Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  “Do you trust these fuckers?” Turner asks, shoving his sweatpants down his hips and flashing me some white and red plaid boxers and an old bandage wrapped around his thigh. Turner yanks the gauze back and stares at the bullet wound, poking at the shiny pink edges with his fingernail. It looks like it's on its way to being healed, but he still cringes when he touches it.

  “Not really, no. But if there's a chance, even just a slim one, that Naomi could get through this without having to stand trial for murder, wouldn't you take it? Brayden obviously has connections and even though I personally think he blows dick at security detail, I believe he has the ability to help clean up this mess. Why he's even bothering with America gone is beyond me, but can we give it two more days?” My friend grunts but keeps his attention focused on the wound in his leg. Maybe, like me, he's comparing that wound to whatever happened to those girls, magnifying the pain in his head, trying to imagine what it'd be like to take one through the torso.

  “Fine. Two days, and then I am fucking out of here. Even another forty-eight hours jammed in here with you sounds like hell.” Turner scowls at me, swiping a tattooed hand through his hair before standing up and fixing his pants. “Nothing to fucking do in here except jack off and watch sitcom reruns.”

  “What fresh hell is this?” I ask him with a slight smile as he moves away and tries to look out the window. It's so grimy and the bars on the outside so thick that there's really nothing to see. As far as I know, we might not even be in L.A. anymore. On the ride over here, we were both so out of it that I don't think either of us even remembers leaving the van and tromping into the elevator.

  “When we get out of here, I'm buying an ostentatious house in Malibu or Santa Monica or something.” Turner pats down his pockets looking for cigarettes and comes up empty. We've been bumming the occasional smoke off the guards, but for whatever reason, they refuse to just go out and buy us a fucking pack. With a sigh, Turner stops searching and leans his forehead against the window. “Something that costs an arm and a leg, with a dozen bedrooms, and a fucking bowling alley. We'll all move in, have one big Indecency crash pad.” He turns to look at me and I raise an eyebrow. “Naomi and I will start a family, and we'll get custody of your forty-nine children.” When he closes his brown eyes, I can see that the fear is still there, but there's also a glimmer of hope.

  We're going to make it through this.

  What the other side will bring, I have no fucking idea.

  Two days later and Brayden Ryker still hasn't shown up. Turner and I have both finally hit our breaking point and are gearing up to go. I shower, fix my hair and don some eyeliner, snatch some shades and dress in a black Indecency shirt and some jeans – brand new ones that Milo snuck into my bag at some point. First thing we're doing when we walk out of here, hitting the hospital. I have to look good for Lola.

  “I see you've hit the end of the line with your patience,” Brayden says, slipping in the door and not bothering to close it behind him. In the hallway, I catch a glimpse of Jesse and my lips split into a grin. He gives me a thumbs-up and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe. “My apologies. I only expected to keep you here for t'ree days.” Turner wrinkles his nose at the man's accent and shakes his head, imitating the word three under his breath. Brayden shrugs and then moves aside, like that's it. When neither Turner nor I move, Brayden holds out a hand and gestures for us to go.

  “We're done here?” I ask, and he shrugs. “No explanation, no debriefing, just get the hell out and go?”

  “On the way to the hospital – where I presume you'd like to go – you'll get your stories straight. You saw what we say you saw and that's it. I did the best I could, to try to make up for the mess you were dragged into, but my reach only goes so far. America and Stephen might be dead, but that doesn't mean things are going to be easy. I'll be in touch.” Brayden scoots away and disappears down the hallway before I get out another question. I clench my teeth, but what am I gonna do? Chase the man down? His biceps are as big around as my fucking waist.

  Turner and I join Jesse in the hallway, pausing for an awkward moment of bro hugs, wherein I'm encouraged to show most of the affection since, you know, that's been designated as my job. Jesse runs a hand over his short hair with barely a grimace. When he first got it cut, just a single touch was enough to send him into a full blown man-trum. Looks like he's finally over losing his locks.

