“What is it exactly that you suspect me of?”
Naomi sighs and rubs at the bridge of her nose in frustration. Her eye makeup catches my attention, the silver sparkles in the smoky black. It's like looking at a fucking galaxy. I'd like to dock my spaceship there and get lost forever.
“I am sick to death of this fuckin' shit. America,” Naomi looks up at her manager, “You basically admitted to siccing the press on me and Turner.” I look between the two of them and then over at Brayden who's now apparently glued to America's side. What the fuck is his story? Acting all jovial, cracking jokes, and then waving his gun around like he's fucking Clint Eastwood or some shit.
“You fail to realize the severity of the situation, Naomi. You either listen to me or you die. And don't get into a fuss about our little discussion the other day. Brayden knows that if you run, it's shoot to maim, not murder.”
Naomi purses her lips and America waves her hand dismissively.
“It was a joke, Naomi.”
“Not laughing here, America.” Naomi takes a step forward and my eyes flick to Brayden, but he doesn't look like he's going to intervene. When he sees me staring at him, he smiles with his pale lips and the skin at the corners of his green eyes crinkles. What a crock. “You're doing your best to give me the illusion of freedom while at the same time keeping me prisoner here. Why? What do you want from me?”
“I want you to sing, Naomi. I want you to perform. I want you to be a success.” America rises to her feet like the discussion is over. It's far from done. I can tell by the set of Naomi's mouth that our plans have taken a slight detour. This isn't just about getting out of the hotel anymore. This right here is an interrogation.
“Don't walk away from me!” Naomi screams, her jaw clenching tight, her back going ramrod straight with frustration. “Why? That's all I want to know. You tell me that and tomorrow, I will get up on that stage and I will sing the fuck out of that concert.” Naomi points her finger at America. “But if I die, if Stephen or Tyler or whatever the fuck that asshole's name is, if he manages to kill me, I'll haunt your fucking soul for the rest of eternity. You won't be able to be reborn without seeing my face. You won't even get to suffer in hell without listening to my laugh. That's a promise. Do you understand me?”
America rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. Naomi mimics the post, propping up her breasts and emphasizing the bright color of the broken heart tattoo on her chest. Somewhere under those jeans, she's got my name branded in ink. That thought keeps me centered, keeps my fat ass mouth shut when I'd rather be cracking sarcastic comments. If I'm going to be with this girl forever, I've got to figure out how to step aside from that leading role a good fifty percent of the time. I know she'll expect nothing less and neither will I. Equals. We're fucking equals. I take a step forward, too, standing next to Naomi and hoping to fuck that my presence helps her in some way.
“I don't know what Stephen's planning for tomorrow, Naomi. If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here drowning my common sense with cheap liquor.” America glances over at Brayden, but he doesn't move, doesn't say a damn thing. His shirt's pissing me the fuck off. Just looking at it bothers me. When Irish Eyes are Smiling, they're Usually up to Something. I scowl at the message on the shirt and look back at America. “Here's what I can tell you. Stephen murdered Travis. I loved Travis. I'm on your side. That's all that matters.”
“You've got a fucked up way of showing your loyalty, bitch.” The words escape my mouth before I can bite them back. “If you were really on our side, on Travis' side, then you'd know he wouldn't want this for any of us.”
“Travis is dead. I accept that. I also accept the fact that I'm in a war and in war, there are sacrifices that have to be made.” America pauses. “Hayden for example. She did what had to be done, just like Katie.” America's eyes flash with some emotion that is way beyond me. This chick is fucking nuts. “When something you care about is in jeopardy, you take the erroneous inconsistencies in your life and you eliminate them.”
My fingers curl into fists, and my body temperature heats up with a righteous anger echoed in the trembling of Naomi's shoulders. Did America just admit to setting up those suicides? How the fuck?
