Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  I smile a little and he sees the expression, his own softening in response.

  “But you want to be with me?” I ask, hoping beyond all reason that that's true. “It's bloody fucking ridiculous, but I … I feel it, too.” I cringe and shake my head, putting my hands up to my face. “Ugh, this is why I always say no to drummers.” I drop my hands and point at Ronnie. “Y'hear me, mate? You fuckers are too intense.”

  “Lola.” My name drips from Ronnie's lips like a smoldering ember, and I have to really dig my fingers into the sheets to keep still. If I throw myself in his arms and blood comes squirtin' out my side, it could very well ruin what's turning into an awkward but somewhat pleasant moment. “I had love once. Hard-core, drop everything for this and run, true fucking love. I had it, and I lost it.” His voice starts to quiver, and I feel my own eyes watering. I know all about Ronnie's lost love. I had to research his life as part of my 'mission'. Fuck. What a lousy, cock sucking piece of shit I am. “Asuka Maebara. I thought she was the only woman I could ever love, but I think … no, I know that you have that same spark for me, Lola.” Ronnie moves back over to the bed and reaches down to grab my chin in gentle fingers, drawing my gaze back to his. “You're my second chance, Lola. My only chance. If it's not you, then it's nobody. But if I have to wait, until my kids are grown or until you're ready or what the fuck ever, I will. I will wait for you.”

  “Don't be stupid,” I snort, but I can feel my eyes watering again. “You don't have to wait for shit. I'm here, Ronnie, and this is where I intend to stay. If you'll have me, of course.”

  I keep my gaze to the side, focusing on the windows instead of his face, but I can feel his smile like a pleasant warmth spreading across my skin. His fingers slide along my jaw and weave through my hair, tugging my head gently against his belly.

  “Lola, I'd do anything to have you by my side, I hope you know that.” Ronnie pauses and takes a deep breath. “To tell you the truth, I'm scared.”

  I pull away and look up at him as he drops his hands by his sides and gives me a sad smile.

  “About what?” I ask, my voice as soft as the yellow sunshine on the carpet. This moment's getting emotional, and I don't do emotional particularly well. I swallow hard and close my eyes, taking a breath that mimics Ronnie's.

  “My daughters. My parents. My life. Lola, I've been out of commission for a decade. The last ten years are nothing but fuzzy memories blurred into the sides of my brains. I haven't been sober since Asuka died, haven't even been coherent since Travis. I don't know how to be an adult, how to make decisions. Fuck, I don't even know how to function outside of the band.” I meet Ronnie's brown eyes and watch the flickering of pain that crashes through his irises. “But if you're here, with me, we can get through this. I know we can.”

  I snort and try not to let him see that his emotional rambling is actually having an effect on me. For fuck's sake, this Hallmark greeting card shit makes me weepy. I run my hands down my face just so I can hide the slight shimmer of tears.

  “There you go again,” I tell Ronnie, fingertips resting on my lips as I mumble at him, “giving me that intense drummer stare, that dedication that I don't deserve. I killed your daughters' mums. I don't even deserve to play that role.”

  “Lola.” Ronnie's voice is firm now as he sits beside me and rests a hand on my knee. “You didn't pull the trigger, didn't set this whole mess up, didn't start a fucking war by murdering the biological father of your child and then fucking with the head of the sociopath who raised him. To me, you're as much a victim here as anyone.” I shake my head, but Ronnie's having none of my shit today. “For the last few weeks, I've watched you spiral down into a depression that I recognize far too well. I've been intimate with despair for a good third of my life.” He reaches out and takes my hands in his, running his thumbs over my knuckles. “Let's make today day one of our new life. I can't say for sure that all this shit is behind us, and I know you're not going to just forget your sister ever existed, but I think if we try really fucking hard, we can make shit happen.”

  I bite my tongue to keep the fucking monster monsoon of tears at bay and turn towards Ronnie, leaning in for a kiss that pleases more than just the bits down under, but makes my heart shiver a little. Am I afraid? Fuck yes, I'm bloody Goddamn terrified. But I'm also excited. It's a small spark, but like that sprout of love I feel for Ronnie in my heart, I know if I fan this one, I can turn it into a raging flame.

