Hard Rock Roots Box Set (64 page)

“Think you already owe me one,” I say, and I don't mean for my voice to drop and get all husky. “Remember? Cops? Guns? No climax?” Ronnie laughs and takes a step closer, enveloping me with his heat. There's this weird moment where time stops and my stomach gets all knotted up.
It's like we're a family or something. Me, and him, and this kid.
I wonder what someone outside this bubble would think looking in at us? Of course, this isn't my kid, and Ronnie isn't my anything, but there's that fantasy of it.

“It was your screams that drew them in,” he whispers, leaning over me and breathing hot against my ear. I'm just glad Lydia's entertained by my skin art. Can't have her witnessing this play by play between her dad and me. It's sneaking up into that PG-13 realm. Ronnie lifts his hand and pushes my jacket down my other arm, pressing a kiss to my shoulder that makes my knees go weak and my downstairs start strokin' a furnace.
Load on the firewood, baby.

“And it was your rep that forced their hand. That and the fact that you were so intent on digging for gold that you didn't hear them knock.” He laughs, the sound fluttering against my skin, soft and insistent. Maybe it's not fair for me to blame him. After all, the only reason the police were there is because of me, us, my band and our twisted sponsor. “Well, you were killing me softly, so I guess they were right to interfere,” I whisper, voice so low I'm sure Lydia can't hear me. “You're a hot fuck, McGuire, I had no idea. I've heard otherwise.” Ronnie steps back, still smiling, and slips a bracelet off his wrist, grabbing the hand that's not supporting Lydia and slipping it on me.
Mrs. Ronnie McGuire
it says. “Little soon for that, eh, fuckface?” He snaps the purple rubber against my skin and grins, flashing me some silver fillings in his mouth. For whatever reason, even those make my lady bits grumble. We just have some magic chemistry, me and this pathetic cockwad.

“Just keep it until we get to finish up,” he says, pushing the last word off his lips like candy. “Ready for Wichita?”

“Can I keep my eyes closed until it's over?” I ask him, and get another laugh. I've been watching Ronnie for weeks now, and this is the most emotion I've ever seen from him. My mission's right on track, and I couldn't feel worse about it. Fuck a duck.

“So lemme get this straight,” Turner says, turning around and stomping over to us. Is this guy eternally pissed off? For Christ's sake, Naomi has got her hands full with this one. I look at Ronnie's face, at the amusement there, the love he has for his best friend. And then I look at Turner, at the concern he has for Ronnie. Looking at them and knowing what's in store isn't easy. It's like reading the end of a book first and finding out the main character dies. This is just shit. I can't do it.
You had no problem beating a girl to death though, did ya? Got a soft spot for cock all of a sudden?
I refocus my attention on Lydia, tucking some girls behind her ear. “You like pussies, breed birdies, and farm sugar in your spare time. Aren't you a fucking saint? It's like looking at a walking, talking
Care Bear
commercial.” He smiles at me, but it's not a nice smile. “Did we ever figure out where she really got that key card from, Ronnie?” Uh oh. My heart stops in my chest as Ronnie's face falls. Guess the sex took both our minds off the important stuff.

“You've got room to talk, huh?” I ask Turner, glancing down at his crotch and then back up at his face. “It's a wonder you don't sing like a budgie with pants that tight. If I didn't know differently, I'd think you were trying to show off how small your junk is.” I flick him in the nuts and shrug my jacket back up on my shoulders. “Try and wrap your mind around that, cupcake.”

And then I pass Lydia to Ronnie, kiss her forehead, and saunter off, wondering all the while if I should tell them what I really know.

Tonight, there's going to be another murder.

Rockers Set Loose in Wichita: A City in Ruins.

I imagine that's what the headlines will say tonight after the plague that is Ice and Glass descends on the city like a horde of locusts. Okay, so there are only five of us, but we're all pretty effed in the head. Couple hours from now and there'll be a fire somewhere, a mob, a car accident. Milo thinks getting Indecency away from the paparazzi will keep everyone safer, and maybe that's true, but honestly little Lola here's worried for the safety of these fine American citizens.

