Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  “He didn't mention her?” Ronnie says with a question mark, like he's not exactly sure about that answer.

  “Hmm.” That's all Naomi says, but when I look up, our eyes meet and I know we're both thinking about Amatory Riot, about America, about Hayden, about Blair. A flicker of memory hits me like a Mack truck, an early morning seated around the table on our bus, one of America's home-cooked meals in front of us.

  “I need a break from this shit,” I say as I turn and flee that room like I'm on fire. I know there are cameras tracking my movements down the hallway, down the stairs, but I don't stop until I'm outside, staring down at the cool blue waters of the swimming pool.

  Things have changed so much, so fucking much. I don't even know how to cope with any of it.

  “Dax.” It's Sydney, appearing behind me in her tank top and shorts, her bangs hiding the questioning lift of her brows as she looks over at me, sunlight streaming across the golden halo of her hair. “You okay?”

  “Not exactly,” I say, but I don't know how to explain what it is that I'm feeling. “I just … I haven't thought about Cassie once since the concert.” I tuck my fingers in my front pockets and look down at the black combat boots on my feet. “Am I that much of a selfish dick? All Hayden really wanted was to keep her daughter safe.” A small burst of laughter escapes my throat as I look up at the sky. “That's why she did what she did, you know? The reason behind it all. But … now that I know the full story, everything from start to finish, I don't really think Stephen would hurt Cassie anyway. I mean, he's been raising her since she was a baby. So … did Hayden die for nothing? Is this all for nothing?” I look back down at the pool and spread my hands helplessly.

  I loved you, Dax. I loved you, and it's too late, and I tried.

  “Not for nothing,” Sydney says, moving closer to me, reaching down to take one of my hands in hers. For a long quiet moment, we both stand stone still and stare at the lapping waters of the pool, the shadows of palm trees against the concrete deck. A few moments later, a hauntingly beautiful sound echoes out the open patio doors and surrounds us. After exchanging a look, Sydney and I turn and head inside, towards the foyer and the flutter of piano keys.

  “Holy shit,” she says as we watch Lola Saints moving her fingers across the white and black surface with her eyes closed, her breath slow and uneasy, but her playing perfect. I don't know what song she's playing, but it makes my heart throb with each note, like the entire song is one last goodbye. I wonder if it's for her sister? “And I thought it was Ronnie I was hearing all these nights,” Sydney whispers, completely awestruck, her gaze focused on the melancholy figure at the piano.

  There's a whole moment there where we get lost in the music, where I remember what it's like to get lost in the music. This is playing just to play, to heal the soul with sound. My left hand clenches into a fist by my side. Holy crap, I'm really missing this. Really, really missing it.

  “Dax,” Sydney says, drawing my attention up and over to the entrance to the living room. Paulette Washington is standing there with her head cocked to one side like a bird, like a falcon observing a song bird. It's creepy as fuck. The smile that stretches across her face while she watches Lola play scares the shit out of me.

  She's up to something, that much is for sure. Now, just what the fuck is it, and is somebody else going to die?

  My hands are covered in cotton candy pink, a by-product of the dye that I'm slathering over my new girlfriend's hair. I should probably wear gloves, but what the hell? It's not my photoshoot that's imminent, now is it?

  “I can't believe I'm doing this,” I mumble, an unlit cigarette hanging out the side of my mouth.

  “Why not?” Sydney challenges back, a drink in one hand, a smoke in the other. “I dyed your hair, didn't I? A nice, new layer of ebony black to cover up all that cute dirty blond you're trying to hide from me.” A smile curls my lip around the cigarette as I saturate Sydney's thick hair with the dye, committing her to the new look she's decided on for her national debut. I liked her blonde; I'll like her with pale pink hair, but she thinks the look's more edgy, more noticeable. Blondes are forgettable, I think is what she said.

  “It's not the hair dying I have a problem with,” I say as I give her temples an extra rub for good measure. “I used to dye Blair's hair for her back in high school. What I meant was, I can't believe I'm helping you get ready to show your goods to the world. Shouldn't I be, like, tying you up and squirreling you away in my cave or something?”

