Dead Serious

by C. M. Stunich

  So. There's only one person here that I can talk to then. One person.

  Currently, he's leaning against a column in the lobby with a smug smirk on his face, eyes closed, muscular arms crossed over his chest. Blue-black hair hangs crookedly across his forehead, revealing a few carefully placed star tattoos along his hairline. When he opens his brown eyes to look at Milo, I scowl.

  Turner Campbell.

  I almost choke on the words of my own thoughts. Turner Campbell. I … want to go talk to him. My hands curl at my sides and I have to swallow several times to get up the courage to go over there. Boyfriend. He practically forced me into bestowing him that title, and now everybody knows. He wasn't exactly shy about mentioning it during our interviews. Your little onstage tête-à-têtes didn't help much either, now did they?

  I grit my teeth as I think about him smiling and primping for the camera. The only redeeming part of the whole experience is that he kept our story to himself. I know we're going to have to talk to the press about it soon, before they get ahold of the fact that we have one another's names tattooed on our bodies. Secrets. They fucking suck. Much as I'd like to keep the whole fiasco to myself, I know I can't. Never again. I'm on the Turner Campbell anti-secret bandwagon. In fact, I'm surprised we've gotten this far without anyone finding a picture of Turner's back and catching sight of the tattoo. I guess we just weren't popular enough before for anyone to give a shit. I can bet now though that someone's seen it. It's just a matter of time before they realize it's not a new tattoo. I wonder if I'll have to talk about the abortion, too.

  I sigh and shake myself out.

  Best get this part over with. I can already imagine the smug look on his face when he realizes I've come all the way down here specifically to find him.

  “I don't know, Milo. I don't give a fuck either. You figure it out. It's what I pay your pasty ass for.” Milo sighs and shakes his head, putting his fingers up to his right temple and massaging the skin in slow circles. He has an iPad clutched to his chest and a frown that drags down his cheeks and gives him the false appearance of jowls. What's Turner done now?

  “Fine. I'll be the one that makes the final decision then.” Milo pauses and looks up, taking a deep breath like he's bracing himself for a confrontation. “Now, what I really need to talk to you about is Pinterest.” I can feel my eyebrows rising as I close the last few feet between us and pause next to Turner's left elbow. It only takes him a second to realize I'm standing there.

  “Yo, Knox,” he growls under his breath, snaking an arm around my waist and tugging me close. I put my palms out and wrinkle my nose even though underneath all of that shit, I like the feel of his hand splayed out against my spine. “Where you been, baby?” Turner's breath teases my ear and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I straighten my arms and force some space between us as Milo clears his throat and tries to drag Turner's eyes away from mine. Unfortunately, he refuses to look away, cutting into my gaze with this self-satisfied masculine pride that bothers the crap out of me.

  “Don't think just because I let you have some back door action that you're suddenly king. I could still kick your ass if I wanted to.” Turner releases me with a laugh, bending over at the waist and slapping his knee.

  “You see?” he says as he stands back up and pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “This is why I love this woman.”

  “And that's wonderful,” Milo says, ever the responsible business man. He adjusts his salmon pink tie and clears his throat, looking askance at me. I wait patiently, glad for the distraction. Hopefully by the time Milo leaves, Turner won't remember that I was the one that came looking for him. “But I need to speak with you about your Pinterest board.”

  “You have a fucking Pinterest board?” I ask, giving Turner a look that says I ain't buying what he's selling. “I thought Pinterest was for housewives looking for homemade Halloween decorations and old ladies scoping out new knitting projects.”

  “Aw, Knox, you're fucking precious, aren't you?” He gives me a mocking kiss on the top of my head and claps his hands together, touching his steepled fingers to his lips. Glad to see that Hayden's death had such an effect on his over the top personality. I am not taking him to the funeral. “But you're not exactly a social media guru, are you?” Turner clenches his teeth in a grimace. “You don't even have a Twitter account.”

  “America runs one for me.” I scowl at Turner and tuck my hands into the pockets on my jeans.

  “Mr. Campbell, you're avoiding the subject. Your Pinterest board. It's inappropriate. I received an email this morning. If you don't take it down, you'll be banned. We have enough bad press as it is. I'd appreciate it if you could channel your love for … intimacy in a different way.”

