Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots)

by C. M. Stunich

  Turner can't do his usual parlor tricks tonight, so he makes up for it with a voice that's extra pure, that carries over the screaming fans and shuts them down. The mosh pit whirls like a washer on a spin cycle, churning bodies around, clearing a hole in the center of the muck.

  My sticks become extensions of my arms, indistinguishable from my flesh, just another bit of me to slam out and stir air molecules, vibrate the world and the hearts of the desperate and lost, hearts like mine, hearts that have been so fucked they can barely pump blood to the brain anymore.

  Hear me, Asuka? I ask. Do you hear this? This agony I feel is for you, this love I feel was all yours. It's all bottled up, and I have nowhere to put it.

  I drain myself out across the drums, bleed that wicked heart pain dry, and wait for a response.

  “Ronnie.” I hear my name, but the voice that's speaking to me isn't Asuka's. It's Lola's.

  I glance over at her again, knowing that she's not really speaking, just as her heart really isn't beating loud enough to compete with the speakers flanking us like soldiers. I'm just feeling her, sensing her like she's on a fucking radar in my head.

  Lola sees me looking and leans against the curtain for support, hanging on it like there's a heavy weight around her shoulders, dragging her down. Her tongue moves over her lips, and I see the rise and fall of her chest as she sighs. I can't look away; I'm possessed. I stare at her, get caught on her eyes. They're big and round and open. I feel like I could fall in them and drown, suck in lungfuls of water and thank the universe for the chance to die there. Her mouth is so full and curved, like a fucking strawberry or some shit. I feel my pants getting tight, my dick rising up like a protest.

  The song switches gears, the lyrics shifting from Turner's hatred of his mother to the desperate need he felt to be someone better, his dreams for the future. The song might be a decade old, but it's more true today than it ever was for him. I won't lie – I'm envious as shit. I want that, that hope, that naive longing for tomorrow. I want to make plans that won't come true and have a good time trying. I want to think about what happens when I grow up. I want to stop planning my funeral and start planning my fucking wedding.

  I want to find a girl who thinks I'm worth something and fall in love again.

  Sweat drips into my eyes, obscuring my vision, but I don't look away. I let the sound of my kit tickle my bones and stroke my cock with punk ass melodies and rock hard phrases. Lola stares straight back at me, mouths some words I can't hear.

  “I won't make my children cry or tear their hearts apart. I won't watch them die inside and smoke away their dreams. 14962, the trailer park from nowhere, can't catch up to me. I'm searching far away, and my love can outrun anything.”

  The song starts to wind down, and my arms rejoin this dimension, dropping into a steady beat that actually exists on this plane of existence. I prefer that demon fast fuck 'em up, bring 'em down crazy ass blast beat, but this is okay, too. Lola reaches inside her coat and comes up with a glass bottle, raising it to me like a toast, and then she presses it to her lips and swallows.

  After our set, I stumble off the stage dripping, my shirt sticking to my back and chest. Jesse's patting my shoulder and shaking his head.

  “Fucking awesome today, man. I haven't heard you play like that since – ” A pause. We both know what he's thinking; nobody needs to say it. I'm not the only person who's been carrying around a ghost all these years. My friends have been living with her, too.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, swiping at my forehead with a towel and looking around for Lola. I should probably call over to the hotel and see how Lydia's doing, but I figure Milo's most likely already texting Turner's phone, trying to find out what horrible things he's said and done. I watch my friend saunter off the stage like he doesn't have a care in the world, and then stumble as soon as he crosses that line from public to private. Treyjan catches him before he can hit the floor and props him up with an arm around the waist. One of the roadies grabs a chair and makes a show of biting her lip and touching his arm as she helps him sit down. Bitch don't stand a chance.

  “Don't tell Milo.” First thing that's out of Turner's mouth. He leans against the back of the chair and sighs. If I thought I was sweaty, he's wetter than a whore in Vegas. Fucking Christ. I move over to him and try to check his forehead, but he swats my hand away with a scowl. “Don't fucking touch me. I'm fine.” I put my hands on my hips and look at him, really look at him.