  I snuggle closer and pause as the door bursts open and Turner Campbell appears, hands on his hips, chin raised in defiant glee. Fucking fuck. If we have to live with this asshole, we're getting triple locks on our door and a Do Not Disturb sign written in blood.

  “Get your shit together. We're meeting the owner of the house we just bought. She's giving us the keys and letting us live there until closing. Only thing we have to pay her with are some autographs and shit.” Turner snaps his fingers. “Hop to it, bitches. This shit is prompt. Get ready and don't skimp on the eyeliner.” Turner slams the door behind him while Ronnie and I exchange another look.

  “Beverly Hills, huh?” I ask and Ronnie sighs, but not like he's upset, just … anxious. We all are, I think. “Everyone's going to think I'm away with the pixies when I tell them where I'm living.”

  “Do you have any idea how much the mortgage payment on this baby's going to be?” Ronnie asks and I raise an eyebrow. “It's five digits long, I'll tell you that much.” He shakes his head and chuckles, rising to his feet and moving to the window. When Ronnie glances over his shoulder at me, he's smiling. “Somehow, I have a good feeling about this though. I don't know how or why, but I've been numb to my senses for too long. I think that this time, I'm going to listen.”

  “I think that sounds like a good idea, Ronnie,” I say, pushing myself to my feet and closing my eyes against a wave of dizziness. I move over to stand next to him and stare out at the bustling nightmare that is Los Angeles. We're a long way from fucking Giru, Queensland, aren't we? I curl my fingers around the windowsill as a thought comes to mind. “Fuck a duck,” I growl as my nails dig into the white paint. Ronnie glances over at me and I look back at him. “When I came to the states, I just said I was here on holiday.”

  “What are you saying?” Ronnie asks with a raised eyebrow. “That you're going to get deported? Back to Australia? Does that even happen?” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Um, okay. We can fix this, I'm sure. I … ” Ronnie pauses, like he's just thought of something. I keep staring at him, waiting for an answer to this problem. I shouldn't be surprised by what he says, but I am anyway. “Maybe we should … ” He swallows hard and scratches at the snake tattoos around his neck, letting his beautiful brown eyes slide over to me as his mouth twitches. “Lola, maybe we should get hitched?”

  “So you, like, said marry me and I'll get ya a green card? That's super hot. I'm sure Lola pissed her pants in eagerness to accept that shit.” Turner lights up a cigarette and blows smoke at my face. I scowl at him and snatch my lighter back, enjoying the privacy of our new pad. Getting out of the hotel was a Goddamn nightmare – despite Milo's best efforts, they found us again and the swarm this time was epic. Based on the turnout, I have a feeling making that five figure fucking mortgage payment isn't going to be a problem. “Wait, wait,” he continues, taking another drag, “lemme guess. She was all 'Crikey, mate! That's bloody brilliant. Let's throw some shrimp on the barbie to celebrate.'”

  “Your faux Australian accent is almost as bad as your Irish one – almost. And I'm pretty sure most people would find you ridiculously offensive.” I light up and tuck the lighter in my pants pocket. “Hell, I find you ridiculously offensive and we've been friends for-fucking-ever. Cool it, Arkansas, and keep your idiosyncrasies to yourself.” Turner scowls at me and flicks hot ash in my direction. “If you really did propose to Naomi – and I'm not passing judgment on that until she wakes up and tells me herself – then I doubt it was any smoother. In fact, I'd bet one of our mammoth mortgage pa
yments that it was worse.”

  “Yeah? Well, fuck you. You have too many kids. Get a fucking vasectomy before you get Lola pregnant.” I shake my head and look up at the brilliant blue of the sky. Speaking of, I really need to get tested. I mean, like, sooner rather than later.

  “Let's make an appointment,” I say to Turner while we wait for the owner and her real estate agent to arrive. “Let's go get tested.”

  “Tested?” Turner asks, recoiling with a strange expression on his face. “For what?”

  “STIs,” I say and then sigh when he continues with the look of sheer bafflement. “Sexually transmitted infections.”

  “What the fuck are you trying to say, man?” Turner growls, flicking his cigarette to the driveway and crushing it out with his boot. I notice Camby, the Barbie perfect real estate agent, cringe in the background. “That I'm, like, fucking diseased or some shit? I never forget to bring balloons to the party. You're the one that's always ramming chicks bareback. Go get your junk fondled by some doctor and prepare to see it on the front page of every news website in existence.”

