man? Now that, that was the last straw.” America smiles and starts towards the door. I move to cut her off, but like I said, the woman is crazy fast. She must be on speed or something. There's no other logical explanation. Just looking at her is giving me a headache.
“Who is this guy?” I ask, rubbing at my temples. “And where did he come from? No single person is that fucking boss without some serious history. Are we in any danger here? Either from him personally or from thinking too highly of him?” I raise my brow at my manager, but she's not paying attention to me, moving into the hallway without answering the question. And now I know she won't since we can't be overheard. Still, this is real life, and in real life, fucking badass redhead dudes don't just come sailing into town with muscles twice the size of your torso and mystical radar eyes. “Have fun down there,” I snap at her as she moves away and lifts a hand up in a wave. As America disappears into the elevator, I turn around and survey the hallway.
This hotel is nice, a lot nicer than the ones we stayed in before. Not that they were bad; they just weren't like this. It's luxurious up in here.
“And this is exactly what happens when America's in charge of things instead of Milo,” I grumble as I wander back towards my room. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen. I couldn't possibly have a quiet evening, now could I? There's too much going on around here, too many balls in the air. I try to make myself a mental list of all the crap I should be concerned about, but it just takes my migraine from bad to worse. “Ugh.”
“Want to watch a movie with me?” The voice to my right startles the shit out of me, and I spin with the full intention of punching whoever it is in the face. But it's just Dax.
“You almost got a right hook to the jaw,” I tell him, but he just smiles and opens his door a little wider. We all got private rooms this time, imagine that. I don't know how good of an idea that is, but America seemed confident and Brayden okayed it, so here we are. Not that it really matters, I guess. This crazy Hammergren fuck doesn't seem to care if his dirty deeds are done in dark shadows. In fact, it seems like he'd actually rather spill blood in the light of day. Or in front of a thousand raging fans, whatever. I stand there longer than is really necessary, staring into the shadowy dimness of Dax's room. Is going in there a bad idea? With Turner around? Probably. But it's not like I'm planning on sleeping with Dax.
I wet my lips, but I find that my feet won't move me forward.
Dax keeps staring at me. First, with a smile and then, as the moment drags on a little long, a frown. His gray eyes swirl with frustration, and the slightest burn of anger.
“Dax,” I begin, but he's already shaking his head and slumping against the door.
“Just forget it, Naomi. I'll go smoke some dust. You go do … whatever it is that you and Turner do.” I sigh and touch my hands to my cheeks, pulling up the memory of Dax's frozen kiss. If Turner was the king of molten tongues, then Dax would be the lord of ice. I don't know how to weigh those two things together. My logical mind says I should give Dax a chance, see where this takes me. After all, what the fuck do I really owe Turner? But my heart and soul are screeching at me, a swarm of demons and devils pricking my heart with swords, slicing me up and bleeding me all over the hallway. Logically, I should be more concerned with the sociopath that's chasing us, but all I can think about is this. Well, less than this really. The Turner part of this. I open my mouth to tell Dax this when Hayden shows up, appearing by my side as if by magic. If I hadn't already beat the crap out of her, I might've punched her then.
“I scored some awesome acid off the guy in the skirt, Jason, or whatever his name is. You up to take a trip?” She ignores me completely, waving around a metal container near my face. I resist the urge to reach up and smack it. I don't want to get into anything with her tonight.
“Not right now,” Dax says, sounding tired. He gives Hayden a weird look that I can't even begin to decipher. Something odd has always been between them, and I've never been able to figure it out. He goes hot and cold on her all the time. Every time we learn something new, he gets mad, gets over it, forgives her. And then, of course, she fucks us again. And again. When will he learn that she's the real bad guy here? She was taken captive and tied up. Naomi, she was raped. I let Dax's words worm their way into my brain. If I take them as truth, then maybe there's something about Hayden that's redeemable. But she also could've lied. We have no way of knowing that.
