“You have a pretzel on your right ass cheek,” he says randomly, pulling me out of my thoughts. I blink at him and cock my head to the side.
“And how the fuck do you know what?” I ask, and he grins, flashing me a few silver fillings in the back of his mouth. He shakes out his baggy shirt and tosses me a wink.
“You're a damn good drummer, for your age that is.”
“Hey there, asshole, watch your tits, or I might just have to give you a different kind of twister, one that doesn't fall from the sky. Trust me when I tell you your nipples are not going to like it.” He laughs at me then, and there's something about it that feels more genuine, less forced.
“Took me a while, but once I heard your name, I knew.” Ronnie taps the side of his head with a finger. “I know everybody on this tour, and I sure as shit have heard about you. Guess I just needed to put a name to a face.” He pauses, but before I can get the chance to speak, he continues. “See you around soon?” he asks me. “Because if you're this fun with your back on a metal bar, I'd like to see you in action somewhere a little more private.”
I smile back at Ronnie, but this time, it's my turn to hold back.
“You'll be seeing me around,” I tell him. “I promise.”
He gives me a little wave and turns away. As I watch him go, I cross my arms over my chest and take a deep breath. I hope that neither of us lives to regret that.
When I get back upstairs, I find that the commotion has only gotten worse. The cops all eye me like they're pretty sure I'm the killer, even if it defies all logic. Their questions were pretty pointed, too. They'd love to pin this crap on me. Thank the friggin' stars that I was onstage at Chelsea's estimated time of death. Stupid fuckers.
I pause in front of Turner's room and take a deep breath, wishing I didn't have a massive, throbbing fucking erection. That's nice. Great way to reintroduce myself to my daughter. I have no idea what I was thinking following Lola downstairs, but … strangely enough, even though we barely made it out the damn doors, I feel better. A lot better.
I raise my hand to knock, but the door flies open in front of me and leaves me face to face with Naomi Knox.
“You better get your ass in here before he kills your kid on accident. Never in my life have I been so happy to be sure he's not a father,” she tells me, stepping aside and sweeping some of her blonde hair over her shoulder.
Turner's sitting on the floor with Lydia, turning the pages of a tattoo magazine and pointing at half-naked girls with his finger.
“See the rose?” he asks, gesturing at a bright, red flower on the back of some skinny chick's butt. Nice. Real nice. He looks up at me when I step into the room and narrows his eyes.
“Star,” Lydia says, leaning forward and pointing at the tattoos that line the edge of Turner's hairline. “Daddy has stars.” He groans and leans back, letting his head fall so that he's staring up at the ceiling. When he looks back up at me, he's frowning hard.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he growls as Naomi rolls her eyes and plops into a chair near the small table by the kitchen. Fucking Turner got a Goddamn suite all to himself. How special.
“Answering questions from the cops,” I say, and before he can protest and call me out on that, I move forward and squat down next to Lydia. She's not covered in blood anymore. Her red ringlets are damp and she's dressed in a T-shirt that's way too big for her. It's got our logo on the front, the one with the stupid goat with X's for eyes. She doesn't turn to look at me, just keeps staring at Turner and pointing at his tattoos.
“Kitty paw,” she says and he sighs, raising his brows and giving me a look.
“You are in deep shit, man,” he says. “Deep, deep shit.” Turner gets to his feet and Lydia reaches forward, grasping with her fingers for his pants.
“Daddy, no!” she calls out, tears filling her green eyes and dripping down her face. God, I'd love to be able to cry like children do. They don't hold anything back. Their emotions are all out on the table, laid flat and unforgiving. They never apologize for feeling the way they do. They just let it out and move on. I'm envious as fuck.
“Lydia, that's Uncle Turner,” I tell her, reaching out and touching her arm with my fingers. My hands are shaking like crazy. I try to blame it on the drugs (or lack thereof), but when I look up at Turner, his face is full of sympathy. I swallow hard and look back at my daughter who's sobbing a bit more quietly now, rubbing at her face with her hands. I lick my lips and try to find my voice, but it isn't there. I'm suddenly speechless, and my heart starts to pound.
