'Damn, didn't figure you for a runner.'
“Sure you don't want to stick around for a while? Seems like you two have some serious fucking chemistry.” Naomi sips her juice again and tilts her head to the side to study me. Her blonde hair is tousled and mussed, but it has that easy, casual I don't give a fuck look that I often see Gloria spend hours trying to achieve in the mirror.
I have a feeling Naomi Campbell didn't spend one goddamn second on it. I bet she wakes up everyday looking like that, like some sort of rock 'n' roll deity.
“I …” I want to say something that relieves me of my guilt, something like I wish I could but I can't. Although that isn't true, is it? I make my own decisions. I can. I'm making the choice to leave, aren't I? That's something I forget sometimes, that I have choices. Back home, I never did.
“Never mind, whatever,” Naomi say with a yawn, waving her hand dismissively. “I'm just tired and talking out my ass. Trey's as big a douche as Turner. Putting up with that crap, it takes a serious amount of effort.” She gives me a sly, sexy smile and a salute. “Godspeed, Netty Forester.”
She continues up the steps, seemingly unaware that she's had some sort of profound effect on me.
Choices. Freedom.
By running away and giving up everything I've fought for, I'm letting the compound dictate my actions as easily as they could if I were still living there, in Rigby Izatt's house with fifteen other women, all of them as desperate to assert their dominance over me as their husband.
Still, a random drunken marriage to some big name rockstar isn't the answer to my problems either. I continue down the steps and outside to speak to one of the bodyguards patrolling the property. True to his word, Trey's already spoken with them and they're ready to take me wherever it is I want to go.
The thing is, what I want right now is to stay here and see what happens with that chemistry Naomi was talking about. If she can see it, then it means it's not just all in my head. Treyjan and I really do have something going on. Maybe it's just physical, but so what? I've never had a positive physical relationship with a man in my entire life. And I'd like to. I really, really would.
Still, when that van door slides open, I find myself climbing in and closing my eyes, counting out the minutes, hours, weeks, years that it might take me to truly be free.
Sitting on the edge of the toilet, I use my teeth to help pull the tourniquet on my arm tight. As soon as I saw the rings on the hallway table, I knew Netty was gone. I didn't even have to speak to the head of security downstairs to find out she'd taken up my offer.
So that's that, I guess, I think as I take the syringe up in my other hand and flick it to remove the bubbles. Sitting here alone like this, shooting up all by myself in the bathroom, it has this really sad, pathetic sort of quality to it. Like, my boys and me, we used to get high together. It was a thing, almost a bonding ritual. Now, it just feels like I'm some late-twenties loser trying too hard to find purpose in an empty ritual.
With a scowl, I chuck the syringe in the sink and tear the tourniquet off.
“Goddamn and fuck,” I snarl as I stand up and storm out into the hallway. “You and your straight-edge bullshit is ruining my fucking life,” I tell Turner when I find him standing outside his door, waiting for Naomi. He gives me a look and smiles like the fucking self-assured prick that he is.
“Well, well, well, already mourning the loss of your hot, young wife, huh? You always were kind of pathetically romantic.”
I stand there for all of about two seconds and then throw myself at him, taking out my anger on my best friend the way I've done since we were neighbors in that shitty trailer park together. The sad part is, I actually had it better than he did back then. Guess he's the lucky one now.
I know I'm essentially being a whiny bitch right now, but eh. Whatever. I'm a rockstar, right? I have the prerogative to be a little prick every now and again, don't I?
As soon as Naomi comes out, we break up the fight and stand back from each other, panting and sweating and staring at one another until Turner's lips curve up in a smile. My best friend judges dudes by how hard they hit, so he's usually smiling by the time we're done with our scuffles, like I've once again proved myself to him. He didn't stop ridiculing my sister's husband until the two of them got in a fight and Turner took a punch from Dax straight to the face.
“Are you two seriously going at it again?” Naomi asks when she steps out of the room in a pair of leather booty shorts and a loose white tank with a bright pink bra underneath it. “Aren't you shooting again today?”
