Get Bent (Hard Rock Roots)

by C. M. Stunich

  The audience fucking loves this, and their hands come up, like the demons of hell, reaching and grasping for a taste of me. I hit this hot wave of flesh and sweat and land like I'm floating on fucking clouds. The crowd lets me surf for a price, running their hands over me, molesting me with greedy fingers and touching me all over, rushing me back and forth, up and down, pulsing me with the beat of their hearts. The whole time, I struggle to keep my eyes on the girl who tries to turn and flee. But the crowd is thick, dense and immovable. My movements might be frenetic, uncontrollable, but at least I'm moving. The girl gets stuck between the exit and the bathrooms, choosing the easier route and sliding her body past a bouncer and into the heavy swinging door.

  And then things get bad.

  These people are riled up crazy, salivating for blood, desperate to eat a piece of me and become something. I said worship me; they said yes sir. And now I'm paying for it. My own arrogance is fucking the ever living shit out of me.

  The crowd surges and engulfs me, dropping me to the floor where I hit the wood hard with my knees. People press down on me like an avalanche, knocking my palms to the ground, scraping my skin along the splintered wood. I hear my name echoing around me, and for the first time ever, I see my fame as a curse instead of a blessing. Hiding behind the walls of my bus, behind the fog of the drugs, the whisper of sweet, anonymous lips, I haven't seen this side of it. And let me tell you, it's real ugly. Real fucking ugly.

  There's this pain and this sadness, this tragedy, and they don't care about any of it. They see me how they want to see me, refuse to acknowledge my pain. This is hell. Destroyed by your own dream. Brilliant, Turner. Look at you now, you fucking fool.

  In the heaving mass of faces and greedy, grasping hands, something stands out at me.

  A pair of bare feet, frozen and still in the kicking and the scrambling, the stampeding.

  I fight through to it, crawling beneath the sea of followers I've always wanted, who believe everything I've ever told them. They all want me but now they can't find me; I'm hidden in plain sight beneath their feet while bouncers fight to get through from the sides. What a fucking mistake this was. The last time I was out in public, before this tour started, I'd get recognized sure, but it was nothing like this. Oh God, not at all like this.

  I crawl slowly, aware that hands are touching me, feet kicking me, some on accident, some on purpose. Looks like a damn riot's stirring up in here. I keep moving, focusing my eyes on pale, white toes and a shiny, silver anklet that I swear I can hear tinkling, even with all the noise.

  When I get to that island of stillness, I reach up and out and a hand brushes mine, wrapping gentle fingers around my wrist, pulling me forward with a surprising amount of strength. I surge to my feet just in time, just as the crowd starts to explode in screams and angry shouts. I don't look where I'm going, just follow the whisper of flying feet as the girl – Naomi's foster sister I presume – drags me forward, making a lot more headway than she had before. My guess is that she wasn't trying then. She sure as fuck is now.

  We hit the women's bathroom and slide inside.

  Almost immediately, I'm bombarded with memories of Naomi, and my heart constricts painfully, leaving me bent over and leaning against the wall panting for breath. Bald Girl doesn't give me any time, just snatches me by the wrist again and drags me to the stall at the end, pushing me inside and slamming the door behind us. She slides the dead bolt into place and spins to face me, chin up and eyes stormy as the fucking sky outside. Where Naomi's eyes are dry, this girl's are wet. Soaked. She's drenched in pain and melancholy, a walking, talking slice of abuse and mistreatment.

  “You could've been killed,” she says and her eyes flicker over to the door as the roaring sound of the crowd booms and then fades. Female voices chatter wildly, and Bald Girl snaps her gaze back to mine. “Stand on the toilet,” she whispers and I give her a what the fuck? look. But this girl doesn't take shit. Looks like maybe she's had enough of that in her life. “Get on the toilet,” she hisses under her breath, like a vulture or something. “If they see you, you'll get tied down and raped. Up, up, up.” I frown, but I oblige. Just barely.

  “Who the hell are you?” I whisper as Baldy gives us a courtesy flush. “What's your name?” The girl walks in a circle and wraps her arms around herself, sucking in a harsh, gasping breath. She's obviously a few cigs short of a pack, but what can I say? She knows things. I know she does. When she doesn't answer, I hazard a few guesses. “Kathleen? Karen? Kim?”

