Hard Rock Roots Box Set (106 page)

“What the
fuck
was that about?” Blonde Kid, Jake or Joe or Josh or whatever his name is, snarls, getting up close to Turner's face. “What have you done
now
?” When Turner doesn't answer him, he just spins away, grabbing at his hair. “I knew this opportunity was too good to be true. I just knew it. Fuck this band. Fuck it.”

“Quiet, Mr. Drake,” Milo snaps, taking control of the situation with an admirable amount of self-control. His face is stoic, and he doesn't seem overly fazed. My guess? My boys have put him through worse shit than this. A guy with a gun? No big deal. An angry father or a pissed off fan girl? Now that's a clusterfuck-fuckity-fuck. “They could return to this floor at any moment.” Milo pauses and glances up at a security camera near the elevator doors. “Or perhaps, the authorities could become involved.” He turns to look at Turner, hands on his hips, mouth twisted in a scowl, and Ronnie who's got his arm around Lola's waist, squeezing her tight. Her gun has mysteriously disappeared. And she's wearing a halter and some tight as fuck jean shorts.
Need to beg this chick for some life skills. I've been trying to figure out how to hide a gun onstage for like, ever.
“Let's find Treyjan and while we have the opportunity, you two can fill me in on this … situation. If you don't, I'll be forced to get the police on the phone. If there's a real reason why I shouldn't, let me know now.”

“Poppet,” Lola whispers, face as white as a ghost's. “Poppet's as good as dead.” Her knees buckle, and she sags down like the air's been let out of her. Ronnie keeps her propped up for a second before deciding it'd be better to act all chivalrous and shit. He swings her up in his arms like she weighs nothing, and my heart flutters a bit. It's been a long, long time since I've seen him happy. Not that he's exactly glowing right now, but I see the promise of happy buried in there somewhere and that's all that counts. Without a word, he starts carrying her down the hall, following after Milo's brisk steps. “What am I going to do about Poppet?”

“Well,” Ronnie starts, thinking carefully. His eyes are glowing, shifting information around, trying to determine the best course of action. He's always been good at figuring out tough situations. Or at least he was until Asuka died. It was like he died that day, too. Like the air had been suctioned from his lungs, his heart torn from his chest. I've never seen anything as terrifying as Ronnie's face the day she died. I'd rather be tortured in the depths of Hell for eternity than ever experience the feeling that gave him that look, that broken, bitter, torn up and fucked up despair. I shiver.

Turner cuts in, gesturing wildly, slamming his fist into the wall at random intervals. The hospital staff looks at him funny at first, but then they get a better view of who exactly is roaming their halls and everyone gets all fluttery. I swear, I think I see a male nurse jumping up and down in excitement.

“It's not like that crazy Southern fuck can see what we're doing right now. You can always pretend you're still on his side or whatever, that you fought all valiant and shit.”

“Oh, he knows,” I say. I could tell; the look on his face when he commanded her out of the elevator gave me all the information I needed. “You were already on his shit list, sweetheart.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sydney!” Turner screams at me, getting up in my face and forcing me a step back. Everybody stops when Turner stops because well, that's just how things have always been. I squeeze my fists at my sides, but I don't hit him. I want to, but I can't. He started third grade with
no teeth.
Turner might be an arrogant piece of shit, but he's been pummeled around enough. Besides, I slapped him once the other day. Doubt I could get away with it again. “You don't know crap about crap, okay?” He backs away from me almost immediately, running his hand through his dark hair and glancing up at the ceiling like he's praying for some divine miracle.

“You're right,” I say as I move forward and get ahead of the pack. I'm the only one who knows where we're going anyway. “I don't, but I will. As soon as you tell me everything.”

“Agreed,” Milo concurs, nodding his chin at Ronnie who squeezes his eyes shut like he's in pain. “A man just … ” Milo gets quiet and leans in conspiratorially. “Pulled a gun on us and we're not pressing charges. That, and … ” He pauses again and looks around. “Our security team seems to have mysteriously disappeared. Is there a reason I shouldn't be alarmed?”

“Oh, you should be alarmed alright,” Jesse grumbles, scrubbing at his hair like he's still in shock at the length. If it were the time or place for compliments, I'd tell him he looks a hell of a fuck better that way. I've always hated long hair on men. Yuck. “But we can't do shit about shit.”

“What am I going to do about Poppet?” Lola asks again, redirecting the attention back to her. She's pushing at Ronnie's chest like she wants down, but his arms only tighten, biceps flexing as he squeezes her against his chest. “I told you what they said to me, that if I pissed them off, my sister was as good as dead. Well, now what? Now, the bloody fuck what?”

