Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  So maybe I'll write our next album? This fucking band owes me a song or two at least.

  I start off with a standard rock fill, nothing fancy. Just a few drags on my tom and a clash of cymbals, anything to move my mind along and forget all this crap. If I want to get through this nightmare alive and intact, I have to remember exactly why it is that I'm doing all of this, why I'm here.

  The music.

  And maybe the girl, my unconscious mind quips. Motherfucker.

  I stare into Sydney's blue eyes, letting her gaze lock me down as my hands start to wander and I have no idea what the hell it is that I'm playing anymore. A few blinks later and I realize I'm in the middle of some two-handed sixteenth note beats, my hands alternating between the hi-hats and the snare.

  I distract myself by counting the notes.

  1 e & a 2 e & a 3 e & a 4 e & a

  One ee and uh two ee and uh three ee and a four ee and uh …

  Sydney's still staring at me as I play, little beads of sweat dripping down my forehead as I look right back at her and try to figure this all out. The good thing about trying to think while I play is that I can't get distracted by my own head. The music, the movement, the contraction of my muscles, it distracts me enough that the thoughts actually coming through my brain are distilled, almost pure.

  Rich people are trying to kill me.

  Okay, at least I know that much.

  None of this makes sense.

  But since when has having money ever helped anyone have any fucking sense?

  I'm in love with the girl.

  Now there's a doozy.

  I watch as Sydney flicks her hair back and stands up, running her tongue along her full lower lip as she lifts her hands to the ties of the skimpy black top she's got on and slowly—oh so fucking slowly—pulls the knot apart. I lick my lips, too, watching her, playing for her, getting ready for a striptease that I feel like I've been waiting for since the moment I met her …

  And then the fucking door flies open and I drop my sticks to the floor.

  It's Turner Campbell.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you right now?” I snarl and the man looks at me like he has no idea what language I'm speaking, let alone that I just threatened his life.

  “Naomi's up,” he says, and I can see the flutter of lashes and the thumping pulse of his heart in his throat. “And she wants to see you. Now.”

  I stand up from my throne and catch Sydney's lingering expression. She looks disappointed.

  So is my dick.

  Now I get to go greet my friend with a raging hard-on.

  What's new, right?

  “Get me out of here,” Naomi rasps, clinging to my arm for dear life. She looks better than I did after the whole tornado thing, but I can see even this small amount of effort is bringing beads of sweat up on her forehead. “Now.”

  “You're talkin' crazy, baby,” Turner says, squatting on the opposite side of the bed and resting his chin on the comforter. His face is so … soft. It's weird. Some deep, dark part of me likes seeing this side of him, makes me want to smirk and gloat and pick, but that's not who I am. Fuck, I know if our situations were reversed, Turner'd be cracking jokes left and right at my expense. Instead, I hold my tongue and draw my arm away from Naomi, crossing both over my chest as I try to make myself smile.

  “It's nice to see you're awake,” I tell her honestly, risking a glance up at Sydney. “And joking around.” Naomi struggles to sit up, her breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts that make my lungs hurt just listening to 'em.

  “It's not a joke,” she says, completely out of breath, blonde hair stuck to her chapped lips as she flicks a glance over at Turner. “I'm not living with him, and I'm definitely not marrying him, and who the fuck made him my power of attorney?”

  “You said if you survived the concert,” Turner starts, but pauses at a knock on the door. We all freeze as Sydney opens it and steps back to let Ronnie in. The expression on his face is sour and pinched. Maybe he ran into Brayden, too?

  “He's still out there, isn't he?” I ask and Ronnie shakes his head.

  “No, she's out there now,” he corrects. No need for clarification. We both get it.

  I light up a cigarette and look over at Sydney again; she doesn't look very happy.

  “Who's still sitting there?” Naomi croaks, brushing shaking fingers through her hair as Turner stands up and pulls out a smoke. He lights it and passes it over to her. How fucking sweet, sharing the lung cancer with his girlfriend.

