Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Lydia?” I ask Naomi after we get back inside the room. All of Indecency, including Milo, went with Ronnie to the airport. Now there's a real family, the group of bandmates I always wanted but never had.

  “She's going to stay with Ronnie's parents for awhile I guess.” Naomi shrugs. “I have no idea what's going to happen after the tour, but I guess he'll figure it out. He seems like a nice guy.” She pauses and looks at me with a funny face. “You're not in love with him, are you?”

  I snort.

  “Well that's a silly question,” I say, even though really, it's not. We stand there for a moment in awkward silence. I never do give her a proper answer. Clearing my throat, I push open the door to the bathroom and step inside, laying my clothes out on the counter and grabbing a towel from above the rack behind the toilet. “How about Phoebe?” I call out. I know it's stupid, but I feel somewhat responsible for those kids now. One day, they'll probably grow up to curse my name, but for right now, I just want to make sure they're alright. I wish I could've gone with Ronnie to the airport to drop them off. Here's to hoping I'll live long enough to see them again. Or that Ronnie will ever let me see them again.

  “She's going to live with Shannon's parents. I don't think he wants her to, but the way they cried on the phone, he couldn't resist. Ronnie's a big softie deep down, I think. I imagine that's why he let himself suffer for all these years. Some sort of self punishment or something.” I listen to her talk and start the shower, leaning against the wall outside while I feel the water with my hand. Ronnie really is a nice guy, but nice guys never admit that. Deep down he knows though, and I think that's why he's so angry. He knows that everything that's happened in his life has been bullshit.

  I move back over to the door and kick it closed, stripping off my dirty bra and jeans. The crotch is all crusted with fun times from my outing with Ronnie, and there are some questionable stains on the knees. Ah, a day in the life of Lola Rubi Saints.

  I climb into the shower, drenching myself in scalding water that quickly turns my skin pink. The feel of the shampoo is like heaven, putting me into a euphoric state where I let myself go, and I don't think about anything else. Not the dirty cops, not my sister, not even the rapidly growing pile of bodies. I know I'm not going to get many moments like these, so I savor it. That's the thing about showers. It's not just the water washing away the day's dirt. It washes away all of the emotions, too. At least temporarily. Those first five minutes out of the shower when I'm all alone, pulling my clothes over my body with sensual slowness, breathing in the hot steam and not caring for once that I can't look in the mirror and see myself – that's pure motherfucking bliss.

  A knock at the door surprises me, and I drop the damn soap, peeking my head out of the shower curtain. I just automatically assume it's Naomi.

  “Come in!” I shout, conditioner slicking against my shoulders as my hair slides forward and drips wetness onto the floor. When the door opens and I see Ronnie come in, I pull the curtain a little closer in front of me. When he sees me staring at him, he turns away, back towards the still open door.

  “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn't sound all that sorry. “I'm not trying to bother you. I just wanted to let you know that we're going to conference Naomi's manager, America, in and tell her what we know.” I fling the curtain back, not at all bothered by my nakedness. After all, it isn't anything he hasn't seen before. Fuck, he was even inside, too, so why the shit should a little nudity ruffle him or me?

  “No.” My voice is very firm, extremely clear. “Don't tell anyone else.” Ronnie doesn't turn around or look at me, keeping his body pointed towards the door. I won't lie – I'm a little disappointed he's not ogling my goods and committing himself to permanent relocation to Lola-land.

  “Naomi's friend, the drummer for her band, Dax. He's in on it all. Him and America. That's it. Just these two. We can trust them.” I shake my head hard and conditioner flies all over the place like wet snow. A drip even hits Ronnie in the back of the neck, right on top of one of his snake tats. He wipes it away, but still doesn't turn to look at me. Unless, of course, he's peeping in the mirror. It's a little fogged up now, but if he tilted his head just right …

  “We can't trust anybody, mate. Not a damn soul. Just the four of us, nobody else. My sister, she … ” I almost can't talk about her. My guilt at losing the other women just makes me feel selfish, like my trying to protect Poppet is a bad thing. Couldn't fight for the others, but you'll fight for her, eh Lola? You selfish prick. As I stand there staring at Ronnie's back, the anxiety creeps back in. And the fear. So much for my fucking shower. How can I ask them to help me out, do me special favors after all I've done? Why should they bend over backwards for me when I didn't lift a freaking finger for Shannon or Chelsea? When I lifted way more than a finger towards Marta? “If we start spreading the news like peanut butter, my sister is really and truly fucked. Tyler's not the bad guy you read about in books. If he says he's going to shoot her, she's already half-dead.”