  “Don't make me tell Naomi,” I say, trying not to smile. Turner's eyes open a little wider then and he glances up at me with a weird look on his face, like he's trying to see if I'm kidding around or not. “Let the medic check you out, and I'll keep my mouth shut,” I say, and he scowls. Turner and the medic have this … thing. It goes way back to our last tour when the guy caught him fucking his wife. Since then, they just haven't gotten along. Imagine that? But the guy refuses to quit, and Milo likes him, keeps hiring him on. He won't admit it, but I think Terrabotti finds some secret joy in watching Turner squirm around the dude. The man's like 6' 7" with biceps the size of my thighs. Eh, even I have to admit there's something funny about the situation. The guy's real nice to me anyway. Couple times I almost OD'd in the bathrooms of different venues, and he was there with a shot of Narcan. Worst. Fucking. Experiences. Ever. Other than Asuka, of course. Imagine a shot that throws you into full-blown withdrawals. Yeah, that was a fuckload of fun. But the dude never mentioned it to anyone. Maybe that's why Milo likes him? We're an unconventional group of assholes, so we need an unconventional medic.

  I shrug my shoulders and roll my head around my neck to loosen up. Now that the high of the show is over, my arms and knuckles are throbbing like hell. Normally, I'd go smoke, snort, or slam something to get over it. Today, I get ibuprofen. I bend down by Milo's little 'care kit' thing that he drags around like some eighty year old grandma, and dig out the pills and a bottled water while Jesse fetches the medic.

  I put the pills in my mouth and swallow, trying not to think of all the other amazing things I could be having instead. Something with hydrocodone or oxycodone. I close my eyes tight and try to find something else to hold onto, something to keep from repeating mistakes of the past. There's so much going on here, so much that's at risk. This crap that keeps happening to us, some of it's gotta be coincidence. I mean, come on, nobody can plan a friggin' tornado. But the rest is all too calculated. There has got to be master plan somewhere, something that we can knock off course and destroy. Can't do that if I'm stumbling around knocking up girls and praying I don't get my ass thrown in jail.

  I get out a cigarette and look around, searching for Lola again. I wish I'd gotten to see her open the show for us. Milo was keeping us locked up like dogs in a kennel. If I'd been in here to see, I might've been able to predict her mood. Music doesn't lie. It might tell stories sometimes, but the emotion that's there is as pure as it gets. Is she mad at me for beating up her ex? Or did I scare the shit out of her by going mental?

  “You trying to touch my dick?” Turner snaps, slapping the gloved hand away from his bloody thigh. The medic – fuck if I can remember his name – rolls his eyes and shakes his head, ripping Turner's jeans open a little wider, so he can take a closer look. Typical Turner. Can't be bothered to take off his jeans. He'd rather slice 'em open with a box cutter. Where that even came from, I don't want to know.

  I smoke my cigarette and search around the room full of people. No way we can leave right now. Too many people outside. Might as well be surrounded by hordes of flesh eating zombies. I know men don't often get raped, but I'm pretty sure the first member of our band to walk out there would end up severely violated. By fangirls. I shiver.

  I exhale and wait, certain that I'll find the pint-sized little shit any second now. I want to know what she thought of my playing, if she's pissed about Cohen, and I want to hear whatever it is that she wanted to tell me. Then we've got some unfinished business to take care of. I reach down and run a hand surreptitiously over
my crotch. Fuck. It's throbbing, drawing blood from my body like an antenna, broadcasting my desire all over the fucking place. I feel bad for the people that are trying to squeeze past me, bumping against my arms and chest. Might as well be jizzing all over them for shit's sake. I can't stop touching my hair and running my tongue across my lips. Lola. My chest rises and falls as I stand there, getting more panicky by the second. Did she slip out somehow? Now that I think about it, I actually don't see any members from Ice and Glass. Maybe they left already? Fuck.

  “Phone.” Trey appears beside me, holding up my cell. With a sigh, I take it in my hand and press it up to my ear, trying to drown out the desperate animal sounds from the audience. They're thirsty for blood, like tattooed little vampires. Suck, suck, suck the lifeblood.

  “Milo, how's Lydia?” I ask because I figure that's the only person who'd be calling right now. There are maybe a dozen or so people in this world that have my number, and five of them are standing right here in this room with me.

