Screw Up (Hard Rock Roots Book 10)

by C. M. Stunich

Netty grabs a drink from some random dude standing next to us and tosses it in the man's face, reaching down and taking my hand before she starts to run, shoving her way through the brightly colored sea of dancers. The two bodyguards in the building with us cut the dude off before he can start after us.

  “They've got 'im, babe,” I say, but Netty just casts this wary glance my direction, the colored paint on her lips emphasizing the sharp downturn of her full lips, lines of worry etched into her face. Even in the dim light of the club, I can see that there's a fuck of a lot more to this than meets the eye, some distinctly weird shit that I'd be an idiot to get involved.

  “It's not just him,” she says as we come to a stop near the exit. “If he's here then there are others. Probably a dozen. Maybe more.”

  Netty's eyes flutter closed and I can see the panicked rise and fall of her chest. And fuck. I feel so goddamn bad for her. If she'd gotten drunk and accidentally married some other asshole, some roadie or some dude from the crowd, her face wouldn't be splashed across the internet. Whoever it is that's chasing her, I guided them straight to her.

  “We need to get out of here,” she continues after taking a moment to breathe. When she looks up, she can see my small security team is back, taking up random, unassuming places in the club nearby. Last year, I had a team ten times the size of this—and even that wasn't enough to keep me from getting shot. Whatever crap Netty is dealing with, if she'd just tell me, I could help. “Can you have them pull the car around?”

  “If I do, will you come back to the house with me?”

  “Long enough to pack my bags,” she assures me, and I cross my arms over my chest. I'm not about to let her go without at least trying to see what sort of ghosts are haunting her. Sometimes all it takes to perform an exorcism is to lend an ear.

  “No. Stay.” I reach out and take her hand again, letting that feeling that came up between us at the bar flare hot and wild in all the place our skin touches. “We'll sit by the pool and you can tell me what the hell's going on with you.”

  Netty tries to pull her hand from my grip, but I curl my fingers tighter, squeeze them inside of mine.

  “Whatever it is, what would it hurt to tell me? Worst case scenario you spend a few extra hours at the mansion, and after, if you decide there's no reason to stay here, then I'll hire some bodyguards to escort you to wherever it is you want to go.

  Netty lifts her eyes to mine, takes in a deep breath, and sighs.

  “If I tell you the story, you'll never believe it.”

  “Babe, my best friend got a psychotic billionaire pregnant. When he said all he wanted was his kid and not her, she ran him over with her car and killed him. I don't think there's a story you can tell me that I won't believe.”

  Netty still looks skeptical, but she stops trying to pull her hand away from me.

  Good.

  Because even though she's clumsy and weird and awkward, I'm interested. I mean, at the very least I'd like to know why my wife's former husband … ended up dead.

  Once we get back to Beverly Hills, I change into a pair of red swim shorts and grab a pair of beers from the fridge, heading outside to find Netty in a hot pink and black zebra patterned bikini. I don't have to wonder where she got it from—clearly it belongs to my sister because she's the only woman in this house with a big enough chest to lend something to Netty and actually have it fit. Unlike when I've seen this particular suit on Sydney, I'm turned the fuck on by seeing this girl in it.

  “This is the first time I've ever worn a bikini,” she says as I hand her a frosty brown beer bottle and take a seat on the edge of the rectangular pool. It's surrounded by palm trees, gently swaying in the warm summer breeze. The whole patio smells like jasmine and chlorine, and the area's bathed in a gentle golden glow from the strands of light stretching between the trees and wrapping their trunks.

  Thankfully, we're the only fucking people out here.

  From one of the balconies above us, I can hear the faintest breath of classical piano music. Probably Lola and Ronnie. They're both pretty goddamn talented at the ivory keys. Also, they like to blare instrumental music when they're fucking. Doesn't drown out Lola's screams of pleasure, but then, that's the price we pay for living together like this.

  “First time,” I say as I dip my legs into the warm water, sitting close enough to Netty that I can smell the sweet scent of her hair, feel the hot heat of her body against my thigh. “You usually wear one-pieces then?” I ask, even as she's giving me a critical look and I'm giving her a once-over.

