He groans, the sound broken and fractured, like his humanity's being drained out of him, leaving nothing but the most basic desires inside his chest. I put my hands on the counter and brace myself, so there's almost no give, so we're coming together as fast and hard as is physically possible. God, shit, damn. Ronnie bangs like a dunny door in a storm. I could get really used to this.
I watch him in the mirror, see the skin on his face tightening, his eyes rolling back. I can even see his lips trembling as he grunts, bending over me and slamming down hard, coming inside the condom with one last sound of pleasure. The sight of that, the feel of his hard body inside mine, the rhythm he's pounding out on my clit, it's enough to make me scream, to let loose and pour it all out, my voice echoing around the room and back at me.
This time, the cops don't break down the door.
When they knock, Turner and Naomi answer it for us.
“You are such a misogynistic piece of shit sometimes. Who the fuck do you care who he sleeps with anyway? It's not your business. Besides, I hate to tell you this, but your friend isn't all that great anyway.” Turner pinches the joint so hard it looks like it's going to break in half.
“Maybe we should focus on something more productive,” I say, standing up and moving over to the window. I sweep the curtains aside and look out at the city, the scattered glitter of lights and the sense that somewhere, beyond this darkness, there's more life. “Like what our next step is going to be?”
“I say we call the fucker out onstage. Everybody's looking at us right now. Everybody's paying attention. We just tell the crowd that a little birdie told us Tyler Rutledge is trying to kill us and see what happens.” I spin on Turner so fast I almost lose my towel.
“No,” I say, making sure my voice is firm enough that he knows I'm dead serious about this. “You do that, you put us all in even more risk. We don't want this guy to know we're coming, understand?” Turner rolls his eyes, but I'm not sure if he's taking me seriously or not. “Turner?”
“It was just an idea,” he says, holding up his hands like he's all innocence and purity. What a crock of shit. “I won't do it if you don't want me to.” He pauses. “Even though I still think it's a good idea.” I stare at him hard, narrowing my eyes. Naomi kicks him in the knee with her foot. Sometimes, when Dakota gets an idea in his head, it sticks there. “Okay, okay, I promise I won't bring Tyler Rutledge up on stage.”
Somehow, I still get the feeling that he's bullshitting me.
It's been exactly ten years, three months, and six days since I slept next to a woman in a bed. Yep. I have four kids, and I haven't actually slept with a person of the female persuasion in that long. Not once since Asuka died. I don't mean to have this monumental ball shattering moment; I don't plan it. I just wake up the next morning with my arm around Lola and my morning wood pressing against her ass.
“G'day to you, too,” she whispers, rolling over to face me. Her eyes are squinched shut and her finger's up by her lips. “Listen.” I keep quiet, still reeling from the idea that I crossed a line for myself that I hadn't even known I'd made. And then I broke out of it the same way. That's fucking life for you, isn't it? Always changing her tune, from a ballad to a requiem and back again. I wonder if Asuka would be proud of me. I hope Lola doesn't find it weird that I want to talk about her. I want her to know everything about Asuka Maebara – from her perfect grades to her talent with the piano to her last moments when she died in her car listening to Indecency's first EP. She admitted to studying me, my habits, my kids, so she knows more about me than I probably think she does, but I want to tell her it all anyway, even if she already knows. “Do you hear it?” she whispers again, breaking me out of my thoughts. When I listen closely, I actually do, and it's kind of gross.
“Goddamn it, Turner,” I say, sitting up and throwing one of my pillows onto his bed. The moaning and the grunting stops and then he's sitting up, the blankets falling down his back, revealing paw prints and stars and spiderweb tattoos. At first I thought he was jacking it, but then I see Naomi Knox red faced and embarrassed underneath him. Shit.
“Hey, fuck you, dude. We had to listen to your shit in the bathroom last night. All of that groaning and whimpering and screeching.”
“Oh, please,” Lola snorts as Naomi shoves Turner off of her and rolls aside, using the pillow I threw to cover up a groan. “Like you didn't enjoy listening to it. Just admit it, you're sweet on the both of us.” Lola sits up and lifts up the shirt I gave her to sleep in, smacking her tit with her hand. “Don't try to deny it. You had fun.”
