Born Wrong (8 page)

“Nobody will blame you,” Ronnie says, drawing my attention past Sydney and onto his face. He looks good, much better than he did a few weeks ago. I think he's gained some weight, but then, I don't really know the guy well. Still, I know enough to get that something's wrong with Lola. Compared to Ronnie, she looks like shit. In fact, I think she's
lost
weight. At the moment, her eyes are hollow, like broken windows looking inside an empty house. I look between her and Ronnie, back at Turner and Naomi, and then I sneak my gaze over to Sydney again.

Shit.

She's still looking at me, examining me the way I examined her. Her gaze catches on my crotch for a second and a small smile quirks her lips. It takes me a second to realize that I've dropped the pillow. I fall back onto the couch with a groan and grab another one.

“Do you need a fucking minute or do you want to hear about the shit that went down?” Turner asks me, and, surprisingly, he sounds a lot less irritated than he did a minute ago. When I glance over at him, I see his gaze flicking between Sydney and me. Well, fuck him. If he thinks it's that easy to change your heart, then he obviously doesn't care about Naomi the way he says he does. Just because Sydney is hot as fuck doesn't mean I'm dropping the Naomi thing. A hard cock isn't enough. Well, it wouldn't be enough if she hadn't just shot me down. I grit my teeth at the memory and shake my head.

“Of course I want to know. What the fuck is it now?”

“Yes, please, do tell,” Sydney says, and her voice makes it really, really difficult to concentrate. I'm not normally the type of guy to run off and take care of things, if you know what I mean, but Goddamn it. This is absolutely insane. If any of my friends had come to me and described something like this, I would've accused them of shooting up and downing an entire bottle of Viagra. So not normal. “What the fuck is it now? I have a really hard time imagining you guys haven't done anything to deserve this.”

“Do you have a problem with me, Sydney?” Turner snarls at her, moving close, getting in her face. “Trey didn't do
shit.
He's the fucking victim here, Goddamn it. Show a little respect.” When I see his boots scrape the front of her red heels, I just see black. One second, I'm sitting down. The next, I'm up and pulling Turner back by his shirt. He stumbles for a second, but only because I think he's confused. If I didn't expect to do it, why should he? As soon as he figures out I've touched him though, he's spinning around and a fist is flying at my face.

“Turner!” Naomi shouts, stepping between us and grabbing his punch before he can hit me in the jaw. It's an impressive move, catching someone else's fist in your own. Turner pulls back as much as he can, but the two of them end up slamming together, chest to chest. Instead of being angry, like you'd think, they look fucking starstruck. Honestly, it kind of makes me sick. Or maybe that's just the vertigo. The world spins around me for a second before I steady myself with a hand on the wall. Turner and Naomi are still gazing into one another's eyes, and I'm about to tell her I can fight my own battles, when I pass the fuck out.

Holy baloney motherfucking crap.

I sweep my hands down my face and pull them back, watching as my fingers curl involuntarily. I'm sitting on the edge of a strange man's bed, a strange man who just happens to be
the
hottest fucking piece of ass I have ever seen in my adult life.

“Oh, hearts on fire,” I whisper, pretending to fan myself. It's a bit pathetic really, considering said sexy dude is passed out next to me. Covered in sweat. Dark hair in his face. Lips twisted in this deliciously wicked little half-smile.
Wonder what he's dreaming about? If it features me and my tits bouncing while I ride his ass …
Well, then I'm cool with it.

“Seriously?” Turner asks me, raising one perfectly manicured yet somehow still masculine brow. How, why, that is even possible, I don't know, but fuck the dude for being too frigging perfect. Irritating little twat sucker. I try not to be too mad at him though, considering the adorable Instagram worthy reunion he just shared with Trey. My brother might be passed out in the next room, but at least he has his own little team of doctors and nurses to wait on him hand and foot. Money can buy happiness sometimes, right? Or at least somebody who will smile while they clean out your bed pan. But man, that Ryker guy, he knows his shit. Not only is my brother here, with us, safe, but the dude is putting together a sort of family protection plan thing for everybody else's family members. I hope Indecency has a new album in the works because this type of security doesn't come cheap. They're going to have to write another dozen scream-y, angst-y, bad boy songs to pay for this shit.

