Get Bent (Hard Rock Roots)

by C. M. Stunich

  I drop my head into my hands with a groan. Obviously my judgment at this point is a little compromised. A week in solitary fucking confinement will do that to a person.

  “I've been missing for God only knows how long and the first thing I do is fuck bareback onstage?” My heart is pounding and my body feels sweetly sore. I want to take Turner into the back and fuck him again. How messed up is that?

  He comes back from checking the rest of the bus and tilts the slats on the blinds, so it's harder to see in. He's feeding off my energy, but he doesn't know why yet, doesn't know that this tour is a web filled with spiders, just waiting for a little tickle, a flicker of wing, so they can swarm down on me and bite hard. I've got to figure out who the players are in this little game, and I've got to take them out one by one. However that needs to happen, whatever I need to do, I'm going to be the one that comes out of this on top.

  “Naomi,” Turner says, and his voice is more serious than I've ever heard it. I turn and look at the playboy asswad that left me alone and pregnant, that uses girls up the way he uses condoms, fills 'em and tosses 'em aside. I look at him and his face is different somehow. While I was gone, he changed. He doesn't know it yet, I don't think, but it's there. My being missing changed him. For the better.

  “Are you sober?” I interrupt before he can say anything else. His eyes are clear, surrounded by sweaty streaks of smeared black liner. His hair is a mess, but his gaze is straight as an arrow.

  “Dead sober,” he tells me, moving close tentatively, like he isn't sure I'm really there. His hands come out and touch my face again, pulling my gaze to his and locking brown eyes with me. “God, this is like a fucking dream.”

  “Try nightmare,” I say, pulling away from the molten hot tips of his fingers, fighting my basic biology. I won't admit yet that I'm fighting my heart. I don't love Turner anymore. I don't. I don't. “I can't … I just escaped a terrifying possibility and then went and had unprotected sex with you.”

  “I'm all clean, baby,” he says with a stupid smile. Okay, a sexy smile. It's sexy and stupid. “I always use balloons and I get my shit checked, you know?” I glare at him.

  “That's not what I'm worried about,” I say as I stand up and move over to his fridge. He follows me and watches as I open it and scan for food. There isn't much in here, but I manage to wrangle up a pre-made sandwich and some cheese sticks. May as well be filet fucking mignon for all I know. I'm so hungry and yet not. Whatever was in the stupid IVs kept me alive, but it wasn't living, you know?

  Turner gets me a glass of water with ice and brings it to the table, going back over to the window to check on the house of horror we just vacated. I don't know what the hell happened in there, but it was off the charts insane. Too bad I couldn't be a part of it.

  “But fuck that,” I say, waving my hand around, figuring I'll go get a morning after pill. Or Turner will. I'm not leaving this bus until I figure out a plan. “That's not important. What's important is this.” I take a bite of the sandwich and groan in pleasure, drawing his eyes back to me. He moves over and slides onto the bench next to me, rubbing his body along mine and cupping my thigh with his pretty little inked up fingers.

  My gaze catches on the bat tattoos on his hard belly and stays there, unwilling to look at his eyes. Right now, there is a tender something or other opening up inside of me like a flower. It scares the crap out of me, makes it harder for me to hate him and wish for his untimely death. Right now, I think I might … like Turner Campbell.

  “I want you to know everything, just in case.”

  “Where were you?” he asks, unwrapping the cheese stick for me and setting it back on the granite tabletop. “I had this key … I thought you were in one of the RVs.”

  “I was in an RV,” I tell him, finishing the sandwich, gulping it down like a starving wolf and wiping the crumbs off on my pants. “But it wasn't any of the ones in here. It was parked outside the lot, on the street. The only reason I knew where to go was because I heard the music.”

  I pick up the cheese and start to peel strings off of it before I give in and just shove the whole damn thing in my mouth.

  After Katie let me go, she bolted and disappeared into the night like she'd never been. I didn't bother going after her, just ended up stumbling out barefoot into the rain and letting the sound of rumbling riffs draw me where I needed to go. Music's never let me down before, so I knew I could trust it. Looks like I was right.

