“Back to the emo thing,” she encourages, forcing me back to the story. I'd do anything to get out of telling it right now. In the light of day, it seems so fucking lame, but at the time, my heart was breaking and the weight of the world was too, too much. I know now that I can get through a lot worse, that life isn't all bad all the time. But back then, I had nobody but Tara and she was suffering just as much as I was. We were too weak to rely on each other for support. Instead, we dragged one another down. I will never forgive myself for not being stronger. That's why I'm trying to change things now, why I want to help Hayden, why I even give a shit what happens to Lola. I guess I'm a sucker for the downtrodden. I've been there, done that. “You don't seem overly emotional to me. Honestly, Trey has more mood swings than you do.”
I stare down at the pavement, start to count the pebbles. This fucking sucks. I work so hard to get people to look past the way I dress, the makeup I wear, the music I like. And then there's this little nugget to bite down on.
“Tara and I … we didn't really want to, uh, to suffer anymore. I was dealing with my family, getting trashed at school, struggling to find something in myself worth loving when nobody in my life loved me. She was transitioning from living with her two sisters and her dad in California to living with her mom here in Tulsa.” I touch my fingers to the bridge of my nose. I hate this fucking story. “They died in a house fire that Tara blamed herself for.” I struggle to suck in another breath. “Anyway, we sort of toyed around with thoughts of suicide.” I close my eyes again and wait for the jokes to come. Sydney stays silent, rubbing her thumb along the side of my hand. Even this crappy nightmare down memory lane isn't enough to keep my body from registering her touch. “So I found some guy to buy pills off of. I didn't know what kind they were and I didn't do my research.” I lick my lips. “The wrong combination of drugs can leave you paralyzed, in a coma, mentally retarded or even dead.” I'm sure Sydney knows that, but I have to go through the whole process. I have to talk about everything. “I portioned out what we were going to take, and one day, we just fucking did it.”
“Dax,” Sydney says, scooting closer to me. She puts her cigarette up to my mouth, and I take a drag. “It's okay. It's alright.”
“They pumped my stomach, and I survived. Good for me. Tara … she didn't die, but then she never really woke up either.” Sydney watches me with those wide open eyes, two pools of blue I could drown in and die happy. The analogy chills my spine and I look away. “She's alive, but she's not the same. Her brain went without oxygen for too long, so … She's still alive, but she's not really Tara anymore. She can't feed herself, can't eat, can't walk. She sits in a miserable fucking nursing home all day every day. Because of me. That was my gift to her.” I look down at my lap. “I almost wish she'd died. I made her soul a prisoner of the body, a girl locked in a home until the day she dies.” I sigh again. “And her family never visits her. But I do. From time to time.” I look back at Sydney. I don't know how she feels about this, if she thinks I'm the scum of the earth or even that I'm making too big a deal out of this. I don't know. But I'm glad I told her. “Come with me and meet her?” I ask and she nods, a slight smile on her face. A smile that somehow, even through all the shit I've been through, manages to make me smile right back.
Brayden's guys don't want to take us to the nursing home, so we walk and they follow. It works better this way anyhow, I decide. I don't trust the fuckers not to lock the doors and forcibly drag us back to Oklahoma City. The sun is warm today, toasting my back and causing Sydney's hair to glisten like spun gold. I want to brush it back from her face, touch her jaw, kiss her mouth. But I don't. I can't even touch her or my body freaks the fuck out, and I want to be fully focused on the task ahead of me. The alcohol is pretty much gone from my system. I can actually hold my booze, believe it or not. I've drunk Kash, Wren, Hayden, and Blair all under the table. Naomi's the only one who ever clings to consciousness with me. I smile as I think about some of the good times we've shared. But when I was with Sydney? I could give a fuck less about Naomi. And that's a good thing, isn't it?
“They'll let you in there?” Sydney asks me, and I nod. It's kind of sad, but the people who work with Tara could give a shit less who goes in there. Besides, her family never comes. I've asked the staff. It's just me. Only me.
I look up, searching the cluster of buildings on the next block. The facility's easy to spot. It has this peeling blue-gray paint that seems like it's frozen in time. No matter how many years pass, it stays in the same state of deshabille. It never gets repainted, but it doesn't seem to deteriorate either. Frozen in time. Like Tara.
I pause at the sidewalk and wait with bated breath for the light to turn red, to cross, to walk down those halls and introduce Sydney to Tara. The only people who know what happened are her family and my family and none of them have ever come here with me before. My palms start to sweat. Just push a little harder, Dax. Once you do this, reveal this, Stephen won't have anything to throw at you. As soon as I get back, I'm going to tell everyone in Amatory Riot and Indecency the story. If Turner cracks an emo joke though, I might have to smash his face in. I rub at the bruises on my arms, and thank the Gods of Rock for the first time ever that I lived through that tornado. If I hadn't, I would've died with secrets in my veins and unrequited love in my heart. This thing with Sydney, whatever it is, is much better. Much, much better.
“Ready?” she asks, and I nod again, breathing out my trepidation in the late evening air. We finish the walk to the building and move inside. There's nobody at the counter, but that's not unusual. I sign us in and we mill around the waiting room for awhile. I'm too nervous to speak, so I don't. Sydney fills the silence for me, examining the patients' paintings on the walls. There are none from Tara.
