Dead Serious

by C. M. Stunich

  Hot salty tears eat at my face as the guards unhook Katie and lay her flat on the ground. She's twitching and shaking, but still smiling. The world around me goes silent, blocking out the sounds of the guards calling for a paramedic, of the desperate gasps my sister makes as she chokes on her own blood. And that's how it happens. Katie doesn't bleed out; she drowns. In doing so, she seals my fate.

  I will never, ever forget that fucking smile.

  I know something's wrong the moment I see prison guards streaming past me like fangirls heading towards my tour bus. I stand up, but I can't seem to make my feet take a step. Naomi's dead. That's the first thought that hits me, and it knocks the air from my lungs. Katie's killed her. I don't know why that's my first response to the situation – maybe this has nothing at all to do with either of them? – but I just know that's not the fucking case. When have I ever been so lucky?

  “Cock and balls,” I snarl, startling an old lady napping in the corner. I run my fingers through my hair and pace in a circle. Naomi is not dead. I can't start thinking that every time something happens. I guess I'm still traumatized after the incident on the tour bus, seeing those blonde bodies coated head to toe in blood. Ugh. “Excuse me, doll,” I say, putting on the full force of my swagger as I approach the front counter. I lift my chin to indicate the doorway Naomi left through. “What's going on in there?”

  The woman behind the counter doesn't even bother to look at me. I guess whatever drama's unfolding back there is more important than a sexy guy with tattoos, than a rock star. I scowl and step away, my eyes catching on a pair of paramedics as they rush past me and disappear around the corner. No, no, no. God, I want to go in there so fucking bad. I eye the prison guards at the door. They're still standing in the same places they were before, but I can tell they're almost as interested in the situation as I am. I look over my shoulder at the two bodyguards that came inside with Naomi and me. They're hanging out on separate benches. One of them's reading a newspaper and the other is playing frigging Candy Crush on his phone. Candy Crush. Fucking Goddamn piece of shit Candy Crush.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I snarl at him, ripping the phone from his fingers and dropping it to the floor. I crush it with my boot and wait for the man to look up at me. I don't know how Brayden picks his employees, but one of the requirements must be to look as plain and boring as possible. I wouldn't recognize this guy from a hundred others I've seen on the street. Still, I get no reaction. These fucking assholes are like robots or some shit. “Naomi's in there!” I point back at the door, at the metal detector. The man keeps staring at me with his plain brown eyes, scratches at the stubble on his chin.

  “What do you want me to do about it? The boss warned you, didn't he? I can't go in there anymore than you can.”

  “FUCK!” I scream, picking up the man's phone and tossing it as hard as I can against the opposite wall. Great. Now I get the attention of the prison guards.

  “Sir!” One of them moves towards me, and I'm about three seconds away from trying to get an elbow in his throat, so I can run past him when I see Naomi stumbling towards me.

  Covered in blood.

  Covered. Head. To. Toe. In. Blood.

  “Naomi!” I'm stumbling forward, tripping over my own feet as I struggle to close the distance between us. My Rock Goddess's face is broken and desolate and there's a bandage running across her midsection. What the fuck? What the fucking fuck of all holy fucks? One of the guards stops me just outside the range of the metal detector and I'm forced to wait a painful few seconds for Naomi to get to me.

  My arms go around her shoulders, pulling her to me, pressing her blood covered body against mine. I lay my head atop Naomi's and squeeze as tight as I'm fucking able.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper against the sticky clumps of blonde hair pressed into my cheek. “Are you hurt?” It takes her a second to answer, but when she does, her voice is rough, like broken glass and gravel.

  “Not really,” she croaks and then pauses, taking a breath that I can feel reverberating against my own chest. When Naomi next speaks, she sounds a hell of a lot more in control of her emotions. “Not physically anyway.” One of the paramedics says something to her, but she waves him away, eyes shimmering with rage and confusion. “Don't fucking touch me. I'm fine.” The man holds up his gloved hands and takes a step back.

  “What happened?” I ask, but Naomi's already gritting her teeth and shaking her head.