  “Fuck,” Turner curses, pulling a key out of his pocket and slamming it down on the table. “You were in plain fucking sight, and I missed you.” He runs a hand through his blue-black hair and breathes out slowly, flicking his eyes over to mine. A spark passes between us and before I even really know what's happening, he's folding me up in his arms and pulling me onto his lap, pressing me against his sweaty chest. I go stiff at first, but after a moment, I relax. And I hate to say it, but it feels right.

  “I have to hide, Turner. There are a lot of layers to this shit that I can't even begin to peel away yet. All I know is that Hayden is involved somehow.” Turner's hands squeeze me hard and when he next speaks, I can hear his teeth grit in anger.

  “I knew that fucking cunt was a part of this shit. Fucking Christ.” I sit up and I look him right in the eye, pulling off the shades, my shades, that he was wearing onstage.

  “Turner,” I begin, keeping my voice low and serious. This is some hardcore shit, and if he's going to be a part of it, I need to know that he's in all the way, that he's ready to jump in the deep end. This isn't a time where a toe in the shallows will do anybody any good. I need someone I can count on. This fucker is telling me he loves me, and in his face, I see dedication unmatched. If I'm honest with myself, it scares the crap out of me. “I need help. I need somebody I can count on. I don't know what this is between you and me, but if you're offering your assistance, I'll take it.”

  A slamming fist on the door startles us both, and I rise to my feet like a fighter in the ring, ready to defend myself, fists raised.

  “Who the fuck is it?” Turner asks, standing up and moving behind me, pressing his heat against the back of me. I can't hold back a shiver, and I know he notices, but I guess that's just the way it is. I blame it all on my fucking crotch.

  “It's me. Let me in.” I don't recognize the voice, but Turner does. He spins me around gently and looks me straight in the face. His eyes don't waver and his voice is as sharp edged as a sword.

  “I love you, Naomi. I don't mince words and I don't sugarcoat shit. I said what I meant, and I meant what I said.” He smiles wickedly and brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “I don't like to keep secrets, but if I have to, for you, I will. I'll hide the world in my throat, and I won't tell a damn soul. As long as I can be honest with you and vice versa, that's all that really matters to me.” He pauses and looks up at the door. “So if you'll have me, I'll be your knight in shining fucking armor.” Turner looks back at me and lets go of my shoulders. “And if you're willing, I want to bring Ronnie in on this.” I start to protest, but he interrupts me. “And Dax.” My heart leaps in my throat, and I turn away, running my fingers through my hair. It's matted and greasy and nasty. First thing I need to do is shower. I'll think better that way. Especially since right now, I've got Turner's fucking cum all over me. I shiver again and it has nothing to do with the weather.

  I have to make a decision right here, right now. Who do I trust? I look back at Turner, shirtless and pretty and fucking dangerous as hell. I let him in before and he screwed me. Can I give him a second chance? Does he even deserve one?

  When he steps forward and wraps his hands in my hair, kisses my mouth and sighs against my lips, I decide. I decide and I know then that there is no going back. Whatever happens in my life from this point on, Turner will play a part in it.

  “Okay,” I say and I can't help but kiss him back. “You're in. Help me, Turner, and we'll figure this out together.”

  “Jesus mother and shit,” Turner says after I'm finis
hed with my half of the story. Putting what I know together with what he knows hasn't done a damn thing for us. It's all still a big, fucking mystery. And who planted the guitar? Well, when I find the fucker I'll make sure to thank them for replacing my Wolfgang before I blow their brains out. “Skinny Bitch has a few screws loose, huh?” he asks, pitching his voice low, so that Ronnie and I can hear him, but the rest of the band can't. I don't know how the two of them plan on hiding me from the rest of the group, but I'll let them work on those logistics. They know their friends better than I do.

  A knock at the door hushes us all for a moment.

  “We're about to move out, is everything okay in there?” a voice asks.