  “Well, it's not Rumpelstiltskin,” is her response. Huh.

  “Kerrie?” The girl hunches over and closes her eyes so tight I can see the skin on the back of her skull crinkling. “Katie?” She whirls on me then, dirty dress flapping, eyes blazing like fucking firecrackers.

  “Yes!” she breathes, the word quiet but powerful, pitched just so that I can hear it over the din outside the tiled shit hole we're standing in. Naomi's hot body wrapped around mine, her fingers on my skin, her sweet breasts. I shiver and try to ignore the hard-on that's scraping the inside of my pants. Kind of think I might need to start wearing underwear one of these fucking days. “And you're Dakota, am I right?” I shrug and get out a cig.

  “Turner Dakota Campbell, in the flesh,” I say and pause. The voices outside the stall have paused to listen. I flush the toilet again. I don't ask how she knows that. My name is plastered across a thousand websites, blogs, Twitter feeds, Facebook timelines. It's fucking everywhere, and that's not just my arrogance speaking; it's a fact. “And now that we've played the damn name game, I want to know. Where's Naomi?” The girl's eyes fill with tears and she starts to shake. That damn purse is hanging over her shoulder, swinging like a pendulum. The dress she's got on is the same one I saw her in a week ago.

  “I don't know,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I don't know. I tried to get here in time, I did. But it was too late. It's too late.”

  “Shut up,” I snap at her, maybe a little too harshly. She cringes and right away, I feel bad. I adjust my boots on the toilet seat and hope the piece of crap doesn't crack and break my damn ankle. “It's not too late. It's never too late. Where is she? You said he got to her first. Who the fuck is he?”

  “The Devil,” Katie says and then drops to her knees. Something rolls from her purse and disappears under the door.

  “You alright in there, sweetie?” asks a nasally voice. “You dropped your pills.”

  “Keep them,” Katie says, looking up at me from her position on the floor. I'm gettin' uncomfortable crouching here on the damn shitter, but I don't move. I stay, and I wait, eyes scanning the girl's tired face for clues.

  “This is some good shit, you sure?” asks the stupid bitch outside the door. I have the urge to tell her to fuck off, but then I might end up with a mob on my hands. I stay quiet. It takes a hell of a lot of effort, but I manage.

  “I said KEEP IT!” Katie screeches, grabbing at her head with crooked fingers, clawing at the fine buzz of hair there. She starts to keen and ends up rocking back and forth like a crazy person, moaning under her breath, whimpering pitifully.

  “Fuck, okay, your loss,” says Nasal Bitch, and then her heels clomp away across the tile. “I hear Turner Campbell's in the audience somewhere,” she says and I hear a few sets of giggles. I block the girls out.

  “The Devil doesn't exist, Katie. Who did this to Naomi and America, to Marta? You've gotta know something.”

  “All I know is that you better find her before he gets his claws in her.”

  “Who, Katie? Who the fuck are you talking about?” I'm getting frantic now, feeling adrenaline pump through my veins. He, he, he. The thought of some guy touching Naomi just makes me bat shit crazy. I see red; I want to fucking destroy. Nothing bad can happen to her or Turner Campbell will cease to exist and Vengeance will take his place.

  “I've seen what he can do, and it isn't something you survive. It's something you run from the rest of your life. I'm still sprinting, Dakota.”

&nbs
p; “Goddamn it,” I shout, stepping down from the toilet and slamming my boots against the dirty floor. There are syringes everywhere in here. Looks like a damn biohazard room. “I can't do shit with vague little hints. Spell it out for me!”

  Katie looks up at me and stares through waterfalls of pain that run down her cheeks and stain her dirty dress. She's a pretty girl, this Katie chick. She has a heart shaped face and round eyes, lips like a rosebud. There's a fiery spirit in there, too, one that makes me sick when I see the haze covering it, like the fog over the sun. Somebody really screwed this chick. Not somebody, her parents, the ones Naomi killed. If I'd been bothered at all by the thought of Naomi killing someone, I needn't have been. Seeing this girl, I know why she did it, why she took justice into her own hands, channeled it into a pair of scissors and ended things. For what they did to this girl, Katie's parents got off light.

