Screw Up (Hard Rock Roots Book 10)

by C. M. Stunich

  “What's wrong with wanting a little love in his life?” Ronnie asks, gesturing at me and making my teeth clench tight with anger. I feel like they're both picking fun at me now. “It's not like you didn't chase after it with fuckin' vigor.”

  “You know,” Netty says, appearing on my left in her boring white tank, mousy blonde-brown hair, and make up free face. Compared to the girls I usually date—rocker chicks with wild hair and tats or groupie girls in glittering dresses and red-red lips—Netty Forester is plain as hell. Even standing here next to all of us, she looks like a blank canvas in a gallery full of paintings.

  But shit.

  I know it makes me sound like a rotten prick, but I got a huge motherfucking hard-on holding her in the park today. Her mouth is full and ripe and shiny, even without lipstick, and the body hiding beneath that awful skirt is plump and curvy. Her eyes, they're the same color as the sky just before sunset, this fucking sapphire blue that catches my attention and holds it there.

  As far as waking up married to a stranger, I could've picked worse.

  Like, a lot worse.

  “There's nothing wrong with wanting to be with somebody you love.” She pauses and goose bumps break out across her bare arms. She shivers and rubs at them with her palms, making like the A/C is just too goddamn fucking cold (it is), but I see that shimmer of fear in her eyes. That fiancé of hers really put the fear o' god in her. “Honestly, a loveless marriage is about as lonely life can get.”

  “We're getting it annulled so you guys can just cool your damn jets, alright?”

  “You're getting it annulled?!” Turner asks in mock shock, putting a tattooed hand to his mouth. “No cocksucking way!” He points at Netty and smirks at me and I know that if Ronnie weren't standing in between the two of us, I'd rush him and start our fight from the top. “You're not going to get any better than this girl, Trey. We both know she's way out of your fucking league. I say count your lucky stars and praise Jesus for this chick.” When he digs a Trojan condom out of his pocket, I know it's time for a beatdown. “Sorry his mama named him after a dick sleeve.”

  He flicks the package in my direction, but Netty catches it in midair, blushing even as she's wrapping her fingers around it.

  “I think Treyjan's a beautiful name,” she says with a stark sort of honesty that I hope Turner can appreciate. Thing is, if he knew she was carting around a whole bunch of secrets, he'd throw her ass out on the street and wash his hands of her. Our former bassist and best friend, Travis Gaborone, kept secrets from us and that nightmare spiraled into a seven year reign of hell.

  Speaking of … Travis' son, a seven year old kid named Tyler, comes down the steps next. In a weird turn of events, he actually lives here with the rest of us assholes. I worry everyday that we're going to fuck him up so badly that he turns into a useless, awful mess of a human being—like Turner.

  “We're off to a baseball game, all American and shit,” Turner says, putting his arm around Tyler's neck and yanking him close. The kid pretends to look annoyed, but I can tell he's excited. “Wish us luck, my friends.”

  “Fuck you,” is what I say instead as he heads for the door, meeting up with Naomi on the porch steps outside. When they look at each other … angels, like, sing and stuff. I dig my nails into my palms and scoff.

  Whatever.

  Everything thinks I'm sort of lost romantic stumbling around and looking for his soul mate. In reality, I just want to party and make music and do blow. I definitely don't want some complicated mess like Netty Forester in my life.

  “Come on, let's find you a vacant room. There are, like, a million of them,” I say as I catch Ronnie's brown-eyed gaze and see the slightest ghost of a smile light his lips. Asshole. See what I mean? They're all rooting for me to join their married-with-kids club, but no thanks. Not interested. I miss the good old days when we were on the road ten months out of the year, screwing a new groupie in every city, and doing lines of blow in the bus bathroom.

  Even though that was only a year ago, it feels like fucking forever.

  “Well, fuck a nun's dry cunt,” Lola says as I try to squeeze past her and the baby. His name is, almost predictably, Travis Gaborone McGuire. Go figure.

  I ignore her, clomping up the marble steps, and listening as Netty's soft footfalls move along behind me.