“I found you by accident, Naomi. I found Amatory Riot by accident, but it worked out, as all things should. If Stephen hadn't adopted that little girl, I wouldn't have tracked Hayden down and discovered this … this opportunity that was so crucial to getting back what I had lost. I'm honoring Travis here. I'm doing the best I can to protect both bands, Indecency and Amatory Riot. Travis' legacy and my legacy. I'm sorry that the past is getting embroiled in the future, but it doesn't matter. It won't matter. I have Stephen's company by the balls, I have a man by my side that knows the price of failure, and we have the music.”
America steps forward, moving so close to Naomi that they could fucking tongue each other if they wanted. I'd like to wrap my hands around her throat, but I'm not going to. I'm going to stand here and listen to this shit and take it in, and then I'm going to drag Naomi away and we're going to forget all of it. Just for a night. Just until tomorrow. Tomorrow. Fuck.
“Stephen will show up at that concert tomorrow because he likes theatrics and he wants to see me fail. He wants to punish me for falling in love with a man who didn't love me back.” America's breath comes faster and heavier, like she's struggling to pull air into her lungs. “Travis and I … Right before he died, he left me. He didn't want me.” America's teeth clench tight and the veins in her forehead stand at stark attention. “But he wanted our son.”
“Your … son?” Oh shit. Mind fuck. Serious mind fuck. I think my brain's going to have a sore morning ahead of him. Bend over for fucking fate, baby.
“Our son, Tyler Rutledge Gaborone. Cute, right, for Stephen to use his name as a pseudonym to feed to his cronies? He has him and I'm going to get him back. Tomorrow. I thought if I took his company away from him, that'd be enough, but it's not. It won't ever be enough. Not until all the loose ends are taken care of, the bloody stumps of broken pasts wrapped up and thrown away, not until I succeed where he never could.”
America leans in and breathes against Naomi's hair, stirring it against her cheek. Her lips brush Naomi's earlobe.
“I'm not just satisfied with winning anymore, not after what he's put me through. I'm going to take his power, his money, I'm going to show him that Spin Fast Music Group doesn't own the world, and I'm going to kill him. Him, and his entire fucking family. Just the way he did mine. See, everything works out in the end. I leak your sex tape, you get more popular, I get closer to my goal. I get rid of Hayden and Katie for you, there's nobody left to torture you with. You're my perfect, little rock star Barbie doll, Naomi. I'll put you where I put you, and you'll do what I say. You cooperate and we all win. We all fucking win.”
And then it all comes crashing into place. Things start to click, to make sense even in their absurdity. All I can do is stand there and think about my friend and his stupid fucking baseball caps and the way he took care of everyone around him the best way he knew how. Even in death, he's listening to my prayers.
Bingo, Travis.
“Hey,” Turner says, leaning his shoulder into me as we walk down the sidewalk with two of Brayden's men at our backs and two more blending in with the dirty gloom up ahead of us. That female guard's up there somewhere, arm in arm with a man several inches shorter than I am, pretending to be a couple or some shit. Our protection for the night. Our jail keepers. “At least your plan worked, right? She let us go.”
“She knows we'll come back.” My voice is harsh, grating, almost as rough as the filthy concrete beneath my high heels. I keep my words low, just loud enough for Turner to hear. It's not that I really give a shit if anyone else hears us, it's just that I'm well aware of the fact that if I speak any louder, those words will turn into a scream of defiant rage. You're my perfect, little rock star Barbie doll, Naomi. I bite my lower lip so hard it bleeds.
My manager ess
entially just admitted to setting Hayden and Katie off. I don't know how she did it, but if anyone's capable of that kind of manipulation, it'd be her. I see their blood as being on her hands, and I won't forget it. Not even for a second.
I'm tempted to pull away from Turner, take some of my frustration out on him, but I don't. I force myself to try a different technique¸ one that's never been available to me before. I'm going to ask for help to get through this. I'm going to let him take some of this strain, and we're going to share it together. Hopefully. Or that's the plan anyway. In the back of my mind, I consider that maybe this really is my last night on this earth. I don't know why. I guess I just have a really bad fucking feeling about what's going to happen at that concert. My legs start to itch and I have to fight the urge to take off running and never look back.
