Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (21 page)

“I call bullshit,” I say, and KK laughs, making my blood boil. When I look at her, I just feel disgusted. Sometimes, I wonder if she really is ugly, or if I'm simply projecting what I know of her personality into her looks. She smiles at me with her wide mouth and coasts over to her laptop, flicking open the screen and spinning it, so I can see the image.

I don't waste any time crossing the room.

There's a picture on the screen with me and Poppet. I'm passed out, wearing the same outfit I've got on now. And she's sitting in a chair looking ticked the fuck off. It's obviously from last night, that much is clear. But why? Why would she fly all the way to the USA? And how would she even know where I was staying? We just moved hotels.

“She didn't come here looking for me,” I say, pointing at the screen. I can't take it anymore and flop down into the chair, grabbing a smoking joint from the ashtray and pinching it between my fingers. “She wouldn't. We're not even that close anymore.” KK grins and pulls the computer away from me, flicking her finger across the mouse and closing the picture. She pulls up a video next and plays it.

“Just so you know it wasn't doctored,” she says, thoroughly enjoying herself. I watch the video of Poppet brushing her blonde hair, sighing a lot and looking over at me with tiny flickers of fear. The rest of the time, she puts on this bored expression that doesn't give away what she's thinking. They didn't bother to tie her up or drug her. She's just sittin' there nice and pretty, hands wrapped around a paperback book. I take a drag on the joint and close my eyes. And just when I thought I'd gotten things worked out in my head. If I'd only told Ronnie about Shannon when I had the chance, maybe none of this would be happening. I exhale and set the joint back down. I'm not about to sit here and get blazed with KK and Joel. Frankly, I'd rather leap off a bridge to my death.

“Where did you find her?” I ask again. KK just smirks at me. I look up at her and curl my hands around the edge of the tabletop. I hate the way she's looking at me, like she owns me. Nobody fucking owns me. I'm my own bitch, always have been, always will be. All of this following orders I've been doing lately is killing my soul. That's probably one of the reasons I feel so sick. I don't like feeling like I'm caged, an animal on a leash here to do its master's bidding.

“Did you know Cohen tried to take advantage of you last night?” KK asks, making my heart skip a beat. When it starts up again, it's at a painful, irregular rhythm. Every time I wake up after a blackout spell, I wonder about that. I've gotten lucky so far, but … I swallow a cold lump of fear and keep staring, making sure I've got on my best bitch glare. KK's always been intimidated by it before. I think of Naomi Knox and how Cohen tried to prick her with his icky candy stick. If I hadn't been watching him, he would have. What's wrong with men nowadays? Can't get tail on their own? Have to go and force it. Pathetic. I click my fingers against the tabletop.

“You're lucky Tyler was there. If he hadn't been … ” KK shrugs and picks up the joint, taking a nice long toke with a greasy smile on her face. “Just saying, you should be more loyal to the man. He only has your best interests at heart.”

“Go suck concrete, you fucking scrag,” I snap at her, rising to my feet with rage boiling hot and dangerous in my veins. KK takes a step back, but she doesn't stop smiling. She's enjoying this way too much. The powerless, the pathetic, given temporary power. It's sad to watch. She has no idea what a puppet she is in all of this.

“Your sister, though. Well, she's not always so well kept, if you know what I mean. I always thought Cohen would make cute kids. Maybe your bitch sister will take after a couple more goes?”

I lunge forward, grabbing KK around the throat. The joint topples out of her mouth and hits the tiled floor beneath our feet. I'm blinded by anger right now. Everything around me is tinted in crimson and violet, a kaleidoscope of fear and frustration coalescing into one frightening surge of rage that I can't seem to control. I smash her head back against the cabinets.

“Where is my fucking sister?” I scream. “You're going to tell me or I'm going to cut off your tits and feed 'em to the dogs.” KK struggles, slapping at my face and hair, grabbing a handful and pulling as hard as she can. I won't let her go though. I can't.
Poppet
. Nothing bad can happen to Poppet. “Where is she?” I'm crying now, tears running like waterfalls down my face. I slam KK's head back against the wood as her bulging eyes pop out even more, and her cheeks turn purple. “Where?” I let go. A gurgle escapes her throat, and she drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Joel is standing up now, naked and fully erect, looking around the room in a daze.

