“No worries there,” I tell her as she abandons the vodka bottle and joins me in the hallway. I'm not sure where she's going, but admittedly, even with the tangled hair and the lack of bra, she still looks pretty hot. See what I said about rocker chicks? It's universal. I, on the other hand, don't leave my fucking room without a push up bra and several layers of makeup. “I'm not looking for anything, not even a fling. Dax is cute, but I've got other things on my mind.”
Lola pulls a pair of shades from her pocket and slips them up her nose.
“Okay there, twatwaffles, you keep tellin' yourself that.”
“Hi, Dax,” I say, startling him as he moves out of the bright sunshine and into the gray dimness of the foyer. People shuffle past him, crew members, security guards, Turner who actually has the audacity to flip me off. I ignore him and push off the wall, keeping my hands tucked into the pockets on the front of my dress.
“Hi, Sydney,” he responds, slowing down and then pausing in front of me. Brayden Ryker flashes me a wink as he saunters pass, leaving one of his plain clothes guys behind to hang out with us. We've got our own private entrance into the hotel, one that's usually reserved for visiting dignitaries and movie stars, but that doesn't mean it's completely safe. Nowhere is safe at this point. I've been doing my research this afternoon. I followed Lola up to the rooftop restaurant and managed to snag that martini I was craving. Our little chat proved to be quite interesting. I've finally got some meat to sink my teeth into. But first, I want to deal with this.
“I wanted to catch you before you headed up to your room,” I tell him, trying my best to keep my gaze from landing on his lips. Something about the way the bottom one is shaped, the way it sticks out just this much more than the top. It's mesmerizing. I don't tell Dax that the main reason I wanted to see him before he got upstairs was because I was afraid to be near a bed when I approached him. It's that bad. Pussy McLips is so in control right now. I make sure to keep a safe distance between us. “I just wanted to apologize for what I did earlier. Jumping into your arms with that reporter sitting right there. It wasn't what I intended, and I didn't mean to take it so far. I just couldn't stand the look on her face or the way she was talking to you.” I shrug, search around my pockets for a cigarette and come up empty-handed. I smoked them all chatting upstairs with Lola. I wonder if I'm allowed to head out and grab some more or if I'm a part of this whole circus act now? Would I have to take a bodyguard? Trey or Turner would probably try and make me.
“And I'm sorry, too,” Dax says, and I shiver at the cool brush of his voice. It's like it's clinging to the shadows around me, wrapping my body and touching places he's never even seen. “I didn't mean for any of that to happen either. When she asked me who my crush was, I fucking panicked. Like a high school kid or something. I should've had the balls to just say it.”
“Say what?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. Dax glances over his shoulder, but everyone's come in already and hit the elevators. It's just me, him, and our four bodyguards. How quaint. I meet Dax's gray eyes and find myself instantly tongue-tied. I feel like I could walk right in there and find myself in another place or another time. Gray eyes. Who the hell really has gray eyes? There must be a hint of blue in there somewhere. I lean forward to get a better look, perfectly aware that his chest is rising and falling as quickly as mine.
“That I'm in love with Naomi.” Aha. I knew it. I lean back away from him, examining the bloody shirt that's stuck to his abs. Somebody fixed his hair but nobody bothered to change his clothes. More dramatic, I guess? My gaze moves down the stubble on his jaw, over his neck, his wide chest. I let myself roam and then come back up to his face.
“That's unfortunate,” I tell him because, well, I know Turner. Turner wants Naomi, and he won't stop until he's sure she's his forever. Dax doesn't stand a chance. That boy was born to love one woman. Sleep with a thousand maybe, but love one. Ronnie might be getting a second chance with Lola, but there are no second chances for Turner Campbell. He's just that unstable. “And I'm sorry.”