  “Intimacy?” I can already feel my lips pursing. I shake my head and nearly snap Turner's wrist when he pulls my shades away from my eyes. I grab them and shove them back up my nose. I scowl at him, and he smirks at me while Milo stands helplessly by our sides and waits patiently. Poor guy.

  “I pin sexual positions that I want to try.”

  “With highly inappropriate comments,” Milo adds, sighing dramatically. “Along with … other things.”

  “Better not be any pictures of me on there,” I whisper, curling my fingers around his bicep. I almost wish it wasn't such a nice fucking bicep. It'd be a lot easier to hate him that way. Devil. He is still the devil, even if I love him. I need to keep that in mind.

  “Nah. Not on my Pinterest board, just on Instagram.”

  With that, he spins away and starts off towards the back doors.

  If I wasn't so afraid of what I'd see, I'd pull out my phone and take a look. The thing is, I don't want to see any articles about Hayden, read any headlines, and – God forbid – catch sight of any photos. I don't know how much of this situation has been leaked or if word's gotten out yet, but even America can't hide this from the press.

  “Where are you going?” I ask him as he passes by the smokers' courtyard and heads in the direction of the back entrance, the one that's supposedly exclusive to our tour group. Turner walks with confidence, head up, a slight smile on his lips. Somebody's in an awfully good mood. “You got an appointment or something?”

  “It's an experiment,” he says as he slows down a little for me to catch up. I examine him out of the corner of my eye, take in the rubber bracelets on his left arm, the paw print tattoos, the tight black T-shirt with the Indecency logo on it. “Don't you get the feeling these dudes are keeping us in at the same time they're keeping the bad guy out?”

  “After my talk with America, I'm practically positive that that's the case. So what are you going to do about it?” Turner keeps moving, and I can't stop myself from thinking of our walk at the safe house, when we clasped hands. It felt good, too good. Turner Campbell's not the kind of guy you hold hands with. Shit. I was less surprised when he finger fucked my ass.

  “I want to go to Denny's. That's it. Not a big deal, right?” We stop just outside the glass doors that'll lead us into the small lobby on this end of the building. There are two guards positioned on either side. They give us bored looks as we stand there whispering.

  “Even if we weren't in a mega fucked up situation like this, it would be. You're a big deal now, Turner. You can't just go to Denny's.” I pause, take a big breath and force myself to keep going. “Hayden died today, Turner.” His mouth tightens and he turns to look at me with what I perceive to be a quasi-serious look on his face. His brown eyes bore into mine, looking deep, piercing a line straight to my heart.

  “I know.” He reaches out and puts his hands on my shoulders. The move is so … unlike anything I've seen him do that I take a step back and he drops his hands back by his sides, pulling his smirk back into place. “That's why I'm trying to do something, even if it's just a little thing. I want to see how caged up we really are. I'm a free man, right? Even if I do get killed by fangirls, I have every right to walk out of this hotel. Fuck, I have every right to walk into Ste
phen Hammergren's arms if I want, right?”

  I shrug and shake my head. Turner's going to do what he wants to do, regardless of what I have to say about it. I don't admit to myself that that's one of the reasons I actually like him.

  He takes a breath, hikes up his tight pants and steps up to the doors. I glance over my shoulder at the men behind us. There's a woman, too, with biceps that bulge and ripple as she adjusts her leather belt and smiles at me. I bet she could whoop my ass as hard or harder than the rest of them. Great.

  I look back at Turner and watch as he steps through the glass doors without a single protest. Fucking Christ. I move after him, trying my best to pretend I'm not expecting someone to grab my arms at any moment. We head to the other set of doors and notice that the two dudes here are shifting nervously.

  “Excuse me, sir. Is there something we can help you with?” Turner shakes his head, waits for me to catch up, and wraps his arm around my waist.

  “We're going out to eat. Denny's, you know. Real classy like.” He snorts and shrugs, pulling me forward and … out the doors. Our bodyguards follow along behind us in a wave, one of them already on their cellphone, no doubt reporting this to Brayden or America or whoever. But they let us go. We continue to walk across the parking lot and nobody stops us. What the fuck?