  “Two suicides in as many days. This oughta been a fun fuckin' week. Can't wait for the concert on Friday. Cannot fucking wait.”

  There's not much that happened at the prison that Naomi can expound on, considering it was all on video. She gives her statement, cleans up best she can with a towel and storms out the doors like a tempest, fury radiating off of her body in waves of heat that threaten to knock me to my knees. Or bring my cock to attention.

  Aw, fuck, Turner, come on, man.

  I keep my libido in check – it's so inappropriate right now that even I'm aware of it – and sit across from Naomi, trying my best not to pepper her with questions. She's not keeping secrets; she's just waiting for the right moment to speak. Or maybe it's that she can't speak right now. I wouldn't blame her.

  Two suicides, two days, huh? It's like that fuckin' Christmas song, except instead of getting two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree, we're getting double suicide and an un-lubed dildo up the ass. I focus on that thought, puzzling things through my mind, just so I don't have to stare at all the blood crusted on Naomi's body. Fuck. But if it isn't killing me. I can't stand the sight. It brings back images of the bus, of those awful days when I thought she was really dead. Katie was the one that lead me to her then, and now she's dead, too. Like Hayden. Like Shannon and Chelsea. Like Trey nearly was.

  A pall settles over my shoulders, pushing my head down between my legs as I struggle to breathe. Not fair. So not fucking fair. I fought off my step-daddies and their wild fists, my fucked up bitch of a mother, threw off the trailer park, worked my ass off, just to see it end like this? Hell no. No. No freaking way.

  I sit up and stare at Naomi. Her gaze is on her belly button ring, sitting pure and pristine in her bloodied hand. I don't know why she's cupping the small, silver skull like that, staring into its tiny surface like it holds all the answers. Scares me a little though. Won't lie about that. I think she might be in shock, but at least we've got a medic on staff at the hotel. Yeah, so I might've fucked his wife once or twice, but I'm sure he won't take our grudge out on Naomi.

  “This shit's real, isn't it?” I ask her, even though I know that's a dumb freaking question to ask. How many times do I have to get hit over the head for it to really sink in? This game, this grudge, whatever it is, it's dead serious. Stephen Hammergren wants us all down and out for the count? It's going to happen unless we stop it. Yeah, so Hayden and Katie committed suicide – in two completely different ways, mind you, one of them being selfish and the other selfless – but that doesn't make it feel any less like murder to me. When Naomi doesn't answer me, doesn't even look up, I lean my head back against the metal wall of the van and close my eyes.

  Travis. I send up another prayer to my dead buddy. Tell me what I'm missing here man. What pieces of the puzzle have I overlooked? I know I'm an arrogant, fatheaded dumb shit, but I mean well. So come on. Please. Help me get through this.

  “It's real,” Naomi whispers, her voice as gritty as sandpaper across my eardrums, but in a good way. In a the next show I sing is going to blow your dick off sort of a way. “It's real fucking ugly.”

  When we get back to the hotel, the parking lot is packed to the gills with reporters.

  Surprise, surprise. If I had to make a bet, I'd say that whoever took that video of Naomi and me called the cavalry in.

  Naomi stares out the tinted windows in the back with an absent expression on her face that promises future violence to whoever crosses her path. Some people might think the shimmer in her eyes is a sign of tears, of weak
ness, of surrender, but I know better because Naomi and me, we're cut from the same cloth.

  From the front seat, I can hear Brayden's people mumbling into their phones, figuring out the best way to get us inside. The last thing any of us want right now is a shot of Naomi soaked in dried blood on every fucking website in existence. I'll admit, I thought at first that the fame and the notoriety would make it all worth it in the end, but if it comes at any cost to Naomi, that shit can go fuck itself. The sex tape was a whole different animal, baby. I mean, who really cares if the world wants to immortalize a sex god and goddess? But this … I can see the snarl building around Naomi's lips. She's like, this fucking close to going rogue and hunting down Stephen Hammergren and all of his cronies in a pair of baggy camo pants and a black bra, AK-47 held menacingly by her side. While that thought is admittedly kind of hot, I can't wish for her pain to be immortalized for all the world to see. Not cool.