  “If you're even half as serious about Naomi as I am about Lola, you'll come with me and get checked out.” Turner looks away at the mention of Amatory Riot's lead singer and flicks his tongue across his lower lip in nervousness. As of an hour ago, Naomi's condition hadn't changed. Turner freaked the fuck out over that, but I think at this point, no news is good news. At least she's not getting worse. I look up at the sky again and wish I had a God I trusted that I could pray to.

  “Fine. Whatever. But I bet you're the only one of us with anything. Hopefully you don't have the herp.”

  “The … herp?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at my friend.

  “Yeah, the herp,” Trey says, rolling up his wheelchair to sit beside us. I was with Lola last night, so I didn't get to be there when Turner delivered the news about the mansion, but Jesse and Treyjan have always been on whatever train Turner's intent on riding. If he's happy, they're happy. End of story. “Herpes. You have herpes, dude?”

  “Herpes?” I jump and turn to find Lola staring at me with wide eyes and an open mouth. “Oh, fuck, Ronnie. If you gave me that shit, I will job your arse.” I hold up my hands in a placating gesture and let my cigarette hang loosely from my lips.

  “Okay, fuck, that I know I don't have. I was just saying it's always good to get tested. Jesus.” Lola breathes a sigh of relief, leaning against the car and taking deep breaths. I tried to get her to use the wheelchair, but she wouldn't do it. Too much pride. I feel a smile creep over my lips. After I essentially asked her to marry me, she got red faced and started sputtering. I have no idea what to make of that, but I can promise if somebody tries to ship my new lady overseas, there could very well be a shirtless ass kicking.

  We all pause and turn as a pair of cars pulls through the gates and comes to a stop behind our rented van. I guess if we're going to be hanging around L.A. for awhile, I'm going to have to buy something to drive. Hmm. I wonder briefly about our buses, still stuck back in Oklahoma City. Wonder when we'll be getting those back and what we're going to do with them once we do. Next time we tour, we're going to have to change up our travel pattern a little. I shudder at the thought. It's going to take some time to get comfortable with the idea again.

  I lean back and cross my arms over my chest, waiting as people pile out of the two cars. I dressed in my best, in an Amatory Riot T-shirt with no holes, a pair of new jeans that Milo found time to shove in my bag God only knows when. Hair's done, eyeliner's on, face is shaved. We're all good to go.

  A curvy brunette appears from the backseat of one of the vehicles, dark hair shining in the sunlight. Her navy skirt suit and confident smirk give me the distinct impression that she is the current owner of this house. What she does or where she's from, I'm not sure, but to afford a place like this, she must be badass.

  “Good morning everyone,” she says, sweeping her hands down the front of her perfect suit and smiling a perfect Beverly Hills smile – all cosmetic sterility and disingenuousness. I follow the swing of her gaze as she skips over Josh, arms crossed and scowling near our rented van, to Jesse, Trey, Turner, and then finally coming to rest on my face. I drop my cigarette and crush it out while she stares at me, brown eyes sparkling. She's a beautiful woman but I can see from the neutral shade of her eyeshadow, the conservative cut of her skirt, the pale almond color of her hair, all of it is meant to de-sexualize her, give her a more average sort of a look. I'm immediately on my guard. The only other person I've met in my life like this was America Harding.

  I grit my teeth and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Hey baby,” Turner says, flipping the charm switch to high. He must really want this fucking house. Brunette lady drags her gaze from me and back to my friend, switching up her dazzling white grin to the next level.

  “Let me just be the first to say that you gentlemen have excellent taste in real estate.” Turner lifts his chin with a smirk while I get out another cigarette and roll my eyes. This chick's bad news. I can tell already that whatever it is she's selling, I'm not buying. I look over at Lola, arms crossed over her chest and face pale. I need to get her to sit down and relax, have a fucking lemonade or something. “It's an honor to be able to meet with you in private like this. If you don't mind, I have a few little souvenirs I'd love for you to sign. Oh!” Brunette Lady grins and clasps her hands together. “I've forgotten to introduce myself. How silly.” She flips her hair and moves up to me, offering her hand and locking gazes. She knows I'm not buying her shit. Great.