The way you look at me, I know there's love there. You don't even have to say it. I can see it. Just look at me, Ronnie. Look at me.
Pain hits me like a truck and I double over, dropping my head to my knees. Asuka's voice ricochets around in my head, blocking out any logical thoughts, blinding me. I need you, I think at her. I need you for this. I don't know what to do. God, help me, but I'm lost.
I lift my chin up and stare at Lydia, doing my best to bring up an image of her mother in my head. The only thing I can come up with are the photos the cops showed me. I have no real life memories of her. None. And now she's dead because of me. How sad is that? My self-esteem takes another plummet, threatening to pull me down along with it and wrap me up in the threads of my own demise. I can almost see the image of my own death floating before me, beckoning me with cruel hands and a wicked smile.
“Man, are you alright?” Turner asks, bending down next to me. I can't even see his face, all I can see are ghosts and lost promises, broken hearts and bloody fates. “If you don't love yourself, you're pretty much fucked. Chin up and you'll get through it.” Lola's words slip through the cracks in my consciousness breaking my melancholia like a sheet of glass. It's the first time in a long time I've actually heard the voice of a live person in my head. The weirdest part about it is, I don't even know the girl. I don't know her, and her advice is mediocre at best anyway. It's not an epic quote pulled from the depths of an ancient anthology. It's just … some words. Meaningless words.
But they help.
They help, and I don't know why.
My head snaps up and I reach forward, grabbing Lydia under the arms and pulling her against my chest. She protests at first, struggling and pushing at me with her small fists.
“No!” she screams as I hold her and let tears fall down my face. “No, I want my mommy! I want my mommy!” Turner reaches down and clamps his hand around my shoulder, giving me some much needed support while Naomi turns her head away and closes her eyes.
I squeeze Lydia tight and cup the back of her head with a shaking hand, pressing my lips against her temple.
“Shh,” I whisper, holding her and wishing I was worth more than the money in the bank. That's all I have to offer really, just that. I'm a useless fucking drug addict. A whore. A drummer. Those are the only names I can claim for myself. “Daddy's here. Daddy's here.” Lydia struggles for a second longer and then stills. After a moment that seems longer than eternity, she wraps her arms around my neck.
I look over at my friend who's smiling, just a little, and even though there's a body being wheeled out of this hotel, even though Lydia doesn't know me from my bandmates, even though I don't know shit about being a dad, I'm going try.
And that's all that matters.
“Get up. We're hitting the road today.”
Milo enters my room without even knocking, making me realize with a start that Lydia isn't in the bed anymore. I almost flip the fuck out before I realize that she's sitting on the floor playing a game with Jesse.
“Kitty cats,” she says as she points at a small cutout on the carpet. I frown and toss the covers off, slapping my bare feet on the floor and rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands. Nice first day on duty as a dad. Here I am sleeping while Jesse's already cut out a slew of animals and colored them all in. Nice, real nice.
“Hitting the road?” I ask with a groggy slur to my voice. I wish I could say it was because I went to bed so
ber last night, that I'm just lagging from the detox, but that's not the case. I smoked a joint last night and downed an entire bottle of whiskey. Not my greatest moment, but after I put Lydia to bed, I ended up just standing there staring at her. After that I had a small freak out, I'll admit. I went out on the balcony and stared at the stars, but at least for once, I didn't contemplate jumping off. That's a step in the right direction. “What?”
Milo sweeps in and passes both me and Jesse a cup of coffee before moving to the curtains and flicking them open. Gold light sweeps into the room like dust, hanging in the air quiet and still. It's obviously early morning. I flip the old hotel clock around to face me and stare at the red numbers with disbelief. Six o-fucking-clock. I wonder how Turner's taking this?
