Dead Serious (6 page)

“Just ignore me. Dax and I have been friends forever. I'm a little overprotective when it comes to him.” Blair uncrosses her legs and leans over the side of the chair, digging in her suitcase and coming up with a plastic bag filled with lollipops. “Want one?” I raise my eyebrow at her and she tosses me a wink.

“You don't seem all that upset about Hayden?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I can tell they're not true. Blair's entire face shuts down, the light behind her eyes fading to darkness, so that when I look into her blue eyes, they seem black.

“She killed herself. Obviously, she had a lot of problems. I mean,” Blair pauses and snaps her gaze up to mine, “I hated her. I really, really did. You know just as well as I do. You were there on the bus with her. Fuck, Naomi, you even cleaned up all of her messes.” I look away as a surprising bite of pain cuts through my heart. Hayden might've been a sadistic bitch from hell, but she was
my
sadistic bitch from hell.

I sigh.

Blair takes a sucker from the plastic bag and tosses the rest back into her suitcase.

“I hated her, but I don't think she was all evil, you know? I just … I have no clue what's really going on here, Naomi. I heard what you had to say, what America said, and I saw that photograph of Hayden, but that's it. Pieces of other people's lives. I don't know
why
any of this happening, and I don't care. I just want it all to stop.”

“Me, too,” I whisper, and I don't know what else to add to that. I could tell Blair about my secrets, let her into the fold. But I have to remember that
my
particular little demons are also felony crimes. I look away, at the curtains covering the window and the dusky sunlight straining to break through them. “America,” I begin, but there's really nothing to say. Would she really shoot us? We both know she would.

“Is way out of line,” Blair says, sucking on her candy and staring up at the ceiling absently. A smile teases her lips. “At least the man with the gun is hot.”

“You're impossible,” I say, but I'm more than happy to change the subject. My brain is stuck on our current situation, all of the little intricacies and horrors that make it up, and I can't seem to figure out a solution. If I keep pounding my head against it, I'm going to end up with a migraine and not much else.

“No, you are. Coming up here complaining about Turner Campbell. What the hell did he do now?” I look up at Blair and swallow. No more secrets. But then, there's also such a thing as TMI. I haven't had many girlfriends in my life that I was close to. When it comes to sex, I have no idea how much I'm supposed to confide. I look up at the ceiling and find that Blair's gaze wasn't on nothing. There's a picture there. Of a penis. My gaze drops back to her face with a questioning look and a raised eyebrow. She looks over at me and then back at the ceiling before bursting into laughter. “It's sort of, you know, been
awhile.
”

“Okay.” I stand up and slip my shades on my face. “You know, I don't want to know.” I pass by Blair and blow her a kiss, taking one last look at the massive erection taped to her ceiling. Maybe I don't want any girlfriends?

“Sit next to you on the flight to L.A.?” she calls as I open the door and step out. There's a smiling crawling across my face in spite of the situation.

“And discuss dick with you? Fat chance of that.” But I know that I will. Whether Turner likes it or not. I'm going to make a fucking friend.

I head to Dax's room next, not because I particularly
want
to see him, but because I feel like I have to. I have to look into his eyes and say I'm sorry. The sound of his voice on the phone told me all I needed to know; he's devastated. Out of everyone, Dax was the only one who believed Hayden was redeemable.
She has a kid.
Somewhere out there, Stephen Hammergren has Hayden's child. Where she is and why, I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Just because Hayden's dead doesn't mean that little girl doesn't matter.

I knock on Dax's door, ignoring the bodyguards behind and to either side of me. My two plus two for Dax. They're all Brayden's men, I'm sure. I doubt anything we do in their presence is private. At least they don't follow us
in
to our rooms.

The door opens a crack and Sydney's face appears.

“Hey Naomi,” she says with a tired half-smile. I try to smile back at her, but unlike with Blair, I can't let this all go, not even for a second, and pretend that I'm okay. I'm not okay. None of us are. “If you're here to see Dax, then you'll have to come back later. I drugged him up with some sleeping pills and put him to bed.” She shrugs and the robe she's wearing slides off her bare shoulder.
Huh.
So they're already sleeping together, are they? I try not to feel jealous. I'm not, not really. I'm happy with my choice. Dax wasn't ever really an option for me. Maybe I'm just narcissistic and enjoy the attention? I don't fucking know.

“Could you tell him I stopped by when he gets up? Maybe have him text me?”

“Sure thing,” she says with another smile and a wink. The door closes again and I'm left standing awkwardly in the hallway by myself.

“Naomi.” I close my eyes and gather my self-control close around me like a blanket. I'm going to need every ounce of it to turn and look America in the face.

“What?” I snap, opening my eyes back up and staring at Dax's closed door, the numbers in gold letters reflecting back a distorted image of my face.
325.
Why couldn't the son of a bitch have been up? Then I might've avoided America for just a little bit longer. “Can I help you with something or would you like to have one of your lackeys hold a gun to my head for funsies?”

America scoffs, crossing her good arm over her chest. I realize absently that she's got the sling on again. Guess throwing a massive temper tantrum wasn't the best move, was it? I hope she broke the damn thing. At least she's put herself back together, showered, put on some beige eyeshadow and new pantyhose to go with her gray skirt suit. Normalcy. Thank God. I could really use a dose of that.

“I'd like to speak with you in private.”

