Hard Rock Roots Box Set (115 page)

Apparently, so does Hayden.

“Sorry for me?” she begins, her voice rising in pitch with each syllable, using those full lungs to capacity. “You felt
sorry
for me? Dax, you couldn't
handle
me, not in your wildest fucking dreams. The only reason you're not eating out of the palm of my hand is because I let you go. You're lucky
this
is all you've gotten so far. I could've made things worse, a whole lot worse.”

“Are we dropping pretenses here?” America asks, stepping forward. I notice though that she doesn't come between Hayden and me. “Is it time to talk turkey?” We both ignore her.

“I stood by you, even though it was hard. Even though I took shit for it. I believed you, even when I knew I shouldn't. So tell me, Hayden, what's true and what's not?” I keep staring at her, hoping the arrogant act will fade and her true colors will show. She just sold me up the creek, and here I am, still praying she's going to change. Hoping for the best doesn't always work out though, does it?

“It doesn't
matter,
Dax,” she whines, bending at the knees, slapping one hand into the other. Her face is strained and her mouth is sagging, pulling down her face like it's been weighted. “It doesn't. It's too late, and I loved you, and I tried. I really, really tried.”

“Well, you didn't try hard enough,” I snap at her. She was tricked, manipulated into joining the enemy and instead of fighting, she embraced it. It's a survival technique, I understand. Trust me, I
get it.
But why, when you have the opportunity, would you not at least attempt to take back your life? Why relish the things you're forced into doing? “What about your daughter?” I ask, spilling her secret into the afternoon air with a rush of blood to my brain. The pulsing in my head gets so loud, it's hard for me to hear clearly. I think there are people talking around me, but it's easy to tune them out. “What about Cassie? You've come this far, so why give up now?”

Hayden smirks like she could give a shit less. But I know her, and that's not her. That isn't true. It's all a facade, and it's making me sick to my stomach.

“Oh, I'm not giving up, Dax,” she whispers, voice wicked cruel. “I'm just giving up on
you.
”

Chapter 8
Sydney Charell

Hayden's heels sound loudly through the foyer as she makes her dramatic exit, leaving Dax a shaking mess behind her. He barely makes it over to the set of black leather chairs against the wall before he collapses.

“She has a daughter?!” Naomi asks, looking like she's stuffed to the gills with questions. We had a nice chat on the way down here, and I really do think she's a cool chick, but I can also see that Dax is close to a precipice of no return. I've been there so many times, it's easy for me to recognize that expression. I've seen it in the mirror: the empty eyes, the hollow cheeks, the quivering jaw. Three times I toed that edge until I finally got my shit together, chucked the crack pipe, and broke the cycle. Yes, it's all inspirational and shit, isn't it?

“Hey.” I move up to Naomi and put my hand on her arm, curling my fingers gently around her bicep until she turns to look at me. At first, her face seems perfectly symmetrical, like it's been sculpted by the hands of the gods, but when the light hits it just right, streams through the glass at the front of the building and cuts the shadows in half, I can see that her nose is a bit crooked. It's nice to know that even those on high can be flawed. “Relax. We'll figure this out. Maybe give him a minute?” Naomi looks at me like I've sprouted two heads.

“And who are you again?” she demands, wrenching her arm from my grip. I'm the new kid on the block, I understand. But sometimes, when you're in this deep, a view from up top can be a good thing. I've got a completely different perspective on the situation here. Plus, I don't mean to be a bitch or anything, but if the rumors are true (and they always are) then Naomi didn't notice Dax's attraction to her until very recently. I saw it moment one. Nothing against Naomi; I'm just a perceptive person.

“Just somebody who recognizes a psychotic break when she sees one.” Naomi full on
scowls
at me, and it isn't a particularly positive sight. She tucks some of her dirty blonde hair behind her ears with a swipe of claws, gritting her teeth as she glances back at Dax and then again at me.

“You have no clue how deep this goes,” she whisper-yells. Never heard of the practice? Lucky you. Look it up. It's scary. Her voice sounds like a demon in the throes of passion. Pretty, but frightening, too. “This thing between Hayden and me. So fuck off and leave me alone. I'll ask as many damn questions as I want.”

