Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  “America Harding was my sister, and now she's dead. You're going to help make that up to me.”

  Brayden Ryker is sitting on my bed when we get back to the house.

  Seeing him lounging there in the weak light from the bedside lamp should probably surprise me, only it doesn't. I just sigh and move into the room, letting Lola stumble in behind me. After her admission, Paulette gave me a business card with her number on it and disappeared. I didn't ask about the blood. To be honest with you, I don't want to fucking know. I really, really don't. I already had Turner call the hospital to check on Naomi and Blair. Since they're all still alive, since we all made it back here in one piece, I don't fucking care whose blood that is.

  So Lola and I had some more drinks and we had a really good fucking time.

  Perfect.

  And now there's this.

  I stand there staring at the redheaded Irish muscleman on my bed and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Should we ask how you got in here or are you going to volunteer that information up for our benefit?” Lola asks, and a pang of guilt shoots through my chest. Despite the fact that Brayden shot Poppet in the face, right there in front of all those people, his name isn't anywhere on the Internet. According to the news sources, an unnamed security officer took down Lola's sister. I keep meaning to tell her the truth, but I haven't found the right time. Shit. Life is just flyin' by, isn't it? I don't even know how to keep track anymore.

  “I wanted to show you how inadequate your security detail was,” he says, rising to his feet and looking between the two of us with a careful gaze, one that analyzes and breaks down the very soul. “I know you don't think very highly of me, but only because you don't know the whole truth. Sometimes, it's best to feign inadequacy and let the cards fall as they may.”

  “What the hell does that even mean?” I ask, closing my eyes and trying not to lose my shit. I really want to beat the crap out of someone. Should've taken Cohen Rose in the hospital. Might've gotten the crud beat out of me from Brayden's men, but it would've been worth the adrenaline rush.

  “It means that I warned you. I really did. All I can say is, you're on the families' radars. I knew you would be, especially with Tyler's fate so up in the air right now.”

  “Radars,” I ask, emphasizing the plural. “So both families: Harding and Hammergren. Am I right?” Brayden shrugs his broad shoulders.

  “They're fighting for custody of Tyler right now. Not because either side really cares, but they've been … competitive for quite some time. It was sort of an unfortunate inevitability.”

  I grit my teeth and feel Lola's fingers brush my arm.

  “That's my friend's fucking kid you're talking about there, not just some 'unfortunate inevitability'. Fuck you, dude.” Brayden smiles sadly and nods his head.

  “Aye. I know that better than anyone, trust me. Here's the deal I want to make with you. I think I can solve both of our problems, that of you and your friends and even Tyler. And mine … of a more personal nature. But it's going to take your complete cooperation.” Brayden pauses and takes a deep breath. “I think if we play the game right, I can even get you the kid, get Tyler for you, if that's what you want.”

  “No court's going to grant custody of Tyler to me or anyone else in this house,” I spit, hating that that's the truth, hating that Travis' son is going to be raised by people capable of hiring snipers to shoot single moms. Fucking A.

  “Who said anything about court?” Brayden asks, and I can't help but take note of the fact that Lola isn't in jail right now. That no police officers stand guard outside Naomi's hospital room, only Brayden's people. Hmm. I'm just some dumb fuck from suburbia. I don't know shit about shit. This is way over my head right now.

  “Why are you coming to me?” I ask and Brayden laughs, shaking his head.

  “Because you're the only sensible one in the group,” he says with a smile. I sigh and open the bedroom door, holding it for Brayden so he can get the fuck out and leave us alone. All I want is to get my daughters back, to get to know Lola, to make fucking music. Instead, I get this. “I'll be out of your hair then, but I hope you'll call me when you're ready. Sooner rather than later would be advantageous for both of us.”

  Brayden pauses next to the door and watches Lola and me like he feels sorry for us. Not a good sign. Not a good fucking sign. To look at someone with pity, there has to be tragedy that you see overlaid on top of their souls. I've had enough tragedy in my life. I stare right back and after a moment, Brayden chuckles and disappears down the stairs, the sound of his boots echoing loudly against the marble.

