Dead Serious

by C. M. Stunich

  “And you're full of shit,” I tell him, even though I like what he's saying. Does that make me just as gullible as all those other bitches? I finish my cigarette and press it out on the side of a trash can before I toss it in. Going straight-edge makes a lot of sense, especially in this sort of situation where the shit can hit the fan at any moment, but that doesn't mean I have to like it, that I don't wish I could go back to the hotel and hit Wren up for something stronger than tobacco.

  I sigh.

  “I'm dead serious, Knox,” Turner tells me as we move across the parking lot and pause at the entrance to the restaurant. “You've got a style that's all your own. Not many can say that.” And then he blows my fucking mind to bits by opening the Goddamn door for me. I stare at it, then at him, then at the door again.

  “I'm not a limp-wristed bitch in a petticoat who spends her evenings embroidering pillows, Turner.” I push past him and head inside, hating the way my own voice grates against my nerves. Why can't I just be nice to him? Smile? Thank him for being a freaking gentleman? Because nobody's ever treated me with respect before, so why should I expect it now? From Turner Campbell of all people?

  “You don't like doors being held open for you, fine. I'll walk right through and let it swing shut in your face then.” He says all of this through gritted teeth before ripping off his shades and shoving them in his front pocket. I leave mine on, even though the lighting in here is dim and I can't see shit. The last thing I need right now is for Turner to see how tight the skin around my eyes is, how frustrated I am at my own behavior. Fuuuuuck. This isn't me, so what the hell am I doing then? Learning to be in a relationship for the first time fucking ever. That's what. “Yo, babe. Two please.” Turner holds up two fingers and motions at the stewardess in a vaguely vulgar gesture that wets the downstairs and simultaneously annoys me.

  The woman stands there for all of thirty seconds, just staring at us with her mouth hanging open. She's pretty, young. Probably someone Turner would take back to his bed and fuck before kicking her off and moving on with the tour, memories wiped clean away. But he's not doing that anymore. Because of me. Me.

  “Um, are, um. Oh my God.” Turner bathes in her stare and her stutters for a moment before she turns her attention to me and gets tears in her eyes. “Naomi Knox,” she gulps, her knees shaking as she holds back what I can only assume is a scream. Oh God, no. Heads in the dining room swing our way, but I take advantage of the strange architecture in the restaurant and grab Turner's arm, tugging him back behind the hostess station and over towards the cash register. This little alcove protects us from rubberneckers, at least for the moment. But not from the hostess.

  She follows right after us, running her hand over her frizzy blonde hair and tugging at her ponytail. Her pale blue eyes shimmer wildly and she's got her phone in her hand.

  “Can I please, please take a picture with you?” she asks, and before I get the chance to respond, Turner is wrapping his arm around my waist and tugging me close. His fingers feel hot, like they're burning trails of ruined flesh in their wake.

  “Sure thing, beautiful,” Turner says as the hostess wiggles in between us and lifts her phone for a selfie. I wonder what America will think when she sees this? She's definitely going to blow a gasket, but she can go fuck herself. With all of the shit she's brought down on us, the least she could do is damage control. At the same time, I realize how strange this picture is going to seem when news of Hayden's death hits the media shit storm. My lead singer dies and I go out for a late breakfast/early lunch? That's fucking awesome. “Now,” Turner continues, releasing me and helping the hostess step back by placing his hands gently on her shoulders. She's so starstruck right now, I doubt she can even remember her own name. Turner steers her around and forces her back a few paces, all while doing it with this smug ass smile on his face. “About that table? Get us a booth in a back corner maybe? You know, something with a little privacy.” She nods and shakes her head like she's waking from a daze. No doubt the first thing she's going to do after she seats us is start blowing up her friends' fucking phones. In a matter of minutes, the media could descend on us like vultures.

  Frankly, I find myself not giving a fuck.

  I take off my shades just in time to see Turner slap the hostess on the ass as she totters away. Goddamn it.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says, the moment she's out of earshot. He turns to me with a can you believe this bitch? look that I return with a steely-eyed glare. Over Turner's shoulder and out the window, I catch a glimpse of one of our bodyguards scanning the parking lot in his red T-shirt and blue jeans, smoking a cigarette all casual like. Another one of the assholes comes inside a moment later, nods to me and grabs a menu, taking a seat in the nearest booth without waiting for the hostess. “Thought that bitch was going to lip-lock you and go all lesbo on your ass. She was happy to see me, but she almost cried at the sight of you.”