“Yeah, so? Doesn't mean we can't show each other a little rough bro love, right?” He reaches for me and tries to muss up my hair with his fist while Naomi rolls her eyes.
“Jesus, do you want to get a divorce so the two of you can get married instead?”
“Might have to,” Turner says as I shove him away and scowl, “because I think Trey's heartbroken now that his wife's left him. Where'd she go anyway?” he asks as I run my fingers through my hair and try to specifically not think about Netty Forester in that moment.
“Doesn't matter,” I say as we start down the hallway toward the stairs. “It's not like I knew her at all. Fuck, I don't even remember having sex with her.”
“Copycat,” Turner says, like he's seriously wanting my blood to boil in my goddamn veins. The first time he and Naomi spent the night together, he was also too damn high to remember it. I guess I really am just a Campbell clone.
“Eat a dick,” I tell Turner, shoving past him and taking the stairs three at a time. Now that I'm out here, I'm really regretting not shooting up in the bathroom. As sad and pathetic as getting high by myself seemed, it feels twice as sad and pathetic down here. Just like it has for months. I seriously thought getting famous, making money, taking Indecency to the next level, that all of that would be enough.
Either I'm too damaged to be happy with what I've got … or I really am just another hopeless romantic looking for his soul mate. I mean, not that there was any way I thought that weird, uptight girl was anything more than an accidental fling.
I get out a cigarette and light up, squinching my face as I notice our manager, Milo, sitting in the living room with a dark haired girl on the sofa across from him. I can only see the back of her head, but it does strike me as being vaguely familiar.
“Yo, look, your bride's back,” Turner says, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. The look I throw him is pure poison. “Guess there was something about that tiny dick that called on her sympathy, you know? Like who the hell else was gonna marry a guy with a four inch cock?”
“I have a fucking seven inch dick, you piece of shit,” I say as I gesture at Naomi with my cigarette. Clearly, Turner's delusional because Netty has honey-blonde hair. That chick in the living room is a brunette. So fuck him for making my heart pound and my palms get itchy. “Ask your wife—she's seen it.”
This time, our fight amps up several notches, but at least my best friend's paying attention to me. Feels better than standing on the sidelines looking in at a bunch of lovesick assholes parading their joy around for the world to see. Even our new recruit bassist, Josh Drake, has a girlfriend now. Our rhythm guitarist, Jesse Decker, still sleeps around like a whore on crack but he's excited about the fact that he's finally out and proud now. He's enjoying being a slut. I think I might just be done with it.
“Turner,” Naomi snaps as I step back from the fight and hold up my palms in faux surrender. If he comes at me again, I'm pulling a Netty Forester and punching him in the nuts. “Relax. Trey and I fucked once. Get over it.”
“The hell?” Turner asks, throwing his hand out toward the couch. “You really want to bring that shit up in front of your husband and Trey's new wife?”
“Turner, that's not—” I start, glancing over and realizing that, in fact, the brunette in the tank top, jeans, and boots really is the same honey haired girl with the dog hair all over her shirt. Holy shit. “What the fuck ar
e you doing here?” I blurt before I can stop myself. Turner snickers and I throw him an evil scowl that clearly says shut your goddamn trap, you prick.
“Is there somewhere we can go and have a quick chat?” Netty asks, raising her eyebrows slightly. I think about last night, about how soft and vulnerable her face looked sitting by the pool and I wish I'd made, like, some sort of attempt at comforting her, putting my arm around her, talking things out. She needed that, I think, and I didn't do shit.
“Quick chat,” Turner says as he steals my still-burning cigarette from the marble floor, making our manager cringe when he sees that we're smoking inside again. “Code for hot fuck, huh?”
“You're seriously testing my patience,” I snarl at him, turning my gaze back to Netty and trying to sort between fear and excitement. The fact that she left and came back must mean … something. But I hope she's not expecting too much from me because we are still strangers. I mean, I don't even know this chick. If she came running back hoping for a romantic reunion, then I might be dashing her dreams to dust. At the same time, I can't but hope that she really did come back for me.