  “Where's Milo?” I ask, hitching my bag up on my shoulder and giving the guards at the end of the hallway a sideways glance. “And Trey?”

  “Waiting downstairs,” Jesse says with a sniffle, rubbing at the pinup tattoos on his arm. The buxom beauties stretch over his muscles with bright smiles and daring winks, scandalous lingerie and dresses that manage to hark back to an earlier era while simultaneously encouraging dirty thoughts. I never gave the tattoos much thought before, but now that I know Jesse's gay, I have to wonder if they're some sort of front for the world.

  “What do you know?” I ask as Turner shoulders past us and moves towards the elevators, scowling at the guards as they step aside and let us on. I ignore them, focusing on Jesse's brown eyes as he looks at me and shrugs.

  “Nothing I'm sure you haven't already figured out.” There's an awkward pause as the ratty elevators doors screech closed and I'm left wondering if we're even going to make it downstairs. The damn thing feels like a tin can on a string – only that'd be safer. There's a questionable stain on the orange carpet near my foot and the walls are so covered in old movie posters that it's impossible to see if there are actually any walls behind the curling bits of paper. Doesn't bother me much. Again, kind of used to this scene. Indecency spent a good couple of years living in exactly this sort of squalor, so we get it. At the time, it felt appropriate, especially after Asuka and Travis passed away, like I deserved the filth and the echoing screams from the rooms next door. “Was that really Travis' son onstage?”

  “That was so fucking him,” Turner says, still growling and snapping at everyone in sight. Apparently, being set free hasn't cooled his rage. Nothing will, I don't think, until he gets a chance to see Naomi. “The long arms, the freckles on the back of his neck, the way his lower lip curved up in the center, like an upside down bow tie. Call me a bitch or whatever for getting all poetic, I don't care, but I know my best Goddamn friend's sperm when I see it.”

  “That's … disturbing, to say the least,” I tell Turner, but I'm only trying to cheer him up again. It's not a role I'm used to, but it feels like a role I was born for. Come to think of it, I guess in bits and pieces, I've been doing this all along. Only, when I was lecturing or encouraging before, it was to keep people from ending up where I was, trying to stay lonely in my pit of misery and hell. Now, it's to elevate them up to where I've climbed. Big fucking difference. “Anyway, you're right. America and Travis really did have a child together apparently.” I purse my lips, thinking of the poor kid. After what he just went through, he's got to be traumatized beyond belief. And now both his parents are dead. Who gets custody? “I wish we could raise him,” I say absently, but I know that's a pipe dream if I've ever heard one. The courts would never grant custody of a child to any of us – and that includes me. If either Lydia or Phoebe's families challenge me in court, I will lose the legal custody I now have over them. Of that, I'm sure. I need to make nice with them and soon, before the fact that my name is printed on the birth certificates becomes less than enough for me to keep my daughters.

  I grit my teeth.

  Ever hear the phrase full plate? Well, my plate isn't just full but overflowing. It's like fucking Thanksgiving up in here.

  “Would you like a ride to the hospital?” one of the guards asks. I've been desperately trying to tell them apart, but they're all average height, average build, brunette, nothing remarkable to take note of. I'm sure Brayden didn't arrange his team like that by accident.

  “Nah,” Turner says, holding up his hands and spinning away from the guards. He backs out of the elevat
or, shaking his head. “I think you've done enough,” he whispers roughly, and then he's turning and tearing down the hall towards Milo, holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers. “Cell phone, now.”

  “Mr. Campbell,” Milo says, his voice beyond exhausted. The bags under his eyes now extend all the way down his cheeks, sagging across his face like bruises, and his blonde hair is wild and unkempt, not at all like I'm used to seeing. I think our manager might need a raise. He lifts his blue eyes away from Turner and focuses them on me with a slight ghost of a smile. “Mr. McGuire.”

  “Cell phone,” Turner repeats, his eyes closed, hand trembling. “Give it to me.” Milo sighs and basically tosses his phone at Turner, who's so obsessed with getting online and looking for news about Naomi that he doesn't even complain.

