Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots)

by C. M. Stunich

  “I got shot, Milo. I ain't dead.” Turner turns around and yanks out a lighter, brightening the cherry on his cigarette as he pauses by the door. “I'll think about it anyway.”

  “We don't have time to dawdle,” Milo starts, but Turner's already gone, moving out the door and pausing when he sees Naomi leaning against the wall. I don't get to see their interaction because the door slams shut behind him. Milo sighs and moves off after him. “I feel like it'd be best for everyone if we left earlier rather than later. I'd rather not stick around the hotel anymore than I have to.” Milo shivers, and I can see in his face that finding Chelsea's body really fucked with his head. “Can I trust you guys to get ready without me?”

  “Yes, mother,” Jesse says, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. “We can wipe our asses and put our panties on just fine. It's the rest of life that we have a problem with.”

  “Thank you for the sarcasm, Jesse,” Milo says, reaching down to grab the doorknob. “Turner's been a wonderful influence on you, hasn't he?” When he walks out, I see that Turner and Naomi are already gone.

  “Thanks for playing with her,” I tell Jesse as he rolls over to his side and looks at me with a crooked smile. Just like Turner, I see there's pity there. Guess I deserve that. I know how pathetic I am.

  “Dude, you're a dad,” Jesse says and his smile gets a lighter straighter. “For real now. Life gave you lemonades, man. Time to make a pitcher.” He groans as he pushes himself to his feet, dusting off his pants and moving over to the pile of clothes in the corner. None of us have ever been good at keeping our shit together and now here we are without a home. That bus was everything to us. I just can't wait to have it back.

  Lydia hiccups and I jump, startling her all over again. When she starts to cry, I feel the skin on my face tightening. I have no idea what I'm doing here. No. Fucking. Clue.

  I can't raise a baby on a bus. I can't bring a kid on tour. But I also can't abandon her. Does this mean I have to give up music altogether? Just the thought makes me want to end it now. Music keeps my soul afloat in the river Styx. Without it, I'm damned to hell for eternity. Asuka, what do I do? How do I get through this?

  “Okay, kiddo. I guess the first step is getting you some new clothes, huh?” I ask, trying to make my voice as cheerful as possible. Is isn't easy though. Frankly, I'd rather be crying. Plus, I have no idea where to get kids' clothes from. K-Mart or some shit? A mall? I haven't shopped for clothes in years. Everything I own now was bought for me by somebody else. That, or I stole it off one of the merch tables. Pretty fucking sad.

  “Mommy?” she asks, sniffling, rubbing at her round nose with a tiny fist. When I look at her, I don't see anything of myself. She might have my DNA, but she's not really my daughter. I wonder if there's some guy out there, like the guy that found the blood in Chelsea's apartment, her boyfriend. Some guy that's been raising Lydia all this time. But the law's the law, and according to the paperwork she's mine now.

  “Mommy's … ” Stone cold, slapped on a slab. Maybe she's already in pieces, chopped up by the ME? Wish I could remember something about her like her smile or the way her hair fell across her brow. But the only chick I can remember is Asuka Maebara.

  I look up at Jesse who's poking at the black stud in the center of his lip. He's staring at me with his mouth tight and his eyes full of old memories and pain. We understand each other, you know? Jesse lost his mom when he was fourteen. Christmas Eve night, she hopped on her bicycle to make an alcohol run. She was drunk off her ass and hit a pole, flew to the curb and cracked her head open. Couple weeks in a coma and she was gone.

  I hold up my hand and gesture at him, waiting for help with this.

  “I was fourteen, Ronnie. This is kinda different.”

  I keep staring at him, and he sighs, standing up and adjusting the bullet belt he's wearing. He walks across the carpet and sits down next to me, looking at Lydia with the ghosts of old memories haunting his eyes.

  “Your mom's gone, but not lost.” Jesse reaches out and pinches Lydia's nose which makes her laugh. He's quoting one of our songs. She's gone, but not lost. She's asleep in a different way. Breathing hard and missing me. “You'll see her again in a different time and a different place. She loves your chubby little face off.” Jesse pokes Lydia in the cheek and looks up at me. We both shrug. There's not a person in Indecency who hasn't been fucked so hard by life that his asshole's not bleeding. This is the best we can do.