  “What are we gonna do?” Lola asks, but I'm not sure if I have an answer for her. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close.

  In the midst of the uncertainty and the confusion, Naomi Knox opens her eyes, and Cohen Rose breathes his last bloody breath. In our bathtub, no less.

  Amen to fucking cliff-hangers.

  To Be Continued...

  Dear Reader,

  I think the roller coaster's just started to tip, don't you? More questions, more answers, more rock 'n' roll. Thanks for taking this crazy ride with me.

  Next up, Sydney and Dax in "Heart Broke". Poor Dax, right? Got the crap beat out of him by a tornado, got his dead mom shipped to the hotel, watched Hayden kill herself. This poor guy really needs a reason to go on. Y'think Trey's sister, Sydney, has it in her?

  The next Hard Rock Roots book comes out February 2015. It will NOT be the last book in the series, but the one after it will be called "Get Hitched" and feature Turner and Naomi. Make of that what you will. ;)

  Oh! And it will totally have a cliff-hanger. Love your faces, babes. Peace out.

  C.M.

  Ready for another dose of effed the hell up? Hard Rock Roots Book 8: "Heart Broke" coming Febuary 2015

  If you enjoyed "Doll Face", you might like the sexy southern biker boys of the "Triple M MC" series.

  I wake to a dull roar that quickly becomes deafening. The sound rattles the windows in my bedroom and sends my father into a raging fury about those darn criminals which I can only assume refers to the motorcycle gangs that have been rolling into town lately for the antique bike show. My father does this every year, says these things every year. I should really move out.

  “Amy,” my mother says, opening my door the same way she has every day since I started kindergarten. “Time to get up. We're meeting your aunt over at the church to plan the potluck on Saturday.” I smile and nod, hold my tongue and refuse to tell her that a potluck plans itself. People bring dishes; other people eat them. There isn't much to figure out.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say and blow her a kiss as she backs away and resigns herself to listening to my father complain. What he conveniently forgets is that those 'criminals' make up a pretty hefty portion of our town's summer economy. Without them, I don't think many of the shops downtown would still be in business. I sigh and stand up as another wave of noise approaches from the direction of the highway. Moved by my curiosity, I stand by the window and part the drapes so I can catch a glimpse of the men and women who are so far outside my realm of being that they might as well be aliens. They wear leather and have piercings and tattoos. The open road is their home and mine, mine is this three bedroom, two bath prison which is perfectly nice but so stifling that sometimes, it makes me sick.

  I watch the wave of bikers drive by and press my fingertips to the shaking glass.

  “Take me with you,” I whisper as they fly by and disappear around the corner. I imagine what it would feel like to just run away with them, try something new, something different. I shake my head and turn away. It's not going to happen, not for me. Girls like me don't wrap their arms around men in leather, straddle massive hunks of metal that my mom refers to solely as death traps, drive to cities we've never been. Girls like me put on their yellow camisoles, their white sweaters and their below the knee skirts. We grab our purses, slather on some clear lip gloss and sit in the passenger seat while
our mother talks about the nice boy who just moved to town with his parents. Poor guy, I think as I imagine his fate. He may as well have the words 'fresh meat' tattooed on his forehead like one of those biker boys. The girls from my church are going to be all over him. After all, in a town of five thousand people, it's not as if we have many choices. I should go to college, I think as my mom continues to talk in the background. Maybe somewhere far, far away. I sigh and smile at my mother who's patting my knee. Like I said, me, coward. Period.

  “I'm so glad you're here!” my aunt says as she comes out the front doors of the church in an outfit disturbingly similar to mine. “We have a serious problem.” She sighs and makes the sign of the cross which bothers my mom because we're not Catholic. My aunt loves church functions, church rummage sales and church gossip, but I don't think she really likes church in and of itself. I bet she'd be hard pressed to even remember Jesus' role in the whole of things. I'm not judging her, but I just think she's shallow and as see-through as a piece of glass. I'm like that, too, I think, but I wish I wasn't. I wish I had some substance.

