Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  Pain flickers through me, but I bite my tongue and suck it back with a sip of blood. No. No. I won't think about that right now. Blair's at the hospital with the best doctors, with her family, with the best meds money can buy. If they can't save her, nobody can. I just have to keep wingin' it on a hope and a prayer. And Sydney. Now I've got fucking Sydney.

  “Even in a dark sky, there are stars, right?” Sydney adds as she watches Turner move over to a panel in the wall. “Are you on your way to the hospital?”

  Turner grins and starts a song that I don't recognize, but hell, I haven't exactly been with it as of late. Could be the number one hit right now and I wouldn't know. Besides it sounds like hip-hop or rap or something, and I just don't listen to that crap. It's rock 'n' roll all the way for me.

  “Waiting for Brayden to bring the van around right now, motherfuckers,” Turner says as the song amps up into the chorus and I realize I do recognize it. It's Flo Rida's “My House”.

  I feel my lips pull down into a frown as Turner snaps his fingers and smokes his cigarette, dancing to the beat and making ridiculous hand gestures that I'm sure he thinks make him look cool. Instead of rolling her eyes, Sydney gets into it, moving to the beat as Turner sings about his motherfucking house and welcomes me to it by dancing like an idiot with my new girlfriend by his side.

  It's so … normal and weird and not like anything I've been a part of for a very, very long time.

  Jesus, I hate this song, I think as I get out my own cigarette and let Sydney pull me in for a ridiculous bump and grind dance session that somehow ends up drawing Lola and Ronnie in when they find us there. We're all moving around the kitchen like it's a fucking club, something I'm sure the cameras are going to pick up and pass along.

  Oh well. Fuck it. Just fuck it.

  My hands slide around Sydney's waist, the soft jersey fabric of her dress a delicious sensation against my fingertips. I draw her close, bringing her breasts up against my chest as Turner starts rapping out loud with the chorus. His vocals obliterate Flo Rida from the face of the earth as he sings about turning the music too loud. At this point, I don't even care. Sydney's eyes are focused on mine, her arms around my neck as we move to the throbbing beat and the cranked up bass on the stereo. Surround sound—in the entire fucking house. Guess that's one luxury I can get onboard with.

  “Told you,” Sydney whispers as the track changes and I recognize the sound of my own drumming blasting from the speakers like the spray of gunfire. Fuck, I'm good. “It's not so bad. We're going to beat this shit.”

  For a second there, my arms locked tight around her, her hot body sliding against mine, I almost believe that.

  Almost.

  So twenty minutes after Turner walks out the door, I'm relaxed enough to be chowing down on a freshly delivered pizza, sitting next to Sydney, our thighs touching ever so slightly beneath the counter. I want to talk to her about … everything. Anything. Something. Instead we're sitting in companionable silence, watching Ronnie and Lola have an interesting exchange that I'm not a hundred percent certain I understand. It's okay, nice even, sitting here like this, but I'm already looking forward to some more alone time—and not just to fuck, although I wouldn't say no to that either.

  “I don't trust that bloody sheila,” Lola mumbles under her breath, a slice of pizza clutched in her small hands. “I wouldn't piss on Paulette Washington if she were on fire.”

  “Agreed,” Ronnie says as he leans against the counter and watches his new girlfriend take a bite. “And I don't trust Brayden Ryker either, but what choice do we have at this point?”

  “You're the one that's as cunning as a dunny rat,” Lola grumbles. “You figure it out.”

  “The hell is a dunny rat?” Sydney asks with a laugh, glancing over at me. A smile quirks my lips as I stare back at her, a sense of peace taking over me for a split second. Naomi's on her way home; I have a place to live; I have a girlfriend. Now, if Blair would just wake the fuck up, things might actually turn out okay.

  The sound of sneakers on the marble floor in the hallway gives us all pause. The cameras may or may not have already recorded our conversation, but I'll be damned if they think they'll catch us gossiping in person.

  I feel my temporary smile fade away as a seriously perky woman with a clipboard appears, penning us in the kitchen like sheep. I think this chick is Paulette's secretary or something. In the few hours since we've come downstairs, I've seen the woman do everything but wipe Paulette's perfect silicone enhanced ass with her tongue—although I'm not doubting she does that behind closed doors, too.