“What's happening?” he asks, but I ignore him, kicking KK in the stomach with my shoe. I'm not like them. I'm not. I can't kill anybody, especially not someone as pathetic as KK. I might make an exception for Tyler or, if KK's telling the truth, Cohen Rose. But not her. She's just a victim of desperation, and the need to belong to something bigger than herself. It'd be like murdering a puppy for piddling on the floor. She hardly knows what she's doing.

“Where. Is. My. Sister?” I ask with gritted teeth. “Last chance, or I cut something off.” I grab a knife from the counter and drop to my knees, snatching one of her hands in mine and pressing the blade against the tip of her finger until she starts talking.

“She's with Mr. Rutledge in his hotel. I don't know which one. He says you can see her tomorrow night after the show.” She's sobbing now, looking over at Joel for help. He doesn't do shit, just walks over and picks up the joint, taking a drag while he watches. He doesn't know what's going on here and doesn't give a fuck. Only person Joel gives a fuck about is himself.

“Did Cohen really touch her?” I ask, deadly serious. I might just take this knife to his balls if I find out that that's true. KK just starts sobbing then, bawling like a baby.

“I don't know,” she groans, body going limp as a rag doll. Her robe really does open up then and I get a horrible flash of ugly tits. “I really don't. All I know is that if you keep doing your job, she'll be safe. That's all he said. He just wants you to spend time with Ronnie McGuire. That's all.” I withdraw the knife and lean back. It's disturbing that she even
has
a knife like this in her hotel room. I can only imagine what it was used for.

“Where is he now?” I whisper, wondering how he's handling this newest set of shit to be flung his way. He's so sad already. Why add more pain to that? How much can one person really take?

“He's in room 615 with Turner Campbell,” Joel says, reaching down a hand to stroke his cock. I don't look away, just keep my glare on him and lift up the knife. His smile fades a bit, and he stops fondling his junk.

I rise to my feet, feeling like I've just picked up a prime mover truck and draped it over my shoulders. The knife goes inside my jacket and a heavy pall rests over my heart. Last night, I felt like a bad guy going rogue. Today, I feel like a good guy being duped.

I've no fucking clue which is worse.

The murmur of a contented baby wakes me from my sleep. If I'd been hit by a Mack truck and scraped off the highway, I'd probably feel a lot better than I do now. Last night was … Fucked. A nightmare from hell. One of the worst days of my life. All of the a-fucking-bove. It was one of those moments where a barrel in the mouth sounds like a fine idea.

“You sure you don't want one of these?” I hear Turner whisper. The sound of creaking springs and rustling blankets follows. “A little Campbell-Knox baby would be cute, huh?”

“You're hardly capable of taking care of yourself let alone a kid. Why don't we see how the next few weeks goes, and then maybe we can talk seriously about becoming a couple. If that works, we'll take the next step and so on and so forth. I'm not having your baby right now, so fuck off.” I can practically hear Turner's frown.

“We
are
a couple.”

“We're in consideration.” More creaking springs and the sound of footsteps.

“You told me you loved me.” A pause.

“I was feeling desperate. There was a tornado. Enough said. Now stop simpering and get me that fucking bottle.”

“Fuck you,” Turner growls, and I hear slamming cabinets in the kitchenette area. “As far as I'm concerned, you're my woman now. Get used to it. And get used to this because it's going to be the last cock you ever suck.”

“You know what I find amusing? It's how ridiculous you are. There's a three year old sleeping here and a baby on my chest. The last thing I want to see right now is your flaccid fucking dick. Keep your pants on, asshole, and cut the possessive caveman crap. If you're lucky, I'll let you call me your girlfriend someday. As of right now, I just want to live to see the end of this God forsaken tour.”

There's a moment of somber silence before Turner breaks back in with his
shit-don't-mean-shit
attitude that's been carrying me for years.

“God forsaken? This tour is making our career. Nobody's going to forget Indecency or Amatory Riot anytime soon. We're made after this. No matter what we do, everyone'll think our shit turns to gold.”