I suck on my lollipop, keeping Lydia's tiny hand tucked in mine, pretending I don't see Ronnie staring at my mouth, hungry as a Goddamn lion.
Rawr, eat this shit up, baby.
I swirl the strawberry cheesecake candy around and switch my gaze over to the woman behind the counter. She hasn't stopped staring at us since we came in here. Not sure if it's the tats, the piercings, or the fact that I've got no shirt on. Maybe all of the above.

“I just don't know what to pick out,” Ronnie says, grabbing a shirt off the shelf and fingering the fabric with a slight smile. The white text on it reads
Rocker Baby Coming Through.
It's way too small for Lydia, but maybe he's not thinking of her. He's probably got Phoebe on the brain. That's his youngest, the one he's never met. The one whose life cord is in the hands of the fates, just waiting to be twisted and curled, her life altered before she even learns to walk.

I didn't get to ride on the van with Indecency – trust me, I tried. Milo is Manager of the Fucking Year apparently, doing all he can to keep control of his charges. For
safety
purposes, Ice and Glass had to ride in another vehicle, so I missed out on whatever intense phone conversations Ronnie was having back there. I could see him through the window when I turned around (when our driver wasn't trying to kill us by making blind lane changes, of course). He's got big, dark circles under his eyes now, ones that I swear weren't there before we left. Either that or he's finally worn the foundation off his face by rubbing at his eyes too much. I imagine it's a nervous twitch or something.

“I haven't bought clothes for myself in … fuck. A decade? Feels like that long anyway.” Ronnie scratches at the back of his head. The muscles in his arm contract and slide beneath his tattoos, drawing my attention like flies to shit. I grin. Vulgar references turn me on, what can I say? I'm a nasty bitch. For a druggy, he looks pretty good. Honestly, I'm surprised at what good shape he's in. Pleasantly surprised, of course.

“Mine?” Lydia asks, stabbing her own lollipop into the fabric of a green dress. “Can this mine?” she repeats, gesturing with the candy and wrinkling the fabric up in sticky pink goo.

“It is now, I reckon,” I tell her, trying to put on a Southern accent when in all reality, I don't know shit about Southern accents. I'm from fucking Australia. Lydia smiles at me, and I smile back. I feel so wrong being here right now, like I'm taking a crap right on Ronnie's face. I should tell him. But how? How do I do that without fucking everything else up?

I grab the dress off the rack and drape it over my arm, giving Lydia my candy since hers is now permanently attached to the ruffles that cover the front of the skirt. I shove some more of the clothes aside, looking for something, anything, that has a little personality.

“Hey,” Ronnie calls softly, drawing my eyes up to his. They're just plain brown, but there's something else in them that makes me swoon, just a little. I think it's the depth of his emotions. I'm so tired of guys who'd rather shit their pants than cry, who get that squinched, ugly look on their faces as they fight against their feelings like they're devils come to take 'em home. Ronnie doesn't bother to hide anything. He's sad, nervous, overworked. And underneath it all, he's pissed off. There's this righteous rage boiling inside of him that's practically screaming for release. I don't think he sees it or even senses that it's there, but I do. I hope I'm around when it finally explodes. Sounds so liberating. “Thanks. Seriously.”

“Bit of shopping never killed anyone,” I say, but inside I hear a different story.
But a tight tongue can, a little lie, a friendly smile.
I snatch a white shirt with a purple fairy on the front, holding it up for Ronnie's inspection. He simply shrugs. I add it to green dress and keep going. Things are going all peaceful and domestic when Cohen decides to walk in, ruin it and fuck up my day.

“Lola,” he says, and he doesn't try to hide the disgust he feels for me in his voice. “I want to talk to you for a minute.” This isn't about Tyler Rutledge or even Ice and Glass; whatever it is that he wants, it's strictly personal. Even though we're not together anymore, he tries to treat me like his whore. I won't put up with it. Enough is enough. I rub my arm, remembering my tumble down the stairs and my jaw gets tight with anger.