  “If you want to give it a try, go for it, Tarzan, but I'm stronger than I look.” Sydney stands up and turns to examine her muddied hair in the mirror before tossing a wink in my direction. “Anyway, you think this'll look good, right?”

  “I think you'd look good no matter what you did with your hair,” I say and enjoy the movement of her lips as she curls them up into a smile for me. I could wake up everyday to that fucking smile, I say, my mind already desperately trying to access obscure movie references to spout out and make me look like an idiot. “But I also think you'd look better with clothes,” I add as Sydney turns to look at me and parks her hands on her hips.

  “Oh, really?” she begins, reaching up and hooking a thumb on her exposed bra strap. “I look better with clothes on? Then I suppose I don't need to take this off?”

  “Hey,” I say, stepping close and looking down at her, my dyed pink hands sliding up and smearing her tank top with more color before I make my way down to her ass. “Now you're just taking my words out of context.” Sydney grins at me as I pull her close, bending down to kiss those sugar sweet fucking lips. She's always wearing something on them—lipstick, gloss, Chapstick—so they always taste like something fresh, fruity, or floral. Goddamn, that's good. Today's flavor lies somewhere between citrus groves and rose petals. I'm digging it, that's for sure.

  Until somebody knocks at our damn door.

  “Fucking Christ,” I snap as I pull back and swing it open, fully prepared to do some hardcore bitching. We're a ways into our new relationship, and we've officially had sex as a couple like, what, two times? This is really getting old. But my anger dies right where it got started, sitting heavy and hard on my lips as I find myself staring at Naomi Knox. “Holy crap,” I say because while I know she's been getting out of bed to go to the bathroom or sit on the balcony, I haven't actually seen her walking around the house.

  “Can I come in?” she asks, tucking her arms across her chest and glaring up at the bulbous eye of the camera above our door.

  “Um, of course,” I say, stepping back and letting her in. First thing she does is notice the pink handprints on Sydney's top—and on her ass. A blonde brow raises as she watches my new girlfriend swirl her finger in the dye atop her head and slide it across her own eyebrows.

  “Before you say anything,” Sydney tells her, smacking her lips as she checks herself out in the mirror. “Now the carpet really will match the drapes.”

  “I don't want to know what that means, do I?” Naomi asks, a slight smile taking over her lips.

  “She has a pierced clit and some fancy new pube 'do,” I say, just for shock factor, lighting up my cigarette and watching as my lead singer takes in our bedroom with a face that's half curiosity, half disgust. I think that latter half is for Turner, not for us, so I don't let it bother me. And anyway, other than some scattered clothes—mostly Sydney's colorful array of bras, panties, and … nylons—the place is exactly the way it was when Sydney first moved in. God, I love tights, I think as I kick a black pair away from Naomi's feet.

  “Dax, naughty boy,” Sydney says, getting out a joint to smoke before she unbuttons her pants and fucking flashes that pink heart of hair to Naomi. “Spilling all my secrets,” she says as Naomi bends down and gives it a thorough look. Like, really?

  “You gonna start comparing boobs next?” I ask as Naomi crosses her arms over her chest and stands back up.

  “We might,” Sydney says as she fixes her jean shorts with a smile. “Chicks have to c
ompare that stuff, you know? Girl to girl and all that. Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” she asks with a flirtatious wink in my direction.

  “I've seriously never seen anything like that in my life,” Naomi admits with a shrug of her shoulders. She still looks thin, a little worn-out, but better. Much, much better. I study her with a practiced eye, trying to make myself recall the bitchy whirlwind of her presence sliding on and off the bus, curling up on a bunk with her headphones firmly in place, scribbling songs down at the table. If I was worried about the trauma going to her head, I needn't have been. She doesn't look any worse for wear after shooting our manager. Besides, she's rocking a loose T-shirt that says Fuck You, so I guess she's probably okay. “That's craziness,” Naomi says, pinching the joint from Sydney's fingers and taking a long, slow drag.

  “What brings you over to this neck of the woods?” Sydney asks her as she sits down on the edge of the bed and starts up some music to mask our conversation. It's a practice we've really gotten into lately. After the sex tape and the hospital fiasco, it's almost a necessity to keep things private. Her music choices are as colorful as her tattoos, so I'm not surprised when she picks “Victorious” by Panic! At The Disco. Actually, that's kind of tame when it comes to Sydney Charell. Yesterday, she listened to some hardcore metal band from France on repeat. The day before that, it was a Japanese pop song that she was into. Not my music scene per se, but it provides a refreshing change of pace from all the Indecency and Amatory Riot shit.

