Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  “God, that makes me so happy to hear you say that,” he whispers, releasing my waist and capturing my face in his hands. When he leans down and kisses me, the world spins and time skips, stops, starts up again. Dax slides his tongue against mine, tastes me slow and easy and natural, like this is something we've been doing forever. When he pulls back, we gaze at each other for a long, long moment and then start to dance, swaying slow and sensual in some seedy ass bar with gum on the floor and a glory hole in the bathroom.

  It takes us both several minutes to realize that the song's been over for a while.

  Love really is the world's best drug, isn't it? The high … it's like nothing else.

  When the four of us slip outside for a cigarette, Brayden Ryker is waiting for us, leaning against the brick wall of the building with his muscular arms crossed over his chest and a deep frown etched into his face.

  “You really are proficient at your job when you choose to be, huh?” I say as I light up a cigarette and watch my reflection in the bar's exterior window. The glow of the cherry makes my skin turn a soft orange-pink color, reflecting back all of those strange gooey-mushy feelings that are swirling around inside of me. God, I need to text some of my stripper friends from back home and let them talk me down off this pedestal. Something that feels this good, this right, it can't end well, can it?

  “Bloody fecking idiots,” Brayden says, his eyes closed against the night, the sea of people streaming down the sidewalk on either side of us. It's fucking hopping out here and the night is balmy, sweetly So Cal, the air reminiscent of orange groves, beaches, and … smog. Yeah, come on, LA used to be pretty, but now? Not so much. Still, I like the vibe, the crowd that's hanging out around us. “You must have a goddamn death wish.”

  “Maybe if you explained things a little better, we'd be able to act on facts instead of vagaries,” Dax says with a sneer, lighting up a smoke of his own as he glares daggers at Brayden's shuttered face. “You tell Sydney this sob story about a daughter, but you never bother to tell her why you were targeted by these psychos in the first place.”

  I take a nice, long hot drag and watch as the man opens his pale green eyes and stares straight ahead, across the street and into space. He's definitely all up in his head right now. Cool with me. At this point, it's getting hard to walk straight, so I don't have much room to talk. How many shots have I had? I think as I try to count out the little glasses that have been cluttering up our table. The bartender really wants to get in Naomi's pants, so she keeps 'em coming. Wave after wave after wave.

  “If I told you, you wouldn't believe me,” Brayden says as he shakes his head and watches us with no small amount of contempt. Whoever he is, wherever he's from, this isn't his scene, and he doesn't seem to like us any better than we like him.

  “Try us,” I say as I blow silver smoke in his direction.

  “Fuck this guy,” Turner says, stalking around in front of Brayden and looking him up and down like he's not impressed. “Don't waste your time, Sydney. He's just another overpaid piece of muscle.” Brayden steps forward like he's going to hit Turner, but instead just curls his fingers in his pockets and emerges with a new phone.

  “Call me when you're done here. In the meantime, I'll try to make sure you don't get killed.”

  “You did a great job of that at the concert, didn't you?” Naomi asks, her voice soft and low and dangerous. “You let Lola's sister die.” A pregnant pause, a puff of smoke from her rock star goddess lips. “No, you killed her.”

  “She was going to fucking shoot you,” Brayden yells, lifting his arms like he's had just about enough of this. “For fuck's sake, what did you want me to do? It was you or her, and I knew which side you were on, Miss Knox. You'd just proven to me what I needed to know.”

  “Aren't you in trouble for protecting the woman that killed Paulette's sister?” I ask, trying to push the pieces of the puzzle around. It's not easy in the state I'm in, but I try to see all forms of consciousness as having something to offer up. With my inhibitions down, maybe I can think of something now that I wouldn't have before? “I mean, I get that you're not on either family's side, but aren't you at least supposed to pretend that you're helping Paulette? How does keeping Naomi alive do anything to assist in that endeavor?”

  Brayden sighs and runs a hand down his face. He looks tired. Really, really fucking tired.

  “Here's what I know,” Naomi says, dropping her cigarette to the ground and crushing it out with her fabulous little black ankle booties. “America told me that money couldn't buy you. I get that's a cruel reference to your daughter or something, to a threat. But she also said she had to plead her case to you and hope you'd take mercy on her. What the fuck does that mean?”

