Rock Me Deep (39 page)

It was worse than I'd imagined.

The floor was coated in broken glass—the remains of a coffee table, I thought, but the flat screen TV was mixed in, making it hard to tell what fragments belonged to what. The perfectly made bed contrasted sharply with the chaotic scene.

Covering her mouth, Brenda turned in place. “Wow. She really
was
mad at you.”

“What?” My muscles hardened like steel. “You think she destroyed her own room because of me?”

“I don't know.” Sighing, she folded up the paperwork and stuck it in her purse. Gingerly, she touched the top of the broken TV. “Between her running off yesterday and you spilling your heart to me last night...” I bit my tongue at her interpretation. “If she didn't do this to let out some tension, then why? To break her 'Oh look at me, I'm an out of control rocker' cherry?”

There was sweat staining my throat, a sickening warmth turning my belly into a fetid swamp.
This doesn't make sense. Could Lola—would Lola—do this?
“Are you sure it was her?” I asked.

Brenda sat on the edge of the bed. “She didn't answer when I knocked this morning, I guess she could have run away and it was the cleaning lady who went bonkers and smashed everything.”

Lowering my brows, I scowled at her. “Take this seriously.”

“I
am
taking it seriously.” She patted her purse emphatically. “Ten grand worth of seriously. Drez, this isn't the first time someone has smashed up a hotel room on tour.”

The longer I stood near the mess, the more my paranoia prickled. “I can't see her doing this.”

Brenda stood and came my way. Glass crunched under her heels. “You can't imagine breaking things out of anger? You, of all people?”

I wouldn't be blinded by guilt. “This is Lola we're talking about, not me.”

“Sure, but she doesn't have a clean history when it comes to violence, either."

Lola's tattoos swam through my memory. "It feels wrong. Can't you see that?" I waved around the room, facing Brenda down. "Even if she was mad at me, this is too much. Something else is going on." I fished my phone out in a hurry. The fact she hadn't called me, texted me,
anything
at all since we'd last spoken... it left me cold.
Everything will be fine.

As soon as I saw her, it would be fine.

Her voicemail beeped. I didn't leave a message, I just dialed again. And again. Each time, the tendons in my forearm flexed harder. By the time Brenda reached out to touch my elbow, I was aching with pain. "Where is she?" I snapped. "The show's in three hours. She needs to be here."

“Drez—”

“Let's find the guys.” My voice cracked, I cleared it with a snarl. “Maybe they know where she is or what happened in here."

Unlike Lola, Porter and Colt were indeed in their own rooms. There's were connected, making it easy to flash the lights on in one while shouting through the open door at the other. 

"Ugh," Colt groaned. "What the hell are you doing? Is it time for the show?"

“Lola,” I said briskly, trying to get Colt to focus on my eyes. “Have you seen her?”

“What?” Pushing me off of him, he yanked a dirty shirt on over his head. “What time is it, man?”

“
Have you seen Lola?
”

“I—no, not since yesterday.” The drummer walked through into Porter's room. The bigger man was sitting up shirtless in bed, his head in his hands. Grabbing a glass, Colt filled it in the bathroom, grimacing as he took a swig of sink water. “Ugh. That tastes awful.”

I wasn't listening, I'd followed him into the room, busy with grabbing at Porter's shoulders. “Tell me you've seen Lola.”

Porter looked me in the eye. I saw the red veins and yellow tint—they'd drank hard last night. “Something's wrong, isn't it?” he asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Brenda said, leaning around the corner of the doorway. “You guys have any wild parties last night? Or
hear
anything like a party from Lola's room?”

Coming up behind us, Colt spoke around a toothbrush in his mouth. “We played a drinking game. We both lost—and won—if that gives you an idea of what we heard.”

I scraped at my scalp, no longer hiding my nerves. “Her room was wrecked, and she won't answer when I call her.”

Rolling her eyes, Brenda studied her phone. “She wouldn't talk to you if she was breaking-televisions-levels-of-pissed." She was acting calmer than she was, I could tell by how her foot was tapping rapidly on the beige rug.

Porter threw the blankets aside, sticking his legs into some jeans and grabbing a jersey off of a chair. “You call her then, Brenda," he said.