“Why don't you go ask that womanizing wife beater, Cohen Rose? You've been spending an awful lot of time with him lately. I'm sure he'd love to see your flabby ass.” Hayden doesn't stop smiling, doesn't stop sparkling underneath the hallway lights, her shirt a distant cousin to the sparkly red shoes in The Wizard of Oz. God, I hate her.
“Was I talking to you, Naomi?” she grounds out between her flat teeth. “You should be in prison for assault right now. If it wasn't for America and Dax, you would be. I suggest you leave now before I change my mind and decide to press charges.”
“And you should be hand washing knickers in the slammer for accessory to murder in the first degree.” Lola Saints leans out the door of her room and smiles at us all, eyes hidden behind a pair of big, round sunglasses. “Sorry, walls are paper thin.” She raps on the burgundy wallpaper with her knuckles.
“Go to hell you fucking cunt from down under. Go back to Australia where you belong,” Hayden snarls, glancing up and down the hallway to see if anyone else is listening in. The few guards there are left don't even glance our way.
“If we're playing that game, then shouldn't you be in some trailer park somewhere, you stupid scrag?” Hayden flips her hazelnut hair over one shoulder and lifts her chin up, looking down at Lola with a nasty expression, like a cornered dog. When I see her like that, I almost believe the things she tells Dax. She just doesn't have any real strength about her; all of it seems forced, defensive rather than offensive. Hmm.
“Actually, I grew up in a well to do family,” she says, putting a hand on her hip and tilting her ass up for display, for Dax's benefit no doubt. “If it's white trash that you smell, you might want to talk to Naomi.” Hayden waves her hand in front of her face, ever the drama queen.
“I calls 'em like I sees 'em,” Lola slurs, leaning forward and tossing a pair of double birds Hayden's way. Seeing the two of them fight like this really, really, really makes me like Lola Saints. “Now, why don't you scurry off and go ride Cohen's stubby dick again. I'd sure he'd be happy to see ya.”
“And I'd watch my mouth if I were you,” Hayden snarls and then her voice cuts off like a flip's been switched. She turns around to look at Dax who's frowning and staring at her like she's gone completely and utterly mad.
“Hayden, if you want our help,” he whispers. “If you want to change, this isn't the way to go about doing it. Don't threaten her. She's in the same position as you are.”
“Nobody's in the position I am!” Hayden screams smashing her fists into the wall by Dax's door. “Nobody!” And then she twirls on the heel of her red boots and storms down the hallway, throwing the metal container against the wall as she goes. It breaks open and blotters float to the ground like discarded rose petals, dozens of little paper squares soaked in acid. How nice.
“Hayden!” Dax calls after her, but she doesn't stop until she hits the door to her room and disappears inside. With a sigh, he slides out of his room and scoots down the wall, using it as support for his tired body. When he squats down to pick up Hayden's mess, Lola and I join him until the container is full again. “I'll give it back to her,” he says, tucking it into the pocket of
his white sweatshirt. “When she calms down a little anyway.” Dax looks up, the unique color of his eyes piercing as he splits his stare between Lola and me. “Please, please try to cut her some slack. Try and … try and think of her like Turner. When she's upset or scared, she throws up this bitchy arrogance. It's not real, and it's not entirely her fault. That picture … I think I figured out where it might have come from.”
“A bad Halloween party with too much vodka?” Lola jokes, the skin on her face still tight and her lips pursed. I wonder how much Ronnie's been able to fill her in on. And if it made any difference in her feelings. Can't imagine that it would. I know if I had a sister, and she was being held hostage, that I'd be about ten bricks short of a house right now. Dax sniffles and reaches in his pocket, coming back out with a single square, a single hit of LSD. He flips it around in his fingers and examines the goat head logo – Indecency's logo – that's printed on the front before putting it in his mouth, under his tongue. He holds it there for a moment and then swallows.
Dax stands up with a sigh and closes his eyes. When he opens them, I can see he's warring with himself, trying to decide if we deserve this information or not. I wait patiently.