Turner rolls his eyes and reaches down, coming up with a condom that he throws at my face.
“The fuck,” I yell, ducking at the last second. It hits the carpet on the floor by the bed. “That's fucking disgusting, Dakota. Even for you. I am not picking that shit up.” Not that I have much room to talk, leaving a full fucking condom on the hood of some dude's Benz, but whatever.
“Hey, I'm not the one who's shared needles and banged bareback for ten years.”
“I never once shared a needle,” I tell him and that is the fucking honest truth right there. “Besides, you've done so much stupid shit in your life. When I go to get tested, you're coming with me.” Naomi groans again and stands up, using the sheet to cover her body. She smacks Turner in the back of the head, hard, stopping him mid-protest.
“What the hell was that for?”
“For talking me into doing stupid shit,” she growls. “For talking me into doing you. Fuck. Just fuck.” And then she spins away and retreats into the bathroom. Turner gets up, bare ass flashing, and chases after her, but she's already locked the door.
“Naomi! Let me in.” He slams his palms against the door. “Bitch!”
I look over at Lola who's trying not to laugh. She looks even more beautiful right now than I've ever seen her. Her hair is clean but tousled from sleep, softly curving over her cheeks, strands clinging to her moist lips. Her eyes are free of makeup and bright, fresh, like blueberries or some shit. I have to blink a few times just to make sure she's really sitting there in front of me.
“I can't wait to see you play tonight,” I whisper against her throat, feeling the sheets like iron weights against my erection, pressing down, reminding me that I can't just roll over and slide into her like I want to. I'd fucking kill to feel her body against mine, no fucking latex between us. Over the river and through the fucking woods, it's off to the clinic I go.
“I'm not all that great,” she says, still smiling at Turner's antics. He is pretty amusing, I can admit that. “Not as good as you. You might be some sort of God of the Stage.” I raise an eyebrow and glance up at Turner.
“Maybe I'm on the council. Don't know if I'd call myself a god though. Besides, if I'm as good as you say, doesn't that qualify me to judge your skill? I think you've got something special. If you ever want any tips or tricks or anything,” I shrug. “We could always jam on some practice pads together.” Lola leans over and presses her mouth against mine; my heart takes off in my chest and my cock throbs painfully. If Turner wasn't standing in front of the bathroom door, naked and smoking a cigarette, I'd push her down and fuck her right here, right now.
“Get a room,” he says snidely. “That's kind of why I asked for one to myself.” Lola and I ignore him, pressing closer, kissing deeper. Our tongues tangle and our chests touch. Fuck, this is amazing. I can't wait to fall in love with this chick. I have a feeling it's not going to be all that difficult. There's a knock at the door, but I wave my hand at Turner to get it. I need just a minute more right here in this moment. Who the fuck knows if I'll ever get another second like this? Maybe that's what Asuka's death can mean for me, a lesson to appreciate all the wonderful shit in my life? I'd do anything to get her back; I'd die for her. But I can't just flip a switch and turn into a Goddamn wizard. What's done is done, and this is what I have now. A beautiful girl in my bed. A successful band. And some perfect fucking kids that need me. So I'm going to fight and come out the ot
her side of this tragedy a whole hell of a lot better than I did before.
“What?” Turner snaps, standing there naked with the door wide open. Some of the staff walking by pause to ogle his goods. Thank God Naomi's not out here to see it.
Milo stands in the hallway dressed in a perfectly pressed suit and tie, hair slicked back, face pale but composed. When he sees me osculating with Lola, his blue eyes get wide. I guess this is probably the last thing he'd expect to see. Milo knows everything about us, probably more than we do. So he knows I've never slept with a girl through the night like this. Must come as kind of a shock.
“Good morning,” he says, purposely keeping his eyes above waist level. It's not unusual for Turner to prance around naked, but when you're not interested, it gets old pretty fast. “Everything okay in here?” I know he's talking to me mostly. After Shannon's death, I think the general consensus was that I was going to fall right back in the deep end. No such luck, huh? I think once you've survived something as tragic as the loss of a soul mate, the rest of life is just cake. Don't know how I missed that memo before.