  “Good morning everyone!” she exclaims with way too much goddamn enthusiasm for me. “How are y'all doing today?”

  “I won't dignify that fucking question with an answer,” I snap which does little to deter her excitement. Her blonde ponytail swings precariously as she whips her gaze between the four of us and then produces a small stack of papers in her manicured hands.

  “We've got some pretty tight deadlines right now,” she says which just sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.

  “Deadlines?” Sydney asks, her questions reflecting mine. “How are there deadlines for reality TV? Don't we just, like, do things while you watch? And isn't that supposed to start on Wednesday?” Ponytail Girl laughs like she thinks that's a joke and shakes the papers at us.

  “I texted you all the schedules last night, but nobody responded, so I'm assuming you didn't get them. Good thing we have old fashioned paper copies.”

  “God forbid we go back to the days of tallow candles and vellum paper,” I say with an eye roll. Sydney chuckles, but Ponytail doesn't seem to get the joke, passing over the schedules to me. I hand them out to the others and then stare down at the page. There's today's date … with my name right at the top.

  I check the clock, check the paper, check the clock again.

  Fuck.

  “Celebrity Guest Promotional Interview?” Sydney asks for me. “What the fuck is a promotional interview? And who's the celebrity guest?”

  Ponytail's unfailing smile makes my jaw twitch.

  Great. And I was having such a good goddamn morning, too. There's nothing I hate more than fucking interviews.

  Let me rephrase that: there's not much that I hate more than fucking interviews.

  Surprisingly, Paulette Washington manages to dredge one of those rarities up for me.

  Two horrible words. Four horrendous syllables.

  Miley Culbrath.

  It's like every miserable second of this experience is specifically designed to torture me to death.

  I curl my hands into fists by my sides, my fingertips worrying at the tight knit of my fingerless gloves. There's a drum set sitting in the living room, but I'm lucky enough to experience the empty feeling of walking in here and sitting on that throne with absolutely zero chance to play. The kit is awful, some blinged-out bullshit that I wouldn't want to hit anyway. This is the kind of crap you find hiding behind pop stars, just a simple four piece set for some poor asshole who gets paid to burn the eardrums out of anyone unfortunate enough to have to listen to a constant loop of basic quarter note beats.

  “I'm not going on TV with that,” I say as I examine the set and glance over at Paulette Washington, still smiling that creepy ghoul like smile of hers. At first, I thought she reminded me of America, but every second I spend looking at her face, I realize she's nothing like her. America was polished perfection, but it was just a wrapper for the emotionally unstable woman beneath. Paulette is the wrapper. I'm not sure there is anything to hide underneath all that perfect. What do they call that shit? Sociopath? Psychopath?

  Day one of filming for our hideous show and I'm already regretting my impulse to sign that contract. Was dying really that big a deal? Doesn't seem so much like it now.

  “It's not like I'm asking you to play it,” Paulette says as I stare at Miley Culbrath, the host for that stupid show we were on for LMTV. The girl looks about the same as I remember her: short blonde ha
ir, a face like a chimpanzee, blue eyes that I'd bet everything I own are fake as hell. Fucking contacts. I should've worn the full black ones I have in my bag, the ones that make me look like a demon from Supernatural. Now that would've made this whole thing palatable.

  “I won't be seen with some Tinker Toy. I want my kit,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest and wish like hell we had a manager right now. The record company sent some guy to handle shit while we wait for a replacement, but I have a feeling he's in Paulette's pocket. Just another pawn in this weird ass war.

  I sigh, but Paulette hardly blinks. Instead, she snaps her fingers at an assistant while Miley Culbrath stares at me and I wait for yet another interview that'll go south faster than a flock of geese in a storm.

  This should be fun.

  I look around for Sydney, but she's disappeared in the time it took me to get changed and prepped for the interview. I try not to worry about it. Like, who the hell could get in here with Brayden and his crew, the TV crew, Miley's people. It's a fucking zoo, and I'm one of the exhibits.

