Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  I must not stay that way for long though because when I wake up, there's a cart next to the bed with silver trays that are still warm when I reach out and touch them. Ronnie's disappeared, but the TV's on, some stupid reality show playing. I sit up and wrap my arms around my chest, staring at the flickering colors with blurry eyes and a yawn. There's a bloke on there wearing high heels and traipsing down a runway. Perfect. This is exactly the sort of mindless shit that I love. Nothing dulls the mind better than a healthy dose of 'reality' TV.

  I scoot towards the edge of the bed and moan when I swing my feet onto the floor. Getting shot blows some seriously fat donkey dick. Not gonna lie about that one. I touch a hand to my dress and force back the memory of Poppet's face staring back at me. She didn't have to shoot me. She could've dropped that kid's shirt and backed away, held up her hands and said she was sorry. We could've moved on together. I close my eyes against the thought that someday very soon, I'm going to have to call my father. He might already know. Hell, he must because nobody's contacted me about funeral preparations.

  I open my eyes at the sound of the bathroom door and look up to find Ronnie, freshly showered and shirtless. A thrill goes through my body at the lean muscles in his chest and stomach, the thickness of his shoulders and biceps. I can even see a hint of that lily tattoo of his sticking up above the waistband of his black sweats. Brightly colored ink trails down his neck, the snakes' tails wrapping around roses that spill down his side in crimson color. I feel a serious lady boner coming on.

  “Well hello, Ronnie,” I say and he snorts, moving across the room with the soft whisper of bare feet. He pauses on the other side of the cart and smiles down at me, wet hair hanging in his face. With a brush of his wrist, he pushes it all back and shows me those eyes I love so much.

  “I love your accent,” he tells me and it's my turn to laugh.

  “No, I love your accent,” I say as I both thank and curse the heavens for this damn cart. If it wasn't here, I'd be dragging him down on top of me, crushing our mouths together, reaching into his pants to find his cock. But then I'd probably be getting a real nasty reminder that I got myself shot last week. I settle for licking my lips and shaking my head in disgust. “You're not allowed to look that fucking hot when I'm this Goddamn injured.” I watch as Ronnie removes one of the lids and reveals a hamburger and some hot chips – sorry, French fries. “Holy fuck, that looks brilliant. Gimme a damn bite before I pee myself.” With another laugh, Ronnie lifts the plate up with one hand and pushes the cart to the side with the other, helping me climb back into bed and setting the food on my lap. He gives me another one of those confusing forehead kisses, the ones that feel too gentle to be real, and I find my heart catching in my throat.

  “Did I miss anything?” I ask and Ronnie shakes his head, grabbing his own plate and coming to sit next to me. I watch as he slathers his entire plate in ketchup, and I wrinkle my nose. I don't touch the stuff. But I like this, this simple act that tells me something banal about Ronnie. I want to know every boring detail about him – what types of books he likes to read, if he enjoys crappy reality television as much as I do, if he's ever had a real meat pie. He catches me staring as he puts the cap back on the bottle and smiles.

  “Turner got a noise complaint filed on him about an hour ago. He had to call and tell me all about it. Also, while you were asleep, Milo dropped off some new phones and some of our personal items. That's about it.” Ronnie shrugs as I take a bite of my burger and cringe at the sweetness of the bun.

  “Jesus Christ, that shit tastes like fairy floss.” Ronnie nearly spits his food out as he laughs at me, trying desperately to maintain some sort of dignity as he sits there and covers his mouth with his hand.

  “Sorry. You were asleep, but I wanted to make sure you had something to eat when you woke up.” I smile back at him and take another bite of my burger, tossing him a wink as I swallow. Wish I was swallowing something else, if you know what I mean. I wonder if getting settled here won't be a good thing? Maybe Ronnie can finally get that fucking STD test he's so paranoid about. Lucky me, I got my blood work done at the hospital and I'm all clean. I wonder what's the best way to bring that shit up?

  “I appreciate it, really I do. You can't help that your country puts sugar in every single fucking food item, and I can't help that I love Vegemite on toast. It's just the way things fucking are.”