  “Guess that theory's out the window then,” Turner says, almost like he's disappointed by that fact. We pause about twenty feet away from the entrance and exchange a glance. “I mean, we're not alone, but we're out. Wonder how long this will last?” I glance over my shoulder at the building and imagine America having a coronary about this. Honestly, I don't know how good of an idea this is either. We could get shot out here. Kidnapped. Fuck knows what else. But at least we're free. Or at least I can pretend we're free and it feels fucking amazing. For a second, I stand there and fantasize what it would be like if Turner and I were nobodies. If we'd met in a bar or at somebody else's concert. I could see us being happy together like that, I really could. But like this? I just don't know.

  “Who gives a shit,” I say, feeling like chains are being lifted from my skin and dropped to the floor in a rusted, silver heap. “Let's just enjoy it while it lasts.”

  I reach down and grab Turner's hand, pulling him into a run across the mostly empty parking lot. Our bodyguards' footsteps pound after us, but I don't pay them any attention. I just want to get out of here. The farther we run, the faster we go, the more that feeling intensifies until I'm seriously considering trying to ditch these dudes somewhere and make a new life, one that doesn't involve subterfuge and pasts that seep like septic wounds. I couldn't give up the music – I could never give up the music – but I'd be happy playing in basement bars for a handful of drunk college students. Turner, on the other hand … I think it might kill him.

  We stumble through a set of hedges at the edge of the lot and pause on the sidewalk. I think we're both a little shell-shocked at the sight of the real world in all its beautiful, ugly glory. There's a bus stop about a block down, packed full of people, cigarette smoke curling away from the cracked plastic windows and the myriad posters taped to them. Across the street from us, a woman sits slumped against the side of a building, a cardboard sign clutched in her hand. Way the world works. That's all it says.

  I take a deep breath, trying to still my panting breath. Next to me, Turner does the same, and my heart skips a beat. I can feel sweat running down my skin, can still feel his body pressing up against mine. I don't usually do skin to skin, Naomi. I both loved and hated to hear that. I'm such a Goddamn girl underneath. Thinking about Turner fucking his hordes of roadies makes me see black. At the same time, I feel like I've obtained some sort of victory. He's mine. I won him. How stupid is that?

  “Now what?” I ask him as he pulls his phone from his pocket. Behind us, the security guards wait, their voices a gentle rumble at my back. Probably trying to figure out how to get us back to the hotel without letting us know that that's what they're doing. Keep the sheep corralled, but don't let them see the fence, right?

  “Now we GPS a Goddamn Denny's and get some crappy ass pancakes.” My mouth twists into a smile, even though I fight it back, tell myself that it's wrong to smile when Hayden lies dead in a morgue in Tulsa. But I don't care. I'm going to do it anyway.

  I start across the street without waiting for Turner. He'll catch up. I know he will.

  “You have your wallet with you?” I ask. I stopped carrying mine since the tornado took our buses and effectively confined us to the fucking hotel. I haven't needed money to pay for shit since then.

  “I plan ahead, Knox. Remember that. I'm not as dumb as I look.” I ignore his use of my last name and hold out my hand as we pause in front of the homeless woman.

  “Give me your cash.” Turner gives me a weird look, but he complies, fishing out his wallet and removing a wad of green from inside. He drops it in my palm, and I, in turn, drop it into the woman's lap. It takes her a moment to stir, but as soon as she does, she sees the money and looks up.

  I'm already walking away.

  “What was that about?” Turner asks me, keeping pace as we follow the directions on his phone. I keep my gaze ahead, the shades on my face blocking out the harsh bite of the sun. I figure it's only a matter of time before somebody notices us. We're not exactly the easiest people to overlook. Me, standing here with my half-shirt gaping, purple bra peeking out the oversize armholes. My Real Ugly tattoo looks ultra bright outside, a sharp slide of color across my skin. Turner, well, fuck. He's just Turner. Strong jaw, sexy lips, dark eyes. I just hope we can get some pancakes before the fucking press swoops down and eats us alive.