  “This feels weird,” I admit to Milo and he nods, running a hand down his face. His ivory colored tie is stained, and the white shirt underneath it drenched in sweat. His gray suit jacket is crooked and hanging loosely off one shoulder, giving him a lopsided appearance that makes me queasy. “Are you okay?” Our manager takes a deep breath, like he's really doing some soul searching in that split second of time we spend milling in the dirty hallway. I lick my lips and offer up a solution that I know is only fair, but which hurts nonetheless. “If you want to quit and walk away now, you can.” Milo snaps his gaze to mine and his pale blue eyes go wide. I keep talking before he gets a chance to protest. “You can have half of whatever I've made on this godforsaken tour. We've put you through too much.”

  Milo purses his lips.

  “I'm content with the contract we put in place at the start of this journey together and I'm determined to see it through.” Milo shakes his head and grabs onto the back of Trey's wheelchair. The groupies are gone, the entourage has dissipated, and it's just the five of us alone in a grubby hallway with nowhere to go, just like the olden days.

  “Milo,” I begin, but he's not done, his harsh voice snapping Trey out of his nap.

  “I have no family, Ronnie.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “I'm forty-five years old, and I have nobody and nothing. This is my life now, and as horrible and stressful as it might be, I enjoy it. You boys give me a purpose above and beyond a job description. If I leave, God only knows what'll happen to you. Stop offering to let me go as a favor. It would simply be a curse.” Milo sniffs and starts pushing the wheelchair towards the doors and out into the sunshine. It smells so fucking bad out here that I just know we're still in L.A.

  I pause on the pavement and stare at the white van sitting in front of the entrance. It's one of three cars in the parking lot. Considering the other two are missing their wheels and have no windows, my guess is that this beautiful baby belongs to Brayden's people.

  “Let me guess,” I say as I squeeze my fingers tight on my bag and let my gaze wander the mostly empty street. Across from us, there's an abandoned warehouse covered in graffiti. A block to my right, three guys with their pants hanging around their asses and cigarettes clutched between their fingers. They pass plastic baggies of goodies around while I try not to salivate. I need a hit so bad. So, so bad. “You are going to give us a courtesy lift to the hospital whether we like it or not?” I turn and glance over my shoulder at Brayden's men. The one on the right shrugs and I sigh.

  Oh well.

  Even though it feels like it's all over – the tour, the music, the drama – I'm not upset. There are no paparazzi here, no roadies trying to bum smack off me, it's almost … peaceful.

  Too bad we all know that shit ain't gonna last.

  Hospitals are weird. I decide after a couple of days that I don't much care for 'em. How can a place be both lonely and crowded at the same time? There are sour faced nurses everywhere and doctors who act like they've got better things to do, scowling at you when they think you're not looking and saying derogatory crap under their breath. Without even trying to get to know me, everyone here's assumed that because I'm involved in what's sure to be considered one of the most infamous tours in human history, that I must be a cunt. Or at the very least, a slutty little asshole as Nurse Dina refers to me.

  I lay on my back in the hospital bed, one hand thrown over my eyes as I pray away the sun and wish for rain. It would fit my mood better. Sitting in this sterile little room with no flowers and no company? It might as well be a jail cell. At least if I was in the big house though, I'd probably get better food. And maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to roll over onto my side.

  The door opens and I groan, expecting Nurse Dina again. That bitch is punctual. But I'm not ready for her yet. Next time she comes 'round, I'm gonna take a nice, long hot piss in the bedpan, so she has something to clean up.

  “Can't I have a moment of fucking peace?” I ask, pulling my arm away from my eyes and freezing as I catch sight of the person standing at the foot of my bed.

  My heart starts to pound and my head gets real dizzy, like I'm half-cut and already slamming my next drink. I have to swallow three times before I can speak.