“We're cleared to go for the day. They've apprehended a suspect in Chelsea's case.” I sit up suddenly and look over at Lydia, but she's not paying us any attention. Milo turns around and smiles softly. The sunlight hits his hair and makes it glow like a halo. The sight gives me a fucking headache.
“Who? What?” I ask, but Milo just shakes his head.
“I don't know anything but what I've seen on the news,” he tells me and then takes a breath like he's going to speak. Instead, he just stops and clamps his lips together. Not good. Usually, Milo has no problem telling us what's what. If he's holding something back, it must be pretty bad. I groan and lean back, covering my face with a pillow. “If we hurry and get loaded up, we'll be able to make it to Wichita for tonight's scheduled show. No more blips. We can get on track and finish this tour right.” Milo pushes up his sleeves and turns up the wattage on his smile.
“How are we supposed to go anywhere without our buses?” Jesse asks, pushing a paper cow across the carpet with his finger.
“Well, we've got the vans I rented until the end of the week.” He takes a deep breath and lets his lip ride up over his teeth. It's a nervous gesture, not one that I'm used to seeing. Scratch what I said before. Things must not just be bad – they must be fucking intense. Milo's always been a little jumpy, a little nervous, but to see him holding back a tide of terror freaks me out. “We're going to take a day trip and go play a gig.”
“What are you not telling me?” I ask, moving the pillow away from my mouth so I can speak clearly.
“Drink your coffee and get dressed,” Milo responds, moving back towards the door. When he passes by Lydia, he looks down and wrinkles his eyebrows. “I'll make sure everyone behaves themselves for her sake.”
“You want me to take a baby to a show?” I ask, thinking about the massive crowds, the drugs, the drinking, the sex. I can't think of a worse place for her to be.
“For now,” he replies, turning back towards the window. “We can't very well leave her here.” He pauses again and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them back up, I can see that he's gathered his resolve. “The crowd outside the hotel has grown to massive proportions. The reporters and TV crews have finally found us, not to mention the police presence in the halls. I think it's just best for everyone if we get out of here for a little while.” Milo breathes out a quick burst of breath and turns to look at me. “They already know about Lydia, how she was found, what happened to her mother's body.” He looks down at my daughter and then back up at me. “And they know you're her only family member, that you've got full custody. Ronnie, I hate to tell you this, but you might even be more popular than Turner for once.” I can feel the blood draining from my face, and I know that Milo's not saying that to be an asshole. It's not like everyone in Indecency doesn't know that Turner makes up half our fan base alone. He knows I don't like to be the center of attention, the spotlight. “I think we should leave and play our show. A fresh city, a fresh crowd, it'll do us all a load of good.”
I stand up and move towards the window, peeking through the pale white sheers and down below. Holy. Fucking. Shit. The mass of people outside the hotel is staggering. They're just standing around, waiting for a piece of the pie. Fucking vultures.
“Turner up yet?” Milo cringes and wrinkles his brow. About six seconds later, the door clicks and flies open, making Lydia jump.
“This is bullshit,” Turner growls, stalking into the room and pausing behind Jesse with a frown on his face and a twitch in his jaw that tells me he didn't get what he wanted last night. Naomi's holding out? God bless her for that. Somebody's gotta teach Turner a lesson, and there's only one person that has the clout for that.
“Remind me why I gave you my room key again?” I ask him as he tries to smile at my daughter who's gaping up at him with wide, green eyes. The smile looks more like an angry grimace, but for whatever reason, it works. Guess the asshole's magical charm with women extends to all ages. Fucking dickwad.
“Daddy!” she screams, standing up and stumbling over to him. Her arms go around his legs as she buries her face in his jeans. At this point, I'm too tired to even get up and go over there. Lydia doesn't know who I am. Why should she? I've never done anything for her. Hell, I don't even sign my own child support checks. Milo set it up all electronically after I got the court orders. I didn't name her, didn't hear her first word, didn't see her first step.
Turner pats her on the head, ruffling Lydia's red curls.