  “So you spanked her because she was a nasty little bitch, huh? Is that it?”

  Turner's face blanks for a moment, his full lips parting slightly, emphasizing the lip rings on either side, flashing me a momentary glimpse of his tongue ring. Fucking Christ. If he weren't quite so attractive to me, it would make things a hell of a lot easier. And I wouldn't have to change my panties ten times a day.

  “Are you jealous?” he manages to choke out before the hostess reappears, menus clutched in her shaking hands. I breeze past Turner without answering and stare intently at the baseboards, doing my best to cover up my face with my left hand.

  “I got you the best seat in the house, really. It's in the very back. Technically it's in Sandy's section, but she's really busy, so I'll be taking care of you today, okay?” I grunt noncommittally and while I don't believe that nobody has noticed our presence, there aren't any teenage girls scrambling at Turner's zipper or fanboys whooping in joy at the sight of my tits. This is good. We're good.

  I scoot into the booth with a sigh, the sticky pleather catching on my jeans and the moist tabletop uncomfortable beneath my elbows. Instantly, I relax. This, this is what I'm used to. Real life, real shit, crappy diners, scrounging up rent money, wondering how the fuck I'm going to fill my gas tank. I got used to that shit. What I'm not used to is having somebody around trying to wipe my fucking ass, managing my finances, telling me where to go and what to do. I've become complacent. Since I got kidnapped, I haven't been taking charge of my life the way I should. I've been running with all of this, but not sprinting. I need to stay ahead of the pack, not let myself got lost inside of it.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” the hostess, whose name tag says Deb, asks us, breaking me out of my thoughts. I give her a bored look and then shrug.

  “I dunno, orange juice, I guess?” Or a bottle of vodka. And no, I don't want a screwdriver. I'll drink it straight, thanks. Too bad this joint doesn't serve hard liquor. I push some hair back from my face and try not to frown. The sunshine streaming through the window to our left makes me want to squint. Maybe I really have gone nocturnal during this tour? Guess I should get a fucking coffin or something to sleep in. It'd probably make me even more popular.

  “Just give me a fuckin' soda,” Turner says, setting his phone down on the tabletop and spinning it in a circle. “Something with carbonation in it, I don't care.”

  “Yes, sir,” Deb squeaks as I give her a look. Her eyes pause on mine before she turns away, and takes a massive breath. Uh oh. I don't know what she's getting ready to say, but there's something inside her chest that she's desperate to get out. “I just want to say that I really love your music.” She pauses, glances back at Turner. “Both of you. But … Naomi … when you sing, I get goose bumps. And I know you, like, write the music, too. I think you're a way better singer than Hayden Lee.” Deb bites her lip, and I hope she doesn't notice how my face pales at her statement. “That's it. All I wanted to say.” She turns away, pauses, turns back. “Sorry.” Another pause. “I'll get your drinks.”

  As Deb skitters off, I see
her pull her cell out from her apron pocket.

  “Well, well, look who's got fangirls now?” he asks me, but I'm not listening. I can't stop thinking about the way Dax's voice broke over the phone when he told me the news. Hayden is dead. And she killed somebody. Who, I don't know. Guess Dax has secrets of his own. I hope that when he snaps out of his daze that he'll tell me. “I'm almost jealous.” Turner stretches his legs out beneath the table and bumps my feet with his boots, crossing them at the ankles as he smiles across the table at me. “Almost, of course, because we're still whooping Amatory Riot's ass on the charts.” He winks at me, but I can't seem to find the words to respond.

  My fingers find the salt shaker and drag it towards me, just so I have something to hold onto.

  “Am I an insensitive bitch?” I ask Turner, spilling some white granules onto the table. Turner immediately reaches over and grabs a pinch, flicking it over my left shoulder.

  “To banish the devil,” he explains, sitting back with a half-smile on his luscious lips. “Old superstition, you know. Spilled salt equals serious trouble.”