Turner and Ronnie share a private look. Obviously, they're the only two here who really know what's going on.

“It's kind of a long story,” Ronnie begins, finally giving into Lola and setting her on the floor with a click of her high heels. She stumbles a bit, face blanched and eyes wide, lost in another time, another place. I get that look, but I don't know how to help her. I
can't
help her unless I know all the dirt. Not that this shit storm is any of my business really, but … I love my boys. They're all like my little brothers. I can't just let them bury themselves. “Let's just get to Trey's room and then we'll talk about it, okay?”

“I have to go find Tyler,” Lola says, pausing at the end of the hall and putting her hand against the white washed walls. “I have to find him and see if there's anything I can do to redeem myself.” Her eyes water, but she blinks back the tears, holding up her other hand to stop Ronnie when he tries to move towards her. “Even if it means the end for me, even if … bad things happen. I can't leave her there alone. It's all my fault she's tied up in this crap anyway. If I hadn't had my head halfway up my bloody sash, then maybe I'd have been thinking clearly.”

“You go find Tyler now, and it's over Lola. He could kill you, or worse.” Ronnie touches a hand to his chest and looks her straight in the face. “And trust me, there are things worse than death. Please, let's just think about this for a second.”

“What's there to think about? I don't go, my sister dies. Tyler is ruthless; they all are. You saw what happened to Marta, to … ” Lola pauses, face red, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Once again, I'm lost, but it doesn't look like Milo is. Understanding is dawning on his face.

“Come on, Lola. You don't even know if she's
alive.
I mean, fuck, man. Look at this shit!” Turner flings his hand out to indicate the nearly empty halls. “Where are our guards, huh? Wasn't that bald dude standing near the entrance just before Tyler appeared? Where is he now? This shit is huge. We'll be lucky if
any
of us get out alive.”

“Keep your voice down, Mr. Campbell,” Milo says, glancing around at the thinning employees. There seemed to be a whole lot more of them a minute ago. I adjust my tits, make sure they're as tucked in as they're gonna be. Last thing I need if shit goes down are my boobs flopping around all over the place. The implants are nice, but
damn
if they don't get in the way sometimes. Rumor has it that I can use them as a floatation device though. Good stuff. “If there's something we need to discuss, I'd much prefer if we kept it to ourselves. Not all press is good press.”

“Bullshit,” Turner growls under his breath. “If we all died in here today, we'd be the most popular fucking band the world had ever seen. Fuck The Beatles; it'd be Indecency memorial concerts galore.”

“Nobody's dying in here,” Ronnie snaps back at him, keeping Lola upright, but just barely. Hey, I can relate. My brother's in the hospital, shot through the frigging chest by a sniper. I get it. “There's no reason for that. Secrets are secrets, but if it comes to choosing life or death, then I'm not taking them to the grave.” Turner gives Ronnie a look that could kill, but he doesn't say anything. He knows better than to argue with McGuire. “Let's find Trey, lock the door, and call Brayden.”

“That won't be necessary,” a voice says from behind us. I don't jump, but Josh nearly leaps out of his skin, spinning on the redheaded Irish stud fuckin' muffin behind us. He's smiling, but he doesn't look happy, not really. I can't remember his name, but his pecs sure do look familiar. I try not to lick my lips, wouldn't be appropriate anyway.

“What are you, a fucking ninja or some shit?” Turner growls, running a hand through his hair and strutting up to the beefy bodyguard like he's not at all intimidated.
Liar.
I hold back my smirk, doubt that would be considered appropriate either. At this statement, the redhead actually does smile.

“A ninja?” he asks with a small chuckle, one that's quickly stifled when another man appears by his side, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a red tee. No suits or shades on these guys, hidden in plain sight, the best kind of security. So, where were they a few minutes ago? “I just pay attention to what's goin' on around me, Mr. Campbell. Dax McCann told me I might find you in a pinch of trouble.”

“Dax?” Turner asks, looking taken aback. His face squinches up, and I have to resist the urge to flick him in the nuts. He's always so cynical about things. Drives me crazy. Especially because Trey imitates everything Turner does. You know that whole
if your friends jumped off of a bridge, would you
crap? Well, Trey would. He'd follow Turner to the ends of the universe. “How the fuck did Dax know what was happening here, five friggin' hours away?” Turner pauses for a moment and his brown eyes go wide, the color draining from his face. “Naomi? Is Naomi okay?”

