Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  I glance over and hook a glare at Trey before turning back to the camera. Turner's hopefully on his way back from the hospital with Naomi or else I would've given him one, too.

  “And on my count,” Rain says, stepping back as Miley flicks a switch and turns into a bubbly teen pop star just like that. Her teeth are white as fuck, too. “One, two, and …”

  “Welcome back LMTV viewers. With me, I've got Sydney Charell. If you don't know who that is, don't worry, you will.” Miley gives a wink that's decidedly vicious and then shakes out her short hair like she's in an Herbal Essences commercial. “Sydney's the sister of Indecency guitarist, Trey Charell. And yes,” she says with an emphatic nod. “He is the one that took a bullet from a sniper rifle! Wow!” My mouth twitches painfully, and I have to look at Dax just to keep going. Goddamn, he's handsome as hell. “And I hear she's also the next future cover for Tin Dolls Magazine. But—and this is even more interesting—besides posing for major publications and helping with the family rock 'n' roll business, Miss Charell also has another secret she'd like to share with us today.”

  Double. Fucking. Whammy.

  I get the call from Tin Dolls, what, an hour ago? And Miley already knows about it. That's not creepy at all. And speaking of secrets …

  Miley turns to me, her grin a similar style to the one the Grinch sports in everyone's favorite Christmas cartoon. I really, really want to punch her.

  “How would you describe your relationship with Dax McCann?” she asks, smooth as silk, leaning in like a talkshow host.

  Yay me.

  I get to declare my relationship with Dax in front of … well, in front of everybody and then some. Ronnie, Lola, Trey, Milo, Paulette. Dax. Oh, and a whole sea of nameless, faceless crew members. Fun. Real, real fun.

  Somehow … I'm not surprised?

  I should've stayed in Detroit.

  I clear my throat, flick some blonde hair over my shoulder and throw up my best stripper smile, the one that means nothing and hides everything. Although there's no way I'm hiding this.

  “Dax and I are, like, totally a couple now,” I say, batting my eyelashes and watching as Miley's—and Paulette's—perfect smiles … stay exactly where they're supposed to be. Damn it. How do I faze these bitches?

  “Wait, what?” This from Trey. I ignore him as Ponytail hushes him up like a naughty child.

  “Less fake, more real,” Paulette stresses from behind the camera, staring at me from her navy blue director's chair, clad in white and red, her brunette hair falling just so around her shoulders. I stare right back, wondering if my scandalous figure bothers her. My top hides nothing, bares everything, and my jeans cling to my body like plastic wrap. I've got rainbow bracelets on one arm and those fabulous leopard print and pink heels I bought.

  I'm pretty sure everyone here hates my outfit, and I'm also pretty sure that I don't give a flying fuck.

  “More real,” I murmur and then my lips curl up into an actual expression of glee. I lean forward, pillowing my face on my hands and stare Miley straight in the eyes. “Dax and I drank vodka and fucked in a cemetery last night. Since we both have genital piercings, I'm about halfway positive that we're soul mates.”

  I lean back, expecting some sort of reaction from Paulette. I get one from Ronnie and Trey, that's for sure. I can hear them mumbling nonsense in the background, but from our fabulous TV host and psycho producer bitch, I get nothing but … smiles.

  “Perfect,” Paulette whispers as Miley starts to blather at me, acting all shocked and surprised by my words (she's clearly not). But Paulette … she sounds downright thrilled when those two syllables fall from her nude painted lips.

  Holy fuck. This bitch is terrifying.

  Might have to put on my big girl panties for this one.

  “I might be confined to this chair, but I can still kick your ass,” Trey growls at Dax, not giving two fucks that there are cameras everywhere. I might not be able to see most of them—hidden on the mantle, on a picture frame, in the corner on the ceiling—but just knowing they're there is making me queasy.

  I light up a cigarette and scoot towards the patio doors to blow smoke into the meager breeze.

