“Why the hell is he waving a gun around?!” This from Josh. Okay, so I guess we're not all jaded. Little bitch boy still seems surprised.
“It's okay,” Milo says, herding us forward and up the steps of the airplane. My private airplane that I now have to share with those cum wads from Ice and Glass. Okay, okay, so the plane's a rental, but fuck, I still feel like I'm getting gypped in this scenario somehow. “I've got everything under control.”
“Like hell you do,” I say as I duck inside and find myself a seat near the front. “Getting bullied by America and the Brayden brigade just like everybody else.”
Milo gives me a pleading look from over Naomi's shoulder.
“I'm trying to take care of this band the best way I can,” he whispers, and I don't like how weak his voice sounds. Me, I'm still trying to fucking figure out when this happened, when he sunk all the way into this crap, right up to his fucking eyeballs. After the whole hospital scene with Stephen Hammergren, Milo acted like he was going to let the secrets lie and allow Brayden to handle things. Now it looks like he's being bullied into it. Fuck. Fuck. And fuck. I feel bad for Milo Terrabotti, I really, really do.
“I'm sitting next to Blair,” Naomi informs me, plopping down in the seat directly behind mine. I'm sure there's a frown permanently etched into my face now, but whatever. This whole day is already setting up to be a clusterfuck. I can't wait till we get back home. I don't care if I have to shoot somebody in the fucking face, Naomi and I are getting out of that hotel. We're going to party, remember what it feels like to be human, and then we're going to play this concert. Provided nobody else dies in the next forty-eight hours, I'm getting us out of this. For fucking real.
Milo moves into the back to sit near America – probably so she can slap him around a little more – while the rest of the band files in.
“Aw, man,” I bitch when two of Brayden's men set Trey's wheelchair down in the aisle next to me. “I have to sit next to the invalid?”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Trey rattles, cringing when one of the guys lifts him up and sets him down in the seat. A nurse follows in their wake, fretting over the tube in Trey's arm. To be honest though, I couldn't be happier to have him here with me. I thought he was going to die. That shit only reconfirmed what I'd already learned the hard way. Life. Sucks. The first chance that vampire bitch gets to jab her teeth in your throat and drain you dry, she will.
I decide to pull a Ronnie and touch Trey's shoulder, just for a second though. Jesse's the only person in this band that's going to get rainbow flags waved at him.
“I'm happy you're here, man. Seriously, thanks for not dying.”
“I hate you,” Trey tells me and that's as close as the two of us get to saying I love you, bro.
“You should. Considering I'm replacing you as lead guitarist for Indecency. That's Naomi's job now.” Trey groans and swats his nurse away, trying his best to look between the seats at my leading lady. I have no idea what kind of look she gives him, but when he turns back to me, he's smiling. I can tell he's still in pain, but if he can exchange insults with me, we're cool.
“We'll have to play a round of Guitar Hero or something. Winner takes all?”
“Sounds good to me,” Naomi says from behind me. For a split second there, it almost feels like this is all normal, that things aren't more tangled up than a game of erotic Twister. I sit up and look over the back of my seat at Naomi as she flips me off with a tight smile.
“Love you, too, babe,” I say and almost explode out of my seat when Josh scoffs from somewhere behind and to the left of me. Lucky for him, I get distracted by the sight of Cohen Rose. Lead singer of Ice and Glass. Mega fucking douche bag. I lick my lips and try to pretend that I don't even notice his ass. “Josh, if you make one more noise, I swear to God, you're going down.”
I glance surreptitiously over Trey and across the aisle at Ronnie and Lola. She's staring out the window, head turned away from the interior of the plane. Ronnie, though … shit. If some guy looked at me like that, I'd crap my pants.
“Hey Lola, baby. Been missin' you,” Cohen says, but she still doesn't turn to look at him. Me, I tighten my hands around the ends of my seatbelt and snap that bitch together, wishing it was Cohen Rose's head and a very hard fucking brick wall. Not that I really need to worry about him. Ronnie'll take care of that shit. I just gotta be there to back up my bro.