  “She borrowed me from her sister,” Brayden says with his jaw clenched tight, like we're all idiots that have seriously missed the short bus. “She had to convince Paulette that she needed me and my team more than the Washingtons did. Don't read too much into anything she said. She wasn't the full shilling, that woman.”

  “So why is Naomi still alive?” I ask as I lean into Dax's chest, enjoy the feel of his arm sliding around my waist. “If Paulette is the top of the pyramid, then shouldn't you have pulled the plug on her already?”

  “Almost did,” Brayden says, moving away from Turner's scowling face and lighting up a cigarette of his own. “We did keep her in a chemically induced coma now, didn't we?”

  “You son of a bitch!” Turner screams, launching himself at Brayden. But Dax is there in a split second, the loss of his warmth making my body feel suddenly chilled as he grabs Turner by the shoulders and shoves him into the wall of the bar. “That's why the doctors pretended they didn't know shit. You cock sucker. The second I get a chance, I'm going to fucking tear your balls off and feed them to you.”

  “Put your anger elsewhere, Mr. Campbell. You'd do a lot worse than to have me as a friend. I work for a third party, a very powerful third party that can make this all go away—the Washingtons, the Hammergrens, the Hardings—and the threat they pose. Just keep playing along and let me deal with it.”

  “That cock sucking, pig fucking, son of a bastard whore,” Turner says, his teeth clamped down on a cigarette, four lines of coke laid out like snowdrifts on the stainless steel counter in front of him. “I knew something fishy was going on at that hospital,” he whispers as he spits his cig in the sink and uses a rolled up bill to snort two lines in quick succession, dropping his head back with a sigh.

  “Are you okay, Mi?” I ask Naomi because, as pissed as Turner might be about Brayden's revelations, she was the one that suffered the most. I put my hand on Naomi's shoulder, but she's already shaking her head at me.

  “I'm fine,” she tells me as Sydney pulls a tube of lipstick and a liner pencil out of her dress. I raise a brow, but I don't ask. Her breasts are not only phenomenal—they're fucking huge. She has plenty of room to store shit in there. “Seriously. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to even think about it.” Naomi forces a smile and checks the time on our group's new cell phone. “It's almost time for our karaoke set, and I am not missing that shit.”

  “Pucker up,” Sydney says, leaning over in her black bandage dress, the fabric all tight and clingy, emphasizing exactly where I wish my hands were right now. She traces Naomi's lips with the bright red color of her lipstick, lipstick that's currently all the hell over me. My neck, my cheeks, my lips. I swipe a hand over my mouth and it comes away red.

  “Get in line with Snow White,” Turner says, flicking me in the erection—yeah, I've got another one. Whatever. I narrow my eyes at the asshole as he passes over the hundred in his hand. Yep. We've gone from snorting with a twenty … to a hundred. Guess we're real rock stars now. “Unless you're more concerned with your dwarf,” he adds with a snort.

  “I guess you think that makes you clever?” I ask as I step up to the counter. A quick breath, a flash of color in my brain, and I'm halfway to being a superhero. Shit. The guy in the Tin Dolls bathr
oom, he sold good shit. “I've seen your Instagram pics. I think my dick's bigger than yours.”

  “You want to whip it out and compare?” he asks, already halfway done unzipping his jeans.

  “Boys, boys, boys,” Sydney says, slipping between us as the overhead speakers crackle and a song comes pummeling out … with Hayden's voice. Ugh. Not again. “Keep it in the pants until after we leave the bar, okay?” She puts a hand on both our chests as we all pause, look up, and listen to Naomi's haunting lyrics drift into the bathroom.

  “Forget. Forget me forever. I've destroyed you one too many fucking times.”

  “And that's not eerie at all,” Sydney jokes, giving me a worried look that I shake off, taking her hand in mine. Naomi and Blair's screaming rakes out next, tearing right through my skull and making me clench my teeth. Blair. Shit.

  “Bleeding, broken, buried beneath. Torn and trembling, take me in your arms, but know that it'll be the last time. The last. The last. The last FUCKING time!”