  “Puh-fucking-lease,” Turner says, all sated and happy as a fucking cat with cream. Admittedly, it's a little hard to look at him right now. When he first walked in those doors after his visit to the hospital, his swagger was off the charts insane. And I thought he was hard to look at before he fell in love. Gross. With Naomi Knox upstairs in his bedroom, he's plump as a plum and twice as juicy. “You couldn't kick any ass before you got put in that chair, Crippled Dick.” Turner doesn't even look at my brother while he insults him, instead deciding to blow smoke in Dax's face. To his credit, my new beau doesn't even react, just stares back at Turner with a steely glare.

  My skin ripples when he turns those gray eyes over to me instead. I think a slight smile is starting at the corner of his lips again. Either that or he's about to scowl at the pair of idiots standing next to us. Not sure. I'm split about fifty-fifty on that one.

  “Fuck you, Turner. Get over here and I'll show you how hard I can still hit, you son of a bitch motherfucker.” I sigh and tap my knuckles against my forehead as Trey wheels himself into Turner's leg and they get into a small scuffle. Aw, now isn't that fucking precious? Two peas in a pod. Two asshole peas.

  “Dude, I get that you're mad about the emo fuck screwing your sister, but don't take that shit out on me.” Turner lifts his cigarette to his lips with a chuckle. Head over heels, lovey-dovey Turner Campbell is like a walking, talking bloated ego bubble full of candles, chocolate and rose petals. It's creepy as hell. If Naomi wasn't upstairs and doped up on a morphine drip, I'd fetch her ass and have her put her man in his place. She seriously needs to check her bitch. Bet she would, too, considering the way she cursed out her nurses while they getting her situated. I barely know that chick and I love her already. Feisty.

  “I thought we were cool?” Dax asks, getting his own cigarette and staring out towards the too-blue waters of the pool. I wonder if he sees it like I do, like a drug induced dream, some hazy unknown that's either heaven or hell. Can't ever decide which. “You said I was 'golden'?” Dax makes quotes with his fingers, letting his cig hang from his lips. “I hit good, right?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Turner says, but I can tell he's just stirring up drama for fun. While some of us might be worried about the future, I'm not entirely certain he is. Ah, the blinding power of love. I get this weird motherly urge to reach out and brush the hair off his forehead, but I don't. He'd probably smack my hand away anyway.

  “Please tell me you didn't really screw in a cemetery?” Trey says with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. His brown hair is gelled up the way he likes it, a smidge of liner wrapped around his eyes. It's a relief to see him dressed up in jeans and a band tee, sweatbands at his wrists, face twisted in a slight scowl. I might make fun of the little bastard, but if I'd lost him … hell, I don't know even what I'd do. He's my baby brother, and he's all I got.

  I glance over at Dax.

  Well … I want to fall in love. I clear my throat and push that thought to the back of my mind. Like thinking about it will make it happen. Life does what it pleases and it doesn't give a shit if you like the direction it's taking.

  “I was a stripper, remember? You guys are acting like I'm some vestal virgin who needs help protecting the keys to her chastity belt. Fuck off and leave me alone.”

  “Whatever. Just don't get married before Naomi and I do. I get to tie the knot first.” Turner takes a few drags on his cig and then flicks it right out the open doors and onto the pristine white concrete. He meanders away while I roll my eyes, catching Dax's tight expression and pursed lips.

  “Don't worry, he's like herpes. The first year is the worst.” I try to smile, but it doesn't come out right. Crap. Dax glances over at me with a slightly worried expression and I realize that maybe that wasn't the best analogy in the world to use on a new … boyfriend.
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  Yuck.

  I hate that word.

  I crumple a stick of cherry watermelon gum between my lips and smack it hard. Wouldn't hurt to look up some fancy French word for boyfriend. Hell, if they can make that messy twist people call a threesome sound all pretty with ménage à trois then surely they can tackle this thing, too?

  New. Awkward. A slice of everyday in a sea of shit. That's what Dax and me are gonna be.

  Normal.

  I try really hard not to spare a glance for the camera that's probably zoomed in on my tits. Granted, they are pretty goddamn nice but it's a little creepy to consider that everything I say and do in this living room might find its way into some geek's YouTube compilation video.

  I cross my arms over my chest and try not to call out the sudden awkwardness in the room.