Energy flooded me; I gripped my manager by the shoulders, shaking her. “That's perfect! Call her. If she doesn't pick up, then this has to be about more than me.”

“Whoa, easy!” Digging her nails into my wrists, Brenda pushed me off. “I'll call her, calm down. I think you're missing the point, though.” Lifting her cell, she tapped the buttons. “I left voice mails for
everyone
this morning. Her too. No one called me back.”

The boys managed to look the appropriate level of chagrined. “Oh,” Porter laughed. “Uh. Guess I slept through those.”

Brenda gave me a pointed stare. “It's ringing.”

Holding my breath, I bent low, trying to hear through the speaker. Each crackle of noise was a stab in my chest, my hope that Lola would pick up and interrupt the ringing ballooning by the second. At the sound of her voicemail, I bared my teeth and punched the wall. “Dammit!”

“Holy shit, calm down!” Colt said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Maybe she lost her phone. She could be at the tour bus, or even the venue. Right?”

Inhaling ‘til my ribs hurt, I strode out of the room. “We'll check there next.”

I had to move. I had to do something. If I didn't, I was going to explode.

No one else seemed to feel the way I did—this mounting sense of distress, that something was dangerously
wrong
. The last time Lola had gone missing, she'd been with Brenda. That had terrified me, but this...

This left me in ruin.

****

T
he tour buses had been moved. I spotted ours along the sidewalk in front of the Paramount Theater, orange cones dotting the street to block off other vehicles. People were crowding, taking photos or lining up early.

I slipped from the car as it came to a stop. On long legs, I hurried to the bus. My haste didn't prevent some people from crying out in delight, cameras flashing to get a memento of me.

Crowning the stairs, I looked over the inside of the vehicle.

No Lola.

“Drez,” Porter said, coming up behind me. I didn't speak, I just ran down the aisle, shoving aside the curtains of every room. Her bed was empty. What really hit home was seeing her guitar.

In the practice room, it sat alone—abandoned. It hadn't moved since yesterday, when she'd placed it there and fled the room.

Fled from
me.

The back of my neck was sweltering. All eyes were on me when I turned, my manager and band mates watching me in the aisle. Their empathy—pity—was turning my stomach. “Don't look at me like that," I whispered.

Their unease was unanimous. “Drez,” Colt started, but Brenda waved her hand to silence him.

“The show is in...” She checked her phone, frowned. “Shit. Three hours.”

I lowered my chin. “Who the hell cares about the show? Lola is
missing
.”
Something has happened to her.
It was the only solution that made sense.

“Can I say something?” Colt raised his hand, a perfect school boy impression. “Uh, I sort of care about the show. Is it just me? Maybe? No?” Flicking his eyes at all of us, the drummer sighed. “This sucks. I can't believe Lola would run away.”

“She didn't run,” I spat.

Colt opened his mouth, then shut his jaw, considering me. “Let's look in the theater. If she's in there, problem solved. I honestly don't know what we'll do otherwise, but we should think of a fall back—hey!”

Shoving past him, I jumped down the stairs. The crowd was bigger now, faceless people screaming for me. I didn't care at all. I pushed through them, cutting a path until I could march into the theater.

It was huge inside, the lobby ceiling arching overhead. I didn't slow my pace until I was gazing on the stage, always scanning for that one pair of beautiful, perfect blue eyes.

Brenda and my band chased me down. “She isn't here,” I said, before they could ask. Turning, I gazed over their expressions, judging them. “Lola isn't here. She isn't
fucking
here!” My shoe jammed into a front row seat, the noise echoing around the auditorium. Security, lighting, assistants; they all stared at me.

“What should we do?” Porter asked softly, like I'd fly further into a rage.

“I'm thinking,” Brenda said. “We don't have much time. If she doesn't show up, you guys can't go on tonight.”

“This is bad. Do we call the cops?" Colt asked. "What if something happened to her?"

His words rang true with the fear that had been coming to life inside of me.

I felt myself floating away, my mind splitting as it imagined all the things that could have happened to Lola. Why was her room so destroyed? Why was she not answering anyone's phone calls?
It isn't because of me. This is more than me.

“—replacement.”