This isn't my fight. I don't know why I'm doing this. I don't fucking understand why so many people have to be involved in a dispute that only pertains to two. America and Stephen. And I thought Turner and I were the main characters in this story. That's fucking hilarious.
“That's true,” he says, but he doesn't push me any further. When I glance over at his face, the bright neon lights of the nearby club signs light him up like a Christmas tree. If I squint at him, the light limns his head like a halo. Angel. “But only because we know the truth. America and Stephen think this show is about them, but it's not. This is our concert, Naomi. Yours and mine.”
“I don't understand you when you talk like a normal human being.” The words slip from my mouth before I get the chance to stop them. But instead of being mad or throwing a snippy comment back at me, Turner just throws his head back and laughs until I can't stop my lips from quirking up into a small smile. A reluctant smile.
“What do you want me to say, Knox? That I like your style? That I think you're fuckin' fly?” Turner stops walking, grabbing my elbow to keep me standing next to him. The leather jacket I grabbed on the way out crinkles under his touch, his fingers caressing the fabric affectionately. I look away from his face, at the buildings around us, the traffic crawling by. I have no clue where we are right now. Turner just turned down Brayden's offer of an SUV and started walking. I presume he knows where he's going. He better. He's the one that promised me a good fucking time tonight.
“I don't know how to process what we just learned.”
Turner leans in close, his breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. Unconsciously, I reach inside my coat pocket and finger the condoms and the eight ball that I confiscated off the table before we left.
“That's okay, Knox. This is real life. Sometimes we don't get all the answers. It's what we do with what we know that fucking counts.” I catch sight of Brayden's people hanging out on the street corner up ahead, smoking cigarettes. They're not even looking this way, but I know they're watching, maybe even waiting for us to try something. I don't know what plan Turner's formulated for us to slip away, but I just don't see that happening. Doesn't matter anyway, I guess. I'm going to do what I want to do tonight, regardless of those assholes.
“Stop talking like that,” I tell him, pulling my arm from his grip. “You make too much sense that way. It pisses me off.” He laughs again and shakes his head, going for a box of cigarettes in his sweater pocket. The stupid fuck decided to wear an Amatory Riot sweatshirt unzipped over his Indecency T-shirt. Very subtle. I'm sure nobody will recognize. I take another look around, just to make sure we're not going to be swarmed again, but I guess America's decided we've had enough for one week. Nobody even glances our way. In the sulking shadows of evening, we're almost invisible here. There are a dozen girls with tattoos paired with a dozen boys with lip rings, all of them laughing and hanging off one another on the sidewalks outside the clubs. In the distance somewhere, I can hear the pounding beat of one Indecency's songs throbbing like a pulsing heart, ripped straight from the chest, nice and fresh and bloody.
Turner lights up a cigarette and hands it to me. I take it with a nod of thanks as he gets one for himself.
“Were you surprised?” I ask him, taking a drag and watching as he scans the street, looking around at the unfamiliar landscape. Well, to me it's unfamiliar. Turner says he's a fucking expert on the nightlife scene around here. We'll see about that. “By anything we learned. Did it surprise you?”
“Nah. This story is fucked six ways to Sunday. Almost makes me miss the trailer park.” He grins, and I return the smile, mesmerized by the way the smoke curls in and out of his lip rings. Knowing him, he probably plans it that way. I don't know how, but if there's anyone on this planet that can figure out how to manipulate smoke into making himself more attractive, it's Turner. I try to one-up him by blowing a smoke ring in his face. It's dark out, so I'm not sure, but I'm fairly positive I saw his pupils dilate in response. A quick glance down tells me that's not the only part of his body that thickened up at the sight.
I smirk and take a step back.
“It is our show, isn't it? Even if they're trying to use it as a massive chess board. I'm nobody's fucking pawn.”
“That's the spirit,” Turner growls, holding out his arm for me. After a moment of hesitation, I take it. For the first time in a while, I feel like I finally understand the rules of this game. When my turn next rolls around, I'm going to make sure everybody's aware of that.
