“Oh, you should be alarmed alright,” Jesse grumbles, scrubbing at his hair like he's still in shock at the length. If it were the time or place for compliments, I'd tell him he looks a hell of a fuck better that way. I've always hated long hair on men. Yuck. “But we can't do shit about shit.”
“What am I going to do about Poppet?” Lola asks again, redirecting the attention back to her. She's pushing at Ronnie's chest like she wants down, but his arms only tighten, biceps flexing as he squeezes her against his chest. “I told you what they said to me, that if I pissed them off, my sister was as good as dead. Well, now what? Now, the bloody fuck what?”
Turner and Ronnie share a private look. Obviously, they're the only two here who really know what's going on.
“It's kind of a long story,” Ronnie begins, finally giving into Lola and setting her on the floor with a click of her high heels. She stumbles a bit, face blanched and eyes wide, lost in another time, another place. I get that look, but I don't know how to help her. I can't help her unless I know all the dirt. Not that this shit storm is any of my business really, but … I love my boys. They're all like my little brothers. I can't just let them bury themselves. “Let's just get to Trey's room and then we'll talk about it, okay?”
“I have to go find Tyler,” Lola says, pausing at the end of the hall and putting her hand against the white washed walls. “I have to find him and see if there's anything I can do to redeem myself.” Her eyes water, but she blinks back the tears, holding up her other hand to stop Ronnie when he tries to move towards her. “Even if it means the end for me, even if … bad things happen. I can't leave her there alone. It's all my fault she's tied up in this crap anyway. If I hadn't had my head halfway up my bloody sash, then maybe I'd have been thinking clearly.”
“You go find Tyler now, and it's over Lola. He could kill you, or worse.” Ronnie touches a hand to his chest and looks her straight in the face. “And trust me, there are things worse than death. Please, let's just think about this for a second.”
“What's there to think about? I don't go, my sister dies. Tyler is ruthless; they all are. You saw what happened to Marta, to … ” Lola pauses, face red, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Once again, I'm lost, but it doesn't look like Milo is. Understanding is dawning on his face.
“Come on, Lola. You don't even know if she's alive. I mean, fuck, man. Look at this shit!” Turner flings his hand out to indicate the nearly empty halls. “Where are our guards, huh? Wasn't that bald dude standing near the entrance just before Tyler appeared? Where is he now? This shit is huge. We'll be lucky if any of us get out alive.”
“Keep your voice down, Mr. Campbell,” Milo says, glancing around at the thinning employees. There seemed to be a whole lot more of them a minute ago. I adjust my tits, make sure they're as tucked in as they're gonna be. Last thing I need if shit goes down are my boobs flopping around all over the place. The implants are nice, but damn if they don't get in the way sometimes. Rumor has it that I can use them as a floating device though. Good stuff. “If there's something we need to discuss, I'd much prefer if we kept it to ourselves. Not all press is good press.”
“Bullshit,” Turner growls under his breath. “If we all died in here today, we'd be the most popular fucking band the world had ever seen. Fuck The Beatles; it'd be Indecency memorial concerts galore.”
“Nobody's dying in here,” Ronnie snaps back at him, keeping Lola upright, but just barely. Hey, I can relate. My brother's in the hospital, shot through the frigging chest by a sniper. I get it. “There's no reason for that. Secrets are secrets, but if it comes to choosing life or death, then I'm not taking them to the grave.” Turner gives Ronnie a look that could kill, but he doesn't say anything. He knows better than to argue with McGuire. “Let's find Trey, lock the door, and call Brayden.”
“That won't be necessary,” a voice says from behind us. I don't jump, but Josh nearly leaps out of his skin, spinning on the redheaded Irish stud fuckin' muffin behind us. He's smiling, but he doesn't look happy, not really. I can't remember his name, but his pecs sure do look familiar. I try not to lick my lips, wouldn't be appropriate anyway.
“What are you, a fucking ninja or some shit?” Turner growls, running a hand through his hair and strutting up to the beefy bodyguard like he's not at all intimidated. Liar. I hold back my smirk, doubt that would be considered appropriate either. At this statement, the redhead actually does smile.