  I tune out my aunt and turn slightly, so I can see the main thoroughfare of the town down the hill from us. It's absolutely packed with people, humming with this wild energy that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. I've never been to the motorcycle show which seems strange since I've lived here my whole life. My father, however, has always forbidden me to go. This year, even though I'm twenty-one years old, isn't any different. I really should put my foot down and let him know that I'm an adult and can make my own choices, thank you very much, but I haven't felt passionate enough about anything to take a stand.

  When my mom and aunt start to move inside, I follow them and sit at the table with the other lunching ladies while they plan the same potluck we have every month, the one that doesn't really need any planning. Of course, under the table I have the greatest treat of all, one that doesn't involve church or yellow sweaters or cheese casseroles. Under the table, my book boyfriend is sucking on my toes.

  “I want you like I've never wanted anyone else,” Adam says to me as he kisses the arch of my foot and starts to move his way up my leg, ever so slowly, teasing my skin with his teeth, tasting my thighs with the hot heat of his mouth until he comes to my –

  “Amy?” my mother says, waving her hand in front of my face. I look up and see seven curious expressions staring back at me.

  “Hmm?” I close the book around my hand, determined to dive back in as soon as the setting permits; it's the only way I'll stay sane. The rest of the day isn't exactly looking up as we have plans to help my cousin try on wedding dresses. My mother wanted to wait until the motorcycle show was over, but Jodie's having a shotgun wedding (don't tell anyone outside the family, please) and she needs a dress like yesterday. The wedding is in two weeks after all, and there isn't much time left. My bridesmaid dress is going to be fuchsia. I know it is. I just know it.

  “Can you make your caramel sticky buns for Saturday? The ones with the pecans?” Oh. Yes. Sticky buns. Maybe I can steal a few for myself, put them in my room and get ready for my hot date with Micah, the book boyfriend I haven't met yet but am absolutely thrilled to climb into bed with.

  “Of course,” I say with a smile as I tuck my chestnut hair behind my ear. It's the same color as the tabletop we're all sitting around. That's kind of depressing. The ladies go back to discussing the tablecloth colors and the chair arrangements in the dining room while I duck my head and reopen my book.

  “Fuck me, Adam,” I say as I turn over and put my ass in the air for his viewing pleasure. “Fuck me until the cows come home.”

  I snort with laughter and once again manage to draw attention to myself.

  “Are you laughing at a book?” my mother asks, like that's so strange. I know she reads romance novels, too. She hides them from my dad under the sink in the bathroom and takes extra long showers so she can finish them. I shake my head and clear my throat.

  “No, I just had a little something in my throat.” I gesture vaguely around the area of my neck and try to keep smiling. I manage to divert their attention and make it out the door and into the car without further incident.

  “I doubt we're going to be able to find a parking space,” my mom says with a sigh as we wind down the road back into town, my aunt trailing too close behind us. “I may have to drop you off at the door so Jodie knows we're here. You know how moody your cousin's been lately.” Yeah, I think, because she's like three months pregnant. I smile and try not to think about Adam's deliciously sexy body. I'm almost finished with him, so I brought along an extra. Daniel's ready and waiting inside my purse for me to finish these last few chapters.

  “Okay, Mom,” I say with a cheerful smile that quickly turns into an open mouthed gawp as we hit the first traffic light downtown and find ourselves in a sea of colorful characters that make little beads of sweat appear between my mother's eyebrows. “It's okay,” I tell her before she starts to hyperventilate. “They're just people.” My mother scoffs.