  “Ronnie.” It's fucking Lola. I blink in surprise. I'm not sure I'd be any less shocked if I got a dildo shoved up my asshole. How did she get my number? “I need to tell you something. I … It's not the same thing I was going to tell you earlier. Things changed. They … happened sooner than I thought.”

  “I'm not sure what you're talking about,” I tell her, suddenly worried about the detached tone in her voice, like she's trying to separate herself from something. I recognize the sound because I'm a fucking expert at it. Been doin' it for years. “But you tell me what you need to tell me, doll face, and I'll listen.” Silence on the other end of the line. I shift nervously, biting back a groan when the fabric of my boxers scrapes across my dick. I hear Lola breathing into the line, but she takes her sweet time responding.

  “You see that staircase in the back corner of the room? There's a chain across it. Just step over it and come up. There's a bodyguard at the top. Show 'im your badge and come into the parking garage.” I hesitate for a second. I like Lola, I do. I … feel like there's a possibility for more, and I've never even considered that with a single other person besides Asuka, not even with my babies' mothers. But I'm also not an idiot.

  “The fans'll eat me alive,” I tell her, and she laughs, her throaty chuckle traveling straight through the line and down to my crotch. If I don't get to feel her body clamping around mine, spasming in the throes of a fucking orgasm, I'll probably go crazy. Ideally, I can imagine sliding into her bare and wet, flesh to flesh, feeling her silken pussy against me. But unlike my friends, I have caught things before, nothing that wasn't curable, but there it is. Now you fucking know. I think I'm clean now, but I wouldn't risk that with Lola. Probably the first time in years I've even thought about STDs. A person has to give a few fucks about themselves to care about that. I should get tested.

  “Nobody up here. It's locked from the outside. Not really supposed to be in here, but we're fuckin' rock stars, right?” She laughs again, and I realize with a start that I'm already moving forward. If Lola's out to get me, I'm probably screwed six ways to friggin' Sunday. The key card incident crosses my mind again. Why'd she want to see me so bad? For that matter, why'd she even start talking to me in the first place? Was it really about Cohen? Guess I won't know unless she decides to tell me. “Should have some perks, right?” she asks, and I smile. I pause next to the chain and look around. It's so chaotic in here that it's hard to really pay attention to a single person. I wait till nobody's looking directly at me and step over it, climbing the stairs as quick as I can and pausing at the top.

  The guard that's there is staring at me with a blank expression. He doesn't seem particularly surprised. Must look like we're up something naughty. I keep smiling and move forward, pausing next to him. I recognize this guy. He always gets me good weed when I ask. I don't say a word, just dig around in my back pocket for some cash and hand it to him. Bless his fuckin' heart, he even opens the door for me.

  I step inside and pause as the metal door slams shut behind me, locking automatically. Wonder if I should be concerned that it requires a key card to open it?

  “Ronnie.” I hear the voice double, one on the phone, the other a few paces to my right. I hang up and tuck my cell away. When I turn to Lola, I see that her face is stained with tears. Immediately, I make the assumption that it's got something to do with Cohen. I have no idea why that is. I'm feeling irrationally protective of this girl, like she already belongs to me. “I'm so sorry, Ronnie,” she says, stumbling forward. I catch her before her knees can hit the pavement and pull her up against my chest. She's obviously had some to drink, but I don't think she's actually drunk, just buzzed. And upset. Hopefully not hurt or I'll have to destroy some more faces. The strength of emotion I'm feeling makes me feel like I'm on an acid trip or something. This can't possibly be real.

  “What happened?” I ask her, closing my eyes and relishing the way her body fits against mine. She's round and soft in all the places I'm not, and her figure just molds around mine like it's meant to be there. I get a fucking head rush from that, and my vision gets all cloudy, little spots of color dancing in front of my eyes. I haven't held a girl like this in forever. It feels nice, so nice. Like I'm the one that's protecting her. It's a big change from my usual routine where my friends are tiptoeing around me like I'm made of glass, shielding me from not only the world, but my own emotions. “Did he hit you?” I whisper against her hair. I can practically taste her shampoo the scent's so strong.

