Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Vodka and … more vodka. Interesting choice. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you brought me out here to get me drunk.”

  “Dax McCann,” I say with a pretend gasp, putting my fingers to the orange octopus tattoo that stretches over my shoulder and onto my chest. “You think so poorly of me.” My eyes twinkle as I nod my chin at the duffel bag. “Keep digging and maybe you'll get a better idea of the other debaucheries I have planned.”

  “Beer,” Dax says, digging the forty ounces out and laying them in the grass. “Is this … moldy pizza?”

  “It's not moldy!” I snort as I reach over and snatch a foil wrapped piece from his hand. “And it's only three days old. It's perfectly good.” I unwrap the pepperoni slice and find … that it is kind of moldy. Huh. Guess I just didn't notice. Back in the day, Trey and I would be lucky to have three day old moldy pizza and chunky milk for breakfast. During that time in our lives, eating anything at all was better than going hungry.

  I set the pizza aside anyway as Dax emerges with a handful of condoms in his hand and a raised brow.

  “Holy shit,” he says with an exhale as he lets the tiny squares clatter back into the bottom of the bag. “Speaking of reputations, you must think pretty fucking highly of me if you think we can get through all of that.” Dax pauses and then his face gets real serious for a second. “Sydney …”

  “Whatever you're gonna say,” I tell him, glancing sidelong at Dax's profile. “Don't.”

  “Why not?” Dax turns to face me, his features twisting with agony for a split second before he wipes them clean. “I fucking … I owe you.”

  My brows go up.

  “Owe me?” I turn to look fully at him, at his bow-tie lips parted with frustration, the slight crinkle of his skin around his nose that shows he's pissed off. With me, with himself, with his dad, who the fuck knows. “You think I did any of this so someone could owe me? Then you really don't know me all that well do you?”

  “No, I don't,” Dax says with a sigh, running his gloved hand over his face. Always with those fingerless gloves of his. I'm not sure why, but I like 'em. “I don't know anything about you, Sydney. Nothing other than the fact that I want to know you.” Dax pauses again. “Or that you're the kind of girl who takes care of a guy she barely knows, gets herself embroiled in a bunch of shit to help out her baby brother.”

  “You've got me pegged, Mr. McCann,” I say, my heart fluttering strangely in my chest. I feel like the teenage girl I never got to be, the carefree lip-biter with a crush and a faint blush across the cheeks. I want to fall in love. Jesus Christ, I must be going insane. “Philanthropist Extraordinaire, the stripper with a heart of gold.”

  Dax snorts.

  “It's truer than you might think,” he says and I shrug, glancing across the grounds, at the twinkling lights of the city. “So will you let me say it?”

  “Say what?” I ask, hoping we don't get shot or mugged or … worse. Graveyard, middle of the night, East LA. Eh. Maybe not the best idea in the world, but Beverly Hills is so … not like anything I've ever been a part of before. Too polished. Too perfect. I needed to get the hell out of there for a second to think. It's not that I'm not grateful for the upgrade—nobody really prefers eating moldy pizza and chunky milk, living in a single wide with a crack addict—it's just that I'm not sure I'm ready for more.

  Maybe not in that, maybe not in … this.

  I take a deep breath and meet Dax's gaze.

  “Thank you,” he says, and I feel an icy shiver tickle my spine as his fingers slide across the blanket and find my hand, curling around the wash of blue and green tattoos that sweep up over my knuckles in a tidal wave. “You … I don't know why, but you made everything …” Dax swipes his other hand over his face. “Nothing's been okay for a long time, but … livable. Sydney, you made things livable for me.”

  “By being the big spoon?” I joke, raising my brows at Dax. I know he's being serious; I can see it in his face. But I'm not used to serious. And I'm not used to thank you. I extract my hand and lean over Dax's lap, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the pocket on the side of the bag. I don't miss the fact that he's hard as a rock under those dark jeans of his.

  I sit back with a huff and light up.

  “Thank you,” Dax says again, but I pretend not to hear him, smoking my cig in long, slow drags, gentle puffs of gray into the night air. “For being there.”

  Well, crap.