  Naomi snatches the cigarette with shaking fingers and struggles to place it between her lips, lips that used to make me drool when they parted like that. Now … I let my gaze trail back to Sydney, to her fire engine red lipstick. Naomi's got this rough rocker chick thing going on that used to make me crazy, but I think I like Sydney's pop of color better.

  I run a hand over my face.

  “Not all that important,” Ronnie says as Turner raises a dark brow at him. “Anyway, it's good to see you up and about.”

  “Yeah, well,” she starts, but her voice trails off and she glances away, breath heavy and hard. When she next speaks, her words are even raspier, even more broken than before. The sound is less an emotional bleed and more a physical thing. I think. I shift uncomfortably and tuck my hands in my back pockets.

  That voice, that's key to our future as a band. If it's permanently broken … I don't let myself finish that thought.

  “Get me the fuck out of here.” Naomi pauses, taking a drag on her cigarette and then looking up … up … up. Jesus Christ, the ceilings in here are tall. “Wherever here is.”

  “I bought you a mansion,” Turner says, standing up straight and adjusting his nuts for good measure, just to remind us all that he's not actually a nice guy, just a tool with some soft edges. Fucker. “A palace. It's like the Taj Mahal, baby. Built for my very own princess.”

  “You bought a mansion?” Naomi asks, her voice twice as full of skepticism and distaste as I'd expected. Fantastic. “Are you stupid? How much did this place cost anyway?” A flicker of irritation skitters across Turner's face before he shakes it off and opens his mouth to answer.

  Ronnie steps in and interrupts before Turner seriously sends Naomi into a fit. She just woke up from a goddamn coma. Last thing she needs is sticker shock. Serious, serious sticker shock.

  “We're just glad you're awake,” Ronnie says again, making himself smile as he risks a glance at the closed bedroom door. “Watching Turner mope around was getting to be too much for the rest of us. Talk about a wet blanket.”

  “Screw you, motherfucker. I watched you mope for like, ten years or something.” Turner lights up another cigarette and starts smoking it, cupping the lighter with inked fingers as his gaze drifts over to me, Sydney, then back to Ronnie. “You can deal with a couple of weeks, asshole. What you should be worrying about,” Turner continues as he nods his chin at me and Naomi's gaze swings my way again. We lock eyes, my gray ones staring into her orange-brown. I should probably tell her about Blair, but I can barely think about my friend without getting sick to my stomach. “Is that this emo bitch signed us up for reality TV.”

  There's a long, pregnant pause before Naomi blinks slowly at me. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Get the fuck out of my sight,” she says, and I do.

  “You gonna love me right, Dax McCann?”

  Huh. A video with over a hundred thousand views and my voice-over doesn't even have proper grammar. Great.

  “Why don't you relax and find out?” Dax's voice answers as the camera zooms in through the glass, hidden somewhere on the porch where we couldn't see it at the time. It's a shitty, shaky view of us fucking, but it's pretty damn obvious what we're doing.

  Another sex tape to plague our little hard rock group—only this time, we know exactly who posted it. On the bottom of the video, there's an ad for the premiere of Hard Rock Roots, our new reality show. How exciting.

  “Not as
good as our video,” Turner mumbles as Naomi stares at the laptop balanced precariously on her knees, her facial expression somewhere between violent incredulity and maniacal amusement. “But better than Jesse's. Ugh, Rook Geary. I still cannot get over that shit. That is fucking nasty.”

  “I swear to Christ, I'm going to kill you,” Jesse growls, running his hand over his shorn hair and shaking his head. “You're such a pig.”

  “How the …” Dax is still standing there in complete shock, his face a white mask, his gorgeous lips parted in surprise. I wouldn't say last night went well—primarily because we didn't fuck—but Dax and I were actually able to lay in bed and watch a movie together. It was so … blessedly normal. But to wake up to this? Really? No wonder Paulette was smiling so much yesterday.

  “How could you be so stupid?” Naomi croaks, giving my new boyfriend a dark as fuck look. I don't want to say she's not happy with Turner (well, she's definitely not pleased in this exact moment, but that's a whole different animal) because she is, but I can sense a bit of jealousy there. When she looks at me, her eyes narrow and her mouth twitches. I think she partially blames for me this whole reality TV thing. I get it. I mean, I'm the woman and therefore the smartest one around. I should've kept my boys in order.