  After we fled the paps in the park, I'd planned to take her to a bus station. But then I'd remembered how goddamn scared she was and brought her back here to stay in one of the spare bedrooms for a while.

  Lord knows I'll probably regret the fuck outta this.

  “Thanks for letting me stay here,” she says as I open the first vacant door and take a step back. I figured if your security team can keep crazed fangirls outta this place, whoever the hell that guy was today won't stand a chance.

  “If you don't like this room—” I start, but Netty's already waving me off.

  “This room will do just fine, thank you,” she says, and then steps inside and slams the door right on my fucking fingers.

  My bathroom counter has two white powdery lines of coke laid out and ready for me. Pinching one nostril, I lean down and use a hundred dollar bill to hoover that shit right up my nose. Soon as it hits my brain, I feel like a giant among men, like I have superpowers.

  Like Indecency isn't scheduled to start shooting our new music video today. Not sure how I'm supposed to play the guitar with broken fingers. Jesus Christ.

  Shaking out my hand, I curse Netty fucking Forester under my breath and wonder why the hell the universe thought it'd be funny to drag some weirdo chick into my life when everything's just finally settling down. Last year was made up of cross-country tours, gunshot wounds, mysterious intrigue, and secrets.

  No way I'm letting this particular twelve month stretch go down that same road.

  No fucking way.

  I stand up and snort, wrinkling my nose a little and rubbing at my face with the back of my hand. My eyes are bloodshot and I look like hell. Thing is, I just couldn't sleep last night. Every time I thought of Netty Forester sleeping in a bed down the hall from me, my cock went rigid as frigging diamond. I finally gave in and rubbed one out, but it didn't do dick for me.

  I'm still horny as hell.

  I straighten my shirt and give myself a look in the mirror. I could shave, and maybe the stylists will hold me down and try to do it for me at the shoot, but I don't much feel like having a baby smooth face today. The rugged look is sick on me, makes me look like a veritable badass. I scrub my hand over my jaw and throw a smirk at my reflection.

  When I head out into the hallway, Netty's waiting outside my door, hand raised like she was about to knock.

  “What do you want?” I spit, trying to ignore the throbbing in my swollen, purple fingers.

  “I came to apologize is all,” she says, eyes flicking down to find my injured hand. Least she's got the common decency to look chagrined about the whole thing.

  I lean my forearm against the door and raise my brows, waiting to see what else she wants. Clearly, there's something.

  Netty reaches up to touch the flouncy ponytail on her head and clears her throat.

  “I know this might seem like a strange request, but today's the third day in a row that I find myself in this particular set of clothing …”

  “This particular set of clothing,” I mock and she makes a face at me. “Why? Tank tops covered in dog hair aren't in your usual wardrobe?”

  “You're a particularly unpleasant man, you know that?” she asks, but I'm already stepping forward to interrupt her. The way she backs up draws me like flies to fucking honey. I follow her across the hall until her back slams into my sister's door. Since I already know that Sydney's out for the day, I don't hesitate to move in, putting my palms on either side of Netty's head and leaning in close.

  “I can be real fucking pleasant if that's what you're looking for,” I whisper, watching the pulse on the side of her throat pick up, fluttering like a bird's wings against the think,
pale skin of her neck. I know I'm teasing her here, but hell, she broke my hand, punched me, and hit me in the nuts. Don't I deserve to do a little teasing? “Want to see what it'd be like to lie together as husband and wife?”

  “I have a Taser in my purse, and I'm not afraid to use it,” she whispers, but her purse is nowhere in sight. When Netty makes no move to duck out from under my arm, I reach up and slide my (unbroken) fingers across the side of her face. The sigh that escapes her lips is a twisted mess of emotion, this fucking whisper of breath across pink-pink lips.

  I wonder what she tastes like? I mean, I'm assuming we kissed the other night, but I don't remember any of it. Seems like sort of a trend in this place, forgetting the most important shit. How do you think Turner and Naomi met?

  One forgetful night turned into forever.

  Could I have that? Would I even fucking want it if it dropped into my lap into the form of some weird, clumsy, awkward girl?