“I'm alright,” I say as Lola glances over her shoulder and smiles at Milo. I think of my kids, and I miss 'em already. Weird how that works. I haven't seen Lydia for years, have never seen Phoebe before and now I'm feeling all possessive. My parents will do a good job, I know they will. And even though our reunion wasn't the tear filled movie montage I thought it might be. It was alright. My mom hugged me and my dad shook my hand. There's that at least. Shannon's parents … well, I tried. They wouldn't look me in the eye. As soon as this is all over, I'm going to have to work on that relationship. It might never be great, but if I can at least open up some sort of dialogue between us where they're not cursing my name and calling me a fuckin' tweaker, we'll be in a good place.
“Good.” Milo adjusts his tie and takes a deep breath, handing Turner a cup of coffee out of the drink carrier he's holding. He glides into the room and passes one to Lola and me. Usually, he doesn't miss a damn thing, but I think we surprised him. He's short one cup. There are only three. “Because we need something to take the negative light off the tour. Despite what people say, not all press is good press. They're starting to pull out the religious cards.” Milo shakes out a napkin and passes it to Lola.
“You mean the whole 'your dirty, filthy, angry music is to blame for all of this' crap?” Lola asks, sipping her drink. I like how easily she fits in here, into a routine that's been going on for years. Concert days, Milo wakes us up, brings us coffee. And nine out of ten times, picks out what clothes he wants me to wear. Think I can actually manage it myself today. Won't he just shit his pants over that one?
“Exactly.” He sighs and spins back around to Turner, grabbing a pair of pants from the chair and holding them over his crotch. Turner sighs and snatches them from his hand. “Tonight's concert needs to be … perfect. No shenanigans.”
“Who pays who?” Turner says with a smirk. “Do your fucking job and the 'shenanigans' won't even matter. Don't you have a Tweet to compose or some shit?” Milo ignores him and moves to the curtains, sliding them open and peering down at the parking lot. As far as I can tell, we're still safe here. No paparazzi or wild fans outside yet.
“The lead for Burning the Bleeding is going to fill in for Rook Geary, so Terre Haute can play a set and vice versa. Terre Haute's going to lend them a bassist and a drummer. We're going to put on a full show, all the bells and whistles.”
“What about Dax?” Naomi asks, appearing in the bathroom with wet hair and fresh clothes. It's easy to tell when it's a concert day based on the general attire of the group. On off days, you have a better chance of seeing fresh track marks than you do makeup. On show days, it's full glitz and rock 'n' roll fucking glamour. Naomi's got on silver boots with black buckles, a black half shirt with a pink rose on the front and a pair of acid washed jeans.
“I spoke with America this morning, and she said it's up to you guys to decide. If he can't play, Ronnie can do it.” Milo looks down at me with a question on his face. The question is: can you? I don't know that I'm an expert on all of Amatory Riot's songs, but I don't see why I shouldn't be able to jump in and make something work.
I shrug.
“I'll do what I can,” I say and Milo nods, rubbing his hands together and taking a deep breath. He's nervous, not unusual for him, but it leaves this feeling in the room, this pressure for us to do the best we can, to rock the fuck out of that crowd, lay 'em flat and leave nothing but bodies. Today, I'm feeling good. I've got a sense about this show. This is going to be a turning point for us. And after this, Lola will get a chance to see her sister. That's the important part, getting her out of there. Until then, retaliation is pretty much out of the question.
“If you would all please get up and get dressed in a timely manner. It's about a five hour drive from here to Little Rock, and we're going to be dealing with the largest crowd yet. The venue estimates there are already several hundred people waiting outside the doors. We're going to be facing issues with security we've never had to deal with before.”
There's a moment of silence that follows, and I know what we're all thinking. This could be it. This could be the show that changes everything. After this, nothing will ever be the same again. Whatever Tyler Rutledge's master plan really is, he's succeeded in making us more popular than we could've ever been with music alone. It might not have been worth Marta's or Chelsea's or Shannon's lives, but the sacrifices have been made and the dice have already been rolled.