“Don't be,” he says with a small laugh, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants. We're mimicking each other's poses; I like it. I check out the reflection of his ass in the mirror. Just because I've sworn not to touch him doesn't mean I can't admire, right? “I'm the one that's sorry. You're going to get some cheesy, bullshit article written about you now. By Pearl.” I like the way he says her name, like he's biting off the syllable with sharp teeth. “The ultra cool chick who shares a name with my grandmother. Seriously. On my dad's side.” We both smile at that and some of the pressure goes out of the room. The tension is still there, of course. I don't know if that will ever go away, but maybe we can be civil for the next week or two. Because that's my time limit. I'll help these guys out as best I can and then I'm off for my photo shoot. That day will mark the beginning of my new life, and I won't let anything compromise that.
“So Naomi, huh?” I ask as we both make the unspoken decision to hit the elevator. I can feel him as we walk, the breeze from his swaying arm cooling mine as I keep pace. I find myself glancing over at Dax several times, picturing the anger and the icy fury he had when he was playing his practice drums. I can't believe I've never seen this guy in concert. It's a must for me now.
“Not by choice.”
“Love isn't always a choice. It can be, but sometimes, it just happens.” We step inside the elevator and lean against opposite walls, our backs mirrored back and forth for eternity between the two pieces of glass behind us. “You've given up though?” He shrugs, but I can tell he's not completely ready to let her go. A weird thought flits through the back of my mind. If I danced for him, he'd forget all about Naomi Knox. I shiver violently and wrap my arms over my chest. That was odd, I think as I try to keep smiling at Dax. I clear my throat and try to change the subject. “So why me?” I ask him as I pretend the bodyguard in the corner isn't standing there, lording over us. I've gotten quite good at that over the years. And anyway, they don't really bother me too much as it is. In a downtown strip club, the security guards are not the enemies; the clients are. And the bosses.
I watch Dax bite down on his lower lip and find myself wanting to touch my hair, run my hand down my arm, adjust my dress. All flirtatious moves that would send the wrong message. I force my body to be still, but I can't stop my nipples. They're hard as rocks. Good thing I know which bras to buy. Nobody would ever know.
“I'm attracted to you, Sydney. I won't lie about that.” He swallows; I swallow. Shit. The elevator suddenly seems really small, and then I do start to hate that bodyguard. I stare at the logo on Dax's shirt instead of his face. It's not a big help, really, since he has a nice chest. His pecs are defined enough that I can make out a hint of them through the black fabric. They make me want to do a happy dance, for whatever strange, odd reason. And also, I'm suddenly getting this desperate desire to go fuck in a graveyard, my back pressed into the cold earth, Dax's body crushing mine, his beautiful mouth suffocating mine … Fuck!
“I'm attracted to you, too,” I say, like we're talking about a business proposition. The bodyguard clears his throat as the floors ding by and we end up at number thirty-two. “Strangely so,” I continue, trying to gauge his reaction. Dax's body sags, and he sighs in relief.
“I'm so glad you feel that way. I thought I was going crazy.” He straightens up and smiles at me as we move onto the burgundy carpeting and pause next to a painting of a woman in a fur coat. It looks like one I used to borrow from Noreen for Classy Night. Yes, Classy Night. The night where a dozen plus girls throw on furs and pearls over their thongs and shake their titties in that. I think it's just about the least classy thing I've ever seen in my life. That's the night when all the weirdos show up anyway. “We must just, you know, have some sort of compatible … thing.” Dax scrunches up his nose, and I get this other weird ass thought. Cute. Cute? Since when I have thought a guy was fuck candy and cute at the same time? Not since high school. “Like pheromones or whatever?”
“Or whatever,” I say with a laugh, and Dax shakes his head, slamming his back into the wall and digging around in his pockets.
“Just pretend I didn't say that, okay?”
I chuckle.
“Deal. As long as you pretend this thing between us … ” I gesture at the air in front of me and then shrug. “I can't get caught in any sort of fling or drama or anything like that. Kissing you just proved that acting on this would be a mistake.”
“A huge one,” Dax agrees, eyes falling to the line of cleavage at my neckline. Unconsciously, I raise my hand and brush my multi-colored fingernails across my skin. I force my arm down by my side and try to act like I would with any other guy. I let 'em look, long as they don't touch. I mean, there's a reason I got the breast implants, right? And modesty is so not my thing. I'm going to be posing naked in a magazine this month. So why do I feel all hot and bothered when Dax's eyes get caught on my bare skin? “Friends, then?” he asks me, and reaches out a hand for me to shake. Neither of us comments when I don't take it. Yes, it's that bad. I don't even want to touch the guy. This is totally fucking insane. Ugh.