  “Clothes?” I say and Jesse shrugs again.

  “Ask Milo?” Is his suggestion. Real fuckin' helpful.

  As I hold Lydia, I start to think about my other kids and their mothers. I'm an idiot to think this stops here. Why kill Chelsea and drag her body halfway across the country? For me. It's obviously for me. And there's obviously another dog trailing this tour. Six masked fucks break onto Amatory's bus without anyone noticing; someone drags a friggin' body past security without being spotted by a single person, a single camera. Explain that shit to me.

  So I know what I have to do. I know, but I don't want to do it. I wonder if Turner and Naomi have figured it out already? If not, then they might as well sign their own death warrants. Hayden Lee told us we were all targets, but I never even suspected something like this.

  “Yummy hungry?” Lydia asks, dead serious. “I can eat yummy hungry?” She's staring at me with eyes that one day will break a lot of hearts. They pierce straight through to my bones.

  “Hey Jess, can you take Lydia downstairs to that continental breakfast thing?” He nods and takes her from my arms. This time, she doesn't scream. She doesn't give a fuck about me. “I gotta … make some phone calls.” I stand up and yank up my pants before they can sag around my ass. Guess there might be a plus side to wearing ladies' pants like Turner does. A lot less adjusting would be necessary.

  I grab my cell off the nightstand and take it in the bathroom with me, closing the door and locking it. I could tell the police more maybe, but it would put my friends and my secrets at risk. I hate to say it, but this is something we're going to have to deal with ourselves. Besides, my experience with the police has never been good. Honestly, I think we're actually better off this way.

  I tap the phone against my lips as I pace back and forth across the beige tiles. My hands are still shaking and my head is pounding like I'm already at the concert, slapping my sticks to the skin and wishing with all my heart that I could feel as alive as I do then during the rest of my waking hours.

  I look down at the screen and hit the icon for contacts. And then I freeze because for a second there, I can't remember any of their names. Not a single one. I pass by the entry that says Chelsea (Lydia) and almost have a heart attack. God, I hope I'm wrong, that I'm being narcissistic, that her body ended up here by accident or something. That's a fucking pipe dream, but it feels good to entertain it for a minute or two.

  Finally, I decide that I just can't do it and stick the phone on the counter, dropping to my knees to dig through the duffel bag that's next to the toilet.

  Syringe. Spoon. Bottled water. Cotton balls. Alcohol. Hit of meth.

  Drugs are fucking complicated. It's like a damn medical procedure every time. If you do it right, that is. I promised myself I was getting clean for Lydia, but … I just need one more hit. That's it. Just to make this call.

  I put a hit in the spoon, mix the shards with water and drop a piece of cotton in. I stick the syringe in and draw up some meth water, wondering all the while how I even remotely think it's okay to be slammin' when my daughter's out there with Jesse, suffering in ways I can't even imagine. Am I the worst human being to ever walk this floating dirt clod? Jesus. I swipe at my arm with some of the rubbing alcohol and get ready to shoot up.

  The metal pricks my skin, and I just freeze like I've been pinched, like I'm waking up from a nightmare.

  Look, if you go in there like this, you're only sabotaging yourself.

  Sabotage. Self mother fucking sabotage. I draw the needle away from my arm and look
up into the mirror.

  I have such a sad face. It's hard for me to even look at myself. There's stubble on my chin, dark and full of shadows, hiding my mouth from the world, camouflaging my frown. My hair hangs low over my eyes, and my tattoos bleed across my skin, a shield of color for a broken soul.

  The syringe falls from my hand and spins through the air, hitting the floor without making a sound. I have the weirdest memory then, one that I haven't brought up in a while. Because while I think about Asuka day in and day out, sometimes I forget to remember her. Memories are pain and they cut straight through the soul and crack the bones, bleed the body dry. Right then though, a tiny slice of … something … hits me and I start to wake up. There's a long road ahead, but I can see the path, and I'm surprised to find I'm not afraid of where it goes.

  I let my eyes flutter closed, and the memory overtakes me.

  Asuka sitting at the piano, dark hair pulled back, eyes half-lidded, skin like fresh milk.