The man pauses, standing there, silhouetted against the light leaking in from outside. He still has a fuck ton of bruises on his face from when Ronnie beat the shit out of him, but they're starting to fade. Too bad. Might have to give those black and purple beauties a refresher. His crap brown eyes slide off of Lola and meet mine for a moment before flicking away.
“I sure hope there's a bar in our next hotel,” Sydney blurts suddenly, trying to lighten the mood. Good for her, but it's not going to happen. The knots of tension twisting in the air around us are damn near enough to strangle. The atmosphere on this plane is not something I'd wish on my worst enemy. There are so many dynamics at play that it's nauseating. I watch Cohen for a moment and then decide it's not worth it. I'm sick of staring at the ugly ass scratcher tats on his arm and lean my head back, closing my eyes and praying to Travis to show me the way. Tell me what I'm missing in America's story.
For once, I think that son of a bitch was actually listening to me.
Worst plane ride of my life. Private plane, same cramped seats, bitchy flight attendants, and poor company. God. When I get my next royalty check, I'm buying a fucking private jet. One with a bed so Naomi and I can fuck away the time, not sleep with my neck in a weird position and open my eyes to forced conversation that feels like it was scripted from a volume of Mad Libs.
“That was so frigging awkward,” Naomi says as she tosses her bag on the bed in our room and puts her hands on her face. “I know we've been through an inordinate amount of shit lately: tornadoes, kidnappings, dead women with babies, sniper shootings.” She pauses to sigh and laugh bitterly. “But I feel like it's all coming to a head. This blood blister's about to pop, isn't it?”
“I have no idea,” I tell her honestly. “I hope so.”
“Are we going to die at that concert tomorrow night?” Funny. That same thought had actually crossed my mind. I move over to Naomi and take her hands in my own. For once, she doesn't fight me. It feels nice, to stand like this, just me and her. Alone.
“I won't let anything happen to you.”
“Don't make promises you can't keep, Turner.” Naomi extracts her hands and runs her fingers through her hair. I know how she's feeling because I feel the same way. Trapped. What I wouldn't give to have my tour bus back, to go back to the lazy days of snorting coke and playing sold out shows in shitty underground venues. Sounds like heaven in a sea of hell. “I don't know why this is happening to us, but it's happening. You've heard what Lola had to say.” Naomi pauses and looks up at the ceiling, no doubt hearing Lola's words ringing in her ears like the worst kind of foreshadowing.
“And then, after everyone's been served their slice of shit, we're supposed to finish it with a cherry on top, the ultimate act that'll seal our deal as the next best thing in rock 'n' roll.”
“Huh,” I snort, unconvinced. “And how the hell are you supposed to do that?”
Lola looks me straight in the face when she says it.
“We're supposed to kill you.” Lola switches her attention to Naomi. “Both of you.”
I shake my head to clear the memory. Can't think about that. Can't think about how tomorrow night would be the perfect opportunity to make that happen. How epic for us to die together on that stage, right?
“I thought Brayden Ryker was here to help. I thought America actually gave a shit about us, that she wanted to protect Indecency because of Travis. What the fuck are we supposed to do when there's not one but two people working against us? People that have resources and influence we can't even fathom. How do we know that every move we make, every word we speak, hasn't been c
arefully planned out and calculated?” Naomi spins to face me, face hard and lips set in a determined line.
“We could run,” I tell her, and I mean it when I say it. Even if I lost my career, my money, everything, I would do it. “Tell the others we want to just fucking go. We could grab whatever we can withdraw from the ATM and then disappear.” I take a step towards Naomi, brushing my fingers across her bare upper arm. She's wearing another one of those cut up half-shirt things, but I don't mind. It means I get to spend all day staring at cleavage and soft flesh over sculpted abs.
For a moment there, it's completely silent. I don't think either of us even breathes. I don't know about her but for me, it's because I'm terrified. Terrified she's going to say yes, terrified that she isn't. I don't really want to go, neither of us does. There's a lot at stake here, and I'm not just talking about the music. If we did run, we'd have to take my friends with me. How the fuck are we going to sleuth around with a whole gaggle of easily identifiable rock stars? Besides, Trey's still hurt. It'd be almost impossible to move him quietly, especially with Brayden's people fucking everywhere. No, no, I don't want to run, but I would. For her. Naomi fucking Knox.