“Friends,” I say, but I don't intend on being that with him either. I'm going to get in here, fix my brother's shit, and get out. That's it. That. Is. It. Lola's words keep echoing around in my mind.
Okay there, twatwaffles, you keep tellin' yourself that.
“Hey man,” Turner says, catching up to me in the hallway the next morning. Kash rolls his eyes and sticks his finger down his throat, but Turner doesn't even see him. I bet he doesn't even know Kash's name. I try not to look at him, but his presence is sort of … commanding. Even if I despise myself for admitting that. He could be a cult leader or some shit. The man has scary charisma.
“Good morning, Turner,” I say as I pause in front of the elevator and hit the down button. He's wearing these black jeans that are ratty as shit, covered in holes, scuffed and totally ratchet. And unlike Hayden, I don't think he bought them that way. I consider a conversation that Wren, Kash, and I had once where we tried to figure out if he tucked his junk. I seriously don't see how he could fit it all in there if he didn't. Unless he's really small, I think with a private smirk. Turner doesn't pick up on anything.
“So. L.A. in three days. You excited?”
“Not as excited as you are,” I tell him as I step onto the elevator and try to scoot away. Turner follows close to me, standing with his arm practically touching mine. I have no idea what's going on, but I guess we're fucking buddies now? He isn't looking at me with that blatant hatred from yesterday. Somehow, fighting with Turner has endeared him to me. It's weird as shit. I wonder briefly if the hit of acid I dropped last night is still effecting me? Maybe I'm hallucinating. “Honestly, I'm a little terrified. If Stephen's going to make a big move on us, it's going to be there.”
“Yeah, well, fuck him,” Turner says, waving away weeks and weeks of torture with a simple flick of his inked up fingers. “I've got more important things to worry about.” I sip a cold mouthful of coffee from the styrofoam cup in my hand. More important than snipers and death threats. Interesting. “I'm proposing to Naomi.” I snort the coffee out through my nose and groan as I try desperately to wipe it off of my white T-shirt. Crap. Today's the TV interview. The live TV interview. Jesus Christ. Can I get a fucking break?
Kash whistles and turns away, putting his hands on the back of his head and facing towards the doors. As soon as they open, he's out of there and I'm stuck trying to figure out the point of this conversation.
“Propose?” I ask, and I try not to sound like a dick. But I really hate this man. It's not easy. I look at his face, at the thin rope of eyeliner around his eyes, his lip piercings. When he talks, his tongue ring catches a shaft of sunlight from the windows and throws it back in my face like an insult. Bet he doesn't have three ten gauge barbells through his dick though. I squeeze my fists at my sides. Tongue rings look flashy though. Pierced junk? Kind of have to wait until after you've wooed somebody to show that shit off. I try not to sigh. If I was Turner, I'd probably have my penis on my Facebook cover photo. Whatever.
“Yup. I'm going to put a ring on her finger and little Turner babies in her belly.” I feel physically ill at this point. Cock sucking son of a bitch. I look him straight in the face and try to figure out if he's playing a game here. But I don't think so. The one good thing about this guy is that he doesn't stir up that shit. If he's here, it's for a genuine reason. That makes things even worse for me.
Brayden Ryker smiles at us as we approach the front doors, but he doesn't look all that happy. I'm afraid to ask if anything's happened. Having him around is kind of making us all a bit lazy. Like, he'll just take care of our crap for us. Or rather America's crap. I blame all of this on her. I won't ever say that aloud, but it's true. If she'd dealt with this way back when, we wouldn't be in this situation. Instead of running from Stephen, she should've confronted him.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask him, crossing my arms over the coffee stains on my shirt. The styrofoam cup crumples in my hand. “To rub salt in my wounds?” Turner just shrugs and whips out a cigarette.
“I thought we were cool? You're into Sydney now, right?”
“I just met her.”
Another shrug.
