Dead Serious

by C. M. Stunich

  “You ever see one of those old western movies where the sheriff and the outlaw face each other in a dusty street? Revolvers at the ready? Good versus evil and all. Well, this is kind of like that. Only more fucked.”

  C.M. Stunich

  Sarian Royal

  Dead Serious

  Copyright © C.M. Stunich 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  ISBN-10: 1938623800 (eBook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-80-6 (eBook)

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  "Optimus Princeps" Font © Manfred Klein

  "El&Font Gohtic!" Font © Jerome Delage

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  if you've ever lost yourself in the music,

  if you've ever forgotten to breathe because of a beat,

  if you've ever felt a melody in your soul,

  this book belongs to you.

  *Author's Note: Warning - this is book six in the Hard Rock Roots series. If you haven't read any of the previous books, you'll probably be sitting here scratching your head and wondering how anyone could possibly love a douche-y train wreck of a man named Turner Motherfucking Campbell. Trust us though, he's absolutely scrumptious. I've included the reading order below, so you can find your way to book one. For everyone that's caught up, you're probably sitting there smiling, knowing that within a couple of pages, you'll be reading the most ridiculous Turnerisms the world has ever seen. Enjoy!

  “Hard Rock Roots” Reading Order:

  Book #1: Real Ugly;

  Book #2: Get Bent;

  Book #3: Tough Luck;

  Book #4: Bad Day;

  Book #5: Born Wrong;

  Book #6: Dead Serious;

  Book #7: Doll Face

  ~CM

  “What the fuck?” I ask, or maybe I'm screeching. From the look on Turner's face, I think that might be a more accurate description. “The … the fuck?” I try to lower my voice, but shit's just gotten real up in here.

  “Don't make me repeat it,” Dax whispers, his voice cracked and broken. “Please, don't make me say it again.” I sit down hard on the side of the bed, feeling pretty fucking stupid in my black lacy lingerie. I only agreed to wear it because … well, shit. I don't know why I even agreed to wear it. It was Turner's idea.

  “What's going on?” he asks, grabbing a shirt and tugging it over his head. I guess he can tell from my facial expression that sex is off the menu for the moment. I think the downstairs has gone dry after what I just heard. “Naomi?” I swallow hard and adjust myself, moving the phone from one ear to the other.

  “What do you mean she's dead, Dax? She can't be dead. She's … ” A stupid narcissistic, self-aggrandizing bitch. The woman who held me virtually hostage for the last few years. Our lead singer. My ex-best friend.

  “She shot herself in the fucking head.” Dax's voice drops so low, I have to strain myself to even understand what he's saying. “And now she's gone. Hayden's gone, Naomi.” His voice breaks again on the beginning of a sob.

  Hayden. Is. Dead.

  Hayden is dead.

  “Hayden is dead,” I breathe, and Turner's brows raise.

  “What the fuck?” My sentiments exactly.

  I raise my eyes and meet Turner's brown eyed gaze. He's frowning heavily, standing there in his black boxer shorts and scratching at the hard muscles on his lower belly in thought. I squeeze the fingers of my free hand against the floral bedspread. I don't know how to feel right now. Some part of me wants to jump for joy, praise the Gods of Rock that Hayden is dead, but a deeper, more human part of me wants to fucking weep. Hayden was so broken and shattered; she wasn't even a whole person anymore. I hated her yes, but I also felt sorry for her.

  “Naomi?” A woman's voice comes through on the line. “I'm sorry, but Dax just dropped his phone. I think he's in shock.” It takes me a second to figure out who I'm talking to. Sydney. My skin breaks out in goose bumps, and I have to fight back a small wave of jealousy. I'm not unhappy with the decisions I've made, but seeing this woman waltz in here and take Dax's attentions, just like that? It's weird. Really weird. I mean, I think I like her. She did backtalk America after all.

  “Understandable,” I say, and the word comes out flat. I am in fucking shock. I fall to my back on the bed and throw an arm over my face. Sydney clears her throat, and then I hear the sound of a door opening and closing over the line.