  Her fingers tickle the ivory keys while music filters around me. She plays Yann Tiersen's “Comptine d'un Autre Été: L'Après Midi” like she's written it herself. I have no fucking clue what the name means, but when she says it, it sounds beautiful. Everything she says sounds beautiful.

  Golden light filters in through the window and drapes the room in warmth, cocooning us both in this single instant in time. I roll to my side on the couch and tuck my hands under my head, watching, just watching. I could watch her forever.

  When she gets really into the song, her eyes close completely, and she sways like a rose caught in a summer breeze. It's in that instant that I know I want to marry her, that I want to kiss her lips each morning and make love to her every night.

  I'm in love. Head over heels. I can't get enough. I will never get enough.

  When I realize that, my heart shifts to match hers, carving out a nook where I keep her memories, her love, her passion. It's shaped just right, just for her, only for her. Nobody else can fill this spot, not like she does, never the same way she does.

  A knock at the door snaps me out of my reverie, and the image fades, the golden sunshine and the way Asuka's lips smile when she's at the piano, when there's nothing else in the world but us.

  “Fuck,” I say, putting my hands over my face. I almost want to scream at her, smash the mirror, curse the Goddamn world. Why do I have to be so stuck like this? Why can't I just be like everyone else? Wandering the earth not knowing what I'm missing, filling that hole with alcohol and one night stands and fancy cars and never understanding that nothing will make it right. Why did I have to know how good it felt to have her? Why did I have to say goodbye?

  “Ronnie?”

  I drop my hands and notice there are tears in my eyes, staining my face like scars.

  There's only one person I know that has an accent like that. Everybody else here sounds like they were raised on bread and water, Tinseltown outtakes, and Hooked on friggin' Phonics.

  Lola Goddamn Saints is at my door.

  “One sec,” I call out, shoving aside the rubbing alcohol and the bottled water. I grab Jesse's shaving cream and razor, hoping he's not going to kill me later for using it, and lather up. I don't hear anything outside the door, and I hope she hasn't left. For whatever reason, I feel like talking to this chick. I've spent all of fifteen minutes with her and now I'm sweating like a pig in heat? The hell is wrong with me?

  I scrape the blade across my cheeks and chin, peeling away a layer of protection, wondering as I'm doing it if it's the right step for me. Yeah. That's right. That's me, Ronnie McGuire, gettin' all deep and shit about facial hair. Welcome to my world.

  “You sure you're alright in there?” Lola asks, tapping gently on the door. “'Cause I'd hate to be standing here snooping through your stuff while you were twitching on the floor like a dying cockroach.”

  I grab a towel and wipe my face down.

  The change is instant and strangely dramatic.

  I look a little cleaner, a little more open. My mouth is visible – smile or frown – for all the world to see. I toss the towel on the toilet and open the door.

  Lola's sitting on the edge of my bed in tattered jeans and a pair of zebra patterned heels that look like they could take a fucking eye out. She's got on shades and a black lace bra under a leather jacket, no shirt. Her belly is tight, but her body's round in all the right places. Even though I'm standing a few feet away, I can smell this feminine floral scent drifting around my room like poison. It makes my head spin and punishes my poor body with a rush of hormones. The lack of drugs in my system, the sting of the air conditioner on my bare skin, and the pain of a forgotten memory all clash together and send blood rushing through my body, clogging up my brain and giving me the one thing I really don't need right now – a fucking painful ass hard-on.

  Lola's a big girl, and I'm sure she didn't just forget her shirt this morning. The smile on her face tells me she's not at all surprised by my reaction. I don't apologize, but I also don't try to hide the fact that I'm sticking my hands down my pants to get more comfortable.

  “Problem with the guns or the bullets?” she asks and turns her smile into a grin, lifting her shades up to watch me with eyes the color of the moon on a foggy night. I should know – I grew up in LA. We got smog for days, turns the moon all sorts of colors.

  “How'd you get in my room?” I ask her because let's be honest, no matter how hot she is, finding her here is kind of weird. Lola tilts her head to the side and bites down on the arm of her black bug-eyed shades. She nibbles at 'em for a moment and then nods her head.