  A warm sensation settles in my belly as I cross and uncross my legs. Damn it. I don't know how to deal with this. I'm not equipped for this sort of a ride. I knew getting involved with this guy was a bad idea. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

  “Am I your rebound?” I ask, turning to look at Dax, glad that we're out here all alone without cameras or killers or Campbells. “For Naomi Knox, I mean. Am I a rebound girl? It's okay if I am, I just—”

  Didn't expect you to kiss me like that.

  Dax's hand is cupping the nape of my neck, fingertips icy cool against my heated flesh. His mouth is like a blizzard, sweeping over and consuming me with a flick of the tongue, a scrape of teeth. Dax presses his answer against my lips, tasting like snow and ice and cigarettes. The kiss is a firm, hard no fucking way that draws a long, hallow groan from my throat, like a prayer thrown out for some dark forgotten god.

  When Dax draws back, there's this moment where I don't breathe, where I can't remember how to breathe.

  “No,” he says and then he stands up, taking the vodka bottle with him. I watch his throat swallow as he tips back a drink and then looks down at me, face shadowed and dark. “Sydney, you're too good to be just a rebound girl.” He pauses and then looks over at the city, at the yellow and red and white flickers that make up hundreds, thousands, millions of moments. Most of them are insignificant, even if they seem important at the time.

  This one, here, in the darkness of a Los Angeles cemetery, is momentous.

  I want to fall in love.

  Lucky me. Looks like I might just get that wish after all.

  Rebound girl.

  Shit. I'm doing an even worse job than I thought if that's all Sydney thinks she is. Rebound? What do I have to rebound from anyway? Naomi Knox and me, we were never anything. Sydney and me … well, we got a little further than Naomi and I ever did, but we're not anything either.

  “What, um,” I start and then pause as the wind picks up and ruffles the sparse branches of a nearby tree. I glance at it, watching the twist and shiver of branches, praying to whatever gods above or below that there's no teenage girl in there with a smartphone and an Instagram account with a thousand odd followers. Or a murderer. Or a rapist. Any of those would suck some serious dick. “What are we doing here?” I ask Sydney, turning around, the vodka bottle clutched in my hand. The harsh empty taste of the alcohol clings to my mouth and makes me cringe.

  “Drinking … I guess we're not eating.” Sydney pauses, her mouth twisting to the side. The expression made that much more perfect by her loud, pink lipstick. When I think about those lips wrapped around my cock, my bare ass pressed into the cool surface of a gravestone … let's just say none of that helps my dick get any less hard. “Hopefully fucking …”

  “I mean, you and me. What are we doing? I know this sounds stupid and maybe even bringing it up makes me the little bitch Turner and Trey accuse me of being, but I don't give a fuck.” I kneel down and set the vodka bottle in the grass, slipping off my hoodie and tossing it aside. Underneath, I've got a black tank with the teal Amatory Riot logo on it. I wish I could say I wore it on accident, but even with all of the crap that's been going on with Blair and Naomi and Paulette What's-Her-Fuck, I still can't fucking stop thinking about Sydney Charell.

  So okay. I wore the stupid shirt to show off my arm muscles. Sue me.

  “You want … like a promise ring or something?” Sydney says, but I can see the way her breath hitches and her eyes flick from my biceps to my chest to my face. Her eyeshadow is bright, flecked with glitter, almost as blue as her eyes. She'
s a whole canvas of color, even in the darkness of the cemetery.

  “I want to fucking figure this out. There's too much uncertainty in my life right now. I need something real. Maybe it's for forever, maybe not. But,” I run my tongue over my lower lip and watch as Sydney follows the motion with a flick of her pupils. “But for now …”

  She glances away, those sharp bangs falling into her face. I know she's older than me, but right now, Sydney looks young, vulnerable. I want to wrap her up and hold her tight, pull her against me and breathe gentle against her hair. It doesn't make any sense. My instant, undeniable attraction to her doesn't make any sense. But it's there. And it won't go away. And fuck, I want her so frigging badly.

  “For now you'll settle for little old me?”

  “Your funky spunky special brand of bullshit won't work on me,” I tell her, leaning back in the grass and resting my head against an obelisk. My eyes slide shut against a sky empty of stars. Can't see 'em through the smog. Kind of makes me want to get on a plane and fly somewhere else. Anywhere else. But I can't leave Blair or Naomi or hell, even Kash and Wren. Here I am, trying to play some kind of weird paternal role that I'm no good at. Fuck me. “So … are we doing this? Trying this out? This dating thing?” I open my eyes to stare at Sydney. I hope she can't tell but at this point I'm kind of desperate. Not just for somebody. But for her. For this. I can feel the strength radiating off her in waves, and it makes me feel like I can do this, like I can get through this. At the same time, I can tell she needs someone, too. I'm not sure if Sydney Charell's ever really had a somebody to herself.