Good thing great minds think alike.
“I won't run,” Naomi states firmly. “We're owed a pound of flesh for Katie. Hayden. For Ronnie's family. Treyjan. And we deserve a fucking explanation, a reason why. I want the story, the whole story.”
I watch as she moves back over to the bed and unzips her duffel bag. When Naomi turns around, she has a small revolver clutched in her hands.
I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise. Huh. My chick's got a piece and she looks damn good with it. I won't lie and say my dick doesn't stiffen as I watch her wrap her fingers around the gun.
“Where'd you get that?” I ask. I feel like Naomi might've mentioned having a weapon before. Or might've used it on someone that deserved it. She looks at the gun in her hand, weighing it for a moment before putting it back in the duffel bag.
“It's Lola's. She smuggled it past Brayden's men by wrapping it in a T-shirt and sticking it inside Ronnie's bass drum. I don't think they'd even give a shit if they knew she did have it. It doesn't really matter, does it? One gun? Even if we all had guns. If you pull the weed out and leave the root, you're still fucked.” Naomi closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She's preparing herself for the worst. And she doesn't really believe that the gun will do much to help her. That freaks me out a little.
“It'll be okay,” I say, taking a step back as Naomi turns around and looks at me. That protective urge wraps around my chest and holds me tight. I can feel the adrenaline pumping to my muscles, preparing me for whatever shit might get thrown our way. “I'll take care of you, Naomi. I promise.”
She laughs and shakes her head, sitting on the edge of the bed with a small half-smile.
“Don't make promises you can't keep, Turner Dakota Campbell.”
“This is not a last hurrah,” I tell Naomi as I straighten up from the mirror and smirk at my own reflection. Oh yeah, a little eyeliner goes a long way on a dude. Fuck man, I got Bambi eyes now. See how many women can resist that. I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Naomi's bare back as she unclasps her bra.
Oh shit.
I reach down and adjust my junk. I get to start the night off with a fucking hard-on. Always a good sign. My dick's like my lucky charm or some shit. All I have to do is rub the magic lamp and see if I get my wish granted.
“Maybe not, but I have the right to act like an emo bitch – as you so lovingly put it – every once in a while.” I smile. If Naomi's attempting to joke around with me, that means she's feeling at least a little bit better, right? Well. Doesn't matter. After I take her out, show her the sweet little nightmare that is Los Angeles, she'll relax. We just need to step away from this shit for a moment, that's it. Neither of us is going to die tomorrow. I won't let that happen. Like you prevented Trey from getting shot? I shake my head and drag my eyes away from the smooth curve of Naomi's back. It's like a crescent moon or something, long and lean and curvy. Under her skin, I can see the slight ripple of muscle that promises this is no anorexic stick figure bitch. Naomi Knox got body, baby.
I turn my attention back to the mirror and set the eyeliner down on the counter. I ruffle my black hair with my fingers, making sure I give it some attention but not too much. That's the difference between looking like a Goddamn rock star and looking like … well, like Jesse. You know, rainbow flags and all that. Not that he isn't fabulous, just sayin'.
I flick my tongue stud against one of my silver lip rings, put the black plugs back in my ears, and straighten out my red Indecency T-shirt. I know, kind of ballsy to wear my own band's tee out when I'm trying to blend in, but screw it. The white goat's head stares back at me from the two X's in its face, tongue lolling. I flip it the bird and kiss the tip of my finger. I feel good, more like myself. Naomi and me, we shouldn't have to worry about murderers and suicides and redheaded ginger fucks like Brayden Ryker. We've finally climbed out of the cesspool pits that made up our childhoods and we're young, successful. We deserve this.
I move back into the room, slightly disappointed that Naomi's got on a new bra – a red one that makes me really want to consider changing this night out into a night in – and is in the process of pulling on a purple T-shirt with a deep V in the front. The edges are all raggedy, like maybe she took a pair of scissors to the hem and the sleeves. This girl's really got a thing for sharp objects.