  “We're already in serious trouble,” I tell him as he leans into the booth with a half-smile on his face. The colorful tattoos on his arms draw my eyes, focus my attention as I try to wrap my mind around the enormity of my life at the moment. It feels too big to fit inside my heart, like it could burst at any moment and see me as nothing but a blood stain on the back of this booth.

  “Listen, Knox. You didn't kill Hayden. She killed herself. It's a sad sort of poetic justice. We can't sit here and weep for somebody who chose to take an early exit. This,” he gestures between us with his pretty little inked up fingers, “this shit right here is real, and it's just between you and me.” When Turner reaches down and takes my hand, I almost puke. Swear to God, my stomach rumbles and nausea sweeps over me. Thank fuck I'm sitting down right now. “I know you cared about her in your own weird, sort of masochistic way.” I squeeze his hands and hope my nails are digging into his flesh. “But Hayden was like a Goddamn disease. We got the cure, baby. She's done. Gone. Good fucking riddance.”

  “The first night on the tour that you and I had any real sort of contact was the night I found you banging her over the counter in my bus. Blair and I cleaned your puke off the carpet.”

  “Mistakes happen,” he says, but at least he has the decency to look chagrined about the whole thing. “Why you gotta bring that shit up again?” Turner gives me a look, narrowing his eyes. He's got on just a dash of eyeliner today, enough to make his eyes pop, but not so much that he looks like Dax. The thought is almost enough to make me smile. “We could talk about Trey? You screwed my best friend, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you didn't have to see it.” I draw my fingers from Turner's grasp and lean back against the booth with a smirk growing on my face. If I didn't know better, I might think I actually liked pissing him off. “Didn't have to see him lift me up and slam my ass into your tour bus.” My smile gets a little wider. Hayden. Her name pulses in the back of my brain, desperate to rip the expression away. I refuse to let it. When I get back to the hotel, I'll freak out. I'll worry about the fact that I'm essentially being held hostage. Right now, I just want to fuck around and flirt.

  “Oh, shit,” Turner says, smiling sharp enough to cut. “That is fucking it. As soon as Trey's off his morphine drip, I'm going to put him right back on. Son of a bitch is always scoping out my girls.”

  “Your girls?” I lick my tongue across my lips and relax my shoulders, mimicking Turner's relaxed pose. I don't know if it's all an act or what. Surely he hasn't forgotten our bodyguards or the fact that at any moment, we could get ambushed with a horde of cameras. Maybe he just doesn't fucking care? “So I'm just one of your girls then?”

  I lift my heel up and wedge it between his knees, bringing the toe to rest on his crotch. Turner looks down at the shoe and then back up at me. His smile intensifies.

  “Can I … take your orders?” Deb asks, biting her lower lip so hard it looks like it's going to bleed. Behind her, a gaggle of waitresses waits, phones up, faces rapt. Crap. I straighten my leg, pushing against Turner's junk with my shoe. The skin around his eyes tightens, but he doesn't let it affect his ability to be an asshole.

  “I'll have a short stack with bacon. Princess here will have the same.”

  “Like hell I will.” I increase the pressure of my foot and smile tightly at the waitress. “Gimme a burger and a chocolate fucking shake.” I nod my chin at the lead singer of Indecency who looks just as good tucked into a booth in a diner in the middle of fuck nowhere as he does onstage. “He's paying.” Deb nods enthusiastically, so much so that I actually just sort of hope her head wobbles off her shoulders, and retreats.

  “Always happy to treat my special lady to a nice meal.” Turner reaches down and carefully, oh so carefully, removes my shoe. “Wait till you taste this shit. Then you'll see why the whole tour waits when I feel like a fucking Denny's run.” He runs his thumbs down the arch of my foot, giving me a surprise massage. And just when I was about to adjust my foot and use the heel of my shoe to stab him in the nuts. How … considerate.

  “You're an interesting man, Turner Campbell,” I say and he ratchets up his smile a bit.

  “I'll take that as a compliment. I mean, coming from you, it's probably as good as it gets, right?”

  “Excuse me?” Deb's back. Pretty sure the looks that Turner and I throw her are the same. Go the fuck away. “But … is this really you?” Deb turns her phone around, so I can take a look at it. Right there, trending all across the Internet is a headline that confuses the hell out of me. Until Deb scrolls down that is.