  Sydney tips back the vodka bottle and takes a swig that makes my teeth hurt. Holy crap. Guess I'm not the only one that can hold my booze here.

  “Sorry. I hear the big d-word and I get a little funny.” She lifts a hand up and wobbles it back and forth for emphasis, staring at me from under her bangs. Dressed in those tiny shorts, those boots, the zip up Indecency hoodie hanging off one shoulder. Christ. I can barely look at her right now. “I haven't had the best of luck with the whole dating thing.”

  “That's because you've never dated me,” I say, standing up and moving back over to the blanket, tossing the bottle of vodka to the grass and leaning over Sydney. She falls back with another drink and a small smile, gold hair fanning out behind her head like a sunburst.

  “Is that so? Are you going to change my world, Mr. McCann?”

  “I'm going to rock it,” I say, even though internally, I think I cringe a little. At least I'm not getting goofy and making South Park references or something. Cheesy one-liners are always better than crude jokes or character imitations, complete with voice. Ugh.

  I lean down and press my lips to the thumping pulse in Sydney's throat, tasting her, smelling her. I inhale, letting the scent of flowers and wild things fill my lungs. Maybe that's one of the reasons I like Sydney so much? She's my complete opposite. All the places I'm dark, she's light. I'm the earth; she's the flowers. The sky; the stars. The moon; the sun.

  “God, that feels good,” she whispers, hooking her arms around my neck, relaxing into my touch. “Feels like I haven't gotten laid in forever.” She pauses. I pause. “Well, I mean except for the hotel …”

  “And before that?” I venture, even though I feel stupid for asking, like some possessive piece of shit asshole that has to piss on everything to mark it as his. Great. I finally find a girl I like and I get all caveman and crap. I try really hard not to think about the words I said back at the strip club. Dear God. I make myself not care what her answer's going to be. In that split second, I promise myself that I won't be mad.

  Only that's pretty much the biggest bullshit lie I've told myself in a long while.

  “What do you think? How much do you care?” Sydney asks, spreading her legs wide and wrapping them around me. We're pressed tight, pelvis to pelvis, my mouth just inches away from hers.

  “A lot. Too much maybe.” I groan and try to roll over, but Sydney comes with me and we end up with her on top, me on the bottom. Looking up at that body, that face, I can't really find it in me to complain.

  Sydney sits up, purposely grinding the hot warmth of her body against the painful bulge in my jeans. The smooth roll of her hips, the way she bites her lip off to the side like that. I'm about ten seconds away from coming in my goddamn pants.

  “I think your words were something to the effect of I'm gonna fuck you so hard you won't remember being with any other dude. It's just me and you, babe.”

  “I never said babe,” I growl, grabbing onto her hips and drawing a rough gasp from her throat. “I don't say babe.”

  “Small beans,” Sydney says, leaning down and breathing hot against my lower lip, paralyzing me in place. I'm fucking mesmerized, just like I was in that first moment that I saw her, when she stole the breath from my lungs and sent all the blood in my head into my cock. Dizzy. Weak. I reach up to touch her face, but Sydney pulls back, standing up and popping a stick of gum between her lips. “Little inconsistencies.”

  I roll onto my side and watch as she squats down and reads another headstone. They're all over my arm, these gray stones, the empty eyes of the dead. I should feel connected to this place, but I don't. I guess I'm just too similar to it, to the quiet dark earth of the graveyard. I need somebody who's my opposite, a bright swirl of color and life.

  Like Sydney.

  “Okay, yeah. I guess I did say basically that.” I pause, lick my lower lip. “It wasn't a lie. It's true. When I look at you, I feel things I've never felt before.”

  Sydney snorts, but more like she's embarrassed and less like she's trying to make fun of me.

  “So … this whole dating thing … you really want to give it a go then?” she asks tentatively, but more like the question's for herself than it is for me.