I grin when her gaze swings back to me and locks in on the space above my jeans. I'm fully aware that I've got, like, a two inch rise on these babies, just enough room to lock in the good stuff, if you know what I mean. Wearing lady pants like this also serves to leave this gap between the bottom of my T-shirt and my jeans. I know what I've got down there and I'm not afraid to show it.
I trace my fingers along the spider web tattoos peeking up above my waistband. Naomi's eyes follow the movement for a moment before flicking up abruptly to my face. She smiles, but it's not quite right, too tight, too strained around the edges.
“Is this really a good idea?” she asks, withdrawing a plastic bag from her duffel bag. She opens it and pulls out some leather bracelets, strapping them on her arms as I watch carefully, taking in her movements, the way her fingers press the clasps together with a restrained strength. This might sound weird, but I like watching her get dressed, put her jewelry on, her makeup. I've never had that before, not with anyone. My mother sure as shit didn't take care of herself, didn't give a shit if she'd been wearing the same sweatpants for two weeks or a month, if she smelled like vomit and desperation. I've never had a girlfriend either. I fuck chicks and then I leave them, that's it. My mornings with women consist of smiling sweetly and shoving them off on Milo with a backstage pass, so they don't cry foul. This, this is so much better.
“I don't know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe. Maybe not. Are we going to do it anyway?”
Naomi adjusts the three black belts she has wrapped loosely around her waist. They're not even stuck through the loops on her pants, just draped there like more jewelry. All of them black, leather, studded. God, I love her style.
She squints her eyes for a moment and then moves over to a pair of black high heels with rictus grins spread across the front of the toes.
“You know what,” Naomi says as she steps up into them. I try not to drool when she lifts her left leg up and reaches back to adjust her shoe. She stares up at me from behind a curtain of gorgeous blonde hair. “Fuck it. Let's get trashed. If this really is our last night on earth, I'm going out with a bang.”
“I'm going out,” Naomi tells America, standing in the downstairs bar of the hotel with her eyes glistening. Wet. They're still wet, a desert in the throes of a monsoon. Coming back to life, blossoming, morphing, healing. I grin and bite my lower lip, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my pants. I was planning on ditching our security detail before we left the hotel, but this works even better, I think. Fucker
s. They'll be lucky if they see us again before morning. Our phones are getting dropped in a trash can first chance we get. If Brayden really is tracking us, he can follow the signals to one of L.A.'s worst neighborhoods and dig that crap out of the refuse. Enjoy the used needles and vomit, asshole.
America takes another sip of her scotch and glances over her shoulder like she could give a shit less. She's changed out of the ugly ass suit she was wearing earlier, but I'd still peg her as a power bitch in that black blouse and gray slacks. Her mouth is slathered with a lipstick pale enough to match her skin. I wonder when she last got laid. Can't be often with that sour fucking expression she has stretched across her face.
“Hmm.” That's all she says before turning back and finishing her drink, slamming the glass down on the polished wood of the bar top. “If I didn't smell a scheme brewing, Naomi, I wouldn't have a problem with it. As things stand, you've been less than cooperative.”
“And you've been a royal cunt and a Goddamn liar. What did you want me to glean from visiting Katie? That her and Eric had a child together, that Stephen legally adopted the baby. Why did you set that visit up, America? Did you know Katie was planning on killing herself?”
“How the fuck would I have known that?!” America screams, throwing her glass at the back of the bar. Bottles shatter and glass and alcohol spills to the floor in a gleaming amber waterfall. The bartender stares at the scene like she can't quite believe what she's seeing, before giving in and dropping to her knees to start cleaning up the mess. Somebody's been paid to keep our group happy at all costs.
Naomi's manager – Travis's supposed lover – turns around on her stool and crosses her legs at the knee. Her pants are so sharply creased that they give the illusion that her legs are seamed right down the middle. America folds her hands over her knees and stares with a banal expression at odds with her rigid posture. Travis, come on. Give me something here. This woman is a bitch, and she deserves a good cunt punt for threatening Naomi, but if you loved her, I'll make sure she sees it out of this mess okay. I really will, brother. Just for you. But you gotta help me out here.
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