  “I, uh,” Naomi begins, stretching her arms above her head with a grimace. She puts a hand to her chest, right over the spot where the bullet entered her body. “I was actually wondering if you'd be okay with me coming to your photoshoot.”

  Sydney raises the two pink smears that make up her eyebrows and reaches out for the joint. After she takes a drag, she offers it to me and I take it, ashing my cigarette in a tray by the TV.

  “Uh, hell yeah,” Sydney says, leaning back and crossing her tattooed ankles. “Rock Goddess Extraordinaire, Tamer of Turner Motherfucking Campbell, how can you even ask? How could I ever say no?” Sydney gives me a quick look, just a flick of those beautiful blue eyes that says volumes. Fucking tomes. She's not jealous of Naomi anymore, that's for sure.

  A warmth fills my body … and my … aw, fuck, you already know what I'm going to say at this point? If someone were to write a book about me, it'd be half-filled with descriptions of hard, throbbing erections and penises that could cut granite. Christ. Nobody wants to hear about that shit anymore.

  “Thanks,” Naomi says, sitting down next to Sydney in a pair of black pajama pants and matching socks. “I just really need to get out of this fucking house.” She reaches up and runs her hands down her face. “This huge frigging monstrosity of a house.”

  “It's a nightmare,” Sydney agrees sympathetically.

  “Repellant,” Naomi adds as she drops her hands to her lap and smiles crookedly.

  “Atrocious,” Sydney says with a laugh, bumping her shoulder against Naomi. “Girl, you got yourself into a heap o' trouble with that boy. What the hell are you going to do with him?”

  “I think I'm going to marry him?” Naomi asks as a question, her face scrunched up with self-disgust. “Or murder him. I'm not exactly sure which. Split about fifty-fifty on that one.”

  “I vote for the latter,” I say as I take a drag and pass her back the joint, noticing as her eyes catch on the Tama SuperStar kit behind me. Something happens in that moment, some flicker of passion and rage that I recognize oh so well. We're going to get a fucking killer album out of this bullshit, aren't we? Naomi's right hand curls tight, and I just know that she's going to spend the night writing lyrics.

  “Yeah, well, I'm strongly considering it. I go into a coma and he buys a mansion—from America's sister. I mean, how the hell does that even happen? Stuff like that just doesn't fucking occur in real life.”

  “It's the hard rock life for us I guess,” Sydney jokes as the song changes to something darker. I think it's “Dirty Pretty” by In This Moment. I listen to the lyrics for a moment. Yep. Sure is. The lead singer reminds me a lot of Naomi—in attitude, appearance, and voice. It makes me miss the stage suddenly and with a fierceness I didn't realize I had. Touring isn't easy. In fact, it sucks. It makes enemies of friends and friends of enemies. Too many drugs, too much sex, too much booze. But … I feel like that's where I'm most alive.

  “I suppose so,” Naomi says with another sigh, rising to her feet and grimacing again at the movement. She tucks a hand against her chest and smiles tightly at us. “I just hope it's over soon. I'm ready to go back to sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll and all the drama that comes with it. I'm definitely fucking over the murder-mystery thing.”

  “Agreed,” I say as she heads for the door and I step forward to open it for her.

  “If I'm not awake when you get up, shake me,” she says and then waves goodbye before disappearing down the hallway. I hear Turner's voice as soon as her bedroom door opens, but I could give two shits less about what he's saying, so I slam our own door with a sigh.

  “I can totally see why you were in love with her,” Sydney says as I turn and give her a look. “No, seriously, I get it. I'm in love with her and I'm straight as the day is long,” she declares, one hand over her chest in staunch declaration.