  “How could you?” Dax shoots back, getting defensive. “At least I wasn't all the way up her ass.”

  “Whooooaaaa,” Trey crows, thoroughly enjoying the drama. God, he's such a fucking brat sometimes. “Shots fired.”

  Naomi slams the lid on the computer and turns her attention to Dax, scowling hard enough to break her face. She might be fucked up from the coma, but this chick looks like she could cut a bitch. Turner and I exchange this weird look where we both acknowledge the assholery of our respective dates. It's comforting and familial in a way.

  “If I was filming a fucking reality TV show with America's sister and wearing a goddamn mic then you BET YOUR ASS I'd be careful enough not to FUCK in front of a wall of windows!” she screeches, her voice breaking a little from lack of use. But damn it, those rock star vocals are in there, strong as ever, just waiting to claw their way out.

  “Yeah, sure, but a hotel BALLROOM is perfectly fucking acceptable!”

  Naomi throws the laptop at Dax, hitting him right in the arm before the computer crashes to the floor and explodes in a spray of pieces. She slaps some wisps of blonde hair from her face as she fumes, panting with the effort of being so angry. She really should be sleeping, but then there was … this. All. Of. This.

  “I didn't sign anything,” she moans, putting her face in her shaking hand. “I didn't sign a damn thing, so how? How am I a part of this?”

  “I signed it for you,” Turner says which only makes Naomi's shoulders tight and her breathing twice as frantic. “As your power of attorney.” He sounds hurt, wounded, but dude, Turner better get over that quick. I've seen firsthand how his hurt turns into anger, and anger is not the way to handle a woman like Naomi Isabelle Knox.

  “And who made you my POA, huh? Because I certainly didn't.”

  “Brayden Ryker,” Ronnie says, crossing his arms over his chest while Lola yawns, curled up and half asleep on the chair behind him. Guess she can be calm since she's one of the few in this room who doesn't have a sex tape on the internet. Bitch. Maybe one of those club goers saw her and Ronnie going at it the other day? Would serve 'em right if their shit went viral. “Has to be.”

  “Well, fuck him then,” Naomi spits, sitting up straight, her orange-brown eyes locking onto mine. I'm in love with her, but I think she hates me a little bit. I never have any luck making girlfriends. “Screw that pigheaded motherfucker.”

  “I hate him, too,” Ronnie agrees as he takes a step closer and puts his hand on Turner's arm. I don't know what he sees in the man's stance, but the calming effect is instantaneous, brotherly love at its best. “But honestly, I really do believe he wants to help us. Why, I don't know, but what I do know is that you killed Paulette's sister.”

  A strange silence filters over the room as Naomi tears her gaze from me and focuses on Ronnie. This is the first time I've really felt the weight of that concert fall over us, the first time we've addressed it as a full group. What. A. Shitfest.

  “For Turner to be able to bring you here, sign you up for this, it offers some sort of protection.” Ronnie takes a deep breath, glancing over to check on Lola. At the mention of the concert from hell, her entire demeanor's changed. She's gotta be thinking about her sister right now, poor chickee. “Not that I think you're safe, Naomi. If Paulette's willing to do all of this,” he gestures up at the ceiling as if to indicate the show, the mansion, everything. “To get her revenge, then she won't stop there. Once she's done with all of this, I'm afraid for you. You're not going to walk away from this unscathed.”

  Naomi swallows hard and closes her eyes, but she doesn't say anything. No one does, not even Turner.

  When Dax turns to look at me, his face is equal parts anger, fear, and frustration.

  A video of us fucking is now front page promo for the new show. The worst part is that it's not the worst thing that's happened or will happen to us.

  There might be a bullet out there with my name on it, but there are quite a few more labeled with Naomi Knox.

  Watching Blair Ashton's mother sob at her bedside is hard, but it's still a lot better than being back at the house. Besides, it gives me a chance to watch Dax at his most tender, his face broken into a million little pieces that I know only he can put back together. I'll help him try, God I really will, but it's going to take whatever strength he has inside of him to fix those cracks for good. Yesterday, during our already infamous fuck, I saw his strength, his power. I felt it—and I'm not just talking about the rhythm of his hips.