  Between Dax and me, there's this sticky stretch and pull, like I took this piece of gum out of my mouth and glommed it between us, let it get all nice and tangled in each other's hair. We're connected, and we want to touch, but every time we do, shit just gets more twisted up. Like that bareback screw in the office. Yummy. A shiver travels down my spine as I flick my gaze up to him.

  “You want to get out of here?” I ask and he gives me a look like duh.

  “If I could get on a plane and fly to Nigeria right now, I would. The fuck was I thinking when I signed that contract? I must be fucking insane.”

  “Hey, I'd be right there with you if I could be assured nobody'd be waiting to cut my clitoris off at the airport.” I smack my gum a few times and smile through the inappropriate joke. Seriously though, not cool. I don't care if it's part of somebody's culture or not—stop slicing up ladies' junk please. “Instead I was thinking we could set up that kit I stole from your Dad's house? Maybe you could play something for me?”

  Dax has a physical reaction to my words. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why. The guy got screwed over by the man who—despite the lack of sperm donation—was the only parent he'd ever known, kicked in the teeth by his good friend, and devastated by the loss of a high school sweetheart. Bringing up the drum set, that was just a flutter of dust in the face. It hurts; I get it. But I've also got to stop enabling the man. He can't keep stewing in his own juices or he'll get so tender that he'll fall apart.

  I won't let that happen.

  I like the guy too damn much.

  “Yeah, sure,” Dax says and then there's this awkward pause before I turn and start towards the stairs ahead of him. I try to walk casual and all that, but I think I just reverted into my 'stripper' walk, the one I used to use when I was stomping down that runway in less than a thong and booby tassels. Having a routine helps with the nerves and this is kind of all I've got.

  Halfway up the stairs, I get this chill down my spine and narrow my eyes. The sensation of being watched turns from the electric hum of the cameras into the icy chill of actual eyeballs. So much worse I think. True enough, when I hit the landing, I find Brayden Ryker waiting for me.

  At least he's sans rock-star-corpse this time. I really would rather never see that—or any other—dead body again. It smelled like fucking dog fart.

  “No corpses this time, I see,” I joke, seriously trying and failing to figure out the game. I don't get it. I don't. Seriously. I know rich people buy ten thousand dollar martinis and plate their toilets with gold, but like, is money a disease? Because I've seen people with brain damage make smarter choices.

  I smack my gum a few times and stare into Brayden's mossy green eyes. They're so soft and pretty and this man is such a stubborn piece of shit that I wouldn't be surprised if he'd fucked with his own genes in the womb and made his eyes shift into a gentle, unassuming color. Clearly, the double sleeves of floral tattoos are there to serve the same purpose.

  But I'm not fooled. Not for a second.

  “You don't miss 'im then?” he asks with a soft lilt, his red hair bright against the disturbingly sterile hallway. I try not to worry too much about it. Give my boys a few weeks in here and they'll surely ruin the carefully decorated side tables and pristine beige walls with random rock posters, ashtrays, and maybe—if we're lucky—discarded needles and other drug paraphernalia. “After all the trouble you went to getting him where you wanted him to go?”

  “The hell do you want?” Dax snaps, cutting off the witty banter before it even begins. “I'm done fucking around here. If there's something you want, then say it and let's cut the bullshit.”

  “The Tin Dolls shoot,” Brayden says, making the hair on my arms stand up straight. Fuck. I've never been so excited about something … and so terrified at the same time. Without even realizing I'm doing it, I reach down and curl my fingers through Dax's. It's like putting a cool balm on my skin, a penetrating lotion that sinks right into my bloodstream, floods straight to my core. “Things are progressing more quickly than I'd like them to. Paulette's pushing fast forward on this whole project which means something's coming. I don't know what yet, but I do na like it. Now, you got only a short while until the photoshoot. Be there, make things work, and stop stirrin' up so much goddamn trouble.”