“God, fuck this,” I say after a few minutes, moving down the hallway towards her room. All the windows are open in the hallway and the sound of birds chirping fills the quiet spaces between doors. I look at the placards as I pass, searching for her name. Tara, Tara, Tara. Tara. I pause outside of room 115 and breathe easier for a moment. I had this panicked feeling that I was going to walk in here and she was going to be gone. But Brayden said the Hammergrens didn't have it out for me, that I was an aside to the fact of their revenge. That, and I just had to deliver my mother's bones to a man that hates my guts, that raised me grudgingly and out of a sense of duty instead of love. Fuck. Okay, I can do this.
I look back at Sydney who's smiling again. I could get used to seeing that look.
“Do you mind if we check out the room first?” one of the guards asks, tilting his head to the side. He's young, a lot younger than the other two, but he's good at what he does. He wouldn't even let me go to the bathroom in the club by myself. But this, this my secret. I don't want their help. If there's a man with a gun in there, so be it. Fuck him.
“Actually, yeah. I do.” I grab the handle before he can stop me and push open the door. Tara's room is filled with bright sunshine and even though it's drab, even though the walls need to be painted and the décor is older than I am, there's a general feeling of contentment in the air, like spring is just around the corner.
So why the fuck is there a pool of blood on the floor?
Brayden's men move into the space, pushing me out of the way, guns suddenly at the ready.
And they're all pointing them at the back of a brunette, a girl with hazelnut hair and a slender body.
Hayden Lee.
“What the fuck?” I ask as she turns around. Her blue and white dress is stained with red. It's smeared across her face and fingers, across the knife she has clutched in her hand. When she sees me, she drops it with a sad smile, the metal clanging across the linoleum to land at my feet. Sydney moves up beside me and freezes there, her eyes drawn to the wash of dark hair on the pillow of the room's single bed. Tara. She's soaked in red, drenched in Hayden's ministrations. My knees go weak and I collapse against the door frame. “What … what have you done?” I ask, my voice broken
and scattered. I look into the blue eyes of the girl I tried to save and I mourn more for her than I even do for Tara. Tara was trapped and now she's free. Did I want it to happen this way? Fuck no. But Hayden? She had every reason to want a life, and now she'll never have one. Murder is murder.
“Dax,” she says, her voice beautiful and soft. I don't know how she even knew to come here. Like I said, I've never told a soul, not a single soul. “You're carrying around guilt for no reason. You shouldn't have to worry about this. You shouldn't have to worry about anything.” Hayden sighs and glances back at the bed while one of the security guards makes a phone call. And it's not to the police. It's to Brayden. I listen while he relays the information, my mind a swirling blank of why, why, why.
“Hayden,” I whisper back at her. I don't know what to say. Is there anything I can say that'd be appropriate? She smiles at me and tucks some hair behind her ear before reaching down and grabbing something from under the blankets. It's a gun.
“Put the weapon down!” one of the men screams, but Hayden doesn't listen. Instead she stares at the metal with a blank face.
“I loved you, Dax. I loved you, and it's too late, and I tried.”
The gun comes up, the barrel slides under her chin, and blood explodes across the ceiling.
Hayden's body slumps to the floor at the same moment mine does, my fall slowed by Sydney's arms around my waist.
She's dead. I can't even fucking believe this. She's fucking dead.
In the midst of the pooling ruby red, the pain, and the misery of wasted life, the Hammergren family crosses a name off of their list. And adds another.
To be continued...
Dear Reader,
How are you feeling right now? You're still here because you love cliff-hangers, right? Right? Well, even if you don't, that's okay because you're still along for the ride. It's about the journey, not the destination. Sydney might disagree with me, but that's her prerogative. As long as I get another chance to peep in on her and Dax, she can think whatever she wants. ;)
So. A lot of folks want to know: how many books are there in this series? As many as there need to be, baby. Besides, you can't tell me you're tired of Turner Motherfucking Campbell yet. Is that even possible? That bitch is a precious little train wreck if I've ever seen one.
So thanks for reading pretty words and ugly stories. I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating: readers imbue stories with magic. You all make mine shine.
This next book is going to make your teeth hurt, so I apologize in advance. Dead Serious. Coming soon.
Sing like nobody's listening; dance like the whole world is watching.
Catch you lovelies on the flip side.
- C.M.
P.S. I love to read reviews, so if you have the chance, could you leave one for me? Even if you want to curse my name and give out about my cliffies, I'll still love your face.
About the Author
C.M. Stunich was raised under a cover of fog in the area known simply as Eureka, CA. A mysterious place, this strange, arboreal land nursed Caitlin's (yes, that's her name!) desire to write strange fiction novels about wicked monsters, magical trains, and Nemean Lions (Google it!). She currently enjoys drag queens, having too many cats, and tribal bellydance.
She can be reached at [email protected], and loves to hear from her readers. Ms. Stunich also wrote this biography and has no idea why she decided to refer to herself in the third person.
Happy reading and carpe diem!
www.cmstunich.com
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Born Wrong Page 17