“A ninja?” he asks with a small chuckle, one that's quickly stifled when another man appears by his side, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a red tee. No suits or shades on these guys, hidden in plain sight, the best kind of security. So, where were they a few minutes ago? “I just pay attention to what's goin' on around me, Mr. Campbell. Dax McCann told me I might find you in a pinch of trouble.”
“Dax?” Turner asks, looking taken aback. His face squinches up, and I have to resist the urge to flick him in the nuts. He's always so cynical about things. Drives me crazy. Especially because Trey imitates everything Turner does. You know that whole if your friends jumped off of a bridge, would you crap? Well, Trey would. He'd follow Turner to the ends of the universe. “How the fuck did Dax know what was happening here, five friggin' hours away?” Turner pauses for a moment and his brown eyes go wide, the color draining from his face. “Naomi? Is Naomi okay?”
“Naomi's fine,” the man says, his Irish accent wetting the shores of paradise down below, if you know what I mean. I adjust my stance and lean back, checking out his dark jeans, his dirty work boots, his tight black T-shirt. If I had time for men, I'd make room on my schedule for this guy. As things stand, I'm here for Trey and that's it. As soon as I figure out this shit my baby brother's managed to step into, I'm gone. I have my photo shoot in two weeks, and I won't compromise that for anything. “My concern right now is for you, not her. Tell me what happened.”
“Poppet,” Lola says, drawing the attention back to her. She's standing straight now, and there's a cigarette in her mouth. Guess she could give a fuck about the hospital's no smoking policy. “I'm tired of holding things in. I'm sick and fucking tired … ” We all watch as she throws her cig to the floor and crushes it with her red and black zebra heels. “Of keeping secrets and pretending like me and my band members are bloody good mates.” She marches up to Brayden in her short shorts and her halter top, glaring daggers, demanding prisoners. “I want my fucking sister back. You're the expert here, right? You tell me what that crazy bastard's done with her, ya got it?”
The redhead raises one brow and exchanges a glance with the dude next to him.
“Get the van ready,” is all he says before placing a hand on Lola's shoulder. She shrugs it off and turns away, crossing her arms over chest. Her eyes cut straight through me, like I've personally offended her. Bitch looks like she can throw some shade, so I step out of the way. No need to get wrapped up in that. Anger without an outlet is a dangerous, dangerous thing. “Look, Miss Saints, I know about your sister.” Lola's blue eyes widen and she turns on her heel.
“Ya better not be fuckin' with me, Brayden Ryker,” she growls, her voice low and deadly, like tendrils wrapping around my ankles. I stomp my heels out on the floor to clear the sensation and get a weird look from Jesse. But it's not all that weird if you think about it. The whole world is full of sensation if you just try and feel it. Everybody has an aura, a feeling, that surrounds their being. Trust me, I know. I've spent my life reading them. It's a survival technique. Say there's a cute guy sitting up front, flinging hundreds around like Monopoly money. Most people would go for it if they were in my position, but not me. I have to feel 'em out. Usually, it's guys like that, the ones you least expect who are getting ready to fuck you over. Ask anyone, being a stripper is not an easy fucking job.
“Believe you me, I know more than I care to.” Brayden wipes his hand over his stubbly jaw, rough fingers grazing across the red hair there. “And I know Poppet Saints is absolutely, one hundred percent not a prisoner of S
tephen Hammergren.” He pauses and shrugs his broad shoulders. “Or you can go by his alter ego, Tyler Rutledge. I like the name better myself.”
“But I flipping saw her,” Lola growls, slapping one hand against the other. The pulse in her neck is throbbing, and she's clenching her jaw so tight it looks like her damn teeth are going to snap off. This girl's been pushed to the limit. If she breaks, somebody's going down. Even I can see that, and I just met the chick. “That was no fun house mirror I was lookin' through. It was a fucking window. Tell me I imagined that fucking shit.”
“Oh, I'm not saying you imagined it, love. I'm just saying that she's not there against her will.”