“Mi, stop.” It's Dax, sitting with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. “Don't take your anger out on her, okay? If you want to be mad at anyone, be mad at me.”

“You?!” Naomi explodes, pausing Milo Terrabotti in mid-stride as he exits the elevator. The smile on his face dies instantaneously. Whatever good news he had to share has been overshadowed by the pall that's hanging above this room. “You? I'm not mad at
you.
It's Hayden. It's always been Hayden. Why do we keep letting her get away with this fucking shit? It's not like 'Tyler',” Naomi makes quotes with her fingers. “Doesn't know we're aware of his true identity. It's not like it's a
secret
anymore that we're tangled up in this crap, so why keep playing her games?” Naomi spins on her manger and gets up close and personal with her face. “If anybody else dies here, it's on you, America. This is all on
you.
” Naomi looks like she wants to hit her, but she doesn't. Smart choice. America doesn't look like the type of person who'd take it lying down.

“At least we can all stop pretending now, am I right?” America adjusts the sling on her arm and glances sharply at Milo, blue eyes sliding around in her irises like spotlights. I wouldn't want to get caught in their glow. “Everyone here knows, or at least has some idea of what we're dealing with.”

“Hayden's daughter,” Naomi repeats, ignoring her manager's comments. She bends down in front of Dax and puts a hand on his knee, peering up under the curtain of dark hair that covers his face. My stomach twists in my gut, but what am I going to do? Fight the girl? I stare at the
Real Ugly
tattoo that peeks out of the front of her jeans. “How old?”

“Later, Mi,” Dax chokes, raising his head up and leaning back in the chair. “I can't do this right now.”

“How
old
?” Naomi growls again. America just sighs and throws up her hands, spinning on her heel and turning away to put a hand to her forehead. Everyone else just mills around, eavesdropping on their conversation, waiting for somebody to give them instructions. From what I hear, only Turner, Naomi, Dax, Ronnie, and Lola are in on all the details. The others are just floating around on the fringes, stuffed full of misinformation and half-truths. Not sure this is the way I'd go about things, but then, I guess that's why I'm here to help. If they had all their shit together, they wouldn't need me.

“I don't know. Four, I think. Five? I can't think straight right now.” Dax gets out a cigarette and lights up.

“The father?” Naomi asks, voice strained and on the edge of breaking. Turner looks on from behind her, his eyes locked onto her back, fists tight at his sides. But he doesn't move. Good boy. At least he's learning. Dax whispers something that I can't hear and Naomi's eyes get huge, opening up her hard face for the briefest of moments. That's pure shock right there. “What?” she asks, but not because she needs clarification. Whatever Dax has just said is blowing her fucking mind. “What?”

“E. R. I. C.,” Dax snarls, gripping the arms of the chair and leaning his forehead in towards hers. “Eric. Eric. Eric. Your foster brother, the one you never told any of us about. That guy. I don't know anything else about it except for this. You want to know where Cassie is right now? Do you have any idea?” Naomi sits back hard, falling from her squat to her ass, right there on the floor, legs splayed out in front of her, blonde hair escaping from behind her ears and falling to obscure her face.

“Stephen.”

“That's right, fucking Stephen. So yeah, Hayden is fucked and she's a stupid bitch, and she makes bad choices. But her hands are tied, Mi. She has a daughter to think about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go drive my mother's corpse back to Tulsa.” Dax pauses to glance up at Brayden Ryker, taking in the man's floral tattoos, his moss green eyes, the tightness around his lips, with a frown. “Provided I even can?”

“You mean if it's physically possible? That's questionable. I'd have to make a choice between you, and the rest of the group. I don't particularly like doing that.” Brayden's frowning, touching a hand to his chin as he considers the circumstances. “Legally, it's walking that thin line, but as long as your father hasn't reported the missing body, we can probably get away with it.”

“It's not happening,” America says, turning back around and marching her heels across the floor until she's standing on the single rug. “We have a live interview scheduled for today. There's no such thing as another reschedule. And I don't care if your family lives two hours from here or five minutes. Makes no difference. We can get somebody else to do it.”