“Naomi's fine,” the man says, his Irish accent wetting the shores of paradise down below, if you know what I mean. I adjust my stance and lean back, checking out his dark jeans, his dirty work boots, his tight black T-shirt. If I had time for men, I'd make room on my schedule for this guy. As things stand, I'm here for Trey and that's it. As soon as I figure out this shit my baby brother's managed to step into, I'm gone. I have my photo shoot in two weeks, and I won't compromise that for anything. “My concern right now is for you, not her. Tell me what happened.”

“Poppet,” Lola says, drawing the attention back to her. She's standing straight now, and there's a cigarette in her mouth. Guess she could give a fuck about the hospital's
no smoking
policy. “I'm tired of holding things in. I'm sick and fucking tired … ” We all watch as she throws her cig to the floor and crushes it with her red and black zebra heels. “Of keeping secrets and pretending like me and my band members are bloody good mates.” She marches up to Brayden in her short shorts and her halter top, glaring daggers, demanding prisoners. “I want my fucking sister back. You're the expert here, right? You tell me what that crazy bastard's done with her, ya got it?”

The redhead raises one brow and exchanges a glance with the dude next to him.

“Get the van ready,” is all he says before placing a hand on Lola's shoulder. She shrugs it off and turns away, crossing her arms over chest. Her eyes cut straight through me, like I've personally offended her. Bitch looks like she can throw some shade, so I step out of the way. No need to get wrapped up in that. Anger without an outlet is a dangerous, dangerous thing. “Look, Miss Saints, I know about your sister.” Lola's blue eyes widen and she turns on her heel.

“Ya better not be fuckin' with me, Brayden Ryker,” she growls, her voice low and deadly, like tendrils wrapping around my ankles. I stomp my heels out on the floor to clear the sensation and get a weird look from Jesse. But it's not all that weird if you think about it. The whole world is full of sensation if you just try and feel it. Everybody has an aura, a feeling, that surrounds their being. Trust me, I know. I've spent my life reading them. It's a survival technique. Say there's a cute guy sitting up front, flinging hundreds around like Monopoly money. Most people would go for it if they were in my position, but not me. I have to feel 'em out. Usually, it's guys like that, the ones you least expect who are getting ready to fuck you over. Ask anyone, being a stripper is
not
an easy fucking job.

“Believe you me, I know more than I care to.” Brayden wipes his hand over his stubbly jaw, rough fingers grazing across the red hair there. “And I know Poppet Saints is absolutely, one hundred percent
not
a prisoner of Stephen Hammergren.” He pauses and shrugs his broad shoulders. “Or you can go by his alter ego, Tyler Rutledge. I like the name better myself.”

“But I flipping saw her,” Lola growls, slapping one hand against the other. The pulse in her neck is throbbing, and she's clenching her jaw so tight it looks like her damn teeth are going to snap off. This girl's been pushed to the limit. If she breaks, somebody's going down. Even I can see that, and I just met the chick. “That was no fun house mirror I was lookin' through. It was a fucking window. Tell me I imagined that fucking shit.”

“Oh, I'm not saying you imagined it, love. I'm just saying that she's not there against her will.”

“Well, if she's not there against her fucking will then why … ” Lola begins, her voice dying as the words tumble out past her pretty red lipstick. They fall to the floor and crash in the silence, drowning in the understanding that's dawning on her face. Ronnie moves up close to her, but she jerks away from him, moving over to a door near the bathroom and pausing with her hand on the knob. “I'll just pop away to the toilet for a second,” she whispers. Brayden's man moves closer to her, like he plans on escorting her into the bathroom, but Brayden shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. The bathroom's already been cleared, of course it has. I smile softly. I like this guy already.

Lola disappears and a moment later, we all hear a scream. Nobody moves forward though. It's obviously not
that
kind of scream. She's not in any physical danger in there.
Damn.
I purse my lips and put my hands on my lower back. If I found out my brother had betrayed me … Well, first I'd whoop his pasty white little ass. But the betrayal, man, that would eat at my heart. There's nothing worse than being betrayed by someone you think you love. Hell, it's hard to be betrayed by somebody you fucking despise. Like me. Look at me. Here I am, photo shoot two weeks away, and my brother gets freaking shot, so what do I do? I quit my crappy ass shit job. And my employer sends a couple of guys after me. Like he's my pimp or some shit. Not happening. Not acceptable. I quit the club, and that's that. He can't do shit about it. Besides, I think I lost the dudes back in Indianapolis. I don't pull in that much money, do I? My tips were always shit compared to Noreen’s.