“Well, if she's not there against her fucking will then why … ” Lola begins, her voice dying as the words tumble out past her pretty red lipstick. They fall to the floor and crash in the silence, drowning in the understanding that's dawning on her face. Ronnie moves up close to her, but she jerks away from him, moving over to a door near the bathroom and pausing with her hand on the knob. “I'll just pop away to the toilet for a second,” she whispers. Brayden's man moves closer to her, like he plans on escorting her into the bathroom, but Brayden shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. The bathroom's already been cleared, of course it has. I smile softly. I like this guy already.
Lola disappears and a moment later, we all hear a scream. Nobody moves forward though. It's obviously not that kind of scream. She's not in any physical danger in there. Damn. I purse my lips and put my hands on my lower back. If I found out my brother had betrayed me … Well, first I'd whoop his pasty white little ass. But the betrayal, man, that would eat at my heart. There's nothing worse than being betrayed by someone you think you love. Hell, it's hard to be betrayed by somebody you fucking despise. Like me. Look at me. Here I am, photo shoot two weeks away, and my brother gets freaking shot, so what do I do? I quit my crappy ass shit job.
And my employer sends a couple of guys after me. Like he's my pimp or some shit. Not happening. Not acceptable. I quit the club, and that's that. He can't do shit about it. Besides, I think I lost the dudes back in Indianapolis. I don't pull in that much money, do I? My tips were always shit compared to Noreen’s.
“So you're saying … ” Ronnie begins, but he doesn't finish his sentence, letting the unspoken shimmer in the air around us. I can feel that, too. I can feel the pain he's nursing for Lola. I look between him and Turner, to Milo, to Jesse and the bassist kid, Josh. Wow, this goes deep, doesn't it? I sigh and shake my head, sucking in a deep breath and trying to remember what my yoga instructor told me. I hold negative energy in my lower back or some shit. I relax and bend over, trying to stretch out said region. And I don't even give a fuck if anybody's staring at me. Sometimes, you just gotta be the weird one. It's always the weird one that stands out anyway, right? Nobody cares about the sheep; it's the wolf they're all after.
“Yes, Ronnie,” Brayden says, checking his watch and then glancing up at the ceiling like he's searching for something. “I'm saying that Poppet Saints is a willing participant in the whole scheme.” Brayden grins, teeth nice and white, and looks back down at us. “I imagine if she knew her sister wasn't so into it anymore, that she'd give him out somethin' fierce about it. No worries though, I can right that wrong soon enough. Now, if you please, a rundown on what happened here today? Just a quick one; we can go into details later.”
“Where are our fucking bodyguards?” Turner snaps at the man, posturing like a horny gorilla in the throws of an alpha battle. “What fucking use are the assholes if they're not around when we need 'em?”
“Oh, them?” Brayden asks, and for a second there, I see a slight twitch in his jaw. I doubt anybody else notices, but like I said, I feel things. I see things. It's a hazard of the trade, I guess. Brayden might be playing confident, or hell, might even be confident, but there's a bit of worry in there somewhere. Something happened today that he didn't like. “Well, they're dead.” Milo gasps and Josh groans, but my boys stay silent. They've been here before apparently.
“Marcus is dead?” Milo asks, touching a hand to his chest and shaking his head like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. The short, little blonde looks more suited to accountant work than he does to managing a rock band, but as far as I've seen, he does a damn good job at it. I have a feeling though, that this is a bit out of his league. Brayden nods briskly and keeps a tight smile on his face.
“Now for that rundown?” he asks again and Milo nods, stepping forward and raising his chin. So in control. I'm impressed. His suit still looks pressed and his tie is perfectly straight, arranged just so, like we weren't just held at gun point in an elevator.
“I'm of the mind to call the police,” he begins, glancing back at his band. “But I know a skunk when I smell one. You're the expert here, and you've come highly recommended, so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. It's quite apparent that you know what's going on here, even if I don't.”
“I do, indeed,” Brayden says, his accent thickening for just a moment. “And you can trust me with whatever information you do have. I'm only here to help.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest and looks Milo straight in the face. The two of them stare at each other for a moment before Milo nods and holds out his hand, taking a step back and breaking the space between Brayden, Ronnie and Turner.