  “Godless people,” she says, and I don't correct her. There's no point. Some guy with a pentagram tattoo just walked by and much as I know that could mean anything, my mom thinks it's the sign of the Antichrist. “Do you have your pepper spray in your purse?” I took it out to accommodate Daniel, but I nod and tell her that yes, I do. I need an e-reader, I think as I imagine carrying thousands of books around in my hand. My father refuses to buy one for me, saying that digital devices like that are portals to hell in and of themselves. He let me have a computer, but he unplugs the Wi-Fi at night. I should really move out. “Go straight inside and don't talk to anyone.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “And please don't let Jodie try on anything that you know isn't going to fit. You know how moody she's been lately.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  My mother pulls up to the curb and lets me out into the throng of people. I can see that she doesn't want to leave me there, but that she's more afraid of Jodie's wrath than she is of the motorcycle fanatics. I'd have to agree with that one. I start towards the front door of the bridal shop and then just stop. My mom isn't looking; Jodie doesn't know I'm here yet. Now's my chance to look around, just take a peek at the motorcycles. It won't take long; after all there's a whole row of them parked at the end of this block, just behind the red signs and yellow tape banning cars from this stretch of road. I glance over my shoulder to make sure that Mom's completed her U-turn and start down the sidewalk.

  It's pretty obvious that I don't fit in here which is a strange feeling. I'm your typical, middle-class, all-American white girl with blue eyes and pale brown hair, but I'm the one that's drawing stares and raised eyebrows. Something about that is exciting to me, makes me hold my head high and strut like I'm something special. Instead of blending into the crowd, I'm standing out. Fantastic.

  I pause next to a big, blue bike with metal that shimmers like the lake in summer, reflects the early afternoon sunshine into my face and makes me squint. I bend down to read the sign.

  “You like Road Kings, beautiful?” a voice says from behind me, and I spin around to find a man standing far too close to my behind. My ass, I correct myself. You're an adult; you can say it.

  “Um.” My eyes are looking directly at a black T-shirt stretched over a wide chest, and I have to tilt my chin up to find the face of the man with the most amazing body ever. Oh. My. God. He looks just like my book boyfriend! “I, uh, it's pretty,” I say which makes Mr. Motorcycle laugh.

  “Pretty?” he says with some sort of Southern accent that I can't place. “I've never heard 'em described like that, but I guess you're right. She's one, hot fucking bitch.”

  “E-excuse me?” I say, floored by this man's language, and his fall of sandy blonde hair, his dark brown eyes that are even now sweeping my body like I'm one of the bikes for sale. He licks his lips and steps even closer to me. “S-she?” Mr. Motorcycle laughs again and I jump. I can't help myself. I've never been so close to a man, l
et alone one with a sleeve of tattoos and muscles that are slick and moist from the hot sun overhead.

  “Can't very well be a he, right? The only thing I'm willing to ride cross country is a she.” He winks at me, but I can't respond, not with him standing so close to me. My throat has just closed up and my mouth is dry.

  “Um, okay,” I say and my voice comes out in a whisper. The man, who has the most beautifully chiseled face I have ever seen, reaches out and brushes his fingers across my arm, making me shiver.

  “If you like this baby, I could show you mine,” he says and I have to blink several times before I can respond.

  “Yours?”

  “My ride, beautiful. You want to come see?”

  “I … ” I see my mom come around the corner at the end of the block and reflexively reach out my hand for Mr. Motorcycle's massive bicep. My fingers curl around his hard flesh and my whole body goes up in flames. Oh. My romance novels suddenly make a whole lot more sense. My skin feels hot and flushed, like it could conduct electricity. I look up into his face and see that he's looking at me like he's the predator and I'm the prey. “I … I have to go,” I say as I step around him and start back down the block at an even quicker pace than I came.

  “Hold up there,” says the man with the dark eyes and the skulls on his upper arm. He grabs my wrist and spins me around. “You in town for the show?” he asks, as I clutch my purse against my chest and try not to pass out. It's awfully hot out here, and my pulse is thumping in my neck like a live thing.

  “I live here,” I whisper and he releases me with a wicked, nasty smile that gives me all sorts of strange feelings in my gut. “Why?”

  “Well,” he says with a glance over my shoulder. “I thought you might want to grab a drink or something?”