  “Sorry. I had to let myself out of there.” I listen to the sounds of traffic layered behind her voice and wonder where they're at right now. The police station I presume? “Look, there's more to this than just Hayden.” Sydney clears her throat again. “I don't really know how to say this without betraying Dax's trust, but … there was a girl.”

  “A girl?” I echo as Turner climbs onto the bed next to me and puts his ear next to the phone. One of his warm hands slides across my bare belly, and my heart skips a beat. Shit. I don't know how to deal with this whole couple thing. It's weird for me to be in such an intimate relationship with a man who I once idolized, then demonized, and now … There is so much going on. So, so, so, so much.

  “A girl from Dax's past. Hayden murdered her before she, you know. Boom.” Sydney pauses. “I imagine you'll be hearing from your manager or something soon. Brayden's guys were relaying this all over the phone to him. Dax just thought you should hear it from him first.”

  I don't know how to respond to that, so I let Turner take the phone when he tries to pry it from my fingers.

  “Yeah, alright, thanks,” he says, sounding strangely contemplative. “I'm worried about that little emo bitch. Don't know how well his pansy ass can handle tragedy. Keep him safe and warm, eh?” Turner hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the nightstand with a sigh. I can sense his eyes as they slide over to me, judging my mood. Can't be an easy thing to do considering I'm not even sure what that is. “Ding, dong, the bitch is dead, right?” he asks, but he doesn't sound all that sure of himself either.

  Suddenly, I'm scrambling to my feet and racing across the carpet, bare skin sliding across the rough fibers as I skid to a stop next to my duffel bag. My fingers tear open the zipper and dig through the clothing inside like they're possessed. By the time my hand closes around my iPod, there are tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “Naomi?” Turner asks, moving up behind me. I can feel his fingers hovering over my skin, but he doesn't touch. Even self-assured, self-possessed Turner Dakota Campbell can't figure this one out. I yank my headphones up to my ear and push play on one of our songs, listening as Hayden's voice cuts through the fog in my brain and drops me to my knees.

  I wanted her dead, but now that she's gone? I'm not so sure anymore. I'm not sure about fucking anything. Or maybe I'm just selfish, maybe what I'm really freaking out about is this: with Hayden gone, Amatory Riot fully and truly belongs to me.

  I'm sitting on the end of America's bed with the rest of the band. Brayden Ryker stands nearby, obviously not nearly as much of a badass as he pretended to be, as America made him out to be. If he's so fucking amazing, then why is Hayden dead? Why?

  “I … don't understand,” Kash whispers, touching his fingers to his forehead.

  “No big surprise there,” I snap, feeling irritated with him, with all of them. I want to go drown myself in drugs and alcohol. That's it. I feel so fucking
numb inside, and that's scaring me. I don't want to block this pain out; I want to get rid of it.

  “Hey, screw you, Naomi!” Kash growls, whirling on me. “You probably Goddamn drove her to it!” I spit in his face and then things get fierce. He lunges at me and I knock him back on his ass, all while America screams at us to knock this shit off. Kash comes up swinging, but before I can get a nice hit in on his balls, Brayden is there pulling him back.

  “Infighting is not the best use of our current resources,” he says in his magical Irish lilt, setting our bass player back on his feet. Kash pulls away with a snarl, running his hand through his blonde hair and starting to pace.

  “So says the man who assured us not to worry,” I say caustically. My voice could burn it's so friggin' acidic. I run my hands down my face and put on a tight smile that I don't feel. I hate to admit it, but I actually wish Turner was in here with me. His presence is … comforting. I shiver at that thought, wrapping my arms across my chest and grasping hard onto my biceps. Son of a bitch. “The man who wasn't there when Hayden killed this … this Tara girl. When she fucking killed herself.” All of a sudden, my mind is just freaking filled with Hayden's voice, all of my words spilled from her lips. I can't stop thinking of every cruel little thing I did to her and vice versa. We were so toxic together. I should've just walked away from all of this.

