Born Wrong (21 page)

“Don't you fucking ignore me,” I snap at him, letting the rage leak out. Hey, at least I found the appropriate target for my anger. The man who started it all. My mother might've birthed my body, but my father birthed this discomfort I have inside of me. I'm so sick of it. I just want it gone. “Look at me for a fucking second and admit to yourself that I'm your son and that it's not my fault. It's not. It's not anybody's fault that Hannah died. Say it because I can't believe it unless I hear the words come from your mouth.”

“I said
out
,” Arnold snarls at me, the stoic expression on his face breaking for a split second into pure rage. “Out. Out. Get the fuck out and don't come back. I did the best I could for you, boy. I tried because I loved your mother so much it still hurts me inside. I wanted to love you, but I just can't. And I can't keep pretending.”

I take a step back, threading my fingers through Sydney's without even realizing that I'm doing it. I feel a revelation coming. I don't like revelations. All they do is flip your world around. Like it isn't hard enough to navigate where you're going?

“We can go now. You don't have to hear this if you don't want to. It won't matter, not in the long run.” I look down at Sydney and then back over at Arnold, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don't have to hear this; I need to.

“Pretending about what?” I ask. Sydney knows the truth already. I thought I was perceptive, but I'm not, not really. Sydney's practically fucking psychic.

“Dax,” Arnold says with an expression as cold as ice. “I'm not your biological father. I don't know who he is, and I don't care to. I just want you gone, boy. Just go and don't come back here again.”

“Did you steal those drums?” Dax asks me, face goofy, mouth twisted to the side in toxic glee. He rests his head on his arm, lying across the bar with his dark hair splayed out against the gleaming countertop. Like I said, I'm not a fan of using alcohol or drugs to get by, but Dax deserves a drink after that shit. So here we are. In a strip club.

I smile.

“I was going to wait for you to wake up, but I got bored. I told you,” I say, leaning forward and brushing his hair from his forehead. I've had – count it – one drink. An AMF. If you're not familiar, that's an
Adios Motherfucker,
strong but not deadly. I use it as an excuse to play with Dax's hair, letting each touch of my fingers against his flesh consume me. Between my legs, the ache is becoming unbearable. I reach a hand down and grip the edge of the chair, leaning my crotch against my arm, just for a little touch. The throbbing pulse turns into a painful keening.
Down, girl, down.
“I do things sometimes. And I don't know why I do them. I got up, went inside and asked for a cup of coffee. As soon as I saw Arnold though, I knew.”

“But the drums?” Dax asks, music on the mind. He fondles the pair of sticks on the counter. He's shit faced as fuck, but at least he's smiling. It's not everyday that you find out your sadistic father really does hate you. In the movies, Arnold and Dax would've had a teary reunion, uniting the family in love or some bullshit. But this is the real world and these are real people with real problems.
Fuck.

“I'm getting there,” I whisper, leaning down and pressing my lips to his temple. His skin tastes like sweat and lilac, like maybe he uses floral soap or something. I like it. Dax is so male without being chauvinistic. “Don't you want to hear the whole story?”

“I want to play my drums for you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the staccato rhythms of the techno music blasting from the speakers near the stage. “I want to fall in love. Naomi doesn't want me, so … ” He trails off. I take a sip of my drink, savoring the electric feel of the alcohol in my veins. Just enough to take the edge off, not enough to blur my memories or make me do something I might regret. I cut him off before he can say anything else.

“You have a much prettier face than Arnold. He has a square nose and a dimpled chin.” I purse my lips. “And yes I did steal the drums. I wrapped each bag in a sheet and lowered it out the window.” Dax snorts and curls his fingers around the sticks. At least when he saw me coming around the back of the house carrying pieces of his first drum kit, he almost smiled. Now that he's had a few drinks in him, he's grinning from ear to ear. The bundle of padded bags in the van have more than just drum pieces inside of them though. I snatched a few photos and some other random bits of memorabilia I found scattered throughout his room. They're stuffed inside of the pockets, as much as I could fit. It was a weird thing to do, I get that. But the five minute conversation I had in the kitchen with that man gave me a heads up. He already knew what he wanted to say to Dax before we even got there. He didn't say so in as many words to me, but that's what I picked up from our conversation. So I asked to see Dax's room, and then I stole shit. “I was afraid if something went down, you might walk out of there without a piece of your mother.”