  Ronnie stays silent, leaning forward and putting his hand on the edge of the doorframe. He's wearing a loose black tank today that slides across his skin as he moves and gives me tantalizing glimpses of the muscles underneath. Sure, he's in here talking to me, but that doesn't mean he's forgiven me. I have no fucking clue what he's thinking, and it's driving me absolutely insane. He held me in his arms while I talked, but that doesn't have to mean anything really.

  I brush a hand down my face, knocking droplets away; water clings to my lips and drips from my chin. I wait there for him to speak, steam caressing my skin like thousands of tiny tongues, slicking my flesh, heating my body.

  “Now that you know,” I start, watching Ronnie stand stone still. I don't know if he's just thinking about what I said, or if he's disgusted with me or what. Fuck, I don't really care. I just need something from him, some sort of emotion that'll indicate to me what he's thinking about. “That I came to you to hold your hand, just so I could crush it. What do you think?” Ronnie shifts and stands up, but he still doesn't turn to look at me. Instead, he flexes his arms and then stretches them back out, running a hand down one and then the other, feeling over his bruised knuckles. “Ronnie?”

  “Lola?” he asks back, and my heart does some sort of weird twittering thing, slapping up against my ribs like it's trying to play the fucking xylophone or something. “Now that you've told us, how do you feel?” I shift and the shower curtain crinkles. I guess Ronnie thinks I've closed it and turns around. When his eyes find my naked body, they darken considerably, and he stiffens, shoving his hands into his pockets and sucking in a mouthful of steamy air. I try to act like I don't care that he's looking, but I do. Am I bad person for wishing he'd come over here, grab me by the wrist and haul my ass out of the shower, fuck me up against the wall?

  “I feel better,” I admit, looking down and watching the water rivulets run down by belly and get caught in the patch of dark hair between my legs. “But I don't know how long it'll last. Just because I told you what I know doesn't mean we're safe. In fact, we're probably all in worse danger than we were before.”

  Ronnie opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He holds up a finger.

  “One sec.” I watch as he turns around and leaves the bathroom, letting in a rush of cool air and the sound of voices in heated discussion. Just a few heartbeats later, he's back, sliding into the room and leaning against the door with his back to close it. “Do you know what this guy, Tyler, has planned for everyone else? Jesse? Trey?” I shake my head.

  “Information in that circle is on a strictly need to know basis. I know who's supposed to go after who, but that's about it.”

  “And do you know what this Tyler guy looks like?” I nod, watching as Ronnie tries to keep his eyes off my body. He's wearing a pair of blue jeans today. They're still loose, but a lot more form fitting than what he's been wearing the past few days, making me very aware that he's hiding a fugitive by the name of Mr. Happy down there. “You could reco
gnize him in a crowd?” Again, I nod.

  “He's exactly what you wouldn't expect. Tall, handsome, ripped as hell, rich as fuck. His suits must cost more than our tour buses.”

  “Maybe your tour bus,” I hear through the door. Fucking Turner Campbell.

  “Sorry, not much privacy in here,” Ronnie says, giving me a look that says I want to fuck you, but I'd rather not have my friend outside with his ear pressed to the door. I swallow and nod again. Cat got your tongue, you little pussy? Might be the first time in my entire life I've ever had trouble talking. That's sort of my thing. I continue, just trying to fill the small space between us with words instead of hormones.

  “Tyler's got dark hair, blue eyes, skin like porcelain. He's got some sort of Southern accent, too. I don't know American dialect, but it's smooth as cognac. And that's exactly how Tyler acts, like an old fashioned Southern gentleman. I don't mean to be rude or anything, but he strikes me as the type that's still pissed about the Civil War.”