“I know this is going to sound stupid, and I don't even know if it's true or not, but I … I've been doing some research online, and I think – ” Dax stops abruptly and sucks in a massive breath.
“That Hayden's just piss and vinegar?” Lola asks. I stay quiet, waiting patiently for his next breath. Down the hall, I hear the sound of Turner emerging from Ronnie's room. Dax sees him and leans over abruptly, lips brushing against my ear.
“I think Hayden was in a snuff film.”
“You fucking kissed him?” Turner asks after Lola and Ronnie leave the room together. I'm lying on the bed on my back, staring at the ceiling. I might as well cut up some crime novel plots, stuff them in a hat and start pulling at random. Everywhere I turn, there's a new issue popping up, desperate to be taken care of. Snuff film? I mean, come on. Really? I have no idea where Dax got this off the charts theory because he disappeared into his room and slammed the door, locking it behind him. I almost puked in my own mouth, but hey, at least Turner was there to distract from me the issue.
They want to do the interview. They're in. So I guess I'm in, too.
“He kissed me, Turner.” I don't look at him, keeping my gaze focused on the white ceiling. The lights in here are so fucking bright. It's driving me Goddamn nuts. “Can you dim the lights, please?” Turner snarls low in his throat, and my pussy tightens up. I think he's taking the news well though, considering.
“You can't cheat on me with Dax. If you do, I might kill him. I don't know if I'll be able to control myself.” I close my eyes and listen to the growl of his voice. Above me, the lights cool from blinding white to a cool wash of color. Much better, much more soothing. And I need soothing right now. Fucking A, Dax. I need another theory like I need a hole in the head. Why, why, why? I don't want to be a hard-boiled detective; I just want to play guitar.
“Cheat on you?” I ask as Turner moves across the room and climbs right on top of me, pinning me with a hand on either side of my head. He stares down into my eyes with a gaze so intense it takes my breath, and my sarcasm, away. To be able to cheat on you, I have to be with you-with you. I have to make that commitment. I close my eyes to escape the burn. His eyes are so hot right now, I feel like I could be incinerated. The intense heat pouring off his body makes me think of Dax's cool touch. I'm sure it could kill, too, but it would be a quiet death, lulling you to sleep, promising life is better on the other side. Turner's touch, it simply sears and sizzles, melting me into nothing. Quick, painful, intense. I love it even though I don't want to.
“Yeah, cheat. Kissing another dude is cheating. Fuck, kissing another anybody is cheating. Chicks are off limits, too.”
“Don't swing that way, but thanks for the rules, Turner.”
“That's not a rule, that's a compromise. Being in love means making sacrifices, you said it yourself. Even if I see another girl I like, and I want to fuck her, I won't. Because I'm with you. It works both ways. You keep your hands off Dax, off that redhead, off whoever because you have me. That's just the way it fucking works.”
I open my eyes again and lock gazes with him.
“Dax thinks Hayden was in some kind of snuff film?” Turner's face wrinkles up before he rolls off me and lands with a sigh, head sinking into a down pillow. We lay there side by side for while, flames licking the space between us.
“A … snuff film? Like, where they kill people and shit?”
“That's what the word snuff would imply, Turner. Congratulations on your extensive vocabulary.”
“I'm not an idiot, you know.”
“Then why do you act like one?” Is my retort. More silence and then some rummaging around as Turner pulls his copy of Hayden's picture from his pants. In case you were wondering, we made lots.
The image hasn't changed; it's still disturbing as all get out. There's Hayden, a few years younger I'd guess, covered in blood. Her expression is unreadable, somewhere between happy and horrified. It's fucking weird as shit. Her mouth is twisted to the side and her eyes are wide open, pupils small, like pinpricks. Hayden's pulling her hair back behind her ears, her naked body soaked in crimson. The body on the floor is twice as wet, pulpy and ragged, like whoever it was got the ever living crap beat out of them with something like a baseball bat or a two-by-four. No matter how long or how hard I stare at it, I can't decide if it's a man or a woman lying there.