  “We're going to move you two to a nearby hotel,” the Amazon woman says, staring intently at Naomi's bloody face and not bothering to even glance over at me. I watch my woman carefully as her hands clamp down on the bench with a death grip.

  “I don't want to go to a different hotel. I need to speak to my friends, to America.” She bites her manager's name off on the end of a scowl. “You're the experts, get me inside. Who the fuck are all these people? Just camera crews and news reporters. Fuck them. Figure this out.” Wow. Now doesn't somebody sound like a real rock star? I can't fight a small smile, leaning forward and putting my elbows on my knees. “Don't say a word, Turner. Not one single word.” I don't normally take well to being ordered around, but I do it. For her. Just for her. God, you are such a chick, Turner.

  “Brayden's already made the arrangements,” the woman continues, obviously not grasping the severity of the situation. Naomi spins to face her, eyes flashing dangerously.

  “Brayden doesn't own me. Nobody does. He wants to threaten to shoot me? Fine. I'm not going to a different hotel. I want to go to this fucking hotel.”

  “The rest of your party will join us on the plane tomorrow morning, Miss Knox. I'm sorry, but this is really the only option.”

  “I don't think you're quite hearing what I have to say,” Naomi growls, her voice sending all sorts of hormones rocketing through my body. Holy mother of fuck. The animal in me wants the animal in her bad. If those guards weren't in the van with us, I'd grab her by the back of the neck and shove my tongue down her throat. My dick agrees wholeheartedly, checking to make sure my pants are still zipped up tight. Little fucker's already on his way to planning an escape. “Pull the van over. I'm tired of running. I'm in charge of my own life. If you can't come up with a plan, I'll make one for you. Unlock the doors. I'm walking inside.”

  Amazon Chick sighs and shakes her head as the van pulls out of the parking lot and turns the corner, pulling up in a space in front of a nearby restaurant. We're hidden from the mob by a thick hedge of green to our right, but I don't doubt that if we were to sit here long enough that the vultures would descend. I guess we're still pretending that Naomi and I are free souls that make our own decisions. Nobody Tasers us, ties us up and drags us where we need to go. Really fucking interesting, huh?

  “Just a minute.” Amazon Chick slides open her door and climbs out with one of the other guards. The door slams shut behind them and they disappear around the hedge. The other two guards sit in the front, pointedly ignoring us.

  “I can't believe Katie is dead,” Naomi whispers, shaking her head like she's just realized today actually happened. Most of the blood on her skin is dried and flaking, but her clothes are still wet, smearing red across the bench and the wall of the van. She was offered a change of clothes at the prison, but turned it down. Don't ask me why. I'm not even close to understanding this chick, and that's one of the things I love about her. No boring bitches. I should write a song about that shit. “Eric. Katie. Hayden.” Her voice drops a bit as she leans in close to me, closing the distance separating us. I keep my elbows on my knees and watch as her lips get so close I could fucking bite them if I wanted to. And oh, baby, believe me, I want to so bad I'm leaking pre-cum in my fucking chick pants that everyone makes fun of me for wearing. Sorry that I look so damn good in them. “The perfect trifecta, don't you think? The three people that shared my worst moment in history. All dead. Coincidence?”

  “I ain't no Ronnie,” I say because it's true – that fucker notices all the little details. “But I mean, we got two suicides and a murder from one of our victims. Stephen might've tried to fuck shit up, so things like that would happen, but he didn't put that gun to Hayden's head.”

  Naomi licks her lips, one of the only parts of her body that isn't covered in blood. Her orange-brown eyes cut straight through my brain, making me feel like I'm missing a crucial part of this puzzle. I can't fail my one woman though, so I squint my brows and think real, real hard about that.

  “Somebody filmed us and posted that sex tape. Somebody who also managed to get a hold of Jesse's tape. Somebody on the tour. Probably the same person that keeps tipping off the press. If those things weren't done by Hayden, then who?”