  I spot Mr. Ryker himself in the corner, arms folded over his chest. Why he did what he did with Cohen's body is still kind of a mystery to me. I get that Paulette 'made him' do it, but what's the fucking point? To scare us into submission? Remind us that we've got zero control over our own lives? It's like a game of chess, but instead of wooden or plastic pieces, we got … a body that was already starting to smell.

  How the hell did I end up in the middle of this mess?

  I take a deep breath and wait while the blinged-out shit set is dragged away and my kit gets set up in its place. It's not as pretty as the other set, not covered in Swarovski crystal or whatever the hell was all over that thing, but it's mine. From the scratches in the finish, to the tape on the throne, it's mine.

  Kind of like Sydney.

  A shiver travels over my body and I try really fucking hard not to … well, to get hard.

  Doesn't work.

  By the time my kit is in place and somebody with a makeup brush is trying to attack my forehead, I'm sporting a massive erection that precedes me onto the makeshift stage for yet another interview. This time, it's a promotional video for the website. Perfect.

  “Dressed all in black today I see,” Miley says, like she's trying to make conversation with me. In all reality, her eyes are way too close together and there's a gap between her front teeth. She's one of those stick skinny girls the modeling industry likes nowadays because they're interesting. And by interesting, I mean only in the face. Behind those big bug eyes and that plastic surgery smile, there's still a vapid, shallow idiot waiting to open its mouth. “Whose funeral is it?”

  “Take your pick,” I say as I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “I have a whole cadre of dead friends, acquaintances, enemies, even relatives to pick from.”

  Miley stares back at me with literally no emotion on her face. Quadruple threat, my ass. This girl might be able to sing, dance, model, and market, but there's nothing there. Nothing, man.

  I glance back towards the stairs looking for Sydney again, but she's still nowhere to be seen.

  Fuck.

  One half day into our new relationship and I'm getting possessive. Christ no. I don't want to end up acting like Turner Campbell.

  I run a hand through my hair and try to concentrate on getting through this interview without making an ass out of myself. Thus far, I'm pretty damn sure I've 'failed' all the others.

  I realize I'm frowning and put on a more neutral expression, my gaze sliding back over to Brayden Ryker.

  He's gone.

  My body tenses, my hands curling into fists as Miley clears her throat about a dozen times and forces my attention back in her direction. I imagine that's something she's used to doing, drawing attention like that. I hate her already.

  I focus my attention back on the cameras, on Rain Colbert, that producer bitch that's apparently attached to Miley at the hip. What a fucking nightmare. I hate Hollywood almost as much as I hate the girl sitting across from me. She watches Rain for a moment and then turns her flashing smile on the camera.

  “Hey there Live Work fans, this is Miley Culbrath checking in with a special sneak peek at the network's newest show, a reality television program that is so on fleek, you're gonna wanna get your brows done just to watch it.” Miley slides her thumbs over her arched blonde brows and tosses a smile at me. For my part, I just try not to throw up. “We're counting down the cast of the show, starting with Dax McCann, the drummer for the band that's got everyone talking: Amatory Riot. So mark your calendars and get ready for the upcoming premiere of reality television gone wrong …” Miley pauses to make a rock on symbol with her fingers and stick out her tongue (she looks ridiculous by the way). “Get ready for Hard Rock Roots!”

  My breath catches in my chest as I glance sideways out the window and happen to catch Sydney on the edge of the wall surrounding the property. The hell is going on? When the fuck did she sneak out of here? I sit up straight and watch as she drops to the ground on the other side, running her hands down the dusty fabric of the white maxi dress she's got on. When she tosses a look my way, our eyes meet and I know, just know that something weird is going on.

  “So, Dax, it's no secret that you, and your band, have been through hell and back. Can you tell me a little more about that?” Miley leans forward, blonde hair scraping past her ears as she stares at me like she gives two craps about me and mine. I can barely look at her before my gaze is drawn right back to Sydney. Without skipping a beat, she flings the sliding glass door open and comes to stand directly in front of the camera.