“Tyler Rutledge was here,” Ronnie says, brown eyes steady and strong. Wow. It's going to be awhile before I get used to that again. There were years there where I wasn't even sure if he was still in that head of his. I thought maybe his soul had died along with Asuka. Today, I can see it quite clearly. Amen, baby. Amen. “And I don't know what America's told you, but I'm just going to assume it's everything?” Brayden simply smiles. “Well, we know he's really Stephen Hammergren, and I fucking told him so. If I have to take on Spin Fast Music Group and a whole army of hired hit men, I will. I don't care how herculean this shit gets.” Ronnie's fists get tight at his sides and the snakes on his neck hiss with power. I can see the muscles coiling in his neck. He's like a bear that's just found his mate, and he's not afraid to go all grizzly and shit. “He was here with that cock sucking shit fucker, Cohen Rose.”
“Yeah, yeah, and there was a gun and some pepper spray involved. What the fuck does it matter? I want to get the hell out of here and see Naomi. If you're here, you're not there, and she could be in danger. So fuck that. Let's go see Trey, and then get the fuck out of here.” Turner straightens out his shirt and sniffs, running his hand through his hair again and casting me a look, like he thinks I'm going to say something. Guess he knows me pretty well, huh?
“I don't think they were intending on hurting anyone but Ronnie and Lola,” I say, because well, I guess I'm just a smart ass little bitch. Turner gives me this look that could kill, if I wasn't already immune to it. He's had that look since he was five, this squinched up angry face that makes most women soak their drawers. I don't get it, but whatever. I adjust myself, my stilettos squeaking across the overly polished linoleum floor. Why is it that most hospitals look the same? Same ugly floor, same boring walls. I bet my ass that if you stuck a sick person in a room with some bright paint, a painting or two, some live flowers and not just dead ones, that they'd get better a whole hell of a lot faster. That might just be me, but come on, white walls aren't good for anybody. “Because if they'd wanted to, they could have.”
“Agreed,” Brayden said, still smiling. I imagine that he smiles a lot. “But the fact that Stephen paid you a visit is promising. It means he's slipping. I'd be, too, if I'd just lost control of my company.”
“What?” Ronnie asks, voice sharp. Always taking in things, that boy. He could watch a movie and then relay every fucking outfit the characters wore, down to the little deets – hair accessories, shoes, gloves, purses. It's actually kind of creepy. Brayden raises his hands like he's gone too far, but his words aren't accidental. This guy doesn't do anything accidentally.
“Why don't we all pile in the van for a little holiday?” he s
ays, backing up a step or two. A moment later, Lola emerges from the bathroom, hair sopping wet and hanging in her face. She moves closer to the group and this time, she does let Ronnie touch her, folding into his arms and sagging there. Poor girl. “As I said, we can do details later. For now, let's get you all back to the hotel. I imagine you'd like a bit of rest before your interviews? Besides, it's just about time for us to catch a plane to L.A.”
I raise my brows, but don't say anything. L.A., huh? Why on earth would the boys be heading back to our hometown? Interesting. Very interesting. My photo shoot just happens to be in L.A. as well. But I mean, of course it is, right? That's the real Sin City right there. Sorry, Vegas. My dad always used to call it Los Diablos, but hey, from the mouth of a religious crack addict, that's just funny isn't it?
“I'm not fucking leaving here until I see Trey,” Turner demands, standing up tall and glaring at Brayden like he's personally responsible for the shit in the elevator. That's my boy. Make the world eat it. Even if it's not their fault. Usually, they deserve it.
“Don't be such a fag, man. I'm right here,” my brother says from behind us. It only takes Turner a half second to sprint across the room and slide to his knees on the floor by Trey's wheelchair. One of Brayden's guys is pushing it. Or at least I assume the man in the khakis is one of his guys. I mean, he's not currently snapping his neck or shooting him in the face, so I just assume it's chill. I smile as I watch Turner put a hand over Trey's and rest his forehead against the metal arm of the chair. Brothers in every way but blood. Whoever said it was thicker than water anyway? Fuck blood. This here's real family.
I have no clue what's going on, but as I watch the boys surround my brother, my poor brother, dressed in bandages and hooked to a butt load of machines that roll along beside him, I know that I'm going to find out. I'm starting to get the feeling here that maybe, just maybe the guys haven't done anything to deserve this shit. And nobody, and I mean nobody hurts my family and gets away with it.
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