  “I'm not superhuman, Naomi,” Brayden says, sounding tired. God, one freaking week on our crazy train and he's exhausted. I guess even the best of the best isn't good enough to shovel our shit. “And Hayden had access to more resources than I could've imagined.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to breathe.

  “The point here is, we have damage control to take care of before the concert. This is going to take a concentrated group effort.” I look up at America like she's lost her fucking mind. I'm not the only one.

  “The concert?” Blair asks, like she doesn't even really understand what that word means anymore. Concert. Concert. What fucking concert? There's not going to be a concert – not after this.

  “Of course. We're not giving up now, not after all we've been through.” America brushes her hand over her blonde hair, touching her bun to make sure it's still perfectly in place. She's super polished today, more than usual even. Her suit seems crisper, her makeup streamlined, her jewelry just so. Frankly, it only draws attention to the crease in her brow and the slight shake of her hands. She's acting calm, but she's anything but.

  “We?” I echo, my voice dry as the Mojave. “We? How the fuck is there a 'we' at this point, America? You have fucked us. Do you hear me? FUCKED US.” I stand up, but I don't make a move towards her. I doubt Brayden Ryker's so out of his game that he'd let me land one on my manager's face. “This is all your fucking fault, you self-absorbed bitch. You brought this crap to our Goddamn doorstep and lit it on fire. So YOU deal with it. YOU fix it. I am done. This tour is over.” I start towards the door, pushing Wren out of my way as I go.

  “You get your ass back here, you spoiled rotten little cunt,” America growls at my back. I should leave. I should just walk out this door, pack a bag and go. But what about Turner? What about Dax? What about the music? I could start over. Maybe. I could use the fame we've built with this crap and get a leg up. But then I'd have to leave this room knowing she got the last damn word in. I put my hand gently on the doorknob.

  “Spoiled?” I ask quietly because, really, that's the first time anybody's ever had the audacity to call me that. I let my fingers slide off the metal and turn around. “You sure have an interesting way with words, America, because that is the last fucking insult I would've ever assigned to myself. Nothing in this life has come easy for me. Nothing. So don't you dare, don't you Goddamn dare.” America's angry face turns wicked cruel as she rises to her feet, perfectly balanced on those suede black pumps of hers.

  “Yes. Spoiled. I said it, Naomi. I have pampered you throughout this entire tour. I have made you famous. All of this,” She gestures at the room around us, indicating what? I don't know. The murders? The mystery? The constant fucking danger we're wading through? “Has made you famous. When we're through, you'll never have to work again, did you know that? Do you even care? I've made you more money than a Goddamn sultan. So this is what you're going to do. You're going to walk your ass back here and sit on this bed. You're going to listen to what I have to say, and then you're going to woman up, and get your shit together.” I open my mouth to protest, hands curling into fists at my sides, but she keeps going, voice rising like a crazy person. “You are going to take over as lead singer of this band, Naomi. This is where you were always meant to be anyway, so step up, shut up, and fucking deal with it.”

  “If you think I'm singing at that concert on Friday, that I'm even going to be there, then you've got another thing coming. How much is too much, America? Are you so blinded by the past that you can't even see the present anymore? We're done. This is done. It's all fucking done.”

  “NO!” she screeches, turning around and slamming her fists into the wall. “This is not DONE! It isn't even close to fucking DONE!” I watch in shocked silence as she pummels the wall with her perfect fists, her delicately manicured nails, her baby soft skin, until she's bruised and bloody. “You'll play at the concert, and you'll fucking smile while you're doing it.” America takes a step back, raising her hands like she can't even believe what she's just done.

  “Maybe we should all take a minute and step out for awhile?” Wren suggests, backing towards the door. For once, I actually agree with him. Besides, I don't know when Dax is coming back, if he's even coming back tonight, and I really, really think he should be a part of this conversation.