“Doesn't matter,” Dax drones, struggling to sit up. One of the girls starts to meander our way, and I throw her a death glare. Rule one when you're working as a stripper, if a guy comes in with a lady, always make eye contact with her
before
you approach the man she's with. Failure to do so can result in cat fights, pepper spray, and all other sorts of drama we could all do without. The girls here either don't get that, or they're just hyper aware of the fact that Dax is the best looking man in this room. “I didn't know her; she'll never know me.” He pauses and his words slur a bit as he scrunches his face up and tries to figure out how to deal with the impossible. “And she was married to my dad, but pregnant with somebody else's baby. Why?” I put my elbow on the counter and rest my chin in my hand.

“There are a dozen reasons that come to mind, Dax,” I say. “The majority of which are not pleasant. I don't know that you'll ever really know. If the people involved refuse to tell you, there's not much else you can do.” He scrubs at his face with his hands and then sighs, a deep, overdramatic release of air that makes me smile. I watch as his gaze shifts over to the girls working the stage. Their bodies wrap around the poles, writhing and undulating in a dance that's older than time, mimicking the most basic movements of humanity, the very act of creation. “You want a lap dance or something?” I ask him, feeling a tightness in my belly. I don't want to see some skank grind all over him when I haven't even got the chance to try that yet. Fucking fucker. I knew the Little Drummer Boy was going to be trouble. Knew it. And all I've done so far is
kiss
him. But now I'm emotionally invested. It's hard to watch somebody get torn down to the studs without shedding a tear or two. My eyes watered, won't lie about that. But his didn't. He didn't say a fucking thing until I convinced the security guards to pull in here. So I might've told them a lie about needing to use the ladies' room,
pronto.
But now we're here and they can't do a damn thing about it. We're not their fucking prisoners. I told them they could stay and watch over us or they could leave.

They stayed.

I wave at one of our friends near the back door. He doesn't wave back.

“A lap dance?” Dax asks, turning back to me, blinking his gray eyes rapidly in response. I raise an eyebrow. He sounds awfully fucking eager. “I'd love one.” My mouth tightens, but I don't say anything, turning back to the room of girls and looking for the one with the ugliest tits. I can't help it, I'm shallow like that. Before I can grab anybody's attention, Dax's fingers are curling around my wrist and pulling me off the stool and onto his lap. He shifts his weight, so that he's holding me around the waist with one arm and under the knees with the other. His hand brushes against my nylons and makes me suck in a breath. The feeling of his fingers sliding along the fabric …
purr, purr. Please don't stop doing that.

“I didn't mean a lap dance from me,” I say, touching a hand to his black T-shirt.
Amatory Riot
swirls across the top in purple cursive. “I'm retired, remember?”

“I think I've had a lot to drink,” he slurs, but his eyes are absolutely wicked. There's an ice storm brewing in there, hail falling from the sky and desecrating the landscape of frozen gray. It looks like a peaceful way to die, and I could use a bit of peace. I tilt my head back and let myself get lost in them, enjoying the feeling of being held, of being weightless. I feel like I'm always in charge of everything, all the time. For a split second there, I let Dax take that role. His mouth falls to mine and even though he tastes like vodka, I let him kiss me. I'm not sure if it's the alcohol or the revelation about his family or what, but he's much more demanding with his tongue and teeth this time, forcing me to open up and let him in.

His hold relaxes a bit as he pulls away, leaving me gasping, swallowing hard and leaning forward for more as he settles me into his lap and reluctantly removes his hand from my legs.

