Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  “First off, we're not bachelors. I'm engaged.” Turner pauses and glances over at me as Paulette's face shifts from professional but excited to outright fucking gleeful. “And Ronnie over here, he's engaged.” He nods his chin at me, and I cringe. I can't look at Lola right now. Frankly, I'm terrified to see the expression on her face. “And second,” he says, digging the hole even deeper. Milo, bless his fucking heart, tries to stop him but there's no stopping Turner Campbell once he gets started. “I'm not the next big thing. I am the biggest fucking thing there ever was.” He snorts and sits up, leaning towards Paulette with a smile stretching across his face. “But I'm also listening. You want to make a show about us? I think that's a perfect frigging idea.”

  “Turner,” I say, but Josh jumps in first from his spot on the nearby love seat. “I am not fucking living here.” He turns to Paulette, sweeping blonde hair away from his face. “I am not living here. Look, Milo begged me to come over, so I could sign whatever it was you wanted signed and the guys could get their keys. I mean, we're not even really friends.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Josh,” Turner says, kicking the corner of the sofa. “Weren't you complaining on the way over that your parents couldn't even go to work without getting swarmed by the paparazzi? How fair is it for you to be staying with them when you can't even step into the backyard without people leaping over the fence at your ass? Keep your mouth closed and know a good thing when you see it.”

  I help Lola over to the love seat and Josh scoots over a cushion, so she can sit down. As soon as she does, Paulette's eyes swing her direction.

  “So you and Ronnie are engaged then?” she asks, and I feel the blood drain from my face. I flip Turner the bird and try to intervene in the situation before it gets much worse.

  “Don't see how that's any of your business,” Lola says, blowing smoke in Paulette's face. The woman doesn't even so much as blink. Her brown eyes remain calm and focused and her hands lay folded in her lap.

  “Just think about this, boys,” she says, ignoring Milo and turning her attention to Treyjan, still stuck in his wheelchair, face pale, and chest heaving. He should be resting and not dealing with this shit. “A reality TV show that's actually reality, your reality. I mean, you tell me, Treyjan, what it's like, going from an abused young boy in a trailer park to a man whose band may very well be the first in recent history to outsell Michael Jackson's Thriller?” As usual, Trey looks to Turner for what to say and the two of them exchange a look.

  “I, uh, I didn't know we'd sold that many copies,” he blurts and Paulette throws her head back in laugher, giving Milo an appraising look and a strange smile. She points her finger at him, her nude nail polish shimmering in the sprinkle of afternoon sunshine leaking in from the backyard.

  “Oh, you're good. Too good, maybe.” Paulette rises to her feet, surprising me as she grabs her purse and swings it over her shoulder. Her gaze pans around the room, oblivious to the intricate details all around us, the ones that have got Jesse mesmerized. This place really is a fucking palace. “Well, you've heard what I had to say. Now wait until you see what the studio is willing to pay you for the deal. I'll send you an email, Mr. Terrabotti, with some of the details and maybe we can have lunch?” Without waiting for an answer, Paulette turns away, dragging her bodyguards with her. She pauses near the front door and glances over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you all. I hope you enjoy the house. My husband had it custom built, spared no expense.” She tosses us a wink and disappears, just like that. I think we're all too stunned to think of anything to say. After all, we might be 'rock stars' now, maybe you'd even call us 'celebrities', but we're still just a bunch of assholes from Los Angeles who got lucky. Or unlucky. Depends on how you see it. People had to die for this fame; my friend and my lover had to get shot. I don't know. If I could go back in time, I'm not sure I'd do it all over again.

  “Well, shit,” Turner says, rising to his feet and looking around the room. It might be furnished, but it's sparse, just barely staged to entice buyers to cash in on this monstrosity of a house. Home. This is going to be my fucking home from now on. Jesus Christ. “I thought I missed our buses, but this shit is the fucking bomb.” Turner tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and leans back. His posture is all cocky confidence, but his eyes tell a different story. He wishes Naomi were here. I hope for both their sakes that she wakes up sooner rather than later. The look on her face when she finds out that Turner's not only spilled their supposed engagement to a big time TV producer but also that he's purchased a mansion worth more than a small country, that's going to be priceless.

