Get Bent (11 page)

Nobody speaks again. I suppose it's for fear that I'll recognize them, I don't know, but the silence is eerie. I hear footsteps and shuffles, the crumpling of paper, strange swishing noises I can't place. A few moments later, the cool draft against my back disappears and I hear a door being closed and locked.

The needle pricks my arm again, and I pass out.

The key doesn't work on the fucking RVs. No matter how many times I try, how hard I push, how much I want to scream, it doesn't fucking work.

So Ronnie and I head back to the bus, and I collapse, exhausted, images of guitars and scissors and blood running through my head in a continuous loop. I get that I'm probably going through some sort of withdrawal right now, too, and it's not easy. My mind and my body are both struggling to get through what's probably the hardest week of my fucking life. Falling in love is like catching an incurable disease. Yeah, maybe that doesn't sound so romantic, but it's true. It changes you, inside and out, alters the way you see and feel things, how you perceive the world. It's incurable and it's contagious as shit. It makes you want to have babies and raise kittens, pet butterfly wings and sleep with your head on somebody else's chest. Love … man, it fucks with everything you are and everything you want to be. I like it and hate it.

I roll over in my sleep and groan, pressing my fingers to the wall beside my bunk. My other hand drifts down below and starts to stroke my cock while images of that blonde fucking beauty fill my head. I feel bad, jacking off to her when she's missing, but somehow, I know she's okay, and I know that I'm going to find her. As soon as I do, I'm putting a ring on her fucking finger, making her mine once and for all, whether she likes it or not. Deep down, I know she still loves me, even if she won't admit it to herself.

So in my half sleep, I run my fingers down my dick and grip myself at the base, squeezing hard, imaging Naomi clenching tight around me, dreaming that I'm filling her with my seed. I bite my lip hard and pump fast and furious, groaning so loud that Jesse ends up throwing something at the curtains and telling me to shut the fuck up. But I can't stop. I'm so wrapped up in that girl that I can't breathe anymore, that I can't see the world without her in it. Love has grabbed me by the balls and it's never letting go. I am so freaking screwed.

I'm going to find you, Knox. You can bet your sweet
ass that I won't rest until you're lying in my arms, sated and sweaty, filled with me while I'm consumed by you.

I squeeze harder and move faster, spilling myself into my pants and wishing it was my lover's sweet pussy. And then I open my eyes and stare at the wall and I know, just
fucking
know that wherever she is, she can feel me wanting her because I can sure as hell feel her wanting me.

Love is a disease, man, and I am fucking chronic.

When I wake up, we're in Austin and the sun is shining just as hard as the rain was falling yesterday. I step out into the front of the bus with droopy eyes and a
bad
attitude. Starting off the day pining for the one you love, filled to the brim with secrets when you
fucking hate
the damn things, is hard to deal with. My personal no secret motto is not holding up right now, and I'm rotten inside, full of those bleeding, reeking monstrosities. I can see how Naomi got so angry at the world. She was carrying some huge fucking tumors of bullshit.

I light up a cig and slump down at the table, across from Ronnie. He looks better today, less strung out. I'm proud of him. He grins at me and flashes some of the silver fillings in his teeth.

“Have a good time last night?” he asks, and I shrug. I'm not ashamed.

“It'd have been a lot better if I'd had a partner,” I say and Ronnie nods, losing his grin to introspection, delving so deep into himself that for a moment, he looks like a corpse. I notice that he's wearing some of those stupid fucking bracelets on his arm. I see that one has red writing that's a bit different from the others.
Mrs. Ronnie McGuire.
He sees me staring and holds up his wrist.

“Your fame is wearing off on us,” he says, but he doesn't really look all that excited about it. Instead, he folds himself forward and locks my gaze with his. He's wearing clean clothes today and he's actually got on a shirt that one of his kids sent him. It's a stupid orange color with a bear on the front, and it looks a little ridiculous, but the message is clear.
I love you, Daddy.
I've caught him gazing at it a few times, but he's always shoved it back under his pillow when he's caught somebody looking. My quest, my determination, somehow it's rubbing off on my friend. I like that. Maybe something good can grow out of all this shit like fertilizer? Who knows? “You okay with that?”

“Am I okay with the sensationalism of my girlfriend's disappearance? Not fucking really, but what am I going to do about it? It's kind of out my hands. Once I've got her back, safe and sound, maybe then I'll smile about it.”

“We're making enough money to buy a fucking private island.”

“Yeah, well, there's that, too.” I watch as Josh moves into the kitchen and starts making himself a cup of coffee. For once in my life, I'm actually awake before noon. Impressive. From the look of the hustle and bustle outside the window, it seems like the crew is actually getting their shit done early for once. The drive from San Antonio to Austin is less than two hours, so my guess is that everybody got what they wanted when we arrived last night – sex, drugs, sleep. The general feeling in camp is one of contentedness, not anger, not fear, not sadness. It's like the murder never even happened. I feel kind of pissed off for Marta. I feel
extra
pissed off for Naomi.