  I reach out and shake with her.

  “Paulette Washington,” she says and warning bells go off in my head. I squeeze her hand tight and let go, taking a step back.

  “Paulette Washington, like the TV producer?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as her smile ratchets up yet another notch. Huh. Didn't even think that was possible. I fucking hate California. Why did we even come back here? I take another drag on my cigarette and watch her carefully as she moves down the line and then comes back to Turner, dropping some keys into the palm of his hand before answering me.

  “Keys to the kingdom, my friend,” she says and then levels her gaze on me again. “And yes, Ronnie, I'm flattered.” She touches a hand to her chest like she's not at all surprised. She wanted one of us to recognize her. In fact, she was counting on it. I was feeling suspicious about this whole transaction. I mean, it's not unheard of for a seller to let her buyers rent out the place before closing, but it's not usually this easy. Now I get it. This bitch wants something from us – something besides a few selfies and some swag. “In fact, I was thinking while we were all gathered here that I might discuss an idea I had with you.

  Milo steps forward and straightens his pale pink tie, getting ready to step in and take control when Turner opens his big, fat mouth.

  “TV producer? Huh? What shows you work on?” he asks and Paulette's eyes sparkle with triumph.

  “Come inside,” she says and then pauses with a false laugh that makes my teeth hurt. Aw, man. We just got rid of one fake bitch, the last thing we need is another. Unfortunately for us, we're in Beverly Hills. That's pretty much what the entire city is populated with. “I mean, it's your house now, so if that's okay?” Turner shrugs before I get a chance to protest and spins on his heel, glancing up at the imposing facade of our new place with a sniffle of approval.

  “Be my guest, doll,” he says before disappearing up the front steps and into the house. The rest of my band files after him and I watch as Jesse and Josh lift Trey's wheelchair up the few stairs and into the foyer. A series of wild curses follows as Treyjan gets his first look at the place and I stand there, watching the interaction between the realtors and Paulette. Six big burly dudes stand in the background and I have a hard time remembering which ones are ours and which ones came with Paulette. Apparently it's not just Brayden Ryker who has blank-faced, unmemorable bodyguards. I make a note to try to find some distinguishing features on our guys.

/>   “I don't much like this woman,” Lola says, keeping her position against the car next to me. I turn slowly and catch her blue-eyed gaze. “That bitch has got tickets on herself.” Lola pulls out a cigarette and lights up, smiling at my raised eyebrows. “She's so fucking full of herself, looks like she's about to burst out of that perfect suit of hers.”

  “I agree,” I say with a sigh, running my hands down my face. “So I better get in there and make sure shit doesn't go South faster than a flock of fucking geese.” I drop my hands and try to smile at Lola. I keep expecting there to be some weirdness between us after this morning's conversation, but I don't feel anything but hope when I look at her. Good sign, right? Still, I better bring up that whole botched marriage proposal shit before it bites me in the ass. We're not ready for that yet, but if that's what we gotta do to keep her here with me, then that's what we're gonna fucking do. Provided, of course, that that's what Lola wants.

  I hold out my hand and she takes it, a little unsteady on her feet. But we don't rush, we move across the gray brick pavers towards the front steps and climb them one at a time. I can already hear Paulette's authoritative boom echoing around the immaculately decorated mansion. I can't even believe I agreed to this, I think as Lola takes a look around and shakes her head in disbelief.

  “Can't tell if this is a fairy fucking tale or a nightmare,” she says under her breath as we pause in the doorway to the living room and my eyes catch on the walnut woodwork crisscrossing the ceiling. Turner's sprawled out in a high backed chair, its gaudy gold fabric a strange contrast against his holey black jeans and blue T-shirt. This one says I'm Taken, Bitches. How appropriate.

  “Think of it like this,” Paulette's saying, completely and utterly ignoring our manager as he tries to get a word in edgewise. She lifts her flawless hand up and spreads her long fingers as she gestures absently towards me and Lola. “Five of rock's most eligible bachelors, living in one house. Real life, real drama, real music. What do you think? You're the next big thing, Mr. Campbell.” My best friend frowns, and I can tell this is about to get real ugly up in here. Crap.