Dax looks stricken, but he doesn't say anything. I think he's still in shock. I know I would be, even though I didn't know my mother either. I don't know how his passed away, but mine died in the line of duty. That's right. My mother was a fuckin' cop. Interesting how the apples can fall so far from the tree, huh? I guess Dad's genes run strong in us. I take a deep breath and I move forward, too, pausing next to America. I like the way Dax's eyes catch on me, even though they shouldn't, even though this is probably
the
most inappropriate time to be thinking about something like that.

“It should be his choice,” I say and everybody turns to look at me. Everybody except for Naomi. Pretty sure she's still processing the information. “It's his mother, his life, his decision.”

“I don't mean to be rude, Miss Charell, but don't you have a pole to climb? Why are you still here?” Wow. What a mega bitch. I'm glad she's not my brother's manager. I can't imagine we could coexist in the same room for more than five minutes. And I highly doubt she'd have sent me flowers or called in just to chat. Milo's the superior choice, obviously.

“Well, you are rude, and I don't take shit from bourgeois bitches, so back the fuck off.” The words escape my mouth in a rush. And here I was, trying to be politically correct and whatnot. Normally, I'm good at holding my tongue, but there's just something about this whole story that really bothers me. So Ronnie says America and Travis were a thing? I can't in my wildest dreams imagine the two of them together. Travis was the kind of guy who'd spend a whole afternoon wallpapering his apartment with old CD jackets. He'd take French cooking classes on the sly and then surprise everyone by cooking something totally lame like escargot. That was Travis. Travis didn't hang around with white collar bitches. I can see why everyone blames this woman for the current situation. Actually, I blame her, too. If she really was with Travis, then she let him down by putting his best friends in danger, over seven years after his death.

The room goes silent, quite literally. I don't even hear a single intake of breath.

“Are you in charge here?” America asks me, like she's not at all put off by my words, like she's unflappable, practiced perfection. I don't buy it for even a second. The fingers on her left hand are twitchy and her right eyebrow is a little thinner than her left. Small difference, almost unnoticeable, but on somebody like this, somebody who preaches perfection, it's a dead giveaway. America is
this
close to cracking. “Are you a national security expert?” She gestures absently at Brayden. “Or a musician?” She keeps staring at me, and I stare right back. “No? What are you then? A leech. A girl desperate for fame, for attention, money. A stripper with no past and no future.”

“America,” Turner warns, but I don't need his help. I never have.

“At least I'm not lonely, broken and bitter,” I whisper, my words clinging to the silence like spider webs. I regret it almost as soon as I say it, but there's no taking it back. America doesn't react, but I know she's heard me. And she knows I'm right. It doesn't even really matter that I said it because it's true. That's the part that hurts more than anything else. I am not making a very good impression on this group, am I?

“The interview stands. Afterwards, I could give a fuck less about what he does. As long as he's still alive, his arms remain unbroken, and he's on the plane to L.A.” America moves away quickly, brushing past me and out the front doors. I look down at Dax, looking up at me, and my throat goes dry and my stomach starts to hurt. I guess he probably could've stood up for himself, but I couldn't help it. There's just something about him that I like, something that I feel this desperate need to protect. I couldn't tell you what it was. And it's not just because I'm attracted to his hockey stick. Not just because his kiss froze my spirit in place, made me wish I was statue so I never had to move from that position. It's not just because I masturbated to thoughts of him last night. Definitely not that.

“She'll never let that go, you know?” Dax tells me, but at least he attempts a smile. The muscles in my stomach tighten. He's so … innocent. But in a good way. Not naïve, just innocent, like he still believes there's good in the world. That's addictive. And very, very dangerous. “She can hold a grudge forever.”

“Well, it was worth it if it helps you do what you need to do,” I tell him, and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking if I can go with him. Why I'd want to do that anyway is beyond me. Maybe I'm already tired of being cooped up in this hotel? It is a little stifling, I'll admit. It's not like I enjoy taking my clothes off for pervy men, but it's like a party every night at the club. Drinking, dancing, hormones. It's just so much quieter here. I imagine that it wasn't always like this. Indecency is infamous for their parties and like everyone else, I've read the tour gossip. I know what used to go on: wild sex, drugs, booze. I guess their spirits have just been crushed. Based on this Stephen guy's track record, I'm starting to guess that was the point all along. There is no endgame here; it's all about the journey, baby.