  Ronnie smiles, reaching up to run a hand through his dark hair. It's clean and shiny today, not stringy and greasy like I've seen in the past. And he's put on some killer makeup. You'd never know he had a massive donger between those thighs. I put my hand against the wall of the shower, wondering how long this ridiculous play by play is going to happen. After another moment of silence, I lose my patience.

  “Listen here, fuckface,” I say and Ronnie's brows climb up to his hairline. “You're off with the pixies if you think I'm going to stand here with my tits hanging out and have this conversation with you. When I get out, I'll tell you whatever it is you want to know, but if you're going to stay in here, you better damn well be willing to fuck the shit out of me.”

  Ronnie's slight smile turns into a smirk. His fingers slide into his pocket and come up with a condom.

  “What did you think I was doing when I went out there? Making cupcakes?” I scowl at him. My lady parts get pissy when they're ignored.

  “Took you long enough. What were you waiting for, limp dick, an invitation?” Ronnie pushes off the door and comes towards me, combat books squeaking on the wet floor. He slides his arm around my waist and lifts me straight out of the shower, holding my face level with his. My feet don't even touch the floor.

  “Yeah, sort of. I didn't know if you … ” I touch my hand to his freshly shaved cheek.

  “If I'd still let you fuck me?” I kiss his mouth, tasting cigarettes and toothpaste, inhaling the hot sweaty scent of him. “If I was still interested in you?” Ronnie relaxes his hold on me and lets me slide down his body to the floor before taking a step back.

  “Well, are you?” he asks, condom still clutched in his hand. “Interested?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Don't be such a girl, Ronnie.”

  He doesn't move to touch me again. In fact, he takes a full step back. I narrow my eyes on him and cross my arms under my tits, knowing full well how it makes them look. Big and ripe and round like fucking melons. Men can't resist. They just don't have it in 'em.

  “Just say it, doll face, and we can move on. I promise I'll make it worth your while.” He keeps smirking at me, waving the condom around as incentive. I look away, towards the ugly yellow countertop and then back at him.

  “Do you forgive me?” I ask, because even if I don't admit it to myself, that's the most important part of this whole thing. “I put your babies through hell.”

  “You didn't hold the knife,” Ronnie says with a sigh, looking down at the towel under his feet. “You didn't drench my daughters in blood. Should you have spoken up sooner? I don't know. Lola, I don't have the mental high ground to judge anybody else's soul. I'm as fucked as they come up. We all do horrible, screwed up things in our lives. This just happens to be yours.” Ronnie reaches down and grabs the edges of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor. My blood heats and my head spins with need. Holy mother of fucking fucks. My eyes catch on the white lily tat peeking up over the fabric of his jeans. He sees me looking and touches his fingers to it.

  “The lily represents the restored innocence of the soul upon death.” He slips his fingers under the fabric. “I like to pretend that's true, even if I don't believe it.”

  “Innocence is overrated,” I say, and he smiles, his hand continuing its path into his pants. “So are we gonna do it or what?”

  “I'm waiting,” Ronnie says, eyelids fluttering as he makes contact with his cock. I wet my lips as I imagine his fingers curling around it, stroking it. Maybe even he's even thinking of my pussy? Wishing I was down there on my knees. My cunt throbs and puts a stranglehold on my brain. “Did you fuck me because you were told to? Or because you wanted to?”

  “I banged you because you can kick a kit better than anyone.”

  “So it's because I'm a musician?” he asks, voice breathy and light, body sagging as he pleasures himself, making me all hot and bothered and crazy for it.

  “No,” I say, moving forward and grabbing the button on his pants. “It's because you're a rock star.” I unzip him and drop to the floor, sliding his jeans down with me until his cock's right in my face, hard and insistent, begging for a little dip. Ronnie hands me the condom with as serious an expression on his face as he could possibly have, considering his junk's hanging out in my face.

  “Because I'm a rock star,” is all he says, and although I don't know that I'd want a BJ with a condom on, I take it and open it up, slipping it over his cock and watching as the muscles in his belly contract in anticipation.