  Damn.

  Her body is round and curvy in all the right places: a generous swell of hips, full round breasts sitting perky and high on her chest, that honey-brown waving gently around her eyes.

  “You know, when you're not hitting me in the nuts or punching me in the face, you're sort of seriously fucking beautiful.”

  Netty's face flushes, but the critical pursing of her lips doesn't fade.

  “Why are you sitting so close to me? Do you always put your hairy leg against a stranger's bare flesh?”

  “Any chance I get,” I say with a slight smirk, tipping my beer against my lips. Netty apparently doesn't fall for bullshit like a lot of other girls I've met over the years. She scoots several inches away from me and reaches up to surreptitiously fiddle with the straps of the bikini top.

  “And no, I don't usually wear one-pieces. I just don't ever go swimming.”

  “What do you do then?” I ask as I set my bottle down on the cement between us. “You don't party and you don't go to concerts, don't swim, don't sleep with strangers, don't wear bikinis. What do you do, Netty Forester?” My turn to give her a look, take in the paint smeared at the edges of her lips. Putting that there, that was the highlight of my night. “Or should I say … Sister Izatt?”

  “Don't say that,” she says suddenly, sharply, her words cutting the night air like a knife. “Don't call me that.” Netty finally takes a drink of the beer I brought her, leaning back on one palm, her fingers played on the pavement as she closes her eyes against the darkness of the sky. I'd love to look at stars with her and all that crap, but fuck, this is Los Angeles and there's no goddamn stars. There's smog and city lights—close enough. “I'm not Sister Izatt anymore. I was never … I was never really Sister Izatt at all.”

  “Are you, like, part of some cult or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Fuck that. No.” I pull one leg out of the water and rest my elbow against it, watching the play of the lights across Netty's face. “Come on, if you can't talk to your husband then who can you talk to?” I ask. It's supposed to be a joke, but it sits so heavy on Netty's shoulders that she slumps forward, putting her drink aside and putting her face in her hands.

  “I think marriage is a curse,” Netty says with her mouth pressed into her palms. “It's a form of torture.”

  “Hey, after seeing some of my bros get hooked up, I won't deny that one,” I say, but Netty just lifts her face up so slowly, stares at me so intently, that for once in my life, I actually feel a little ashamed.

  “My last husband,” she starts and I pause, go completely still, shut my big fucking mouth. I feel like whatever she's about to tell me, it's a privilege for me to know. Like, she's taking a chance here. Not sure why. I don't think there's much about me that inspires confidence in anyone. I'm Turner's extra, his sidekick. I'm the guitarist who plays the notes he writes, the friend who follows and supports from the background. I'm nobody's main character. I'm definitely not anyone's love interest.

  Who the hell would be stupid enough to fall in love with me?

  “I helped send him to prison. He was … he got murdered by another inmate.”

  “Oh, shit.” That's about all I can think to say. I can't read Netty's body language, the quiet intensity of her voice, or the dark shadows in her eyes. Is she upset because her husband's dead? Because of her role in it? Or does she even care at all?

  “He was an important man to a lot of people
. The fact that he's dead, they'll never let me down. They think I betrayed them all by doing what I did—telling the cops, testifying against him.”

  “For what?” I ask as Netty grits her teeth and closes her eyes for a moment.

  “Underage marriage, forced marriage, rape.”

  Jesus Motherfucking Christ.

  “My family lives on a compound on the California/Nevada border. They're an offshoot of the FLDS church, practicing their own version of the religion.”

  “The hell is FLDS?” I ask, because like, I have no goddamn clue.

  “Fundamentalists Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” A pause. “Mormonism.” Another pause as she looks at me and tries to get a read on my facial expression. “Polygamy, Treyjan. I was married to a man claiming to be a prophet, a man forty years older than me, a man with fifteen other wives.”

  “What the fucking fuck?” I ask, feeling the blood drain from my face. When I told Netty I wanted to hear her secret, I certainly didn't expect this. Okay, okay, I can admit it: maybe her story's weird enough to rival the one my band I went through last year.