  My mouth twitches a little as I sit up and scrub my hands over my face. I'm on a comedown, big time. I haven't smoked anything other than tobacco since I signed that fucking contract. Barely drank. I feel like the clouds in front of my eyes are dissolving, floating away. Sure, the scene I'm looking down on isn't pretty, an apocalyptic street dressed in blood and dirt, but at least now I know what I'm dealing with.

  Hayden is dead. Tara is dead. America is dead.

  I suck in a deep breath.

  But I'm not. For whatever reason, I'm still here.

  I stand up and move over to Sydney, my boots quiet against the earth beneath my feet. In the distance, I can hear the scream of sirens, the rumble of traffic, but here, it all fades away, sucked into the dead and the bones and the ashes.

  “I really want to give it a go,” I tell Sydney as she turns around and looks up at me, her blue eyes searching my face for a long, long moment. Something flickers there, a flash of fear that makes my chest tighten and the breath rush from my lungs. I'm waiting with bated breath for an answer, following the path this girl takes through the garden of stone and statues, weeping angels with faces tilted towards a quiet sky. “Tell me you're along for the ride. I mean, we're basically living together now, right?”

  “About that …” Sydney says turning around and perching on the top of a headstone. Her yellow earrings swing enticingly, this splash of neon in an otherwise colorless world. I tuck my fingertips into my pockets and step close. If this is a rejection … well, fuck. It better not be. “I figure if we're gonna fuck on a regular basis, we might as well share a room.”

  Sydney glances up with a grin.

  “What do you say, Little Drummer Boy? You want to share a room with me? It'll make Trey and Turner flip a bitch, that's for sure. Just to see their reactions, it'd be worth it.”

  “Just to be with you it'd be worth it,” I tell her and then step close, pulling my hands from my pockets and resting my fingers on Sydney's bare knees, pushing them apart and drawing a sharp gasp from those bubblegum pink lips. “So that's a yes to dating? I need to hear you say it.”

  “That's a yes,” Sydney says as I reach down and pop the button on her shorts, curl my fing
ers around the waistband and draw them down her hips. “You're really down for doin' it in a graveyard?” she asks, her voice breathy and husky with need. “Some people might call this sacrilegious, a one way ticket to hell and all that jazz.”

  “It was your idea,” I say, dragging the shorts off and over Sydney's boots, dropping them to the grass beneath our feet. No panties. Dear God, help me. “So I figure you'll be the one paying the piper.” I take a small step back, pushing Sydney's knees even further apart. She spreads them wide, no hint of embarrassment or shame in her gaze as I take a long, lingering look at her bare cunt. Well, her almost bare cunt. “Is that a heart?” I ask with raised brows. “And a … ring? How did I miss this before?”

  Sydney runs her hand down her tummy and traces the pink fucking heart of hair above her clit.

  “I'm a stripper, remember? Everyone has to have a gimmick. This is mine. And come on, the last two times we fucked, you weren't exactly looking.” She smiles, and it's wicked hot, slicing across her face in a curved pink line. “I felt all your little secrets though.” Sydney plays with the ring through her clit.

  She's got her pussy pierced; my dick is pierced.

  Maybe we're a match made in heaven?

  “Fucking Christ, Sydney, you're going to undo me.” I suck in a harsh breath, my cock tight and thick against the inside of my jeans. I'm sure I've already wet my pants, leaked pre-ejac all over the denim. I can't help myself. When I look at this girl, I'm beyond ready. Desperate. Wild.

  I kneel down and slide my fingers along the smooth, bare skin of her inner thighs, my knees sinking into the dirt. Beneath us, there's a coffin buried six feet under. Up here, there's a girl with fish tattooed on her ankles, a pierced clit and … a pink fucking heart above her pussy.

  “You're like fucking dirty candy or some shit,” I whisper, lost for words, dropping my mouth to Sydney's warm heat, sliding my tongue along her slit and tasting that same wild floral taste that's all over her skin. She's frigging flavored, this chick.

  Sydney buries her fingers in my hair, squeezing hard, letting her head fall back, moonlight slicing across her throat and drawing silver lines on her pale skin. I kiss my way up to that heart, slide my tongue around it and then move back to her piercing. I can't keep my teeth away from it, nibbling on the warm metal and tugging it gently, making Sydney gasp and thrust her hips towards my face.