I glance at the security guards surrounding me, dressed in T-shirts and jeans, not suits and shades like you'd expect from high class, high cost security. I wonder how much this is costing me?

“They gonna make me?”

“For fuck's sake, Naomi. Come with me upstairs. We can have dinner in the restaurant.”

I turn around to face her fully, pursing my lips and enjoying the fact that I'm wearing shades so she can't see the expression burning in my gaze. Hatred. Think I might be getting there with America. I am sick and tired of all of this crap. I just want to go back to touring, sleeping in an uncomfortable bunk, playing shows, smoking the occasional joint. That's it. Of course, my life's been irreparably altered, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Turner Campbell belongs to me now. Like I always wanted. Like I would've
killed
for when I was a teenager. And yeah, I've been through some shit, but maybe I could forget it all and move on? Maybe now I'll finally be able to cherish the easy moments in life, the quiet spaces between that make up the bulk of our existence?

“The thought of sitting at a table across from you makes me sick to my stomach. You trust these guys, don't you?” I gesture at the guards, wondering once again where America knows Brayden from and why he's so damn loyal to her. “Whatever you have to say, spit it out. Tell me right here. Or, like I said, you can put a gun to my temple and force me to eat braised chicken with garlic and white wine while you blather away.”

My manager's lips thin, but I don't care. I'm done playing games with her. So she'll have Brayden track me down and kill me if I run away? Fine. I'll stay. I'll play the concert, but I don't have to be nice about it. She's not going to off me for a few caustic comments.

“We leave for L.A. tomorrow, Naomi. This might be your last chance to visit Katie.”

“Katie?” I ask, thinking back to my foster sister. To Eric. Eric. I wish he was still alive, so I could kill him, take a fresh pair of scissors and send him to hell to visit his parents. Oh well. I suppose, if there really is a Heaven or Hell or whatever, that he's wallowing in misery somewhere.
Fucker.
“Why is everyone so obsessed with me talking to Katie? What the hell does she have to do with anything? She's going to prison. Or more likely a mental-health ward where she'll spend the rest of her days wrapped in a white jacket.” Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I push them back. I tried once to save my foster sister, and look how things turned out. There's nothing I can do for her now. Her brother, even if he was a rapist piece of shit, was murdered in front of a fuck ton of people. She killed a
cop.
Might've been a dirty cop, but who's going to know that? Who's going to believe me if I even tried to blow the lid on this coup?

Of course, there's Hayden's child to think about. Eric's, supposedly. I don't know what happened between them, but Katie might. I clench my teeth and look down at the floor, closing my eyes again to get ahold of my emotions.

“Just because you think this is an open-and-shut case doesn't mean it is,” America growls out between her perfect crowns, polished nice and white. I wonder what her story is, her whole story I mean. She's told us about Stephen, about Travis, about Harvard, but what happened before that? What was her family like? Her childhood? I'm not sure that I really care, but maybe it would help me fill in some of those missing spaces, those cracks that showed today when she freaked the fuck out on us.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask her, but she's already turning away and moving down the hallway, black suede pumps quiet against the burgundy carpeting. I stare after her, watching as she gets on the elevator with her own guards and disappears behind the slide of silver doors.

I need to talk my shit out with someone. I already tried Blair and while she was nice to talk to, it was hard to delve much deeper than the surface. I mean, that's not entirely her fault since I haven't told her the truth of my past, but this whole thing with Hayden is eating away at me. If I don't let it all out, I'm going to implode.

So. There's only one person here that I can talk to then. One person.

Currently, he's leaning against a column in the lobby with a smug smirk on his face, eyes closed, muscular arms crossed over his chest. Blue-black hair hangs crookedly across his forehead, revealing a few carefully placed star tattoos along his hairline. When he opens his brown eyes to look at Milo, I scowl.

Turner Campbell.

I almost choke on the words of my own thoughts. Turner Campbell. I …
want
to go talk to him. My hands curl at my sides and I have to swallow several times to get up the courage to go over there.
Boyfriend.
He practically forced me into bestowing him that title, and now everybody knows. He wasn't exactly shy about mentioning it during our interviews.
Your little onstage tête-à-têtes didn't help much either, now did they?

I grit my teeth as I think about him smiling and primping for the camera. The only redeeming part of the whole experience is that he kept our story to himself. I know we're going to have to talk to the press about it soon, before they get ahold of the fact that we have one another's names tattooed on our bodies. Secrets. They fucking suck. Much as I'd like to keep the whole fiasco to myself, I know I can't. Never again. I'm on the Turner Campbell anti-secret bandwagon. In fact, I'm surprised we've gotten this far without anyone finding a picture of Turner's back and catching sight of the tattoo. I guess we just weren't popular enough before for anyone to give a shit. I can bet now though that someone's seen it. It's just a matter of time before they realize it's not a new tattoo. I wonder if I'll have to talk about the abortion, too.

I sigh and shake myself out.

Best get this part over with.
I can already imagine the smug look on his face when he realizes I've come all the way down here specifically to find him.

“I don't know, Milo. I don't give a fuck either. You figure it out. It's what I pay your pasty ass for.” Milo sighs and shakes his head, putting his fingers up to his right temple and massaging the skin in slow circles. He has an iPad clutched to his chest and a frown that drags down his cheeks and gives him the false appearance of jowls.
What's Turner done now?