“Let's take a quick walk,” I tell her, moving across the living room and noticing the backpack I bought her sitting on the couch. Is she still planning on leaving? Maybe she didn't really come back at all, just had to take a little detour or something. “Did you run into that Jessop dude again?” I ask quietly, opening the back door and stepping outside into yet another sweltering summer morning. It's the perfect day for lounging by the pool and getting drunk. Instead, we'll be trapped in that windowless fucking studio again.
“Ten minutes, Mr. Charell,” Milo calls out, just before I close the door and cut him off completely.
“Where are you off to?” Netty asks casually, slipping her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. I can't seem to take my eyes off the rhinestones decorating her ass. When she sees me looking, the corner of her mouth twitches with amusement. “Mmm?”
“With like fifteen 'M's on the end,” I say and Netty lets her smile widen slightly. “You forget something on your way out?” I ask casually, fishing in my pocket for the rings. When I hold them out, she lifts her palm and lets me place them in her hand. My fingers scrape across her skin, making her gasp. I can feel it, too, when I touch her, all those hot little thrills dancing between us, like notes in a really thrash-y song, some tune that speaks of dark places and naked bodies. “I bought these for you. I might not remember it, but you may as well keep them.”
“I … I got to thinking about what you said,” she tells me, slipping the rings back on. I have no idea why she does that, but fuck, I'm wearing mine, too. May as well. We might not know each other for shit, but the world already knows we got hitched. “About me being a fighter …”
Netty and I head left, away from the pool where I can hear Sydney and Dax laughing together. I've already walked in on them fucking in the kitchen, on a lounge chair, and out front against one of the security vans. Pretty much don't ever want to see that shit again. Next time, I think my retinas might just catch on fire.
“I've worked really hard since leaving Price Canyon to make a life for myself.” She reaches out and trails her fingers across the broad waxy leaf of some plant whose name I don't know for shit. When we bought the house, the yard was already manicured to perfection and, you know, obviously none of our fat asses come out here and take care of this crap. “I got a bachelor's in animal science, got my veterinary assistant certification.” Netty and I turn left again at the stone wall that surrounds the property, continuing our circle of the grounds. The damn house takes up most of the lot, but there is some green space—more than most people have in this area. “I was planning on going to veterinary school, too. If I let Jessop and those fucking God warriors take away Netty Forester, then I'm essentially giving them control. I won't do that ever again.”
My turn to smile as I twirl the wedding ring around my finger.
“Do you think I could … maybe I could stay here while I try to figure this out? I want to take the high road and go the legal route, but the only way I'm going to be able to do that is if I have time. It could months or … longer to get this all sorted.”
“You've seen the size of this house,” I tell her as we round the corner and end up on the walkway that winds through a large garden area next to the brick drive. “We could fit an army in here.”
Copout, bro, I tell myself as I glance over and see the slightly tense smile sitting on Netty's lips. Here she is, basically asking for my help and I'm shrugging it off. The fuck is wrong with me?
“You know, uh,” I say as we come to the end of the path … and spot Ronnie and Lola making out against the side of the van. I pull out a cigarette and offer one to Netty before I remember that she doesn't smoke. “I'd like it if you stayed.” I tap the bottom of the pack against my palm out of habit. “Honestly, I kind of … you seem cool to have around—when you're not punching me in the balls. I'd like to help you out or whatever. You know, if you want me to beat up that Jessop douche, I'd be more than happy to knock his ass out.”
“I also have a sister,” Netty continues, smiling almost sheepishly. Only, I have a feeling this chick doesn't ever feel anything close to sheepish. “And a cat.”
I cock one brow as I smoke my cigarette, ignoring the lewd hand motions Turner's making at me from the porch.
“You want to bring your cat and your sister here, too?”
“If it's not too much trouble,” she says, tilting her head slightly to the side, her new dark locks sliding over one bare shoulder. For whatever reason, that's enough to set me off. My heart starts slamming out a sick ass beat, and my cock stiffens up almost painfully, trapped inside the tight denim. Son of a bitch. If Netty really is going to be hanging around, I might have to switch to wearing sweatpants or something.