  “I was twelve years old, sealed to the prophet—that means spiritually married in the church, bound to him for eternity.” The way she's looking at me right now, I can tell she's dead motherfucking serious. Her full, ripe mouth is pressed into a tight, flat line and her hands are shaking in her lap. I … have no goddamn how clue how I'm supposed to react to that statement. “When I escaped, I turned him in. Got him arrested. The authorities put me into witness protection.”

  Netty swirls her foot in the water, making little ripples with her toes.

  “I was born Martha Hamblin Price, married to Rigby Izatt. But inside, all along …” She puts her hand to her chest and closes her eyes. “I was Netty Forester. That's me, who I am, who I became. That's my real name.”

  “So …” I start, realizing that my fingertips are digging into my leg so hard my nails are drawing blood. “Who's the guy from the club, the fiancé?”

  “After Rigby died …” Netty starts, and she seriously looks like a deflated balloon, like each word that comes out of her mouth is stealing away some of her air. “My father said he'd received a testimony from God that he was to take Rigby's place and lead the congregation. He promised me to one of Rigby's old henchmen—Jessop Barlow—to secure his loyalty.”

  There's a long, quiet moment where the distant sounds of the city filter into our little slice of paradise, sirens cutting through the night and breaking the spell. I tear my gaze from Netty's face look at the still surface of the pool instead.

  Whoa.

  This shit is heavy—and so far out of my league. I don't know anything about weird religious cults. But I guess what I do know is trauma. Had my fair share, thanks. Sydney and I lost our mom, lived in a garbage filled trailer with our crackhead dad. My friends and I started Indecency, but then our drummer, Ronnie, lost his first love in a car accident and spiraled into a massive depression. He drank, screwed, and shot up to get through and made us watch him die a slow agonizing death. As if that wasn't enough, three years later, we lost our bassist, Travis Gaborone. Then, when we finally, finally got our shit together, we were plagued with the remnants of bullshit that Travis left behind—kidnappings, murders, gunfights, explosions.

  So why am I sitting here with my tongue tied, like I have no idea what to say?

  “They're his 'Warriors of God', men and women that'll put a bullet in a police officer if it means furthering the prophet's will. They're scary because they're not afraid of anything—not prison, not even death.”

  Netty pulls her legs out of the water and stands up.

  I follow after her, realizing as I do that we're both basically naked. Like, it would take zero effort to drop our suits, meld our bodies … but the last thing she looks like she wants to do is fuck me. I mean, shit, why would she? After all the crap it looks like men have put her through in her life, would not surprise me if she decided to bat for the other team.

  “You have a plan or something?” I ask, hooking a thumb into the waistband of my shorts and leaning back. Netty watches me, lets her eyes slide down my body like she's trying to take me all in. There's definitely a flash of something there—interest, curiosity, confusion. I'd much rather see her pupils dilate, her breath catch, her pulse start to thunder. Doesn't. This chick has ironclad fucking control.

  “To run,” she says simply, like it's her only choice. “Get as far and fast as I can before they realize I'm not shacked up in here with you anymore.” Netty gives me a tight smile and lifts her chin, arms at her sides, and even though she might never have worn a bikini before, she looks fucking fly in it, not at all ashamed of her body.

  “Damn,” I say, reaching out suddenly and tucking my fingers under her chin. I lean down slowly, hovering my lips above hers, so close that there's hardly room for a warm, summer breeze to sneak between us. “Didn't figure you for a runner.” Our mouths connect in slow, sweet heat. The movement's controlled enough that if she wanted to, Netty could easily break away from me.

  She doesn't.

  Instead, she reaches up her arms like she's going to put them around my neck. I don't her touch me though—even if my dick's goddamn granite in my shorts—and step back suddenly, putting a little space between us.

  “You seem more like a fighter to me,” I tell her, and then I turn and dive straight into the pool. By the time I come up for air, she's gone again and there's a hollow, empty feeling inside my chest.

  Fuck.