  “God,” Naomi groans, standing up and puckering her cherry red lips in the dirty mirror. “I feel like I have a ghost tailing me around. They never stop playing our shit now. I mean, it's what I always thought I wanted … but the price? Too fucking high.”

  “Way too fucking high,” I agree as I snatch the eight ball of coke from Turner's back pocket and slam it on the counter.

  “Whoa there, getting a little grabby, huh?” he asks, but he doesn't stop me as I lay out a few more lines and sniff them up like … well like crack. Really nice, really expensive crack. Can't say I'm disappointed when the track changes to some stupid hip-hop crap.

  “Fuck. This. Shit,” Naomi raps along with the lyrics, leaning in and kissing the dirty mirror with her mouth. When she reaches out a hand, Sydney seems to know exactly what it is she wants and passes over her lipstick. “I'm here to celebrate,” she whispers as she starts to grind with the music, signing her name across our joint reflection. When she turns and offers her hand, I glance back at Sydney, but she's already smiling at me. She knows. Naomi doesn't stand a chance with me—the only woman that I could possibly get like a thousand stiffies a day for is her. Romantic, right?

  I let Naomi take my hand and copy her finger snapping, hip grinding, body sliding rhythm, dancing in the confined space as Sydney and Turner take their own turns at the counter, passing around a beer we pilfered off the bar on our way back inside.

  Cigarettes are lit, partners are exchanged. I think I even end up dancing with … Turner Motherfucking Campbell.

  How gross is that?

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Sydney says into the microphone, clearly fucking drunk. I squeeze her ass in what I think is a surreptitious way, but … probably isn't based on the snickering from the tables below. I'm too fucked up to really care. “We're … we call ourselves Hard Rock Roots,” Sydney continues with a laugh as Naomi hangs all over her at the mic. “That's our group name and we're here to rock!”

  Turner and the girls cheer, lifting up their beers as the room erupts with mild, alcohol laden applause. We must've picked the right place here because not only is it karaoke night, it's specifically eighties karaoke night. The crowd is older, and if anybody's recognized us, they're being polite and leaving us the fuck alone.

  “We're going to be singing Sweet Dreams,” Sydney continues when Naomi butts in.

  “Are Made of This,” she adds, drawing parentheses with her free hand. “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).”

  “Yes, by the Eurythmics,” Sydney continues as we exchange another look and she runs her tongue over her lower lip. That lipstick she's wearing … it tastes like a California poppy smells. I don't even know how to describe it. It's floral, it's fresh, it reminds me of the beach and the coast. I can taste it all over my mouth already.

  When Naomi slides her arm around Sydney, she leans in and they end up practically kissing at the microphone. I want to say that bothers me, but …

  “Whoa, that's kind of hot,” Turner says from beside me, leaning over to get a closer look. “Damn. When you look at Sydney without the whole, like, almost-a-sister filter, she isn't bad.”

  “Seriously?” I whisper roughly as the crowd starts to titter and our chosen song filters in through the overhead speakers. “You just said that in the microphone.” I glance over and find Sydney and Naomi giggling maniacally, still hanging on each other.

  The second that beat starts in though, Naomi's black booted feet are tapping and you can bet your ass she grabs that mic and starts belting out the lyrics along with the infamous Annie Lennox. Sydney doesn't let her keep the crowd, singing about traveling the world and the seven seas in a voice that's so fucking bad it's beautiful.

  I reach down and grab the mic, scooting over to the girls with Turner in tow.

  The next verse, he's wrapping his hand around mine and we're both singing like idiots. Only, he's a really good sounding idiot, and I'm just bad.

  The crowd really starts to get into it though when Naomi thrashes her blonde hair around and the electronic rhythm of the song takes over. I think I see a few people filming with their phones, but I feel like I'm standing on the deck of a ship, everything tilting around me and I really don't care.

  “SWEET DREAMS!” Naomi screams in her demonic rocker chick voice, making Turner laugh as he slides in between the girls and puts an arm around both their waists. I don't want to be fucking left out, so I force myself in there, all our mouths competing for the same mic. It's sweaty as hell and I'm pressed up nice and tight to Sydney's curvy body, my left hand sliding up the swirling blue-green waves of her tattoos.