“Seriously what, Turner?” I ask him, looking down at Dax McCann's sleeping face. I hear he got rabbit-punched by a tornado. Ouchies.

“You find Dax attractive? Like for real, for real?” I roll my eyes to the ceiling and then drop them down to Naomi's face. She is absolutely
gorgeous.
I'd feel threatened if I was inclined toward that sort of thing. But then, it all comes back to stripping. I mean, I've been doing it for like ten years now, ever since I was sixteen (and yes, I get that that's illegal, but I had a fake ID so get over it). Too many pretty girls, hot bodies, broken dreams. It's hard to intimidate me now.

“You are a strong, powerful woman with a solid career and a beautiful voice. Are you absolutely positive you want to waste that on this idiot?” I ask, gauging her reaction. Asking questions you know could be controversial is a good way to get to know someone. I get a smile.
Thank God.
So far, I like both Lola and Naomi. Things are looking up for the guys here. Now we just need to find someone for Trey and Jesse and we're golden. Behind every great man is a patient woman with a bigger set of balls.

“He fucks good so, you know.” Naomi shrugs and puts a cigarette in her mouth. Nobody in this group cares about
no smoking
signs, so fuck it. I pull out a Marlboro, raise it up in cheers, and plop it between my lips. “And his voice isn't half bad either.”

“Oh, please, baby,” Turner says, grabbing his junk (which is probably strangled to death in his too tight pants) and turning to Naomi. “You couldn't live without this.”

“Maybe not,” she says, still smiling at me. “But I could probably do without your mouth. Unless it's singing, keep it closed.”

“Huh,” Turner snorts, letting go of his balls and snatching the cig from Naomi's lips. “All I'm sayin' is that Dax is an emo bitch. I'm sorry, but I just don't see how anybody could find him attractive. I mean, Jesus. You walked in here, Syd, and it was like somebody had cranked up the heater. He had a rager, and I could practically smell the tuna salad you were whipping up over there.”

“That's fucking disgusting,” I tell him, looking back at Dax. Emo? Maybe. I mean, he's got a zombie with blood pouring down its face tatted right on his bicep. At the same time, when I walked in and saw him pounding away on his drums, something just broke inside of me. A dam was lifted and a flood of hormones poured out and consumed me. My whole body feels slick, and not just down below. I feel like I've been dipped in a vat of warm oil, and it's soothing as shit. I rub at my arm and take a deep breath, accidentally pulling in a mouthful of his scent.
Hot, warm, sweaty man. Lust. Desperation. Anger.
I swallow hard and stomp my foot on the floor. Yeah, my whole sensation thing is going crazy right now. Pretty sure there's some god out there that desperately wants me to fuck the crap out of this guy. “And yeah, I do find him attractive. He's … obviously hot. On the outside anyway. Inside, he's like ice.”

Naomi snaps her fingers at me.

“Right?” she asks, sounding perplexed. “Glad I'm not the only one that thinks that.” I look up at her in her sweatpants and her loose shirt. How fucking cool. Just proves that it's not the clothes that make the rocker chick. 'S the other way around. Naomi couldn't look more like a Rocker Chick Bitch than she does right now, damp hair and all. I've been listening to her music for a few years, on and off. I'd have listened more if that Hayden chick hadn't been the singer. Something about her voice just makes me feel skanky.

“Were you guys a thing once?” I ask, and I really, really don't like the slight inflection in my voice. I sound like a cougar getting ready to fight over a mate. Wow. I look back at Dax, at the very slight shadow on his jaw, his bow-tie lips, the slight pinch to the bridge of his nose.
Mistake, big time future mistake,
my brain screams. This strong of a reaction can only get an equally strong reaction. I walked in that door and saw him fucking his drums, his muscles bulging beneath his skin, his wide back, his – I cut myself off that train of thought and blink to clear away the cobwebs.