  “Please tell me you also had a pet kangaroo growing up. That'd make my day.” My turn to laugh and spit bits of hamburger out on my plate. My side aches in protest and I have to clamp down on the emotion as I glare at Ronnie and try not to smile. My sister is dead; I killed somebody. A second somebody to be exact. I shouldn't be sitting here laughing, but I can't seem to help myself. I genuinely like this guy.

  “I had a couple of budgies and a rainbow lorikeet, but no kangaroos. Sorry to burst your bubble. What about you? You grew up in Los Angeles, so you must've lived next to a movie star, preferably one who starred in action thrillers and toted shotguns around in their Hummer, painted a brilliant red, white, and blue, of course.”

  “Actually,” Ronnie says, leaning back against the headboard and poking at his food with a finger. “We did live next to a guy who owned a Hummer. Unfortunately, it didn't have an American flag painted on it, but it was pretty ostentatious. I think hummer is a word better reserved for the bedroom.” We exchange a look that heats up the room in an instant, and I sigh, setting my leftover burger back on the plate.

  “I want to fuck,” I admit and Ronnie laughs again. I like that I can make him smile so easily. Hopefully this is a skill that'll last. I want whatever this is between us to be something that really matters. “But I guess having you humping away at me would be pretty painful right now.”

  “Guess so,” Ronnie admits, sounding at least as desperate as I feel. He reaches over and grabs my plate, stacking it on top of his and setting it on the floor. “So no humping, but … ” He trails off and I take a deep breath as his gaze travels down low, coming to rest right on my snatch. Oh yeah, baby. “I don't know, maybe if we're gentle, a good orgasm could aid in the healing process?” I swallow hard.

  “I think so,” I whisper as he reaches over and turns off the light. The flickering of the TV is the only source now, a bright wash of color that highlights the tattoos on Ronnie's neck and side, his arms, his hand. So much ink to explore. I haven't gotten a single proper moment to really trace it out. I'd like to. I really, really would. I lean back and spread my legs, sighing as Ronnie scoots between them and pushes the jersey dress out of the way. The black fabric bunches around my hips as he takes hold of my panties and strips them off, tossing them to the floor unceremoniously.

  Without hesitation, he gets comfy, lying out flat on the bed, legs dangling off the end as he finds a good spot, breathing hot breath against my body. I shiver as his fingers trail down my thighs, teasing me with the softest touch of flesh on flesh. I'd give anything to have him ram me with his hard cock, fill me up, make me scream while he shot his seed inside of me. I hate to admit it, but I'm jealous, just a little, of those other women. They had Ronnie's babies, and I can't even have his bare cock. I groan as his mouth makes contact with my heat, lips pressing gently against me before I feel a sharp burst of tongue.

  I lift my hands up and fist my fingers in the fabric of the pillows, squeezing tight, biting my lower lip as Ronnie switches between the soft, barely there brush of lips and tense swipes of his hot tongue. I have to actually focus on my muscles, force them to relax. If I squeeze too tight, my body responds with a white hot burst of pain that curls my toes – and not in a good way.

  I let out a long breath, letting my body melt into the sheets, enjoying the feel of Ronnie's hands as he takes hold of my hips and pulls me a little closer. He takes his time pleasuring me, and I've got to admit – I'm amazed. I haven't known many guys in my life that would be so eager to go down on a girl, particularly with the knowledge that they wouldn't be getting anything in return. Fuck. I don't dese
rve this, any of this. I'm a fucking murderer for fuck's sake. While I can convince myself that killing Joel was an act of self-defense, I have no excuse for the roadie girl, Marta. I might not have struck the final blow, but I was there, and I helped. Nobody can ever forgive me for that.

  I feel my body tensing again and have to force my muscles to relax, letting my mind drift away to a pleasantly neutral space. The only emotion I allow in when I take my next breath is the love I feel for Ronnie. It's brand new, just a little sprout, but I know if I nurture it, it'll turn into something bigger, better than I ever could've imagined.