  “Ronnie?” My head is pounding now, or maybe that's just my heart, echoing around inside my chest and ricocheting up to my skull. I promised I wasn't going to cry again, but the stupid tears start to fall anyway, and I suddenly can't think of anything but my sister and how her dead body must look, all stiff and splattered in blood. How am I supposed to tell my dad that his little girl is gone? Why the fuck didn't she stay in France making Camembert cheese for fuck's sake?

  “Don't cry, doll face,” he tells me and my heart flips, like a teenager girl getting a smile from the boy she likes. Such a small gesture can make a big difference when your life's as fucked as mine. I purse my lips together and let the tears fall as Ronnie makes his way around the end of the hospital bed and gathers me against his chest. I grunt at the pain in my side, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except for this. My fingers curl in Ronnie's T-shirt while the down under bits of me swear up and down that a little gunshot ain't enough to stop this train. I push back a completely inappropriate wash of hormones and bury my head in his chest, taking deep breaths to hold back the sobs. Ronnie tangles his hand in my hair, brushing the stray strands back from my forehead with his inked up fingers, the four purple hearts dancing dangerously across his skin. “I'm sorry about Poppet,” he whispers, and I nod, sniffling and trying to put on a brave face.

  “Me, too,” I reply, leaning back and trying to smile up his face. He's shaved for me, cleaned up real nice. There's a dash of eyeliner around his eyes and the faintest hint of dark circles, but Ronnie looks sober and oh so happy to see me. The gleam in his brown eyes warms as he bends down and presses his lips to my forehead, giving me the chills. The last boyfriend I had was Cohen Rose and he sure as shit didn't give me chaste kisses on my forehead. I was willing to die for this motherfucker right here, that's a big deal. I look away and try to wrap my emotions tighter around myself, before Ronnie can pick up on them. He's good at that crap, you know? I slide my eyes back to his, trying to keep my expression neutral. “But she made her choice, and I made mine.”

  We stare into one another's eyes for a moment before the door opens again and Turner Campbell stumbles in, slumping into the baby puke pink chair in the corner. His face is bare and empty, but not devastated. There's a big difference, like a concert venue that's been evacuated instead of burned down. Get the picture?

  “Naomi's still alive,” he whispers, his voice quivering like my hands as they sit idle in my lap. I force them to stay still and watch Ronnie's friend sink deeper into himself. “But she's not awake yet. They're not even sure if she is going to wake up. And they won't let me see her because I'm not fucking family,” Turner growls with a frustrated snarl, leaning over his knees and staring at the while linoleum floor beneath his boots. “Same situation as with Trey. Why don't people understand that fucking family isn't relegated to two parents and their kids. I hate this Goddamn shit.” He kicks out his leg and hits the little two seater table that's sitting empty in the middle of the room. It screeches a
cross the floor and slams into the wall before coming to a stop.

  “It sucks, Turner, I know, but Naomi is going to make it. Then you two can get married, and next time one of you gets shot at a concert, you'll have hospital privileges.” Ronnie tries to smile, but Turner's not having any of it, frowning and turning his attention to the empty wall.

  Ronnie looks back at me, and I stare into his face, wondering how we ended up here. It was a weird set of circumstances, I'll give you that.

  “You look beautiful,” he tells me and I snort.

  “What do you think this is, bush week?” I ask, and he gives me a weird look. Aw, nobody understands poor Lola Saints and her crazy arse little mouth. I'll admit, I've been known to make up a word or two in my day, but that shit right there is legit. “Never mind,” I say and Ronnie chuckles. “Let me translate for you: you're not fooling anyone with that shit. I look like roadkill, and I know it. These bitches won't let me do anything, not even get out of bed. They're making me piss in a bedpan. Yesterday, they tried to give me a sponge bath, but I spit in Nurse Dina's face. Now she won't even get me a cuppa and I'm jonesing for some caffeine.” I take Ronnie's hand in mine and give him a pleading look. “Get me a cup of coffee, will ya? Something that doesn't suck. No doubt you'll have to leave the hospital to get a hold of it. Everything in here is poison, I tell you. Poison.” Ronnie pulls me to his chest again and my body shivers. It's a lot easier to joke around than it is to stay serious.