  I point a finger up at the ceiling as Dax curls his hands into fists, squeezing mine so tight it's almost painful. When I glance up at his face, I see more rage and anger there than Brayden could possibly be responsible for. Shit. Been together like, a day, and I'm already failing as a girlfriend. There's something else there, something we should talk about—besides the corporate conspiracy/rich family revenge thing.

  I file it away for later and turn back to Brayden.

  “There are cameras in the ceiling, are there not?”

  “Aye, but they're not recording at the moment.”

  “And why's that?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Because,” Brayden begins, and there's something in his voice that tells me I should be paying attention. “Paulette might be the producer, but I'm the host. I just wanted you to remember that.”

  I set up my kit in Sydney's room—my room, too, I guess—and try not to let the feelings in my chest overwhelm me. I thought if more people knew about Tara, that the pain and failure I felt whenever I thought about her would go away.

  It hasn't.

  Fuck. With the Hayden thing, it's actually all gotten so much worse. Now, instead of remembering her sweet smile and the gentle touch of her mouth on mine, I see the way she looked as she swallowed that handful of pills, I see blood.

  Splatters of red tint my nightmares and now that I'm working on weaning myself off the drugs, they taint my daylight too. When I see sunshine, I see the way it glittered off the darkness of her hair and the stain of blood that surrounded her head like a halo. When I hear birds chirp, I see Hayden putting the gun to her and head and blowing her brains out. All of that, though, it goes away when I'm with Sydney.

  I stand up and shove my fingers through my hair, glancing over at her. She's laying across the bedspread in a glorious sprawl. Just the sight of her's enough to turn my dick to diamond and push back the pain—for a second anyway. But then I look at my kit and it all comes rushing in like a tsunami. The hell did I let her talk me into bringing this stupid thing up here for?

  I can still remember the day Tara surprised me with these drums, the way she yanked off the white sheet with a look of accomplishment and pride on her delicate face. She thought she'd really done something important that day, made a difference in the world. And she did, really. It wasn't enough for either of us at the time, but it was one of a few bright spots in an otherwise empty world for both of us.

  “Tell me about it,” Sydney says and the bed creaks a little, sending a chill down my spine.

  “It's a Tama SuperStar seven piece with maple shells and low-mass single lugs. It was used when Tara bought it. Maybe it's vintage now.” I shrug like I don't give a shit. But I do. Goddamn it, but I think I give way too many shits. Maybe I need another 'session' like we had down in the office? Something to clear my head. “I added on a few extras, like these custom
dark hi-hats. Pretty fucking fly, right?”

  “That's not what I'm talking about,” she says, but I don't care. I move around to the throne and sit down hard, sliding a pair of sticks from my right boot. I don't look up. Can't look at Sydney's face right now or it'll all come a tumblin' out. Hell, I might even cry and how the fuck would that help my emo boy persona?

  “The heads aren't terrible, and if I remember correctly, the thing tunes up something decent.” I sigh and rub a thumb along the scratched blue lacquer. The entire kit's covered in stickers—an original teenage concept, I'm sure—and it's beat to shit, but I can still pound out a tune.

  I spin my sticks in my hands and take a deep breath.

  “You don't have to talk about music with me, Dax,” she says, her voice sounding softer, comforting in an almost frightening sort of way. Like, I could really count on Sydney if I needed to. I look up at her red mouth, at her brightly colored fingernails curling into the bedspread and I want to talk. And talk. And fucking talk.

  But the reality is, we still don't know each other all that well and there's still a crazy Irish man threatening us with a bunch of vague statements and bullshit. I'm sure it's some screwed up scare tactic, like maybe Brayden actually does want to help us, but he got his point across.

  Be afraid. Be very afraid.

  Fuck him.

  I spin my sticks again and turn my attention inward, away from Sydney and towards some distant sound that only I can hear. Now that we're off the tour and I've got some time on my hands (theoretically, right, since who the hell knows if I'll get shot by a sniper tomorrow), I'm going to write a song. Or maybe a couple. Naomi's laying in Turner's room, asleep and unaware, and this fame will only carry us so far for so long. Part of me knows that no matter how permanent something seems, whether good or bad, it'll eventually go away. Right now, that's a comfort, knowing that nothing lasts forever.