“What's the plan for today?” Ronnie asks me, stretching his arms above his head and leaning back. He scratches at the stubble on his chin. “More gumshoeing?” I take a deep breath, absorbing the warm smell of caffeine. Maybe, instead of having a beer today, I'll start off with some coffee. Sounds like a good change of pace. I knock my tongue ring against my teeth and try to think. Do I mention the guitar to Ronnie? Maybe not yet. I guess I should go check it out first, see if I can find anything.

“I'm just going to fuck around, and see what I can come up with,” I say, and I pretend not to notice the eagerness in my friend's face. He wants to help, and I'm glad. This is the liveliest I've seen him since Asuka died all those years ago, but I don't want that spark in his gaze to turn to suspicion. Hayden, slut that she is, gave me something to think about. Maybe the hostility from Dax and Blair had something to do with that guitar? Maybe everybody's wondering about that? “I'll call you if I find anything,” I add, and Ronnie smiles. As I stand up to get a cup of coffee, Josh places one down in front of me.

“For you,” he says simply, and I give him a tight-lipped smile.

“Thanks.” He nods curtly and we go back to ignoring each other. He's not Travis, he'll never be, but I guess I can forgive him for kissing Naomi. Well, eventually anyway.

I sip the coffee and come up with my plan.

There's a guy named Stack who works for the tour. Technically, he's employed by all the bands, so I feel alright seeking him out. He's got more piercings than a pin cushion, but the women flock to him like he's made out of fucking chocolate. Their lips say they want to eat him up as they flirt and run their tongues over their moist mouths, brush their fingers down his bare arms. I have to wade through a sea of them just to talk to the guy.

“Nah, this is no repair job,” he says with a white-toothed smile. I can practically see my reflection in the damn things. I can sure as fuck see myself in his piercings. The six rings on his lip jiggle when he talks. “I saw Naomi's Wolfgang after the show, and it was trash. This is brand spanking new.” He spins the guitar around in his long fingers and squints his brown eyes at it like he can decipher where it came from if he stares long enough. “I mean, I could probably track the serial number and tell you where it come from.” He looks up at me. “But if I were you, I'd just count my blessings and thank whoever it was that left it for ya.” Stack shrugs and hands the guitar back to me before returning to patching up a trashed kit.

“Why's that?” I ask as he settles into his work and his eyes start to get that faraway look in them, proving that he was born for this kind of thing. It's the same look I get when I sing, when Ronnie smashes his drums. The look of a fucking purist, that artist's eye that blinds you to everything else. It's all fine and dandy and shit. Just wish it wasn't blinding him to me at this moment.

“That guitar is a blessing. Hard to find. Costs more than a car.” He looks at me and raises a silver studded brow. “Well, more than my car anyway. I don't like to second guess good luck.” Stack smiles and goes back to re-covering a drum. My stomach churns, but I don't know what to say. That this fucking thing is like a curse. I could have him track the serial number, but I have a feeling that whoever left this was careful enough to cover their tracks. I mean, if they're getting away with murder, surely then can outrun little, old me.

I stash the Wolfgang back in the case and pick it up by the handle, moving away before the roadies sneak back in and start hitting up Stack for sex. Guess with me out of the picture, they needed a backup.

“Hey.” I turn at the sound of a voice and find Hayden standing close by. Her brunette hair is swept up on top of her head and she's got on a bright pink tank and a pair of white skinny jeans. Spiked bracelets adorn her wrists and a handful of silver necklaces dangle from her neck. When I look at her, all I see is attention whore. There's not really much about her that I find attractive.
Shit, when I banged this chick I must've been seriously fucked up.
She's definitely no Naomi. I wonder if my disgust at seeing her has anything do with my suspicion. To me, she looks guilty as fuck.

“What?” I ask as I start across the scorching pavement. May as well take this fucking thing back inside. I'm going to need it to play tonight. I pause suddenly, stopping short. Hayden follows my lead as I turn to face her. “Are you singing tonight?” I ask her. She stares at me from cool blue eyes and smiles wickedly.

“Why wouldn't I?” she asks, mouth twisted into an expression that I know must've driven Knox nuts. It would certainly fuck me up if I had to look at it day in and day out. Hayden digs a joint out of her pocket and offers it to me, but I shake my head.

“What about Naomi?” I ask and she gives me a weird look. It's part fear, part confusion. I can't figure out the reason for either, and it makes me even more suspicious. She certainly doesn't seem to be mourning her lost friend. Bitch can play all she wants at being the Queen of Rock, but she has
nothing
on Naomi. It's not my opinion, just simple fact. Naomi writes the music, plays like a Goddess, and has the voice of a fucking angel. Hayden knows how to play up the sex. She's a performer, not a musician. Without Naomi, I don't know if Amatory Riot will survive.

“What about her?” she asks, looking guilty as all get-out. She glances this way and that, puffing on her joint and not giving two licks about the cops that are passing by not twenty feet from us. Granted, they probably see a lot worse shit around here, but still, pretty ballsy to smoke a fattie out in the open like this. “Am I supposed to stop living just because she's MIA?” Hayden rocks back and forth on her feet as I roll my eyes with disgust and continue towards the door of the venue. Even if she sings, I'll be onstage, making sure everything goes alright, slamming out riffs that are way over my head. The day I stop playing will be the day I give up on Naomi and there is no way in shit that's ever going to happen.