“Sure, okay, whatever,” I say, feeling my palms get suddenly sweaty. The last time I got this nervous around a girl, I was a twenty year old virgin trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself. Now, I'm twenty-nine years old, experienced beyond fucking experienced and yet … I feel a little light-headed when I look down at Netty's blue eyes, reflecting back the perfection of the cloudless sky above our heads.
I have a feeling Turner doesn't get nervous about anything, not even Naomi Knox. For whatever reason, that's a comforting thought. I guess there's at least something individual about me.
“Thanks, Trey,” Netty says, and she puts her arms up like she's about to give me a hug. As she does that, she knocks the burning cigarette from my hand and somehow ends up flinging it right into my neck.
“Jesus fuck,” I groan as I tamp a hand over the burned spot on my throat, giving the accident prone chick a weird look.
“I'm sorry, sorry,” she says, and even though I cringe when she reaches her hands up this time, the feel of her palms sliding across the back of my neck is … like, soothing as hell. Flames shoot through me, burning a path straight down to the painfully hard length of my cock. But really, the thing that surprises me the most is the way her lips feel when she leans up on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she says again, and for whatever reason, that just makes the whole damn thing—burns, balls, and all—feel like it's worth it.
For the next week and a half, Netty comes to every studio session as we work on the video, standing off to the side with Naomi or Lola, sipping from frosty red and silver cans of soda and watching me like she's actually interested in what I'm doing. From what I can tell, she doesn't seem to actually like rock music like, at fucking all, and yet … the following Friday after the shoot is over, she accepts an invitation to dinner and ends up softly singing the words to the song as she peruses the menu.
Seeing Netty Forester sing, 'Aren't I an asshole? Don't you just think I'm one?' in a soft, angelic sort of voice is pretty goddamn hilarious. She sings it like she's in a church choir or something which, I don't know, maybe she was a part of at some point? We've spent a good majority of
the last ten days just talking, but I haven't really gotten up the courage to ask her any questions about the compound. She treats that part of her life like it was a nightmare best left forgotten. I gotta respect that.
“Look at you, memorizing the lyrics like a proper groupie,” I say as she lifts a skeptical gaze up to my face. I'm tapping a steak knife on the table and watching her, mesmerized by the rapid thumping of my own heart. I like how it speeds up, stutters, makes me dizzy when I'm looking at Netty.
“I'm not a groupie,” she says, closing the menu carefully and setting it on the table. “I am a rockstar's wife.”
We both smile.
Our outings are all the hell over the internet, bloggers and gossip columnists desperately trying to make sense of this girl that's popped up into my life all of a sudden. Frankly, I'm in the same boat. I have no idea what to make of this woman. The only thing I'm really sure of is that since she showed up, I've been a hell of a lot less lonely. That, and I'm also covered in bruises and scratches from the half-dozen or so times a day that she hurts me. It's pretty much fucking constant. She only seems to enjoy purposely pissing me off. The problem is, when we fight, all that happens is that I get horny as hell and start sweating. I don't get it.
“Did you know I was voted Least Likely to Ever Marry in Rollin' Strong magazine last month?”
“Seriously?” Netty asks, raising the dark arches of her brows. She even dyed those, too. They're the same rich, dark color of her hair, setting off the pinkish tones in her cheeks and making it look like she's wearing blush even though she pretty much never puts makeup on. “I would've given that award to your friend, Mr. Campbell, if he wasn't already married. You … you're too sweet. It seems obvious that somebody's eventually going to scoop you up.”
“You mean the way you did?” I joke and she pauses in laying her napkin out in her lap, focusing those sapphire eyes on my face. A tension stretches out between us, one that I feel like we've been avoiding since she asked to stay at the house with me. Neither of us has really acknowledged that we slept together at all and since, you know, we can't remember it I guess it doesn't matter.
Screw Up (Hard Rock Roots Book 10) Page 9