  “Speaking of buses,” Milo begins and we all groan. He has that no nonsense voice on, the one that brooks no argument. He always uses it to start off business discussions. “The repairs are nearly done, and I'd like to know what you boys would like to do with it. I also need to know what you want to do with the staff vehicles as well – the trailers and motor homes. My recommendation would be to sell them, but of course, it's up to you as well.”

  “Keep the bus, sell the rest,” Turner says, waving his hand at Milo. “You deal with the details. Right now, I don't want to talk shop. I want to wander around my new fucking house.” A grin tears across his lips and his black lip rings reflect the light back at my face. “This is so much better than a single wide piece of shit with a toilet that doesn't flush and a couch that smells like piss. What do you think, Trey?”

  “We've sold more albums than Michael Jackson?” Trey asks, his brown brows drawing together as he stares at his knees and lets his mouth hang open in abject shock. “How the fuck did that happen? Are we billionaires?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Charell,” Milo says with a tired sigh. He fixes his tie again and tries to force a smile. “But I will let you know when and if you get there.” He claps his hands together and glances over at our bodyguards. “Boys, you do understand that everything is different now.” Turner shrugs like he's not listening, but I nod at Milo to keep going. Sure, I'd like to check the house out, but I also know that he's right. Everything is different. I look down at the floor and close my eyes, listening to the sudden silence that ensues. “We need to hire more staff. I'm going to need an assistant. You're going to need lawyers, publicists, accountants. It's not just me and you anymore. Do you understand that?”

  Nobody speaks, and I sigh.

  “We understand,” I say, but I'm not sure that my friends do. Josh is a middle class dude who got lucky, handpicked by Milo and thrust into our mess. Turner, Trey, and Jesse are down on their luck kids with shitty pasts and no clue how to exist in the real world. This is, like, real world shit on crack. I take a breath and close my eyes. I just got sober. I'm just figuring out how to live without Asuka by my side. It almost feels like it's too much, like my body's going to break under the weight of all this stress. “We also know that we're definitely not fucking into doing a reality TV show. Can you imagine having cameras following us around all day? Fuck that.”

  “Come on, Ronnie. Don't be a Goddamn downer. At least think about it.” I give Turner a look and purse my lips.

  “You told that woman that Lola and I were engaged, Turner. Why the hell would you think that was okay?” He gives me a blank look, and I sigh. Getting that man to realize his own faults is damn near impossible. Seems like the only person on this earth who's capable of it is Naomi Knox. Huh. I miss her already. “And that you and Naomi were engaged. You better be telling the truth on that one, asshole. Don't mess around with Naomi. She's not the type of woman who takes shit and smiles.”

  Lola snorts and glances over her shoulder at me.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Turner growls, stalking away with Trey attempting to roll his wheelchair after him. I put out a hand and stop him, looking down with all due seriousness.

  “Where's your fucking nurse?” I ask and he shrugs guiltily.

  “I fired her. I didn't like her. Why does it matter? I don't even need a nurse anymore.” I slap a palm to my forehead and shake my head, wondering how t
he hell I ended up with these idiots. Trey watches me as Turner disappears up the stairs and Jesse sighs dramatically. “Hey Ronnie,” Trey says, and I feel something horrible coming my way. I look up and thank the fucking Gods that I found Lola. Without her, I don't know if I could handle this shit. “Is it … true?”

  “Is what true?” I ask as my friend's face crumbles in pain and his breath hitches violently.

  “That America killed Travis? That she's the one that ran him over with her car?” I stare back at Trey and try to find the right words to say. I haven't given much thought to the revelations that plagued our concert. I have to find a really good, really frigging stable place in my life to go there. “Because, you know, he should be here with us right now and he's not, and that is fucked.” Trey sniffles and looks away for a moment before grabbing onto the wheels of his chair and dragging himself out of the living room.

  I sigh and drop my hands to my sides.