  Murder, Suicide, and Sex Tapes Abound in Ongoing Indecency/Amatory Riot Fiasco.

  There's a video there, all cued up to go, but I don't need Deb to start it.

  I can recognize my own ass without hitting play, thanks.

  Aw, fuck me and my dead grandma.

  I run my hand through my hair and try not to look over at Naomi. As soon as I tell her that I heard the door open while we were fucking and did nothing about it, she's going to fucking destroy my ass. And I have to tell her. Because I don't keep secrets. No. Fucking. Secrets.

  “Jesse, you need to calm the fuck down,” Ronnie says, holding his hands out, palms facing forward. Jesse looks like he's got the fucking flu, curled over the toilet like that, cursing in German or some other random European language that his dad drilled into his head like a sergeant. Did I mention that Naomi and I weren't the only ones who got our sex tape leaked? In a nice, crystal clear 1080p, we got to see Jesse ramming Rook Geary up the fucking asshole. The few bites of pancake I managed to toss back are still sitting in the back of my throat. If Jesse wasn't hogging the porcelain throne, I'd be over there chucking up my lunch.

  “Of all the dudes to ram, it had to be Rook? I mean, there were way hotter guys on tour with us. Myself included.” I pause and think for a second. Maybe I shouldn't be pushing Jesse's buttons, but I'm going to do it anyway, if only because I can. “Hey, why the fuck haven't you ever hit on me? I'm a prime slice of all-American beefcake.”

  “Turner,” Ronnie snaps, giving me his best shut the fuck up look. “Not helping, man.” I purse my lips and tuck my hands in my back pockets. I know I should be quiet. I mean, as far as things go, this isn't the worst that's happened to us. Ronnie has his hands full dealing with Lola and the whole Poppet situation. Best thing I can do right now is keep my trap shut.

  “How was your hamburger?” I ask randomly, leaning back against the wall and waiting for Naomi to uncross her arms from her chest. She handled the video with a fuck of a lot of grace – it wasn't until we got back to the hotel that she turned sullen and shut down on me. This environment is fucking toxic.

  “You mean the three bites I got to take before Brayden Ryker rolled up and cleared the restaurant out? They were fucking delicious. Tasted even better as the vans rolled up and the paparazzi rolled in like a plague. My favorite part was when that guy leap
t off the roof and tackled me. I almost choked to death.”

  “But at least I broke his face in, right?” I squeeze my right hand and try to work out some of the soreness in my joints. “I really did nail that dude in the fucking nose. He deserved that shit, too.”

  “Nice video,” Trey croaks out from my left. We're all standing in his room because, well, he can't exactly come to us. Doesn't matter though. I'm just glad the son of a bitch is alive. Too bad he won't be able to play Friday's concert with us. As much as I love Naomi on the guitar, I still miss Trey. He really is my best Goddamn friend. “You two looked hot,” he whispers, trying his best to manage a self-assured smirk. I don't even care that it's a poor imitation of my own. I move forward, pausing next to his bedside and ruffling his hair in a manner meant solely to piss him the fuck off.

  “No worries, little brother. One day, you too may be able to find a woman half as good as Naomi. Take note of my techniques and try not to fuck the moment up like you did with that chick back home.” I laugh when I think of the story of Trey's first time. Unfortunately, I also had to bear witness to that disgusting shit. My friend's a royal fucking idiot, but I love 'im anyway.

  “Go fuck yourself, Turner,” he whispers, brown hair obscuring his forehead, little beads of sweat standing out on his pale skin. Thank the fucking Gods of Rock that he didn't die. I don't know what the hell I would've done. “Tell Jesse his was nice, too.” Trey lets out a creaky burst of laughter and then groans.

  “Screw you, Trey,” Jesse says as he stands up and stumbles out of the bathroom to collapse into a chair. Hey, I'm kind of ticked the fuck off that somebody invaded my privacy and shit if I don't want to cut a bitch for showing Naomi's goods to the world, but at least everyone knows they're mine now. Having a sex tape leaked sucks, but it's not that big of a deal, right? “My brothers are never going to speak to me again. And Rook? Why did it have to be a video of me and him? I don't even like that asshole. Now I'm going to be immortalized as his lover.”