“No.” That's all Naomi says, doesn't elaborate. Meanwhile, Turner grits his teeth hard. Not good. There's another story here. I don't like stories; I like endings. Endings tell you what happen, sum up the drama, finish the pain. Stories, well, stories just keep on keepin' on. I don't want a chapter in a partially written book.

“She fucked Trey though,” Turner says, and I face palm. I just walked into the Den of No Fucking Return. This is a cave of weirdness that I'd rather leave far, far behind. But I can't now. Not after today. There's some weird shit, some dangerous shit, going down that I don't like. I have to stay and fight. What kind of girl would I be if I didn't?

“Maybe that's not particularly relevant right now?” Ronnie asks Turner in his best no-nonsense voice. He filled me in on the way over. I'm sure I haven't got the full story yet, but I will. It's easier to understand the rules of the game once you're playing it, right? “Why don't we try and keep focused on our little problem here?” Lola's looking at Ronnie, but her eyes are tired and her hands are shaking, not like mine though. Mine are full of estrogen, desperate to cool their heat with a little bit of Dax's ice, if you catch my drift. Hers are twisting in her shirt, rubbing against her shorts, searching for an outlet. She doesn't know what to do next, where to go from here. Isn't it amazing what you can tell about someone from a little body language?

“What's there to talk about, man? Brayden will take care of that shit. All we have to do is fuck up these interviews, blow up L.A., and become legends. Period. That's fuckin' it, dude.” Turner leans back against the wall, his shirt riding up his abs and flashing a pair of lovely V shaped lines on his hips. Naomi looks purposely away. “After that, we buy some digs in town, raise your babies, and write more albums.” He takes a drag on his cigarette and turns it around, staring into the cherry thoughtfully. Turner Campbell pretends to be stupid; he's anything but. He's throwing up some false bravado to mask the gravity of the situation. Hmm.

“So, this man, this Stephen, he's simply in this to punish your manager for leaving him?” I ask Naomi. I'm still not quite getting it. I mean, I've seen some people handle rejection badly, but a decade old feud involving a half dozen murders? I just … hmm. My hand accidentally brushes Dax's arm as I adjust myself, and my skin tightens across my muscles. The tips of my fingers are tingling and my mouth parts gently, like I'm waiting for the taste of his tongue. It takes physical effort on my part to stand up and move away from the bed.

“Surely he's sociopathic or psychopathic or whatever the hell you want to call it,” Lola says absently, her voice drifting on the air like fog. “Let's just get whacked out and forget it. No matter what we do, it doesn't mean shit. Just look at today. Look at it. I'm knackered as a dime store whore on payday.”

“Brayden said he could get a message to your sister,” Ronnie says softly, putting a hand on her knee, wrapping his longer fingers around her leg. “You were in voluntarily, too. It's all based on manipulation, Lola.”

“I know that better than anyone, Ronnie. I also know how hard it is to get out. You know what they threatened me with. This last week has been the worst one of my fuckin' life. I can't even take a shit without KK dropping in on me and reminding me that I will
never
truly be free. Never. I
killed
a girl,” she growls, turning pointedly to me, pointing at her chest. “I murdered someone. I might as well start getting used to small spaces because I'm either spending the rest of my life in the slammer or six feet under.”

I raise my eyebrows, but I don't comment. It's hard to really respond to something like that. Ronnie gives me a wide-eyed look that I meet with a small nod. I'll keep my mouth shut. Only people on high can judge us down below, and let's face it, that podium's pretty empty up there. I try to imagine Lola, this petite little thing with big eyes and a pretty face, actually killing someone. It's not easy. I wonder about the circumstances. See, I told you. I don't have the full story.

“And I obviously can't go back. What do I do now? I'm jobless, band-less, homeless, hopeless.” Lola stands up and starts to pace, heels whispering across the carpet. After a moment, she bends down and reaches up her shorts, coming out with that gun I was so curious about earlier. She tosses it on the counter and then digs a small, plastic vodka bottle out of her pocket. “Cheers,” she says sarcastically and tosses it back.