  Milo's giving me a sympathetic look that I'm not sure how to take in. What can I say anyway? Trey's right. This is fucked. Because of America – and Stephen – Lola's going to have to feel the same pain that I did when my brother was taken away from me. We might not have been related by blood, but I loved him all the same.

  “Hey.” I move around the couch and kneel by her side, trying to force a smile. If she's thinking at all about her sister, she doesn't let on, twisting her lips up at the corners and returning my expression. The look's a little blank, doesn't quite reach her eyes, but that's okay. I don't expect it to. The only thing that numbs pain is love. Some people think it's time, but I'm living, breathing proof that that's not always true. “You want to look around?” I nibble at my lip for a moment in thought and let my gaze catch on the intricate woodwork that lines the ceiling. I pray to some distant God of craftsmanship that Turner doesn't ruin it. “Pick out our room or whatever?”

  Lola chuckles and adjusts the stretchy fabric of her dress. It's weird, seeing her in this flowing white gown. Normally, this chick's got painted on leather pants and barely there tops. I let my eyes trace the sweetheart neckline at the top and then rise to meet her gaze.

  “I haven't picked out a room since I was six and my family moved into the farmhouse.” Lola runs her hands down her face and pulls them away, her smile a little more stiff this time. No doubt she really is thinking of Poppet right now. I hold out a hand and she takes it, following me to the stairs and pausing as we both gaze up at the swirling steps with trepidation. Even though I grew up dead center middle class America, I'm still a little weirded out at the grandiosity of this place. It doesn't feel right, like it's too good for me, like I don't deserve it. What have I ever done to earn this? I'm not a humanitarian. I don't rescue orphans. I didn't invent a cure for cancer. I'm just a mediocre drummer who got wrapped up in somebody else's shit.

  Lola's fingers tighten around mine, like she can sense the direction of my thoughts. I squeeze back and we start up the stairs, running into Turner as we hit the second floor. His face is red and he's panting like he's run a marathon. He tries to smile at us, but he looks closer to tears than he does joy.

  “This place is wicked awesome,” he says, sniffling and brushing hair from his forehead. “Killer. I picked out my and Naomi's room. It's the one at the end of the hall with the black bedspread and a bathroom ten times the size of my mother's trailer.” With a salute, Turner moves past us and back down the stairs, calling out for Trey.

  I take a breath and pull Lola along with me, down a hallway with cream colored marble floors and metal sconces on the wall. It's all so … sterile. We're going to have to figure out a way to make this place feel like a home, all twenty-five thousand fucking square feet of it. Our footsteps sound loud against the floors, like intruders, bums breaking into the back window of an empty house for the night. I get a sudden flash of memory, a fuzzy blur of myself doing just that, getting high in the back bedroom of some poor fuck's three bedroom house. I was such a blight on suburbia after Asuka died. If it hadn't been for Travis … I might not have even survived that time period in my life.

  “I'm feeling … overwhelmed,” I whisper as Lola lets go of my hand and opens one of the many doors that border this antiseptic fucking hallway. She glances over her shoulder at me, breath coming in small spurts. Maybe I shouldn't have let her walk up those stairs?

  “Ain't the only one,” she whispers as she raises an eyebrow and turns back to face the extravagant splendor of the bedroom. Holy fuck. I run my fingers through my hair, try to take in the four poster bed, the balcony doors framed with more curtains that I've ever seen in my fucking life, a pair of couches near the fireplace and a bathroom door that's thankfully closed. I don't know if I could handle much more than this in one go around. “There's a bloody living room in here,” Lola says, pausing in the doorway that separates the front half of the bedroom with the back. There's a pair of white doors that Lola slides experimentally from the walls with a mumbled curse under her breath. Shit. Suburbia would've worked just fine for me.

  I move across the room, trying to count the dozens of footsteps that it takes me to get to the balcony and open the doors. I'm staring down at the pool now, at Turner stripping off his T-shirt and Trey sitting in his wheelchair nearby.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say and they both look up at me. Turner grins, but his face still holds that inner pain that I hope to fucking Christ doesn't morph into the soul drenching melancholia that I used to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “I feel like a jewelry box and a Pottery Barn fucked and had an illegitimate baby – and then it threw up this house. What the hell is all of this? Do people really live in places like this?”