  “Nobody's going fucking anywhere!” America screams, spinning around and gesturing at Brayden. He nods at her and reaches into his coat, pulling out a semi-automatic and pointing it at us, at me specifically. I feel the color drain from my face. Aw, man. You have got to be motherfucking shitting with me.

  America sniffles and runs her hand over her forehead and across her hair, smoothing the few escaped tendrils back into place. She either doesn't notice or doesn't care that there's a smear of blood across her face. I watch from the corner of my eye as she takes a long, slow blink. My main focus right now is on the freaking gun that's pointed at my midsection. To his credit, Brayden looks almost sorry about it.

  “Now. That was uncalled for.” America raises her hands, takes a breath, and then straightens out her navy blue suit jacket. “My apologies. Brayden, the gun.” She nods at him again, and in the blink of an eye, the pistol disappears inside the dark folds of his wool coat. “We're all civilized people here, right? We understand each other, don't we?” Nobody speaks. I don't think anybody wants to. Not even me. See, here's the thing: do I think America wants me dead? No. But do I think Brayden would shoot me if she wanted him to? Yes, I do. And it might not kill me, but it would hurt. I grit my teeth and force myself to take slow breaths. My fight or flight instinct is on fire right now, and it's killing me that I'm not ripping that bitch's hair out. “We have a conundrum here, a big one. See, damned if we do, damned if we don't. We play the concert and something could happen, but if we don't, something will. That is the nature of our situation, folks.” America clacks her teeth, snapping off that last word. “This doesn't end until it ends, do you get me? You don't walk away from something like this. If you try, I will have you killed. See? How easy is that? You don't have to make a decision because I just made one for you.”

  “And what if I go to the police after we walk out of this room? What then?” I ask, voice shaking with fury. I just got out from under Hayden's thumb. The last, last, last place I want to be right now is under America's.

  I don't like the way she smiles at me.

  “Do it,” she purrs at me, coming so close I can actually see the pores around her nose. Believe it or not, under all those layers of foundation, the bitch has them. That's not to say she isn't pretty – she is – but it proves she has flaws, cracks, weaknesses. I'm
starting to wonder if it's about time for me to go after them. “Do it and see who they believe. And then see what happens when they're not looking.”

  “Can you believe this shit?” I ask Ronnie, breathing in the smell of his cigarette as we lounge in the small smokers' courtyard. There are two fucking bodyguards standing outside with us, and two more in the hotel hallway. I know they're here to protect me or whatever, but I kind of get the feeling they're keeping me locked in, too. I don't like that.

  “Do you mean, am I surprised by it?” he asks, letting smoke drift from his nostrils. “No, I'm not surprised at all to be honest with you. Whatever happened to that girl, it caused a wound that wouldn't heal. She was festering. I could smell her from across the room.” I try not to smirk and make a nasty pussy joke. That just wouldn't be right. Fuck, I hated that bitch, but I still feel sorry for her.

  “You think she took all her secrets to the grave?” I ask, bouncing a ball against the bricks in front of me. It ricochets back into my hands as I lean back on a bench and cushion my head in the folds of Naomi's hoodie. I grabbed it by accident on my way out of the room only to find out it doesn't fucking fit. How amazing is this shit? Even our clothes are getting mixed up now. I like it. I like knowing my smell is all caught up in hers. Let all the rival males deal with that.

  “No. I think Dax knows,” Ronnie says, putting out his cig in a nearby ashtray and glancing up at the sky. The sun is blaring hot above us, a threat we can't feel in the shadows of the courtyard. All around us, the walls of the hotel rise up, peppered with windows and tiny balconies that aren't in use. Milo and America made sure of that when they booked this place. This courtyard belongs to us for now. Talk about exclusivity. “Now we just have to get him to tell us.”

  “Think he will?” I ask. Ronnie's good at reading people. Shit, he's the fucking king of this crap. If there's gossip to be found, he's the one who'll get it.