  There's a moment of complete silence as she stares at me, panting hard, face sweaty from the dry heat I can feel sweeping in the open sliding doors.

  “Dax,” she says, just that one word.

  It's more than enough to scare the shit out of me.

  I'm on my feet in an instant, my fingers curling around her upper arms. Sydney is usually so … Sydney. To say she doesn't show emotion is a lie because she's expressive as fuck, but this is different. I've never seen her so open, so vulnerable, so … excited?

  Those gorgeous curvy lips of hers curl up in a smile, dressed in bright red lipstick that shimmers like wet paint. I want to watch it smear across the head of my dick as she sucks me off, and then I want to kiss the rest of it off her face. For a second there, I almost forget about the cameras. I don't think that's the case with Sydney. Pretty sure she's fully aware of their existence; she just doesn't give a fuck.

  “I got another gig,” she says, leaning back and looking up into my face. “I got another offer.”

  “Excuse me, we're in the middle of an interview here,” Miley says, her voice as full of venom as a fer-de-lance pit viper.

  “Shut your trap, I'm talking,” Sydney says before reaching down and grabbing my hand. Her fingers are hot and sweaty where they brush against my flesh, doing absolutely nothing to help my growing erection. I think I have a serious problem here. Like, a call the doctor and get my dick checked out kind. It's not normal to have a woody for hours on end.

  “The hell did you say to me, you basic bitch?” Miley says, rising from her seat like one of those angry ass monkeys you see at the zoo. My gaze flicks over to Paulette Washington and the Kafkaesque grin spread across her Beverly Hills perfect face. Yup. Exhibits. We're all fucking exhibits.

  “Maybe we should take this somewhere else?” I ask, curling my fingers around Sydney's hand and hoping like hell this situation doesn't spiral out of control. The expression on her face is hard to read, but I recognize the same violet flicker of anger that crossed her blue eyes before she called America out as a bourgeois bitch. Shit. And all of this is happening on frigging camera. By no accident, I'm sure. I'm happy for Sydney, but a modeling contract that rolls in like a flash flood? No way that's simple happenstance.

  “So not worth my time,” Sydney murmurs, and there's this crystal clear moment where I compare her smack up against thoughts o
f Naomi Knox. If some chimp-faced celebrity had called Knox a basic bitch, blows would've been exchanged for sure. Sydney, she's smarter than that. She knows when and where to pour her energy, and Miley Culbrath just doesn't rank.

  “Miss Charell,” Ponytail squeaks from behind us, but we're already moving, fleeing through the archway into a sitting room furnished with nothing but a desk, a pair of sparsely decorated bookshelves and what's got to be a freakishly expensive Persian rug. How did Turner and his buddies end up buying a house owned by America's sister? That's no accident. No fucking accident.

  “Sorry about your interview,” Sydney says. She doesn't sound sorry at all.

  Fuck. I really like this girl.

  “You got an offer?” I ask, reluctantly releasing Sydney's hand so she can lock the door behind us. There's an entire wall of glass open to the backyard, but I guess that doesn't really matter as long as Paulette and crew can't hear us. I reach down, unclip my mic and move over to the sliding glass doors, tossing it outside on the patio before I close them again. “Out of the blue?”

  “I'm not an idiot,” Sydney says, waving her hand around like she's not offended by my statement, but like she's already fully aware of the implications. “I got a phone call after you went upstairs, so I went outside to smoke a cigarette and talk.” She takes a deep breath and smoothes her hands over her blonde hair. “Tin Dolls Magazine,” she breathes and my heart skips like, sixty beats.

  Tin Dolls is a hundred times, a thousand times bigger than Tattoo Terror. They sell more physical copies than Sports Illustrated—and that doesn't even begin to describe how many people visit their website.

  So. My new girlfriend naked in front of millions. Me. Standing here like an asshole, wanting to be all women's rights and sexual freedom and fuck modesty, but goddamn it. I'm jealous as hell.

  “That's incredible,” I blurt, and even that comes out sounding … not quite right. I start thinking about Billy Crystal quotes from When Harry Met Sally, and have to choke back on my nervous goofball twitch.