“Yeah, but you guys have that thing, you know?” he says, getting bored with the conversation and taking a step back. Turner gestures around with his fingers. “Anyway, I wanted to ask for your help.”
“What thing?” I drill him, my eyes flicking back and forth from the elevator to Turner's face. The last thing I need right now is for Naomi or Sydney to stumble out and onto this conversation. He sighs like he's completely put out by having to answer the question. When he puts his hand on my shoulder, I bristle.
“Dude, you and Sydney are fucking hot for each other. Personally, I think it's fucking disgusting. The thought of you two rabbit humping makes me want to hurl, but I've decided it's cool. Trey, too. He says you're golden.”
“So I have your fucking permission?” I ask him, raising my eyebrow and trying to keep my body still. Last thing I need is to get into another fight. My body aches all over. Turner raises one brow and nods his chin at me, like I'm his bro or some fucking shit.
“Yep. Feel free to dock your ship in Sydney's port.”
“That's kind of her decision to make, don't you think?” I ask him, but he just laughs. Fucking stuck up, arrogant, little bastard. I am so freaking sick of Turner Campbell. He's just … he makes me want to scream. “Hers and mine. If I want to fuck Sydney Charell, then I don't need your permission to do it.”
“Probably not a conversation I was meant to overhear?” Sydney asks from behind and to the right of me. I was so busy looking at the elevator that I forgot about the stairs. Jesus H. I groan and turn away, tossing my cup into the trash can as I curl my fingers around the rim. “What do you think Naomi?” she continues, making my stomach hurt and my eyes clench shut. Wonderful.
“Blame Turner,” she says, moving past me and stepping as close to the glass doors as the guards will let her. Smoke rings escape her lips and ricochet back from the window into her face. “However the conversation went, it probably got turned that way because of his fat mouth.”
“We were just having a man to man talk, right, Dax?” he asks me as I raise my head up and glance over at Naomi. She's not looking at me, but out the window at a group of men clustered around a delivery truck. Brayden's still in here, doing something on his cellphone, so I figure it's nothing to worry about.
“I hope you don't mind if I tag along again?” Sydney asks, drawing my attention back to her. I wish I hadn't looked. Her tattoos pop against her pale skin and white tee, stretched tight across her full breasts. A hint of belly peeks out at me from underneath, flashing me those perfect fucking abs again. Her legs are encased in a pair of acid washed jeans so tight, they might as well be Turner's. And the shoes? Something about those tall, red beauties makes me want to cry. “L
ola's coming, too, and she asked if I might keep her company.” Sydney gets out a cigarette and keeps the cycle of smoke going in the foyer. Naomi always used to joke that the band that smokes together, stays together. So far, it looks like she's been right.
“That's fine,” I say, fumbling over my words in a way Turner never would. I hate that I keep comparing myself to him, but it's difficult not to when he's standing right fucking there. “I want you to come.”
“I'll bet you do, bro,” Turner says, and I have to let my head fall back to keep my cool.
“Dax?” Brayden's Irish accent draws my chin back down. Right away, I'm worried. Having him address me personally can't be good, can it? I swallow hard and focus on his red hair instead of the glint in his eyes. “Can I speak to you in private for a moment?”
“You can speak to him with me, Brayden. That's the deal,” America quips, stomping off the elevator in a black suit with a blue tie and a pair of perfectly polished pumps. There's a single blonde hair out of place, twirling up and over her right ear. It's only noticeable because the rest of her hair is slicked back into a severe bun. Not good. Not good at all. I look back over at my shoulder at Naomi who's still studying that delivery truck, the one surrounded by guys in jeans and T-shirts. Probably Brayden's men, right? Fuck.
“Just say it,” I whisper, feeling my whole body break out in goose bumps. “What is it?” I think of my dad, and I feel suddenly sick. Is he dead? He can't be dead. As much as I say I hate the man, I don't want him to go without knowing how I really feel, without finding out how he really feels about me. I think he hates me, truly hates me, but what if I'm wrong? Please don't let it be him. My mind starts to recycle footage from Ronnie's experience with Stephen. I don't want to see blood. I might have tattooed blood splatters on my left arm, but that doesn't mean I want to make that a reality.
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