  “ARE MADE OF THIS!” Turner adds in his own unique roar on the next verse. At that point, Sydney and I just start shouting the lyrics, too, screaming in not so beautiful voices that blend with our friends and obliterate the electronic twitter of the karaoke machine and the speakers.

  After that … I think we get kicked out of the bar because the last memory I have in there is of Turner dialing up Brayden Ryker on the cell and telling him to get our fucking car ready.

  The atmosphere in the limo is amped the fuck up.

  All four of us are sweaty, and high, and drunk. It feels so good, I think as I lean over and lick Dax's lower lip, feel his hand slide up my side, fingers kneading my flesh. When I glance over, I see Turner pull Naomi onto his lap. On the radio, that same song from the photoshoot—Escape the Fate's “Live for Today”—comes on. Only this time, it's an EDM remix.

  I feel my pulse start to bounce with the music, heart thumping against my ribs as I slide onto Dax's lap, feeling his erection through the fabric of his jeans. I put my hands on either side of his face and kiss him hard, fast, furious. Our tongues tangle in a sea of sweat and saliva as I grind my body against his, breasts pressed tight into his chest. Behind me, I can hear Naomi moaning, a sense of relief in her voice, like she thought this day would never come, like she'd die in that hospital. When I pull away from Dax and glance at the two of them, I see that they're already a step ahead of us. Turner is pulling his shirt off and instead of being grossed out like I usually would, I'm kind of … turned on. The music is loud, and the drugs are loud, and my body is pressed against Dax's. Turner has a good body and Naomi has a good body, and watching them grind all over each other like that is … hot.

  “I'm so turned on right now,” I tell Dax as I turn back to him and see the same expression on his face. I push my chest harder into his, kissing the side of his face, his neck, and then reaching down to help him take his shirt off. When I toss it to the floor, I see Naomi's lying right next to it. When she pauses and looks back at me, we exchange a long, hot stare that seriously twists me up inside. Did I say I was straight? I meant, like, ninety-five percent or something. This chick is so hot.

  I pull away from Dax for a moment, giving him a lingering look that he returns, his eyes dark, no blue at all in them anymore. They're gray as a stormy sky, like a tornado ready to come down and tear everything to shit.

  With the techno pulse in
my blood, I crawl the few inches across the floor of the limo as Naomi turns and reaches down, taking my chin in her long fingers. When she pulls my mouth to hers, I let her take control, letting a little bit of that rock goddess trickle into me. Her tongue pushes between my lips, making my spine curl with the thrill of it. I mean, it's not like I've never kissed a chick before. I've gotten drunk, made out with my friends. Who hasn't? But this is so much better.

  Naomi and I kiss for what seems like forever, and when I draw back, I see Turner already has his dick in his hand. Naomi follows my look and raises her brows, shrugging her shoulders and turning back. Her hands slide over my hips and pull me close. Our kiss deepens and I can't help it, I groan into her mouth, encouraging her with the sound to go a little bit further. She kneads my breasts through the dress as the car glides down the LA streets with the sunroof open and the balmy So Cal air filling the tight space.

  When Naomi pulls back enough for me to breathe, she's grinning.

  “Fuck, I am seriously trashed right now,” she says, but that doesn't stop her from running her tongue along my lower lip. I slide my hand up her bare midsection, feeling the sweat and the bandages from her GSW. She doesn't seem to give a shit, pulling back only when Turner puts a hand on her arm and encourages her to give his dick some attention.

  I glance over my shoulder then, sweeping some cotton candy pink hair away from my moist lips as I look Dax straight in the face. He's panting hard, his hand sliding down his abs to the edge of his jeans. I watch as he slowly—slowly—fucking unbuttons them. When I crawl back over to him, I reach into his pocket and draw out his shades, shoving them on his face before I sit up on my knees and start stripping as best I can in the tight space.

  The song that's playing is pretty much perfect, but I don't have a lot of room to work with, so I make sure my movements are big and obvious. My black bandage dress slides down my shoulders first, then over my arms, my breasts, bunching around my waist as I stretch out one leg, and then the other. I feel like I'm onstage right now, performing for the entire car. I don't bother to look over my shoulder; I know they're watching.