  My hand slides down and cups the back of her neck, pulling her towards me for a kiss.

  Those glossy lips … as soft as they look, my friend.

  Our mouths meet with an easy brush of skin on skin, and even though I meant to push this as far as I could get it, take Netty's lips as my own with a bruising, crushing force, that's not what happens. Instead, this first remembered meeting of our mouths is easy and gentle, like some fucking storybook kiss or something.

  I haven't kissed anyone like this since … well, maybe I've never kissed anyone like this? That broken, effed the hell up lonely little boy I was spent all his time looking for a replacement mother instead of a girlfriend. Innocent kisses with girls my own age never really happened. Fuck, I didn't even lose my virginity on my own. My friends pushed me into an awkward situation at age twenty with some girl I didn't even like.

  So … guess in a way this is like my five thousandth kiss and my first one all at the same time?

  I'll die before I admit to having that thought.

  My body leans in closer to Netty's, pushing against her, teasing her belly with my hard-on. She tastes like hard times and struggle, this gritty sweetness to her lips that leaves me gasping and fumbling with the button on my jeans.

  We haven't even gotten to tonguing each other yet and I'm trying to tear my pants off?

  But Jesus, Mother Mary, and Joseph these pants are tight and my dick hurts and my head is swimming with blow. I'm making love to a girl's mouth that I barely know, and she's standing there and encouraging me to do it, digging her fingertips under my waistband and filling my lungs with her own panting breaths.

  “Hey, numb nuts, let's blow this joint!” Turner screams from the bottom of the stairs. Considering he's the lead singer of the most famous rock band in history, makes sense that he'd project loud enough to make me deaf.

  Netty ducks low and comes back up on the other side of my arm, her cheeks pink and her chest rising and falling with violent, heaving breaths. Her pupils are dilated and I can tell as I turn and slouch against the bedroom door, that she wanted me as much as I wanted her in that moment.

  “What I was going to ask was,” she begins, sucking in a huge breath. I notice she doesn't shy away from meeting my gaze, doesn't stutter. The only signs of her arousal are the physical ones she can't control. This is a woman who's desperate to keep everything around her on a tight leash, make sure the world's all colored inside the lines. No stray lines, no scribbles. Pretty sure I qualify as one big ass fucking scribble.

  I pull out my pack of cigs and light one up.

  “Would it be possible for you to take me out to get some clothes? I have my own money, obviously, but I like the idea of a van filled with security guards more than I like the idea of walking around Los Angeles on my own.”

  Netty's lashes flutter and she looks down at the floor for a moment. The breath she takes is heavy enough to burden me.How the hell is she still standing under all that weight?

  “I'll take you,” I tell her, and she seems a little surprised as she lifts her gaze up to look at me. “But it'll cost ya.” The smirk that lights my mouth is two parts poison, one part boy next door. That particular mixture usually slays women. It doesn't seem to faze Netty.

  “What's your price?” she asks, crossing her arms under an extremely ample pair of breasts. When she notices me looking, she scoffs and scowls at me. Doesn't matter. She can scowl all she wants; her expression now doesn't erase the fact that we were just macking lips.

  “Come out and party with me tonight.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I stand up straight and look down at her, smoking my cigarette and wondering why I'm even bothering to do this, invite this chick out. The kind of partying I like to do doesn't seem up her alley.

  “Why not? You said you liked vans and security guards? I can guarantee both. What have you got to lose, anyway?”

  “My freedom,” Netty whispers as she closes her blue eyes and lets her chin sag. “My life, my sister, my cat.” I raise an eyebrow at that last one, but I'm pretty sure she's dead fucking serious about the whole thing. Makes a guy wonder.

  “He's just one man, Netty,” I say, trying my best not to think about how bad one man hurt me. After my mom died, my dad let my whole world go to shit. He wasn't half as bad as Turner's mom and yet, that one man left enough scars on my heart to wound me for life. Is it any wonder I grew up to be a rotten, little asshole?

  Her laugh then is bitter enough to give me the chills.

  “He's not just one man, Treyjan,” she says, turning away like the conversation's finished.

  Goddamn it.

  I'm not done here.