  “Stop it,” I say as I turn and put my back to the door, flicking the lock into place. Next time somebody knocks, I'm not fucking answering it. A wry smile twists my lips. “You hate her guts. Just admit it.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Sydney says, her long lashes curling up against her bare forehead. With her hair covered in dye, slicked back away from her face, I can see her features so much better. I almost wish she'd cut it all off so I could drown in the azure depths of her eyes. Fuck. I swipe a hand down my face. “I promised myself when I found somewhere to settle, I'd make girlfriends. So, here I am, making them with my boyfriend's … ex-crush?”

  “If you could even call her that,” I start hesitantly, thoughts of Sydney and my first time together leaking into the gray matter between my ears. I wasn't exactly a gentleman. And I wasn't exactly sober either. I'm surprised she was able to get past my sloppy idiocy.

  You need a Naomi cleansing. I look a little bit like her, don't I?

  I cringe at the memory—mostly because of my own idiotic response.

  A little, maybe. You're both blonde, I guess.

  Wow. Smooth. Suave. As. Fuck.

  And then I start thinking about all the crazy shit I said to Naomi and things get even more awkward inside my head. I came because I don't ever want it to be too late to say I love you. Ugh. Just … ew. Ugh. The hell is wrong with me? Do I have no brain-to-mouth filter?

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Sydney drawls, standing up and sliding her shirt above her head. It hits the ground in a pink and white heap, leaving her curvy midsection on display. “You're not thinking about Naomi again, are you? Because if you still have a crush on her, then I might have to slap a bitch and that would definitely lose me the girlfriend status.”

  “I'm just thinking about what an idiot I am,” I say with a shrug. Then again … maybe there's a point to all this? Or maybe Sydney's just about to take off her bra. Shit. I try to gather my thoughts before her nipples are exposed and all logical thought goes out the window. It took me four years to tell Naomi how I felt. I lost her, or maybe I never had her in the first place. Hayden is dead; Tara is dead; Blair is damn near dead.

  Crap.

  I'm going to do it again, aren't I?

  “Sydney,” I start and the look on her face is priceless. She almost looks … afraid. Why? Because of me? What I'm going to say? She gives a fuck, and that makes me give a million fucks, and I seriously just want to hug her right now.

  “Yes?” she asks, pausing with her bra clasped over her breasts, waiting for me to say whatever it is that I'm going to say. Now or never, right?

  I take a deep breath, make myself look her straight in the f
ace and say it.

  “Sydney, I think … no, that's a cop-out.” Another breath, a step forward, my hands hot on her shoulders as I lean down and breathe against her lips. “I love you.”

  There. That's it. That confirms it.

  I really am an emo bitch—and I've never been so goddamn proud of it.

  Hayden Lee stares up at me from an old copy of Tin Dolls Magazine, her back curved, ass up, one hand on her hip. She's the epitome of rock star goddess in this photo, her nipples just barely covered by the black strap of the book bag she's wearing on her shoulder. It's covered in pins and patches, the colors arranged to mimic the rainbow panties that curve over her narrow hips. Besides the matching knee-high socks and silver stilettos, that's all she's wearing.

  I hear I'll be wearing even less.

  “How do you know for sure?” I ask Naomi Knox, raising my head to stare at her, sitting across from me inside a fucking limo. Yeah. That's a new one. Limousine. The last time I rode in one of these, I was fucking my date on prom night in some messy teenage grope session. Gross. I run my finger across the glossy surface of the page and try not to feel sick. This magazine, the physical version of it anyway, is now selling for upwards of ten grand on eBay. No promo or advertisement is ever as powerful as death. I wonder if Hayden Lee is enjoying her posthumous infamy?

  “Hayden threw a temper tantrum about her tiny tits,” Naomi says, her words bitchy but her voice soft, tinged with a mixture of regret and sadness. She takes a drag on her cigarette and sighs. “But they wouldn't let her wear a top, so they compromised with the panties and the footwear.”

  Another drag, another sigh.

  “I remember that,” Dax says, his voice low as he stares at the photo. His eyes are more blue than gray right now, like the sky right after a good rain. A sky that said 'I love you' last night. I curl my fingers against my leg and try not to freak—in a good way, of course. “And Hayden was throwing such a goddamn hissy that America had to step in and make peace.” Dax purses his lips tight and flicks his gaze up, directing an obviously aggressive stare in Turner's direction, like he's just daring him to say something rude. Turner notices and raises a dark brow.