I curl my fingers gently around Lydia's and guide her away from Cohen and the smell of cheap booze and man perfume. The asshole layers it on like it's fucking pixie dust or some shit. No amount of smelly
sex machine
spray will ever take away that slight tang of desperation that clings to him like dryer static. Cohen Rose wants to be Turner Campbell so bad it's not even funny. Thing is, he never will be. He doesn't have charisma or a heart of gold buried in bullshit; he doesn't even have
talent.

“I'm a little busy, Cohen,” I tell him, looking up to find Ronnie with a frown on his face. I try to pretend that everything's okay, sliding clothes around, squinting at ugly floral patterns.
Little girls aren't all born with glitter shooting out of their assholes. Some us have personality, thank you very much.
I grab a black lace dress that might possibly be something that was intended for a funeral and keep that.

“Yeah, well, that's your problem. Get your ass out here.”

The woman behind the counter jumps like she's been slapped, and I see her hand hovering hear the phone on the counter. Ronnie remains perfectly still, clutching the rocker baby shirt in his hand. I focus on him, fighting the urge to retreat to the bathroom and drink some more. It'll help me feel better, but it won't get me out of this situation, out of any situation. I'll still be a murderer in a band full of murderers, and my heart will still be permanently damaged.

“I think she already gave you her answer,” Ronnie says calmly. He doesn't sound pissed or aggressive, just contemplative. “You're welcome to leave now.”

Cohen stares at him with a stupid facial expression, something akin to what you'd expect to see on a retarded Chihuahua. He sniffs and runs a hand through his bleach blonde hair. A while ago, not as long as you'd think, it was dirty blonde and kind of scruffy. It gave him this look that just made girls smile, this sort of lost-boy-save-me thing. Now, he just looks like a Ken doll, straight down to the blue contacts he's wearing in his eyes today. I switch my gaze to Ronnie, to his dirty white tank and his muscular arms, the rose tattoos on his bicep. He's so fucking raw, untouched,
human.
Without realizing that I'm doing it, I take a step towards him.

“What do you have to do with any of this?” Cohen asks him, and I can almost see his mouth twitching with secrets. When he smiles, they cut up his face and make it shatter into a cubist painting, something with sharp lines and weird eyes. I look away, heart pounding.
Is that what I look like? Is that what I'm going to look like if I don't put a stop to all this?

“Check this,” Ronnie says with a sigh, yanking up his pants and marching across the clothing shop in three big strides. He's so fuckin' tall. I love it. Long legs, good hips, a nasty freaking rhythm. I shiver. I don't want to have to get into anything with Cohen here, not with Lydia watching, so I'm pleased that Ronnie's taking charge. I hope he asks him to leave for the sake of his daughter or some other noble shit. More nobility in the world? Now isn't that a thought. “You can either walk out of here now, or I can drag your ass out kicking and screaming and
then
I'll beat the fucking shit out of you. How does that sound?”

Cohen wets his lips, his tongue like a fat pink salamander poking out of his mouth. He's getting ready to say it.
Oh, God, no!
I scream inside my head.
Don't take it that far. Not just out of some stupid need to boss me around. It's not worth it. The pain you'll cause
isn't
worth it.

The world around me goes silent. I see Cohen's mouth move like a cruel joke.

“Heard a rumor about you, that you're such a fucking loser because some Asian chick you were banging got cut in half.” Cohen draws a line across his midsection. “Sliced up like a fuckin' steak.”

I bend down and pick up Lydia, who through some cruel joke of fate is laughing at a butterfly decoration that's hanging from the wall. I press her body against mine, holding her tight, and watch over her shoulder at a soul stripped bare with nothing left to lose.

Ronnie's whole body is stiff, not slumped like it usually is. A muscle in his upper back twitches.

“You listening to me, faggot? Or maybe you don't care about that bitch anymore. Too busy sucking roadie dick, I hear.” Cohen flashes me a smile that I think he believes I'll find charming. I've never seen anything more disgusting in my entire life.
Ridiculous cad.
Ronnie stands there staring for a minute and then reaches down, grabbing onto the hem of his shirt. Up it goes, over his head and onto the floor. His muscles stand out sharply against his pale skin, a perfect canvas for the tattoos on his chest and side. My mouth might've watered just a bit there.