A snuff film, probably pornographic in nature.
It fits the picture, but it's so far from reality that my mind refuses to believe it. I keep telling myself there has to be another explanation, but for the life of me I can't figure it out. There's Hayden, half-smiling at a dead body, but not like she's killed the person herself. And there's a camera, either automatic or manned by someone, I don't know. But … really? Did someone really get killed on purpose here, for the sake of entertainment? That's a hard pill to swallow.
“I wouldn't put it past her.” I take the picture from his fingers, pretending I don't give a fuck that they burn my flesh when my own fingers brush against his skin.
“Neither would I, but … I mean, if you go into the doctor with a sniffle and a cough, they don't start off on the assumption that you have tuberculosis. Colds and flus are common, so they start there. I don't know what Dax is working off of, but he better tell us soon because if not, this theory is going out the door. What if Hayden was screwing some guy and it went too far and she bashed his head in?”
“While filming it?”
“Maybe they had a camera set up. Ask your friend Jesse, people make sex tapes.”
“I can't believe you kissed him,” Turner groans, changing the subject abruptly. I roll my eyes and stuff the picture into my pocket. Not even talking about Hayden and her bizarre secret can snap him out of it.
“He kissed me,” I repeat. “He kissed me. Get that through your thick skull. There's a difference.”
“There are a thousand girls that, if I let them, would kiss me. I wouldn't have to do a damn thing. It's still cheating.”
“So I'm a cheater then?” I ask, feeling snippy. And here I was, considering telling him that I was going to give this whole thing a try. Am I still feeling emotional about it all? You bet ya. But I can't run away forever; it's time to woman up and deal with this. Dax might be offering something different, but I have to put my faith in Turner. If I don't, I'll never be able to have a normal relationship. I'll always be wondering what might've happened if I'd given my devil rocker boy a try. So here it goes. Maybe, if Turner really does fuck me over, Dax and I can try dating. I do like him, I do. A lot. But not like this … not this push and pull thing I have with Turner. At the very least, the sex is explosive, it's helping to close the door on my past, and it's entertaining.
Turner rolls onto his side and props his head up with his hand.
“No. Becaus
e I don't think I was clear about this. Lemme fess up now, and let's cement the deal. We're going to need answers for the interview anyway.”
“The interview?” I ask, thinking about sitting in a chair with a camera in my face. Of course. The interviewers are going to ask about me and Turner. Probably be the first fucking question out of their mouths. I'm not going to like this, am I?
“I consider you my woman, my girlfriend. If you'd let me, I'd be your fiancé.” I huff and roll away from him, gasping as he slides up close behind me and presses his erection against my jeans. “That was a real marriage proposal,” he whispers in my ear, nibbling at the sensitive flesh and tugging on my earrings. “Soon as I get the chance, I'm going ring shopping.”
“That's ridiculous. I don't want to marry you.” The words are true; I am not ready for that step yet. But they are hard to say with his hands sliding all over my body, moving up my shirt, caressing my breasts with a firm grip. “I never said yes to that.”
“Not yet. But you will. For now, I'll be a happy man if you'll just call me your boyfriend, that's it. Boyfriend. Not so bad, is it?” I wrinkle my nose, but the expression doesn't last long. My weakness for male body parts is starting to take over. Damn you, penis. Damn you. Swear to God, first day that cure comes out, I'm all over it. Then maybe Blair and I can get hitched, and I can avoid some of this drama. I don't care what guys say – it's not women who are complicated. It's them. Most of the time anyway. But who's being complicated right now? “Just tell me you're mine, I'm yours, and you won't kiss, fuck or otherwise let any other man batter dip his corn dog with you?”
“God,” I groan, rolling back towards him, feeling my body brush against Turner's hard muscles. My hands unwillingly reach up to grope his pecs, moving down almost immediately to dig their greedy way under his shirt. “You're so fucking disgusting. Where do you come up with this crap?”
Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) Page 15