  “I don't know anything for certain. But if he finds me, he'll destroy me. I only have a few pieces left. If he gets me again, there'll be nothing to put back together. I need Naomi to be okay. Please, help her.” I clench my fists at my sides and try to hold back a rush of anger and rage and helplessness. Standing here in this stall chatting it up isn't going to save the woman I love, that I never got to actually show that to. I have to take action but how can I when I have nothing to go on?

  “What's the devil's name?” I ask, hoping she'll give me something concrete. Katie wipes her hand across her face and clutches her plastic purse against her chest.

  “He goes by many names. Beelzebub, Antichrist, Satan … ” The girl is obviously off her rocker. I'm not getting anything out of her. I spin around and punch the wall in anger, letting out a growl of frustration. The tile cracks and blood oozes down my knuckles. Too late, I spin back to Katie to apologize, but she's already gone and I hear Heaven crying for her pain, drenching the earth in tears as she explodes into the auditorium and disappears into the crowd before I can take a single step forward. When I do, my boot crunches down on something. I pause and take a step back.

  Beneath the rubber sole is a car key.

  Voices wake me from my foggy stupor. They're familiar, but I can't place them. All I know is that I haven't heard them here before. I can't make out any words; the drugs won't let me. What I can tell is that the music has stopped. All around me is quiet, a few sputtering generators but not much else. Where the fuck am I? I wonder as I shift to my side and feel a painful tug in my arm. The IVs are still attached, pumping God knows what into me. Food? I know I haven't eaten in days. Moisture certainly because I haven't had anything to drink either.

  Footsteps come toward me, growing so loud it feels like my eardrums are going to burst. The swishing noise of curtains sounds again and light flashes bright against my blindfold. Curtains. An enclosed bed. Generators.

  I'm on a bus. Or an RV, I guess. But probably a bus. A tour bus maybe?

  This time, instead of the usual arm prick, a hand tangles in my hair and brushes it back gently in a soothing gesture. Only it doesn't soothe me. It pisses me off. I want to get up. I want to know where I am. I want to know who the fuck has the audacity to tie me up like this? I start to scream and the hand becomes rough, jerking me around and smashing my cheek against the rough fabric of jeans. Behind the fabric, I can feel a hard bulge that can only really be one thing. No. No. No. I start to struggle and the hand reaches down for my gag, digging fingers beneath the fabric, getting ready to tear it away.

  Whoever this is wants to rape me.

  My body explodes with panic, adrenaline taking over and making me kick and flail like a wild animal. The hand slaps me hard, but I barely notice, shrieking and bucking, arching my back and hitting the wall with my feet.

  More footsteps sound toward me and the hand retreats. A tense moment of silence reigns overhead and then the prick comes, digging into my arm painfully. As I fade into a forced slumber, I cry out to the world around me, praying that someone or something has enough mercy to care about a girl who thought she was broken, who only just now realized she's merely bent.

  Who, who, who will come for this girl who doesn't know how to love anymore?

  Who?

  I bail on our set.

  It's fucked, I know, but I can't sing when my heart's in my throat. If I were to open my mouth now, the only thing that would come out would be a strangled cry of rage. That's it, all I got right now. I sneak around the front, using the advantage of the bathroom to escape into the drizzling rain outside. Above my head, thunderclouds crack and snarl, warning me out of the mess. But I ignore it all, key clutched tight in my hand. The weather may not realize it, but I'm the one with the advantage right now. The crowd's been cut down to the barest minimum and even the few people left are huddled under umbrellas and inside tents. I make an easy beeline to the customer parking lot and stand stone still, eyes scanning the dripping vehicles.

  The key's nondescript. The only reason I know it goes to a vehicle is because it has that black rubber bit on the end. Otherwise, I'd have never even known. I hold it so tight that the metal cuts into my palms and bleeds my red blood into the puddle below my feet. The task in front of me seems downright fucking impossible, but I can't talk myself out of it. So in the dark, in the rain, I move forward and I start testing vehicles. I try doors and trunks, moving from one end of the row to the other, then onto the next. I figure if anybody catches me, I'm Turner Goddamn Campbell. They'll back off. If not, there's always money. Last I checked I had a whole shit ton of it.

  Each failure pisses me off, making me grit my teeth and bite at my tongue ring, tasting blood on my mouth, feeling like I want to beat the shit out of someone. No. Not someone. Him. Whoever the fuck is that took Naomi. God, when I find him, he better run because if I get my hands around his throat, it is lights fucking out.