  I focus on the floor for a minute while I scramble around the facts that I do know inside my head. I look up and meet Naomi's eyes. The air in that van is so hot it could melt the panties off a nun. I feel like I'm getting it. But also like I don't want to get it.

  “Same person who had me threatened to keep me on the tour, but didn't stop me from leaving the hotel to go to Denny's, just to keep me complacent.” Naomi lowers her voice to a point that it's almost painful for me to listen to. This, also, makes me want to fuck the shit out of her. Don't ask why. I don't know. I'm a dude, I guess. It's kind of what we do. When she speaks again, I swear I can feel the words gliding across my face, beckoning me to reach out and take her by the upper arms, drag her a few inches closer. Naomi doesn't protest. “Same person who's feeding information into Brayden's ear, who's telling me that maybe we shouldn't have to go to another hotel if we don't want to.” I lick my own lips, mimicking Naomi's motion, my gaze stuck on her mouth. I cannot fucking look away. “That very same person who set me up to go to that prison, who gave permission for a background check, who got us on this tour, who's fucking full of fucking shit.”

  “America,” I say because I have instincts and Sydney has instincts and we both thought her Travis story was bullshit. Do I believe she really loved him? Sure, I do. Do I believe he loved her? Seems like he might've at some point. But something's not adding up. Something isn't right. This isn't just Stephen Hammergren versus America Harding, is it?

  “America,” Naomi confirms, and my self-control snaps. Our mouths collide as my fingers wrap around her waist, blood soaked clothes and all, and drag her to the floor, pinning her to the metal with my body. Naomi cringes a little as I put pressure on her belly. I still don't know how bad that cut is, but she won't let me stop and look. When I try to sit up and peel back the bandage, she wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my back.

  “If I knew this detective shit would get you to treat me like a Sherlock Holmes fangirl, I would've started a long fucking time ago.” I spare a momentary glance for the guards in the front seat, but they're either too professional to watch what we're doing or they just don't know how Goddamn lucky they are to see a sight as sweet as this.

  I don't know what Naomi's real motivation is right now, but frankly, I don't give a shit. If she wants to fuck to forget, then who am I to stop her? I drop my mouth back to hers, letting her breathe me in, suck my fucking spirit down her throat. My mind flashes me images of her in her shades, pounding the floor with her Wolfgang wrapped around her body like a second skin. The way her fingers move across the guitar strings only further encourages me to undo my pants, so she can wrap them around my cock. I groan as I free myself, feeling Naomi's grip tight and unyielding as she pumps me furiously, taking out some of that rage and frustration on my dick. And oh, fuck, but it feels so good.

  I
slide my hand down her blood soaked belly, past the bandage over her tattoo, and into her jeans. Naomi's more than ready for me, hot and wet and willing. Her legs spread wide, knees opening as I thrust three fingers in and feel her back arch beneath me.

  “Fucking assholes,” I hear someone mutter up front, but I'm too far gone to give a crap what they have to say. I'm a rock star, baby, and I'll do whatever I damn well please.

  “I'm going to fucking blow my load if you keep squeezing like that,” I growl at her as she bites my lip ring and pulls on it hard enough to hurt. The pain mixes with the pleasure, giving me goose bumps, as her hand slicks up my shaft and her body shudders beneath me with excitement. I slide my wet fingers out of her pussy and find her clit. Fuckin' A, she's as hard as I am. I slide my fingertips across her sweet spot and eat up the gasps that spill from her throat as she plays my dick like a Goddamn guitar, drawing notes from my throat the same way she does to her instrument. While my right hand works her body up into a crescendo, my left tangles in her bloody hair, pushing her head back as she drags her teeth down my tongue and catches them on my piercing, filling my mouth with the slightest hint of copper as it bleeds. “Fuck,” I grunt, my muscles clenching tight as my body tries to bring Naomi's guitar solo to an abrupt ending. Musician that she is, she knows when to stop, when to let the beat work itself back up. Can't give the crowd the whole show all at once, huh?