  I reach out and grab her upper arm, gently enough that she doesn't feel the need to pull away.

  “I'll take you shopping,” is what I say instead. “But we start shooting today for our new video. Come to the set with me and we'll go after.”

  “A music video set?” she asks, but there's only a second's hesitation before she responds. “Okay then.”

  There's no mistaking the amount of relief in her voice.

  There's a split second of silence after the director calls action,just long enough for Turner flip on a smirking smile and swing his mic around on its cord. Ronnie's drums start up behind me, this wicked clatter that makes me think of bones on concrete, a dark haunting sound that sets the fucking mood for me to leap in with my guitar.

  A quick glance over at Jesse and we exchange a look, communicating in this wordless way that took years to hone, a decade really. It's bolstered by shared pain and heartache, living through bullshit and thriving because of it. He had an alcoholic mom; my dad was a drug addict. We were poor and overlooked and destined for an early grave.

  But the music?

  The music saved all our asses.

  Even though my fingers hurt like hell, I use the purple pick in my hand to tease my guitar, sending these warbling cries of defiance from my instrument. Like, fuck the system and everyone in it. Without words, I tell the world to suck my dick, bringing the demonic energy in my hands to life through my axe.

  “Aren't I an asshole? Don't you just think I'm one? If I've pissed you off before, just know that I'm not done.” Turner spins in a tight circle and comes back to face the cameras like we're at a show instead of cloistered up in a studio. I do the same, giving it all I've got. We're trying for a single, perfect take, one play-through of the song that'll be broken up in the final editing of the video. Of course, the whole stupid thing will be dubbed over the recorded track off the album, but that doesn't mean there aren't people listening here—that Netty Forester isn't listening.

  “Listen up, I'm liiiiike, your mouth is always moving but there's nothing comin' out. Ain't got something nice to say then just don't talk at all. Fuck, I outmaneuver any argument you closed-minded bitches try to breathe. BULLSHIT! Truth just seems to be your cannon fodder.”

  I thrash my head and smash my boot onto the cement floor beneath my feet, carving up a little space in the middle of the song for my guitar to shin
e through. This song is heavy with metal riffs and trashy rock rhythms to offset the cheeky nature of the lyrics.

  “So lock your doors and hide away 'cause this revolutions got your sons and daughters. I'm to blame. Can you feel it in your souls? I've got the future locked down, no need for self-control. If this is where we're headed then this heavy burden we've got might just float.”

  This part of the song belongs to Ronnie and me, taking the audience on a tour with our skill. Like crimson roses blooming in acid rain—beautiful but deadly, decaying.

  “I'm no prophet, but I'm preaching some today.” Turner waves theatrically at the camera. “Self-prescribed, an honest dose. These truths are never untrue, and my values aren't a joke. Haven't had enough? Your morality's a joke. I feel a little crazy, like maybe, God, oh baby, there's a fight ahead we'll win. Hey, our name's Indecency and we're fanatics.”

  “INDECENCY!” Ronnie and I scream into the mics, our growling voices blending together beneath Turner's. I swear to Christ, music is like painting—each layer of paint adds a highlight here, a shadow there. Ah, who am I kidding? It's mostly just shadows.

  “Rock 'n' roll's our choir, and truth's as good as gold. Call me insane, but I'll still be here fighting even once you're naught but fuckin' bones. For fuck's sake, where is your broken soul? If hell's what you're afraid of, then welcome to your new home.”

  My guitar solo rolls in like a thundercloud, settling over the set with dark rain and melancholy. I swing my pearl white Ibanez around on its strap and do a leaping a spin that puts me toward the middle of the stage. Jesse and I meet up here to trill our notes together. Turner meets us there and faces us, playing a little air guitar and shaking his head, trashing the stage with us.

  Then he spins and reaches up a hand to catch a thrown guitar, slinging the strap over his head before he starts playing. The three of us tear our instruments to pieces as our bassist, Josh, hops in, pairing his sound with Ronnie's drums.

  “God screw all of you, 'cause we're tired of your control. If this world is where I'm stuck now, just know—I'm taking back my soul.”