  “Bottoms up,” I say and Ronnie chuckles, tangling his fingers in my hair and guiding his swollen dick into my mouth. I reach up and cup his ass, using my position on the floor as a free pass to feel him up. There are tattoos everywhere down here that beg exploring. I let my fingertips play over his thighs, tease his balls. The whole situation reminds me of the utility closet, and I pause, remembering the way he slumped against the wall, how he stayed silent through most of it. The Ronnie here is a completely different person, or at least he's trying to be. He's standing tall and straight, body hard and unyielding, and the sounds that escape his throat are pure pleasure. I want to pretend that some of this change is because of me, but that's impossible, right?

  “Lola,” he groans, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. “Fuck.” I slide my mouth back, using my saliva as lube to pump his cock with my hand.

  “You better damn well tell me how amazing I am because a condom for a BJ is a prostitute move. You're lucky I'm not feeling pissy about it.” Ronnie lets go of my hair and grabs my wrist with his hand, pausing my movement. He looks down at me and our eyes meet. The world around me spins, and even though I try to blame it on the hot heat of the shower, I don't know if that's true.

  “It's not to protect me, Lola,” he says, yanking me to my feet with almost no effort. My body slams into his, my bare breasts pressing up against his torso, skin to skin, hard to soft. Feels so damn good. “It's to protect you.”

  And then he throws me down over the countertop and steps up behind me, grabbing my hips and sliding his wet dick into my pussy. The pleasure release is intoxicating, like I'm getting high, shooting up with a hit of Ronnie fucking McGuire. He moves inside of me, nice and slow this time, getting deep, burying himself as far as he can go. I can feel my ass jiggling with each thrust, feel the power in his body and suddenly, I feel the desperate need to see him. My hands come up and brush the mirror, wiping away the fog and the condensation enough that I can see him behind me, can meet his eyes in the mirror and watch his muscles move. The water droplets sliding down my skin feel like bits of molten flame, burning pathways into my flesh. My breasts are crushed against the countertop, taut nipples scraping over the yellow granite.

  I'm not going to sugarcoat it. I've been with a lot of men in my life. Maybe too many. But none of them have made me feel like this, made my body quiver like jelly, blown my fucking mind with a couple of thrusts and a throaty growl that curls my toes. Ronnie McGuire is the wrong sor
t of guy, the one that your dad warns you about when you're a kid, like a monster hiding in the closet waiting to leap out and grab your snatch. He's got too many fucking kids, done too many drugs, and been disconnected from life for so long that it's like he's still stumbling around, disoriented. But that's what I like about him. He might be twenty-eight years old, but he's got the fresh feeling of new life around him today. The smell alone is making my head spin and my heart soar. It's infectious.

  “Tell me you don't hate me,” I groan, slamming my hips back against him, feeling the sweat on his torso, the crush of his fingers. Drumming makes strong arms, and Ronnie's are like steel, locking me in place, holding me down and grinding my body into dust.

  “I don't hate you, doll,” he groans, slapping against me, melting into me. “Far from it. I think I like your face.”

  “Like your face more,” I whisper, and I have no idea what we're really talking about.

  “Doubt it.”

  Ronnie's hand comes around and brushes my clit, drawing a scream from my throat as he goes in balls deep and bumps against my cervix, tingling my bones and shaking me to the core. I imagine Turner and Naomi out there listening in, but do you want to know how many fucks I give? I'll give you a clue. It's less than one.

  “Lola, baby, you're so fucking hot,” he whispers, leaning down over me and scalding my ear with hot heat. “Just looking at you makes me want to shoot my fucking load.”

  “Keep preaching to the choir,” I whisper back, looking at him in the mirror, at his dilated pupils, his swollen mouth, his hard nipples. But I like the dirty talk and he knows it. I'm squeezing around him, milking his cock with my body, drawing that fucking stallion seed from his dick. I won't ever admit it aloud, but I think it's hot Ronnie has four kids. It makes me think of him like some sort of Fertile Rock God. If it wasn't the stupidest fucking idea in the world, I'd let him give me a baby. Or maybe I'm just saying that because I'm all wrapped up in primal function and animalistic desire. “And keep fucking me with your fat fucking dick. Fill me up. Come while you're inside me.”