Turner takes us to this place called Slick's. It's a ratty ass little bar with a small stage in the front, currently occupied by a couple dozen drunk coeds, shaking their tits and sloshing bright blue drinks down the front of their dresses. The clientele in here consists primarily of kids so green behind the fucking ears, they don't even know how to set up a tab at the bar. I watch in barely veiled disgust as a blonde in a pink halter top yells at the bartender for taking her credit card away.
“Turner, this isn't exactly what I had in mind when you said you were taking me out.” I'm not trying to sound like a bitch. I'm just a little … underwhelmed.
“Ah, Knox. Come on. You're killin' me smalls.” He nods his chin at some tables in the back, bypassing the bar completely. If we're going to be in here for any extended period of time, I want a fucking drink. Or ten.
Turner guides us around the crowd of people dancing in the center of the room, shaking their shit to some annoying hip hop tune that I've never heard before. My tastes run in a slightly different direction. For example, rock 'n' roll, rock 'n' roll, and rock 'n' roll. I'm cool with the lack of variety.
Turner pauses in the back, next to a black curtain. After slipping the man standing nearby a wad of cash, we pass through and into a different room. All the while, my gaze is whipping around, just waiting for somebody to notice us, to start snapping photos while squealing like a stuck pig. A few gazes shift our way but nobody gets up. Outside, I could believe we were hidden in the shadows, obscured by the lights of traffic and the general gathering of people from the wrong side of the fucking tracks. In here? Sure, it's smoky and the lighting's a little dim, but there's no mistaking Turner's swagger as he leads us over to a spot in the corner.
The booth's tucked in the back, with tall, leather seats and a small round table outfitted with a Reserved sign and a silver tray decorated with alcohol. I watch as Turner scoots into the booth with a sigh and leans his head back.
“Bottle service, huh?” I say, still slightly confused at his venue of choice. You know what, Naomi. Shut the fuck up. Just be glad you're out of that Goddamn hotel and away from America and her tangled up shit. A child. A kid. Another fucking one. Seems like we all have some intense baggage hanging off our asses. I pause next to the table and look around for our bodyguards. For a moment there, I wonder if they're just going to wait outside the black curtain for us. Of course, that wishful thinking is crushed a moment later when the female guard and her faux lover enter the room. There's a second bar in here and they take a seat there. Guess they don't have bottle service.
I turn back to Turner and let America's words flicker through my mind one more time before I push
them away. On the tail end of that, I get a nice, clear shot of Katie's face smiling as she choked on her own blood. What, exactly, America did to convince two people to take their own lives, I don't know, but that's scary. Terrifying, actually. But if I let myself get overwhelmed, I'll be useless. At this point, I don't even really care what the story is behind all of this bullshit, I'm just going to take care of it. I refuse to think about my plan for tomorrow, letting it formulate in the back of my brain as I slip off my jacket and take a seat across from Turner.
He's got this smirk on his face that both flusters and infuriates me. What a smug fucking asshole. He watches me watching him for a moment before lifting his hand and signaling an employee over. The woman doesn't even give him a second glance, just appears like magic at our sides. She's not fawning over Turner, I think, leaning back and looking at her like she's crazy.
“Vodka and Red Bull, please,” he says, waiting for the woman to mix us up our drinks and back away. I take my glass in tentative fingers and slide it across the table, giving Turner a raised eyebrow and a look. He tips back his drink and I watch hungrily as his throat moves while he swallows. My gaze moves down, finding the slightest peek of tattoos trying to climb out the top of his shirt. But just because he's pretty doesn't mean I'm not suspicious.
I cast a glance around the room, fully aware that I'm on high alert mode. Maybe I have been for a while now and just haven't realized it? It's exhausting. I toss my own drink back and wrinkle my nose at the taste. Just because I can hold my fucking liquor doesn't mean I have to like it.
“These bitches will keep us up all night with energy to spare,” Turner says, grabbing a vodka bottle off the tray and mixing up his own drink this time. “Even if they do give us fucking heart attacks. At least I'll die happy knowing I'm going out with you at my side.”
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