  “Peachy fucking keen,” Turner responds, kicking his feet up on the table. We're sitting in the back of the bus, a circular area with a table and a shit ton of ashtrays. There are windows on all sides but one where the second bathroom sits, door cracked and light off. “You're cleared for takeoff. Now leave us the fuck alone.” He takes a drag on his cigarette and offers it to me. I grab a fresh one from the carton on the table and dig the lighter out of his pocket. When I slide the smoke between my lips, I feel like I'm coming home. Oh God, yes. My forced separation from nicotine was not exactly pleasant. As the smoke fills my lungs, I sigh with pleasure. Shit yeah. That's where it's at, baby.

  Ronnie cranks up the stereo to help drown out our conversation. He's a nice guy, I could tell the moment I laid eyes on him. Nice guys are easy to spot because they're so few and far between, like roses in a field of weeds. Even if you've never seen one before, you'll know it when you stumble on one because its presence is like nothing else. Ronnie's the one I should be falling for, but right now, I'm knee-deep in Turner La-la Land. I scowl at nothing in particular and smoke my cigarette. Ronnie watches me and brushes some hair from his face with a pale, skinny hand. He was handsome, once upon a time, but sorrow and longing, drugs and alcohol, all of that has wiped away his pretty and left nothing but sore, sad and fucked. I feel bad for the guy, really. He looks like he needs a hug.

  “Why don't we do this the simple way,” Turner suggests, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He's still trying to pull that masculine machismo bullshit on me, but it isn't working. His heart is bleeding all over his chest. I might be the one with the tattoo, but he's got the real thing, right there above his rock hard fucking pecs. I told him he didn't understand love, but he thinks he does. Whatever I believe about him, all I have to do is look in his eyes to know he truly feels something for me. I guess thinking I was dead pounded it in hard. No way I'm getting rid of this guy so easily this time. I am so stuck with Turner Campbell. Better get used to it. “Let's just corner Hayden and beat the shit out of her until she spills.” I roll my eyes.

  “This goes so much further than Hayden, Turner. There are other people involved, and if I'm right,” I smash my cig in the ashtray. “Then it's not just me they're after. Think about it. Why send you the guitar? The hat? You're involved whether you know it or not. Beating up Hayden might help us scratch the surface, but it won't give us access to the root.” I pick up my water bottle and down half in one gulp. It feels so good to have liquid pouring down my throat. IV fluid is not the same. This shit may as well be ambrosia it tastes so sweet.

  “You think somebody's targeting Turner?” Ronnie asks. I notice he likes to repeat things. I think he's committing them to memory. I have a good feeling about that. Ronnie is the type of man that notices things, little details. He watches and he absorbs, like our own walking, talking guidebook but with zero paper trail.

  “I'm almost sure of it,” I say as Turner's hand slides up my thigh, brushing softly over the bare skin. I'm not wearing much right now, just a pair of his boxers and one of his tees, so he's got pretty easy access. I just have to make sure he knows his place, where he stands and all that. I asked him to help me, but I didn't say we'd take the romantic route. Maybe I'm the only one in that room that misses the fact that I'm wearing the Mrs. Turner Campbell bracelet on my arm still. I push his hand off. “What we need to do is find Katie. She obviously knows more than she's letting on, which is understandable considering her upbringing.” I sigh and try not to relive those old memories. I can't help but wonder if all of that has something to do with this, but what are my options? Burying this secret for good is the only thing I can think of. Letting this one fly isn't a good idea. Confessing my bloody past to the world will only make my life worse, not better. Best this shit gets shoveled six feet under, right next to the bastards I shanked.

  “So how do we find her?” Turner asks, adjusting himself so that the long line of his thigh brushes against mine. I pretend not to notice. Just because I went missing, just because he mourned me with the angels on high, doesn't mean that we're suddenly an item. So, genius, why on earth did you decide to rut with the bastard onstage? And without a condom? Damn, girl, you're in deep. I ignore my subconscious and start on my next cigarette.

  “We don't,” I tell him, glancing at him sideways. “We wait. She'll show up eventually.” I take a drag and blow smoke rings. I don't miss the rising bulge in Turner's pants. “And we need to find Eric before the cops do. If he's still around, that is.” I don't like the idea of the police hovering so close by. Not the FBI either. It's not impossible to do things without them knowing, but it sure as shit isn't easy either.