  Little spirals of pleasure swirl through my body, starting down below where Ronnie's mouth brushes my swollen flesh, and climbing upward until his touch is like a drug I can't get enough of. I force myself to breathe slowly, fighting my body's natural inclination to start panting. My muscles relax one by one, coming undone and laying me open and bare for only Ronnie to see. I let my fingers curl into the pillow next to me before I drag it over my head and bite down, draining the last of my tension out through my jaw. I want to beg him to fuck me – no, to make love to me – but I can't. Seriously, I got shot last week. My body promises that I give two shits less than none, but I manage to keep quiet, pressing the clean cotton fabric into my mouth as a shiver washes through me. Like any good drummer, Ronnie can read the rhythm in my body and knows exactly where to put his sticks – or in this case, fingers. He slides them into me like he's starting a new song on set, nice and slow, warming up the crowd for some grand finale. Only this time, the only person Ronnie's playing for is little old me.

  I moan and it turns into a sigh as I drag the pillow away and toss it to the floor, lifting my head just a bit to stare at Ronnie, to see him buried between my legs, shirtless and beautiful. I grab a hold of his dark hair, still damp from the shower, and squeeze tight, pressing him down with a fluttering of my lashes and another sigh. When his tongue circles my clit, I feel my spine arch and my grip tighten. One more, brilliant little lick later and I'm groaning and collapsing into the pillows, shuddering as a wave of contentment washes over me and the orgasm kicks my ass to the curb, draining my energy in the best way possible.

  “Bloody hell, fuckface,” I whisper as Ronnie climbs up beside me and crosses his arms on the pillow, gazing at me with his beautiful brown eyes. I roll over and lift my face up for a kiss, tasting the wetness of my own body on Ronnie's full lips. “Mmm, that was nice,” I murmur, “a little tame, but nice.” He laughs at me and reaches up to ruffle my hair, and my heart skips a beat.

  “Tame is all you get until you've healed up a bit. There's no way in fuck I'm flipping your ass over a counter for at least another two weeks.” I make a pouty face, but it quickly morphs into a yawn as I lay back and let my eyes close. The TV's still on, flickering brightly. I can hear people screaming at each other, probably about some worthless drama that won't mean shit in a week or two. If they only knew the half of what we'd been through, they'd stop their whinin' and carrying on about who screwed who or who stole whose half-eaten sandwich out of the fridge. God, I love reality TV.

  I feel an orgasm laden smile flicker across my lips as Ronnie's fingers slide through my hair and his lips brush against mine. There's no tongue, just a gentle brushing of his flesh against mine. I sigh again, a strange feeling of joy bubbling in my chest. Sure, my sister's dead and my life's gone to shit, but this could be good right here, real good, something to take away the pain without a needle or a bottle of vodka. This whole love thing could work out really well for me.

  Provided, of course, that I don't get shot again. Think I've had enough of that, thank you very much.

  I snap to with a start, expecting shit to rain down from the sky at any moment. My breath is heaving and my body's cursing my ass for letting the painkillers wear off. With a groan, I drop a hand to my belly and glance up to find Ronnie standing next to the food cart, looking back at me with concern in his brown eyes. He sets a silver lid down on a steaming pile of pancakes and moves over to me, kneeling down next to the bed and brushing some hair away from my face.

  “You alright, doll face?” he asks me and I nod, swallowing hard and forcing myself past the wave of dread and pain that rolls over me. Yeah, getting shot sucked. So did losing me sister. Oh, and don't forget the fact that I have no band now, no career, no place to call my own. But it's over. It's over and that is a good thing. I swallow again and suck in a deep breath, trying to find my words. For weeks now, I've woken up everyday with my stomach in knots and a thick, heavy layer of melancholia slathered across my soul. Today is … different. Still painful but different. That's a good thing.

  “Spectacular,” I grind out as he helps me sit up and I lean into the headboard with a sigh. “I could use a few pills and a durry though.” Ronnie raises an eyebrow and I lean over to press a kiss to his lips. “A fag. A cigarette. A smoke.”

  “Gotcha,” he says, returning the kiss and rising to his feet. Unfortunately, the asshole's found time to not only get up and order us breakfast, but also to put on a shirt. Damn. I was really enjoying the view. Ronnie grabs my pills and a cup of ice water from the tray, peeling off a layer of plastic that's stuck to the top of the cup – fucking weird ass room service shit – and then brings them both over to me. After he hands them off and I swallow several more of the little white pills than I probably should, Ronnie fishes a pack of cigs from his pocket and lights one up for me, taking a drag before passing it over. “Milo already called twice to remind me that this is a non-smoking hotel,” he says with a smile as I put the white stick between my lips and wink up at him. “But I'll just remind him all the shit you've been through if he complains. If we can afford a multi-million dollar mansion, I guess we can pay the two hundred dollar cleaning deposit.”