  “Turner!” A sharp voice cuts through the rain and draws my gaze up and over to a figure jogging through the drizzle towards me. As he gets closer, I can see that it's Ronnie. His face is pale and his hands are shaky, but he looks lucid enough. I stick the key in the next lock and turn. Nothing. “What the hell are you doing out here?” he asks, watching as I move to the trunk of a silver Miata. I pause for a moment, trying to figure out how the hell to answer that question.

  “Looking for my woman,” I say simply because well, that's all there is to it. Ronnie should understand better than anybody. I move onto the next vehicle, and he follows, hair sticking to his pale forehead and sunken cheeks. Ronnie used to be a good looking guy. Not so much anymore. He better chill on the damn drugs or he's going to rot from the inside out. Even I fucking get that.

  “Trey is not happy with you,” he says, but he doesn't mention Milo, so I figure everything's alright. With Hayden's sudden reappearance, the crowd will get over it. They got to see me sing, a ghost rose from the grave, and I crowd surfed the shit out of their asses. They'll remember this concert for a long time coming.

  “I figured as much,” I say as I keep at it, inserting the metal, twisting it, feeling that surge of disappointment. From behind me, I can hear the sounds of the crowd filtering out of the building. I'm not going to be able to keep this up for much longer. “But that doesn't mean shit compared to this.” Ronnie doesn't question me, just holds his hand out for key and examines it carefully. Being the God of Gossip has honed his skills and refined his knowledge of useless shit, so when Ronnie looks at the key and squints hard, I know he's come up with something for me.

  “This isn't a car key, Turner,” he tells me as he nods once and hands it back. His shirt is sticking to his body, showing me how skinny he's gotten. It makes me feel like a shitty fucking friend. How did I miss this downward spiral? Where the shit have I been?

  “Then what is it?” I ask as the masses disperse and start moving towards their respective vehicles. Probably a good time for us to leave. But I won't. Not until I get an answer from Ronnie. He licks his lips and glances around like he expects somebody to be listening in on our conversation. When he looks back at me, I can
see the curiosity and the fear in his eyes. He doesn't know exactly what's going on, but he can guess, and he doesn't like it. I don't blame him.

  “If my instincts are right, and they usually are, I'd have to say that this key … goes to one of the tour buses.”

  Ronnie and I leave the parking lot running, pausing only when the big burly bouncer out front looks like he's about to blow our friggin' brains out. I don't flash him any ID, just swipe the hair from my forehead and look him in the eye. He lets us right in.

  Pausing there in front of the chain link fence, I look around the mostly empty parking lot. Nobody really wants to be out in this dark, miserable weather, so it gives me time to think, to scan. There were five buses before; there are four now. This key could go to my bus or even to Naomi's. In that case, it isn't really a clue at all. But then there's the chance that it goes to one of the other buses. There's Terre Haute's over on the left, closest to that side of the fence. In the center, I see the bus for Burning the Bleeding. To the right of that, Ice and Glass.

  I twirl the key around my finger, using the empty ring it's attached to and just watch, watch and wait. Lightning crackles in the distance, snaking through the blackness of the horizon like a warning. Stay out of this, it tells me. If you don't want to get hurt. I smile. Not even God herself could stop me from taking on this task.

  “I'll walk you back to the bus,” I tell Ronnie, but he's already shaking his head. When I look over at him, I see something in his face. In that gaze, the one that's been empty for too long, there's hope. There is seriously fucking hope in Ronnie's gaze.

  “Man, if I let you do this alone, I'd be putting a gun in my own mouth. I have to have something, and this it. You've got to be happy, Turner. If I can't make things right for you, then what chance do I have?” He rubs at his nose, a habit from snorting all the crack. His eyes are wet but maybe that's from the rain or whatever. “After Asuka, I … ” Ronnie shakes his head. He's not ready to talk yet, but he will be. Eventually. If this all works out. If Naomi's dead, then I'm giving up and I'll probably be taking Ronnie along for the ride. Can't think about that right now, Turner. Cannot even consider that. “Anyway, I don't want to go back to the bus and hear Trey bitch. Let's just pound this out, so we can sleep tonight. I am tired as fuck.”