“This is bullshit,” he mouths at Milo, flipping him off with a shaking hand. Either he's high or just really pissed off. Can't tell either way. “I'm not driving all the way to a show in a fucking van.”
“Language, please,” Milo says, slipping his cell out of the pocket of his slacks and lifting it to his ear. “Hi there. How are you feeling?”
“Besides, what are we supposed to do with this baby?” Turner asks, wiping a hand across his forehead and letting his eyelids flutter just a bit. There's a light sheen of sweat across his skin. Milo notices, too, and moves over to Turner, holding up a hand to touch his forehead. He doesn't bother to get off the phone.
“Right. Right. I understand, and I will.”
“Don't fucking touch me,” Turner snaps, pushing Milo away. I notice that he's careful not to bother Lydia though. He comes across like a sheet of sand paper, but he's really a good guy underneath. “Goddamn queen.” Deep, deep, deep, deep down he's a good guy is what I mean. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Okay, America. Absolutely, thank you.” Milo hangs up and puts his cell away, frowning as he looks Turner up and down.
“Amatory Riot's going?” Turner asks, as if he doesn't give a fuck. But I know he does. He gives a whole truckload of Goddamn fucks. “That's their manager, right?”
“How's your bullet wound?” Milo asks, looking down at Turner's leg like he'd really like to get in there and check it himself. Turner scowls, but it's obvious he doesn't feel so good. I take it back about what I said before – I don't think he's high at all. He's in pain.
“Daddy,” Lydia says, grabbing onto Turner's jeans and tugging. There ain't a whole lot of extra fabric to grab in those lady chick pants, but she manages to get a tiny fistful. Turner looks over at me, but I don't have anything to say. Anything at all. I can't make Lydia love me. Can't force an emotion like that. Turner glances back down at her and then shrugs, bending down to pick my daughter up with a wince.
“Is it really the vans you're worried about, Turner?” Milo asks him. Wish I could snap a picture of his face in that moment. He is ticked the hell off. He's hurt, and he doesn't want to admit it. He lives for the spotlight, so I can't imagine he'd be thrilled about asking for time off. “Because we're only going to Wichita. It's about two and a half hours from here.” Turner bounces Lydia up and down for a second and then looks straight at me, searching for something in my face. I have no idea what, but I guess whatever he sees tells him he should walk over to me and hold out my kid.
“Daddy, no! I miss you!” she cries, grabbing his shirt for dear life. When I reach up my hands to take her, they're shaking like a San Fran quake. “Daddy, please.” Her sobs almost undo me, ripping apart my chest and spilling my blood to the floor at our feet.
“It's alright, princess,” he tells her, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Uncle Turner's going to be right here. You sit on your daddy's lap for a second, okay? Uncle T's got grown-up business to deal with.” Turner stands up and slips a cigarette in his mouth. But he doesn't light up. I hold Lydia tight and sway back and forth, trying to comfort her the best way I know how. “Amatory Riot going to this thing?”
“Turner, listen to me,” Milo says which is just plain wishful thinking on his part. Turner never gives a crap about anything he has to say. “Dax McCann, Amatory's drummer, can barely get out of bed.”
“So?” Turner asks, thinking about Naomi. Always thinking about Naomi. I'm happy for him, but I'm also terrified. I don't want him to end up like me. Nobody deserves to end up like me. “I heard. What do you want me to do about it?” His eyes clear and he looks away, focusing on the carpet like it holds the key to his future happiness. In his expression, I can tell he does care. At least a little. “Dax got his ass kicked my a tornado. Happens.”
“And Terre Haute's Rook Geary is still in the hospital. Burning the Bleeding's drummer broke his arm, and their bassist has a concussion. It's just going to be us with Ice and Glass tonight. That is, if you're okay to perform.” Turner rolls his eyes and reaches down to the zipper on his pants, pausing at the last second with a sigh. I'm pretty sure he was planning on yanking them down and showing Milo his injury. At least he's got the head to realize how fucked up that'd be in front of a three year old. Shit, that's traumatizing to any woman.
Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) Page 4