  First girl I've ever met that's got me simultaneously scratching my head, cursing her name, and wondering absently what the hell it'd be like if we weren't strangers married on accident … but friends and lovers bound together with purpose.

  Huh.

  Guess that kind of domestic bliss just isn't in the cards for me, is it?

  I duck back under the water and try to forget all about Netty Forester.

  The clothes I bought at Target fit neatly inside the black backpack shrugged onto my shoulder, a metal water bottle tucked into some mesh netting on one side, a knife sitting in easy reach in a shallow front pocket. I don't want to have to use it on anyone, split their flesh and watch their blood flow hot and sticky down the blade. If I have to though, I will. I'd rather take Jessop's life—or lose my own—than go back to the compound.

  Fuck.

  I take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves, looking around the fancy spare bedroom I've been sleeping in and trying not to feel … well, anything. I don't need to be worrying about what might happen down the road, dreading a confrontation that may or may not occur, and I definitely don't need to be thinking about how good Treyjan's mouth felt against my own.

  That line of thought will get me nowhere.

  Sliding my hand across the royal blue duvet on the bed, I pause in the adjoining sitting room and check my hair in the mirror. Last night, after I left the pool, I came back up here and used a boxed dye to turn my honey-blonde locks a dark espresso color. It's the first time I've ever dyed my hair—there've been a hell of a lot of firsts for me lately—and the difference is startling. I hardly recognize the woman in the Indecency tank top, tight jeans, and boots (I figured a wardrobe change couldn't hurt in my quest for anonymity), but I like her. She looks like a risk taker, someone who'll gamble anything on the right bet.

  Good for her. She must be very brave.

  I head out the door, closing it carefully behind me and casting a quick glance at Treyjan's room. Is he sleeping in there? Or is he lying awake, thinking of me? Is he touching himself?

  I rub my thumb against the pair of rings on my finger, debating on whether or not I should keep them. If I sold them, they'd give me a good head start with my new life, a nest egg to keep me going until I found a job and got settled. The money they'd bring in could also serve as an emergency fund, in case Jessop and the others manage to find me again. At the same time … it doesn't feel right to walk away with something that doesn't belong to me. I h
ave no idea where these rings came from, but maybe Treyjan might need them someday to give to his real fiancée.

  I take them off and set them on a side table in the hallway.

  On my way down the grand, curving staircase in the foyer, I run into Naomi. She's wearing a huge, oversized t-shirt that says Amatory Riot across the front—the name of her band. According to Treyjan, they're in the process of recording a new album, something angsty and dark and full of raw, feminine rage. I'm not particularly into rock 'n' roll, but when it comes out, I'll definitely grab a copy and at least give it a shot.

  “Netty?” she asks, squinting at me as we pause on the same step and stare at each other. Naomi's got a glass of what looks like orange juice in one hand, her legs bare and pale beneath the long tee. I doubt she expected to run into anyone at this early hour. “I like the new hair color.” She pauses when she notices the backpack and the trembling fingers I have wrapped around one of the straps. “Where are you off to?”

  “I'm not sure,” I tell her honestly, trying to smile, to be pleasant even though today feels anything but. It feels like the start of a new nightmare—wandering the country with no money, no place to go, no idea if I'm going to be ambushed, bound, and dragged back to Price Canyon Compound. “But … would you tell Treyjan I left the rings on the table in the hall?”

  Naomi continues to stare at me, her orange-brown eyes seemingly bright enough to penetrate the thickness of my skull, dig into my brain, pull me apart with a single glance. This woman really is a little scary, isn't she? I think it's her intensity, that artistic ability to dive into the world and pull hidden emotions out screaming. I bet her music is actually pretty brilliant.

  “Does he know you're leaving?”

  I make my smile stretch a little wider, but the longer it gets, the less real it feels. Today is not a good day for me. I miss my sister (and my cat), miss the home I've built over the last seven years. I miss that distant, nearly unattainable feeling of being free.

  “He knows,” I assure her, taking another step down, one foot closer to the door … and the hunt. I'll be the prey carefully navigating the brush, using every trick in the book to hide. To run.