  Fuck.

  I reach down and pinch my arm—hard. I'd stomp my feet to get the sensation out, but it wouldn't really be appropriate right now. Even my thoughts feel blasphemous in this sterile white box we're standing in. This isn't Blair at all. I mean, not that I really know the chick, but she was always wearing big bows and polka dots, garter belts and faux lashes made of feathers. All of this white tile just doesn't fit.

  “I want her back, Dax,” the woman says, turning and burying her face in Dax's shoulder. He holds her there with one strong, tattooed arm, his eyes fluttering closed as he sucks in a deep breath. I don't know what to do, so I just stand there, once again feeling like a complete a-hole, like an outsider in a room full of in.

  Blair's sister glares daggers at me from across the room, some teeny-bopper with a midriff shirt and a Taylor Swift song on repeat that blasts out of her headphones and fills the room with some bouncy pop lyrics that seem twice as inappropriate as my lurid thoughts. I try to understand where she's coming from; her sister is in a coma after all. I smile softly, trying to be comforting, but it doesn't work. The girl flips me off and turns away to stare at her phone.

  I look over at Dax as he finishes hugging Blair's mom, releasing her with a small sigh that tells me just how tired he really is. If this whole thing with Paulette and the reality TV crap didn't happen, would he even still be alive? I was acting like a chickenshit, too scared to go after him, to take a risk on a boy with words tattooed on his face. And he … he was too broken to come to me. That stupid contract, that stupid clause about the mansion, it pushed us together, made us face the attraction we were feeling. Now, instead of getting hyped up on drugs … Dax is ramming me into the wood floors of the home office.

  Why the fuck was I so against all of this?

  “I'll take good care of her while you're gone,” he promises as Blair's mother and sister get ready to leave and take a break in their hotel room. They've been up for an entire day. Not cool. “Take as much time as you need. I'll wait here until you get back.”

  Dax keeps a pleasant but neutral expression on his face while they gather their things, kiss Blair on the forehead and say goodbye. Once they've gone, my new beau plops into one of the hideous chairs pulled up to his bes
t friend's bedside and leans his head back.

  “Fuuuuuck,” he drawls, sliding his hands over his face as I move over and sit on the edge of the armrest. “I can't take this shit anymore. It's … Blair and I have been friends forever. Forever. I can't … I don't know how to get through this without her.”

  I wrap my arms around Dax's neck, sliding into his lap and wishing I knew more, more about Blair, about Dax's childhood, everything. I don't want to feel like an outsider anymore. Not with my brother and his band, with Dax and his friends, with life. I've always been alone, always been the odd woman out. As stupid as this all is, I've finally found a community, a place where I belong, and I need to learn everything.

  “Tell me a story about Blair,” I say, leaning my head against him. Oddly enough, this position is harder for me to handle than sex in a cemetery. So much more intimate. I'm trying to touch Dax's soul here, not just his body. Without meaning to, I glance down at the angel fish tattoo on my ankle. Those fish mate for life. I don't know if Dax and I are going to make it that long, but … feeling him solid and warm against me like this, fighting the pain and the heartbreak with everything he has, I want us to. “About you and Blair. You've known her since elementary school, right?”

  “Yeah,” Dax says, his voice low, his arms coming around my waist. A shiver takes over my body, a blaze of frost that burns at the same time it soothes, like jumping into an icy lake during the fire of a hot summer. “Since second grade. She always invited me to her birthday parties, although my dad would never let me go.” Dax's voice catches strangely, breath hitching. I can feel his body tense at that word. Dad. It's not a pleasant syllable for Amatory Riot's drummer. “Blair though, she'd sneak me goody bags at school. One time, she even shoved a slice of cake in there.” Dax laughs and when I look up, I can see him imagining a plastic bag filled with messy cake. “There was frosting on everything.”

  His gaze sharpens as he stares into space, towards Blair's bed and the monster-robot of machines she has working to keep her alive.