My head jerked up, gawking at Brenda. “What was that?”

She was looking past me, off to the side of the stage where people were entering. There, a pair of blue eyes that sliced at me so fucking
painfully
. Sean Cooper was smiling, saying something to that big drummer of his.

“A replacement,” Brenda said again, gently. “If Lola doesn't show... maybe I could convince Sean to play with you guys instead.”

“It might work,” Porter mumbled.

Sean sensed me. He stopped where he was, studying me. His eyes traveled around, pausing on each of us... and then his face knotted in confusion.

He noticed Lola isn't here.

My intuition was a wild shark in the ocean. It crowned upwards, demanding I confront Sean because he clearly knew what the hell was going on. I stomped his way. Behind me, I heard a distressed groan from Brenda.

I shut the band's conversation down with my approach. Barbed Fire turned as one, no love on their faces. “Lola,” I said, and I caught my fear reflecting in Sean's face. “Have you seen her today?”

His jaw straightened. “No. Why, what's wrong?”

Panic boiled through my limbs, making my voice a hiss. “I don't fucking know. Her hotel room was a mess and no one can find her, when did you last see her?”

“Oh,” Shark laughed, elbowing Sean. “Shit, isn't
this
familiar? Hey, fucker, how does it feel to wonder where—”

“Shut up, Shark,” Sean snapped, not looking away from me. “Have you tried calling her?”

I lifted my phone out, debated throwing it for all the good it had done me. “She won't answer anyone.”

Brenda approached us, saying, “Whatever her reasons, she isn't here. Sean, I need to—this is hard to ask." She gathered herself, and I had the funniest idea that she found talking to him a challenge. I'd never known her to waffle with anyone. "This show tonight is
huge.
If Headstones don't play, we'll lose money, fans, respect—you name it. But you know some of their songs."

When she said that, Sean's mouth tensed.

It was almost as tight as my own right then. Of course he knew some of our songs, he'd auditioned for my damn band.

She asked, "Would you—worst case—consider filling in for Lola?”

My neck creaked as if I were fighting through drying concrete just to stare in her direction. There was absolutely no way I would play with Sean. Outside of how I felt towards him, the reality was that Lola was
missing.
If Brenda thought I was capable of playing in any capacity while the girl I loved was missing, she was insane.

“No," Sean said.

I'd have whiplash before the night was over.

Narrowing his eyes, he looked from Brenda to me. “It's not that I wouldn't... fuck. I'd love the chance to headline. Seriously.” He gave his head a quick shake. “But no. How can I do anything but help find my sister?”

I fought down an odd swell of pride for the guy. “You'll help me look?” I asked.

Sean closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. “Of course. It doesn't make sense for her to just run off like this.”

Righteousness fueled my voice. “I've felt that way since I saw her hotel room this morning. There's no way she did all that damage. Broken television, broken table, stuff I can't picture Lola doing. Something happened to her, I just don't have a clue what!”

"I think I do." He glided his fingers through his hair. Sean began to crumple, and when he spoke, it was like his tongue wasn't working right—like he didn't want to say a word but knew it was necessary. “It had to be Johnny Muse.”

Johnny Muse.

My throat was closing.

The ringing in my ears was deafening.

Brenda was speaking frantically beside me. “I'm calling the cops right now.”

“Where?” I licked my lips, feeling the dry cracks. “Where are they?”

He never broke eye contact. “He was staying at Greenmill Motel. We'll take my van.”

“I said I'm calling the cops!” Brenda shouted, realizing we were planning our own form of attack. “Drez, no, stay here. Both of you stay here.”

“Call the police if you want,” I said to her. “If you need to, you can even cancel this whole show. I'm not standing around until someone else fixes this for me.”

Her eyes were glossy as she watched me pass her by. The phone hung limp at her side. “What are you going to do to him?” she whispered.

In my hands, my joints crunched.

I did Brenda the favor of not answering.

Lola

––––––––

D
rezden's hands slid up my sides, his fingertips taking my resistance away with every inch. “Lift your shirt,” he whispered, lips stroking the patch of skin between neck and shoulder. He was the epitome of living seduction, his heat making me drunk and hazy. “You don't look well,” he whispered against me.