“Do you want to meet Tara?” he asks suddenly, and I go very still. When I said I didn't care about Tara, I meant it. I won't judge Dax on something that happened a decade ago. But am I curious? Fuck yeah, of course I am. I play with the neckline on his shirt, sliding my nails underneath the fabric and getting a kick out of the way his skin twitches when I touch him. I think I've finally decided: we just have to fucking
fuck.
It's not an even an option really of
if.
I should've known from the first second I saw him that it was
when.
Turner's right anyway, I owe it to myself to see why I'm so attracted to him in the first place. Worst case scenario, this tension disappears from the air and I move on with my life without ever wondering. Wondering's the worst. It's dreaming about something you never intend to explore. I hate it.

“Is she dead?” I ask him, thinking of Arnold's statements in the kitchen. “Are we visiting her grave?” It's okay if we are. Some people are very touchy about how they deal with and talk about the dead. If Dax wants me to meet a dead chick, I'll do it.

Dax is already shaking his head no.

“She's still alive,” he says, but he doesn't sound entirely convinced of that fact. “Or she was a couple of months ago.” He swallows and the color drains from his face. “I want to see her, tell somebody about her, take the sting out of the secret. Then nobody can use it against me.” Dax sighs. “Then the only secrets I'll have to protect will belong to the hearts of other people.”

I smile.

“Well, then, I'd love to meet her.” Dax moves as if to stand up, but I put a hand on his chest. “However, you're drunk right now. Sober up a bit first and then we can go?” He wrinkles his nose at me.

“What about our friends?” I glance over at the guards. They don't ever fucking let up which, I guess, is a good thing, but I still think there has to be some way to get away from them. After all, they're here to protect us, not keep us prisoner. If we were to slip away to the bathroom … It would be a really stupid idea. I could be putting Dax's life in danger.
Scratch that, Sydney. Use some common sense.

“I guess we'll be taking them with us,” I say, but I can tell Dax doesn't want them to go. When he says he wants to tell
someone
about Tara, he doesn't mean just anyone. I feel honored, even though I have no clue what this is about. He's trusting me enough to show me something nobody else knows. Now whether that's because I'm here, because I'm the most convenient person to confide in at the moment, or because he really likes me, I don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. I'll roll with it and see what happens. “Though they'll probably call back and report to Brayden, if they haven't already.”

“I don't give a fuck,” Dax snaps, but not at me. I don't take it personally. He's mad at the world in general, I get it. I haven't even been through a fraction of what he has. Murders, kidnappings, tornadoes. Weeks of being trapped on a bus with people like America, the stuck-up bourgeois bitch who's dragged my boys, her band, even me into this crap. Trouble by association. “I'll be back in time to get on the plane. That's all that matters, right?”

I scoot off of Dax's lap and straighten out my skirt with a smile.

“That, and the fact that your arms remain unbroken.” I reach out and squeeze his bicep, as a joke at first, but then, as soon as my hands make contact with his hard flesh, I start feeling lightheaded. I snatch my fingers back right away, but the damage has been done. Dax is licking his lips and clenching his fist tight around the drum sticks. I think I hear one of them crack. “Sorry,” I say, although I'm not sure that's even the right word. “Did you ever have this sort of … unique problem with Naomi?” I don't even know why I ask that question. It shouldn't even matter, but somehow it does. If he's fucking me, is he going to be picturing her?

“What?” Dax asks, looking a little disoriented. Maybe it's not fair to grill him when he's drunk and I'm barely buzzed, but I'm going to do it anyway. Curiosity killed the cat and all that.

“With the whole touching thing? The uh, proliferation of hard-ons. Was it like that? Or rather,
is
it like that?” Dax stares at me while I settle back onto my stool and finish my drink. In the span of time it takes him to answer the question, three girls come dangerously close to the bar. I almost trip one with my heels.