  “I knew something was different about you,” she says, standing up and walking towards me with this sway that's just about Goddamn mesmerizing. Her hand comes up and brushes against the skin on my face. My head spins and then I'm stumbling back, struggling not to reach out and grab her, smash her breasts against my chest and kiss her fucking face off.

  “How'd you get in here?” I ask again. I might be a soggy ass loser, but I pay attention to things. It's how I know everything there is to know about this tour. Except, apparently, Lola's face. Maybe it was because she was always wearing those butt ass ugly sunglasses.

  Lola's face shivers for a second, and she spins away, pretending to be interested in the animal cutouts that litter the floor. I know that face. She's hiding something, something that's eating her up from the inside out. I recognize the slow fade of the spirit. It's right there in the set of her cheeks and the tight skin across her forehead.

  She pouts her lips, flicking her tongue across the red-purple lipstick she's wearing. I watch as she circles the paper animals and comes back around, taking a peek inside the bathroom. When she sees the syringe on the floor, she raises her rounded brows.

  “Well, shit on a songbird, didn't realize I was interrupting some quality time with the needle. I honestly thought you were dropping a deuce. Would've been more dignified that way, you know?” I raise an eyebrow as she bends down and picks it up, holding it delicately on her outstretched palm like it's a butterfly or some shit. “Should I come back later then?”

  “How did you get in my room?” I ask her again, thinking she's going to hand the needle over to me. Instead, she spins it around, presses the plunger to release the air and sticks it into her arm, just like that. She pulls it back up to make sure she's got a hit. “You're freaking me out a little,” I admit as she lets her eyelids flutter closed for a moment. Lola's hot as I've ever seen, but I'm in a state right now. I've got a new kid to take care of, one with a dead mother. Paranoia doesn't even begin to describe the feelings I'm having right now.

  “Your friend, the one with the bright blue pants let me in.” Lola pauses and wets her lips. She looks up at my face like she expects me to stop her. I'm far beyond that point in my life where I can tell anyone what to do or help them out in any way. If she wants the hit, it's hers. “Didn't know you'd be getting fried.” I raise an eyebrow.

  “I'm hardly high, doll face,” I tell her, wondering if Jesse
's doing alright with Lydia. Probably better than I'd do anyway. Lola gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me. Don't blame 'er. This is the most sober I've been in ten friggin' years. I watch hungrily as she pushes the plunger down and try to convince myself that I don't want it. That I don't need it. I can feel sweat pooling in my armpits and dripping down my forehead. Fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. And fuck again. Just, fuck.

  “Then what were you doin' in there? Playing with your salami?”

  “You're the most vulgar woman I've ever met, and strangely, I'm intrigued.” I get out a cigarette and watch Lola's ass as she moves into the bathroom, puts the cap back on the syringe and tosses it in the trash. As an afterthought, she grabs the rubbing alcohol off the floor and cleans her arm. I should be calling my other baby mamas. Or showering. Or going downstairs to find Lydia. Instead, I'm standing here wondering if I can get laid. How fucked up is that? I barely deserve a bullet to the back of the head.

  Lola pauses and leans against the sink, bending forward and letting her hair fall around her face.

  “I just came up to check on you and your kid.” She looks up and smiles. “She's cute by the way. Bloody fucking precious. Did everything go alright last night?” I pause and sigh, closing my eyes for a moment to gather myself. When I open them, I light up and suck in a drag. Lola studies me carefully, almost too carefully. I wonder what her secret is. Everyone has one, a skeleton in the closet just waiting for a necromancer. I'd rather not have my shit lifted up from the grave and sicced on the world, but it looks like it's happening whether I want it to or not. I have to make those calls.

  “Lydia still thinks Turner's her dad. She doesn't give a rat's ass about me. But that's to be expected.”

  Lola scowls and snorts, shaking her head like I've disgusted her. She sweeps some of her dark hair back and looks up at me. Thank God the stupid shades are stuck in her pocket. I can actually see her eyes now; they're almost as big and round as the glasses but a hell of a lot prettier. I try to think of something to compare the blue of her eyes to, and all I can come up with are alcoholic beverages. Sad. That's just sad.