  “Cohen?” she asks with a small laugh. Lola leans back and puts her hands on my chest, touching the sweaty, dirty fabric of my shirt with gentle fingertips. She has a small nose and a tiny piercing in her right nostril that's only visible when the parking lights catch on it and reflect back. It's fucking cute. Yeah, I said it. Cute. Lola Saints is short and feisty with big tits and an even bigger personality. Her accent makes me want to cream my damn pants, and her body is friggin' killer. What more do I even need? Screw getting to know her. I should just slip a ring on her finger while I have the chance. We can get to know each other later. I know better than anyone what happens if you wait around for good things to happen. Sometimes bad ones come along first. I should've married Asuka the day she turned eighteen. Then her twat-waffle parents wouldn't have been able to take her body away, horde her ashes like the trolls they are. I could've had a piece of her. Instead, I got nothing. I don't tell any of this to Lola. Even I have the mental capacity left to tell that I sound like an irrational nut job with more screws loose than Jeffrey Goddamn Dahmer.

  “Cohen could barely stand up, could hardly sing,” she says, startling me out of my thoughts. Lola smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. “Used the same stool Turner Campbell took on stage.” She winks at me and pulls away. Reluctantly, I let her go. “This isn't about him, not exactly.” She wipes at her eyes and shrugs her jacket off, tossing it onto the roof of a silver Mercedes.

  I reach my hands into my jeans and adjust my junk. Can't help it. I'm so horny, I can hardly see straight. Seeing the sleek curve of her back, the art that adorns her body like the world's finest gallery … I shiver. Logical thought is getting harder and harder to come by.

  Lola turns around and slides onto the hood of the car, hooking her heels on the bumper and leaning back. Miraculously, there's no car alarm, and the garage remains silent. I can, however, hear the fans surging outside on the ground floor. No doubt Milo's planned to pick us up in here. I wonder why we haven't been loaded up yet?

  “So, listen Ronnie. This is really hard for me to explain, but it's gotta be done before it happens again.” I move up beside Lola, running a hand over the hole in the knee of her jeans. I don't miss the goose bumps that spring up on her arms as I pause in front of her, right between her legs. The position is achingly familiar, reminding us both of this morning. I touch my fingers to her thighs, sliding them up the torn denim until I find an opening near her sweet spot. “Ronnie, don't,” she says, but she doesn't stop me when I slip my fingers under the
fabric and move them forward until I hit hot wetness. I run my fingertips down Lola's pussy, searching for her opening. “I have to tell you,” she says, but her voice is so breathy, I can hardly make out the words. I push inside her with my hand, enjoying the look on her face, the switch from melancholy to euphoria. Oh, baby, yes.

  “Tell me then,” I whisper, moving slow, enjoying the feeling of her body raw and sopping friggin' wet. Lola's lips part, but no words come out, just a moan, a purr, like a little kitty cat. “Tell me whatever it is, so I can make things right. Remember, I owe you one from this morning.” I reach out with my other hand snap the Mrs. Ronnie McGuire bracelet against her skin. Lola's mouth works, but she still can't seem to get anything out. Two tiny tears prick the corners of her eyes but don't fall. I mistake them for sexual frustration. “Say it.”

  “Ronnie,” she says as I pull my fingers out and use her own juices as lube, running them up, straight to the magic fuckin' gumdrop. I might be a deadbeat sack of crap with a lone talent for drumming, but I know how to spell the word orgasm: c-l-i-t-o-r-i-s. “Ronnie,” a whispered moan, a snippet of pleasure dragged from the throat of a fucking Goddess. “I'm sorry.”

  I can't speak the words Ronnie needs to hear. I just can't. I've already failed, so what's the point? His hand feels so good, good enough to make me forget. Shannon is already dead. I got a text just minutes after I brought the sleeping beauty back to life.

  Deed's done. Make sure he finds out tonight.

  I was too caught up in moral debate with myself to take action, and now it's over. Shannon Capone is dead and her body is en route to the hotel. With the baby, with that tiny baby. I didn't fail just her though. Or even her mother. I failed Ronnie and myself. I'm irredeemable now.

  “I'm sorry,” I whisper to Ronnie, hoping he'll forgive me, wishing I'd made my decision in time. I could've saved lives and changed fate, but now I'm just here, riding a wave of lies and dirty promises all for the sake of what? For fame? Money? What do those things mean without dignity, and now, I have none. “I'm so sorry.”