  “You sure this is okay?” I ask, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke fuck my lungs with happy tobacco kisses before I sigh and gesture randomly with the cigarette. “I mean, me living with you assholes and all. I don't want to cramp anyone's style.”

  “Lola, baby, you are my style,” Ronnie says as he grabs a silver tray and sets it down on my lap. “If anything, I'm the one who's going to be putting a damper on all the fun.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and turns away from me, voice dropping a notch. There's something there, threaded through his words, a strangeness I'm not used to hearing. Is that … fear that I'm sensing? What the fuck could Ronnie be afraid about in regards to yours truly? If I look at it anyway but sideways, it seems I'm the one who should be grateful to him. “I … didn't know when or how I was going to bring this up, but I guess now's as good a time as any.” Ronnie clears his throat and turns back to me, running his hands down the front of his white T-shirt. It has a wolf engulfed in flames, snarling at me from the black and orange print. I try to focus on that as I take another drag of the cigarette.

  “Whatever this confession is, Ronnie, it's not going to gut me, is it?” I flick my gaze up to his and find it pleading. Crap. He's like a Goddamn puppy dog, only one that's big and brutish but still cute. Like a pit bull or something. I feel my mouth twitch.

  “I have to take responsibility for the things I've done.” My stomach clenches and the skin around my wound pinches, giving me a sharp bite of pain that makes my nose wrinkle. If there's anybody in this room that needs to take responsibility, it's me. It's partially my fault that his babies lost their mothers. I knew and I didn't do a damn thing about it. “I have two daughters that need me more than ever.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “Okay, really, all four of my kids need me, but Lydia and Phoebe more than anyone are going to need a stable life and … a parent.” Ronnie coughs again and shakes his head. I can see his hands trembling as he fists them into the comforter. At first, I think maybe he's off his guts, like he's been slammin' dope in the bathroom or something, but then I realize that that's not it all. He's just upset. I take another drag and look away, towards the food cart and not at him.

  “But Lydia and Phoebe, I can't leave them with thei
r grandparents. As soon as we get settled into the mansion … ” Ronnie pauses and a chuckle warms his words. I look back over at him and feel a tiny smile tease my lips. “That sounds so Goddamn ridiculous, doesn't it? Into the mansion. Wow. How did I get here again?”

  “You play bloody brilliant music.” I cut myself off before I can add and I helped a madman fuck you over, while we all got played by a madwoman. “You deserve this,” I say, and I mean it. I really do. “Ronnie, your daughters, are you sure you're comfortable with them being around someone like me?” I ask, dreading the answer to that question. Ronnie lifts his head and turns slowly to look at me, an expression of bafflement on his face.

  “Lola,” he says, struggling to find the right words. Ronnie runs a hand through his dark hair. “You're twenty-two years old, talented, gorgeous. What are you even talking about? My kids would be lucky to have someone like you in their lives. Fuck, I'd be … beyond lucky to have you in mine.” His voice trails off and he looks away, squeezing his eyes shut, rubbing at his temple with his fingers, the ones with 'V' and 'E' inked on them. “I don't even feel right asking this of you, but … I have to take care of my kids.” He licks his lower lip and drops his hand to his lap. “And I feel like I need you here with me.” Ronnie stands up and turns to face me, reaching out and snagging my cigarette. He puts it out in an empty glass and lights up another one, putting it between his lips as he turns towards the windows. The curtains have been pulled back and California sunshine is spilling through, dripping across the carpet in golden bars. “I fucking can't even believe I'm doing this because we don't really know each other, but … ” Ronnie blows silver smoke into the air and shakes his head. His snake tattoos draw my eyes, the brightness of the reptiles a stark contrast against his pale skin. Now that's he laid off the drugs for a while, it's got some color to it, but I guess underneath all that pastiness, he's still a white guy.