I reach up and tuck some of Lola's hair behind her ear.
I'm used to being worshipped but forgotten.
Now, I think I'm ready to be seen.
You know how there are some moments that you just feel are going to change your life, even without knowing why? Tonight is one of those. The feeling in my chest is that big things are on the horizon. I can't tell you how I've come to that conclusion, it's just there. I guess by telling Ronnie, Naomi, and Turner what I know, I was embarking on a new path in life. The road I was on before is closed and ahead of me is a path littered with pot holes and detours, ditches, and fucking car wrecks, all aflame. Getting out of Tyler Rutledge's hold is not going to be easy. But now that I've made the decision I feel more like the real Lola Saints, like I'm finally becoming who I was always meant to be.
I'm going to get Poppet away from him, and I'm going to figure how to stop all of this without anyone else getting hurt. That's what I want to do. That is my redemption.
I stare out at the crowd, unflinching, unafraid. There are thousands of people in front of me, crowding the stage, swarming the edges of the arena. If we lose the tentative control we have on them, they'll explode, like a dam breaking, water cascading everywhere. We could drown. We could die.
I hold my chin up and command their attention as the lights brighten up overhead, revealing me in all my glory to the gaping maws and burning eyes. There's no hiding up here, not really. As soon as my stick makes contact with the skin on the drum, I am open and out there to be judged. I don't have to like what they say. What other people think about me is none of my fucking business anyway, but I'll know they know. I'll know, and I won't give two damns or a fuck about it. I told Ronnie that his problem was not loving himself enough. And that's true. It all starts from within. I thought I had that, but it was just a shield of smart ass bitchiness that I was surrounding myself with. Now, I'm ready to take the next step and be strong. I'm sitting here tonight to prove it.
Somewhere to my left, Ronnie is watching me. He promised he would. I can't see him, but I know he's there. I want to use tonight to show him how that I meant what I said, that I'm sorry for what I did, and that I'm ready to make things right. I take a deep breath and wait as the audience quiets down.
Cohen is standing center stage, wearing a leather vest and cowboy boots, tight pants and way too much gel in his hair. He looks cute, but not good enough to make me forget what KK said. If I ever do find out he touched my little sister,
his head will end up so far up his asshole that he can chew his food again on the way down.
“Hey there Little Rock,” he says, his voice getting deeper, more gravelly, like rocks rolling down a driveway. Just before every performance, he pulls a 180 like this. His voice changes, his mannerisms, even the way he carries himself. His introductions aren't very good, but he pulls off a decent show. It'll never be at Turner Campbell's level, but that's okay. For right now, this will do. One day though I'd like to play for someone who really feels it, who puts their heart and soul into the sound. “Hope you're enjoying the show so far. We're Ice and Glass, and we're going to rock your fucking faces off.” He lifts a hand and Chris and Joel start off the song, strumming their guitars like professionals who haven't figured out that their careers are stagnant. This is the best they will ever get. Yes, they're good, but there will be Gods out there who will not only beat them but crush them to bloody pulps.
I start tapping my sticks together, keeping time.
“WHY?!” Cohen screams, voice echoing around the massive auditorium. The audience shouts it with him, jumping up and down, waving their arms, begging for a blessing from angels. But there are no angels here, only devils. I decide to play my drums that night as a warning to them.
And … two … three … four.
I smash into my kit, lay on like I'm having a bad day, shaking my head back and forth, hair flying, sticking to my already sweaty forehead. My shirt's all silver sparkles and glitter, glowing and flashing as I move in time with the music. This song, it's one of our originals, one of the few I actually got to write myself. I don't know why we're playing it. Mr. Rutledge makes up our set lists for every show, and not once has he ever selected one of our original songs. I hope it's not a bad omen, but as I feel the beat stirring my blood, bringing it to a boil, I can't see how it possibly could be. Nothing that feels this good could be bad.
Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) Page 18