“Yeah, but three innocent people are dead, Katie's pregnant with a rapist's baby and
in jail,
and I … ” Naomi stops and the room goes silent again. “We have to press Hayden. She's the only person we know for sure is involved in this though I don't doubt there are a whole handful of others. Frankly, I think we'd better off without any bodyguards at all. How do you think those bodies got in the hotels? Somebody obviously knew they were coming. There's at least a guard or two that would've had to let them in.”

“I still think you should see Katie,” Turner says, bringing up yet another point of contention among us.
Damned if you do; damned if you don't.
Katie has at least some of the answers, but she's locked up in a federal prison awaiting a mental-health evaluation. Nobody here thinks she'll be deemed sane. Naomi could, in theory, visit her. But theory's a long way away from practice.

I roll over and prop my head up on my hand.

They both look over at me, facial expressions unreadable.

“Did the cops tell you the first guy they arrested confessed to Chelsea's murder?” I ask, watching their eyes open wide in surprise. “He even showed them the murder weapon and told them how he did it. Curious and curiouser that Shannon should just happen to get murdered a few days later. You know what they said their theory was?” I sit up and rub my hands down my face. My stubble's back with a vengeance, scratchy and itchy as hell. I'm going to get up, shower, and shave it off, and I am
not not not
going to touch the eight ball Turner has in his suitcase. I'm not going to smoke anything, not going to pop any pills. I seriously considered it last night. I even got together a hit and pressed the needle against my arm. If I hadn't heard Lydia sobbing outside the door, I would've done it. But I need a clear head for this. It's the difference between life and fucking death. “They said they think it's a copycat killer. That maybe some crazy fan's trying to 'help me out' by giving me custody of my kids.”

“Are you fucking shitting me?” Naomi asks, leaning over and cupping Phoebe's head with her hand. She looks amazing sitting there in short shorts and a loose tank, blonde hair waving softly over her shoulder. Turner is a lucky man. My mind immediately switches to Lola Saints. While I was fucking her on the hood of a car, somebody was laying my baby down next to a corpse. It makes me feel like slitting my fucking wrists. And yet, I can't wait to see Lola again. Instead of talking to Asuka in my head last night, I dialed Lola's number six different times and waited for her to answer. She never did. I wonder if all this crap is scaring her off. “You're telling me that's the best the FBI or whoever can come up with?” I shrug.

“I told them … not everything but a lot. They really don't think Marta's death and your kidnapping has anything to do with this. It's such a big fucking mess right now. Everyone just thinks we're stirring up controversy, that our music is drawing all the psychopaths out of the woodwork. They
strongly
suggested to Milo last night that we call the concert quits.” Naomi laughs and shakes her head while Turner fingers an unlit cigarette.

“America pretty much told us point-blank that we can kiss our careers goodbye if we leave. She knows a lot, maybe even everything, but she won't talk over the phone. Said she'll tell us more when she gets here on Saturday.” Naomi sighs and slumps a little, rubbing her hand across Phoebe's back to comfort her. “Hopefully then we'll have the buses and we can get the hell out of here.”

“What about the others?” Turner asks, dropping the cig on the table with a sigh. “The other mothers. Can't remember their names, but, uh, Rhett's mother, and Ria's?”

“I told the cops about them,” I say, thinking of last night's disaster. I thought spilling some more of the information I had would help, but they didn't take me seriously enough. Nobody fucking takes me seriously anymore. I've been a joke for so long – a strung out tweaker who could barely remember the names of his kids. It's going to be hard for me to change people's perceptions. At least Naomi and Turner are taking me seriously. Dax, too. He seems like a nice guy. I feel bad for him being stuck in bed like he is. See? Midwest, no thank you. You've got fucking tornadoes. “They said they'd put them under police protection, but … I don't want to do. I called them both last night and explained.” Luckily, Eve and Maria and I have more of an understanding than I did with either Chelsea or Shannon. Eve always sends me pictures and gifts from Ria, and I've spent more time with her than any of my other kids. Her mother made the effort even when I didn't. She's six years old now, just a few weeks older than her half-brother, Rhett. Rhett's mother, Maria, and I don't get along that great, but she's arranged a few visits between us.