  “I liked her sign.” I don't explain any further. I don't think I need to. I glance sidelong at Turner and see his brow furrowed in thought. He acts like he's so fucking stupid, just a hot piece of trailer trash who got lucky, but that's not the case. Not even close. He knows there's truth in that statement. Way the world works. We're all stuck here, spinning on this fucking axis with no say in how fast we go, how quickly time flies. All we can do is ride the wave and hope we don't drown. I've had way too many close calls in my life – especially recently. Frankly, I'm fucking sick of it.

  Silence descends between us and in it, the sounds of the city creep, writhing around our bodies, taking hold of our spirits and, since it's obviously the most inopportune time like fucking ever, giving me the urge to write a new song. My fingers itch for my notebook, for the hard lines carved into the white paper. I want to take a pen and bleed black ink over it, let my guts fall right out on the page.

  “You got the itch, don't you?” Turner asks, fetching his own sunglasses out of his pocket and putting them on his face. Like that'll stop the paparazzi from recognizing him. He follows it up with a pack of cigarettes, opening the top and offering them to me. I slide a stick out and put it between my lips, letting Turner light me up with an Indecency lighter.

  “No, actually, I don't, but if you do, I suggest you get it checked out because if you give me crabs or some shit, we're done before we even get started.” Turner tosses his head back and laughs, voice echoing around the street like a call from from the heavens. Or more likely from Hell. Yeah, probably that. His laugh alone is enough to give away the fact that he can sing. I smoke my cigarette and look away, pretending I don't give a shit that he has the voice of a Goddamn angel.

  “I meant the itch to write, to compose, you know.” Turner pauses and takes a drag on his cigarette, glancing over his shoulder for a moment before he continues. I follow his gaze and realize he's staring at nothing. Nobody. Our guards are gone. Well, probably not gone, but at least they have enough common sense not to traipse along behind us in a fucking military formation. It gives Turner and me the semblance of privacy and even though I know that couldn't be further from the truth, it's nice. I let myself pretend for a moment that we're just out on a walk, smoking a couple of fags, and enjoying one another's company.

  I feel an insult building in my throat, a sarcast
ic comment about how shocked I actually was to learn he wrote his own music, but I bite it back. I told myself I'd try, at the very least, to make this actually work. I can't respond to everything he says with a roll of my eyes and an insult. Most things, maybe, but not everything.

  “What's your process?” I ask as we turn the corner and step out of the shadows of the nearby buildings, right into a bright shaft of sunlight that sears across my skin and makes me feel like a vampire, like I should be back on the bus curled up in a dark bunk with my earbuds jammed in my skull and some of Indecency's music blasting at full volume. I feel like I haven't even seen the sun since we started this stupid fucking tour. Spending all night partying, drinking, slamming dope, singing, fucking. There wasn't time for sunshine. I'm not sure whether that was a good thing or not.

  “My process?” Turner says, like nobody's ever asked him that question before. Fuck, maybe they haven't? The press doesn't care about the music, not really. They want to know what we're drinking, smoking, who we're fucking, where we're partying and most importantly – who's been kidnapped, shot by a sniper rifle, or left for dead in our hotel room recently. “I guess … I … don't really know how to answer that question.” He wrinkles his brows up stares hard at the sidewalk in front of our feet. I don't say anything else because I think, for once in his life, Turner Campbell's actually thinking about what he wants to say before he actually says it. Small miracles, baby. “I know what yours is though,” he adds with a sultry grin, focusing his shades on my face. I wish I could see his eyes, but I guess it's only fair considering he can't see mine either.

  “Yeah?” I ask, crossing one arm over my midsection and holding my cigarette with the other. Nobody's pulled up alongside us in a black SUV, taken a pot shot at our heads, or started throwing dirty panties at Turner's head. I'm feeling better and better by the second. “And what's that?”

  “Your notebook,” he says, surprising me. I know I've written in it around him before, I just didn't think he was paying any attention. “You fuck the shit out of those pages and leave 'em crawling back for more. You draw weird faces and crying babies and angels with broken wings.” Turner looks straight ahead, spots the yellow and red Denny's sign and grins, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “And sometimes, when you're sleeping, you hum under your breath. Every now and again, you whisper words that don't make any sense, but they're beautiful.”