  “You trust that slick son of a bitch?” Turner asks me, turning sideways and draping his arm over the back of his seat. He hasn't bothered to put a new shirt on, just sits there with his nipples hard and his muscles gleaming under the bright, yellow light that swings above us when we start to move. Outside, the rain smashes against the windows like a thousand fists, helping shield us from prying ears. But it won't last long. All it'll take is one slip and somebody will see me and everything will just go to shit. I have to make sure I'm in control, that the inevitable downward spiral goes where I tell it to.

  “I don't trust anyone,” I tell him and then glance across the table at Ronnie. “Not even you.”

  “Good,” Turner's friend says, pressing his palms against the tabletop and rising to his feet. His dark eyes take me in, and he smiles. “You shouldn't. Keep that wariness around and you'll be alright.” He groans and sighs, dropping his chin to his chest. “I am fucking beat.” He lifts a hand up and gestures absently at the back of the bus. “All of that bullshit in there was too much for this old man. I'm calling it a night. I'll keep my eyes and ears peeled tomorrow for gossip.” Ronnie pushes away from the table and reaches for the door handle, glancing over his shoulder at Turner and me. “You want me to bring some blankets and shit back here?”

  “Yeah. Tell the guys I'm in a rank fucking mood.” Ronnie nods and doesn't question this. I raise an eyebrow.

  “And this will what, keep them away?” Turner shrugs like I shouldn't be surprised, gazing at me from half-lidded eyes. He is such a posh fucking prince. Thinks he's all hardcore and shit, but that's a load of bull. He might've survived the trailer park when he was young, but he'd never last now. I watch as he runs his fingers down his abs, playing them like a friggin' washboard and drops them below the hemline of his jeans. He pretends he's just adjusting himself, but I know better. He's trying to get me excited.

  I blow smoke in his face.

  He just breathes it in with a smile.

  “Let's just say, when Turner's on a warpath, people stay out of his way.”

  “Uh huh.” I lean back and wait until Ronnie shows up with blankets and pillows, depositing them on the tabletop and retreating with a little wink. Turner locks the door behind him and settles back into his position across from me. I put my feet up and rest my toes against his legs. “You think you're so tough, but I see right through you.”

  He leans forward and breathes hot breath against my face.

  “Really, Naomi? And what is it that you see?”

  “I see a man who thinks he knows what he wants, but doesn't understand it. I see a guy who – ”

  Turner int
errupts me by grabbing my chin and pressing his forehead to mine. I don't move away when he crawls between my legs, keeping those fingers locked tight on my face.

  “Naomi, you see a guy who thought he lost the only thing he ever really wanted. The one thing he craved and never even knew about,” he whispers, and his voice is soft, like kitty cat fur soft. It's weird as shit. This is the same guy who left that roadie half-naked over a PA speaker, that knocked me up and left my pregnant and alone at sixteen, who parties and fucks and sings and doesn't care whose heart gets broken in the process. This is also the guy who's making my chest tight and my eyes wet, who's created a throbbing pulse between my thighs and slicked my skin with sweat. “You see an asshole with a whole laundry list of faults, who doesn't even know how many chicks he's slept with, but who only wants one.”

  “What if I said you can't have her?” I tell him, not liking the ache I feel when he pulls away and sits back down across from me. My body is begging me to fuck him again, to hold him tight inside of me and make him mine. I want to piss all over him and claw up his back and make sure that all of these other bitches know he's off limits. I want them to know that he wants me in ways he's never wanted them, that he craves me in ways he's never felt before. I shiver and snatch a cigarette with angry, shaking hands.

  Turner just grins, all cocky and arrogant. It's not a front, not necessarily, but something about it rings fake when he looks at me. I've found a crack in the Campbell shell. And it's me. I'm the fucking crack.

  “I'd have to say too damn bad. I get what I want, Naomi, and what I want is you. Get used to it.” I flip him off.

  “Hey, Turner,” I say. “Fuck you.” He leans forward.

  “I just did that.” I shake my head and grab the water bottle, alternating sips with drags.