  Turner shrugs.

  “This place is, like, ten times swankier than a Pottery Barn, Ronnie. Get used to it. You're famous now.” And then he dives into the pool and I sigh, lifting my chin up and gazing across the admittedly small piece of property. The entire mansion sits on less than an acre, taking up most of it in its sprawling arms. Guess that's the price we pay for location, location, location, eh? I curl my fingers around the intricate metal bannister of the balcony and try to catch a glimpse of the street. How long until people find us here? Until they start running celebrity home tours past our front gate?

  “Oh, sorry.” I turn and find Josh retreating out the door. “Didn't know you guys where in here.” He pauses a moment and looks at Lola, lying sprawled across the massive bed. I glance up and catch his blue eyes, gesturing him back into the room.

  “Stay for a minute,” I say and he swallows hard, sweeping blonde hair back from his face. He scoots past Lola like he's afraid of her and pauses next to me, looking down at Turner in his boxer shorts with a scowl. “I'm sorry about all of this,” I say and Josh raises his eyebrows, blue eyes confused. Fuck. He's so young. Way too young to be dealing with all of this crap. He's not even twenty-one yet. I should've said no when Milo presented him to us as a possible candidate for bassist. At that point in my life though, I couldn't have cared less. Hell, I can't even remember our first meeting. I was probably high.

  The crook of my elbow throbs, remembering the sweet kiss of the needle. I have to squeeze my fingers tighter around the railing to hold back the craving. Now that we're not on tour, that we've finally gotten some answers to our questions, I feel lost. Like, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Where do I go from here? I'm not used to real life, not even one coated in candy like this. I need to get out of here for a while.

  “How was it?” I ask, knowing Josh's parents live in a neighborhood similar to my own. “Being back home? The crowds, the feeling, everything. What was it like?” Josh sighs and leans over, folding his arms across the railing and putting his forehead against them.

  “Horrible. The first day I was back, I snuck into the garage and borrowed my dad's car. I thought if I could get past the crowds on the street, I could actually find some peace and quiet. They trailed me all the way to a Burger King, and once I went inside, I couldn't get out. I locked myself in the bathroom.�
� Josh sighs heavily, and puts all his weight against the railing. “I had to call Brayden Ryker to get me out.” My blood chills.

  “You called Brayden Ryker?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder to see if Lola's actually asleep or just resting. I find her blue eyes on mine, sparkling like the sea in a storm. As far as I know, nobody's actually told her who murdered her sister. According to Turner, Brayden Ryker pointed his gun at Poppet's head and pulled the trigger, just like that. I turn back around and focus on Josh as he lifts his head up to look at me.

  “Yeah. I didn't know who else to call. And, I don't know, but I trust that guy.” Josh shrugs and stands up, scowling again when he catches sight of Turner flipping him off from the diving board. “Go fuck yourself!” he screams and retreats back into the room, spinning in a tight circle and flopping into a crimson covered chair in the corner. He puts his feet up on the ottoman and then wrinkles his nose, dragging his black and white Converse off the expensive fabric with a grimace. “I can't say anything about the future, but I can tell you that right now, living a normal life or any semblance of a normal life is pretty much an impossibility.” Josh sags and shakes his head, focusing his blue eyes on the floor. “I spent my entire childhood wishing I could make it big, play in a real rock band, make a shit ton of money. Now that I have … I kind of wish I hadn't.” He sighs and pokes at the fleur-de-lis motif on the arm of the chair. “Anyway, you guys were probably right to get a house here, somewhere with fucking walls and a gate. When Turner said people hopped my fence into the backyard, he wasn't kidding.” Josh pauses again and looks up at Lola as she groans and forces her body into a sitting position, watching us both carefully. “If it's not too much trouble, I mean, I don't really want to live here or anything, but maybe I could stay for a while? Just until things cool down a bit?”