Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (5 page)

“That's the problem then,” I tell him, feeling myself solidifying even as I watch him fall apart. “If you don't love yourself,” I shrug. “You're pretty much fucked. Chin up and you'll get through it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cohen step into the hallway. When he sees the cops, he freezes up and looks at me like I'm the culprit, like I called them all here just to spite him. I flip him off and reach forward, taking one of Ronnie's big biceps in my hand. Warmth prickles between us, flickering from his flesh into mine. Our eyes meet and my mouth gets dry. Can't say the same thing about my cunt. “Look, if you go in there like this, you're only sabotaging yourself. Let's get out of here for a little while. Your girl will be here when you come back.”

Cohen stays where he is and watches us. I know if he thinks I'm working, he'll leave me alone. Good thing, too, because I'd hate to cut his nuts off in front of the cops.

I tug on Ronnie's arm, but he doesn't move. He stands stone still and stares at me like he isn't sure what to make of me. Smart guy. If I'm anything, it's trouble. But at the same time, I can't leave him here like this, and I sure as hell can't let him go in there. His mood is palpable, and it sits in the air like poison. I don't know his daughter or what she already thinks of him, but a poisonous parent can taint a child. I should know. My white trash bitch of a mother showed me that firsthand.

I don't let my mind remind me what I'm supposed to be doing with Ronnie. I'm not supposed to be lifting him up and taking care of him. My job is to bring him down, destroy him from the inside out.
I'll start tomorrow,
I promise as I push aside the mixed feelings. Just a few weeks ago, I went down on him in a fuckin' closet. The man doesn't even remember it. I told myself then that this would be easy, that I could take him down without a second thought. I'm not so sure anymore, and we've only just properly met. Not good.

“Come on. I promise it'll be good for you. Just a little walk around the block. That's it. No strings attached.” Ronnie doesn't say anything, but he stumbles forward and lets me pull him against my side. Near the staircase, there's a pair of cops, but I'm not worried anymore. It's obvious why they're here now, and it has nothing to do with me. Well, not exactly.
Might as well get this over with.

I pause in front of them and smile, pulling a pass out of my pocket that has my picture and information on it. Before they can even open their mouths to speak, I cut right to the chase.

“Name's Lola Saints, and I swear on the tits of Mother Mary that I didn't kill anybody.”

The shocked expressions on their faces aren't enough to keep my mind from correcting me.

Not tonight,
it reminds me.
You didn't kill anybody tonight.

Ronnie is pliable and limp as I drag him down the stairs, past the spilled vodka bottle, and through the lobby. The night air feels cool in comparison to the stuffy hotel, and the sky is reasonably clear. You'd never know a fucking devil had swooped through here and decimated our buses just a few days ago. And then there was that thing with that girl, Katie. I shiver.

“You look like you're about to pass out. Take a breather, will ya?” I tell him, wishing he'd give me some sign of life in those dead eyes. They're dark and swimming with negativity. I can tell he's not living in the here and now. He's somewhere else altogether. My job is supposed to be to keep him there, force him down into the depths of pain and let him impale himself on his own tragedy. Instead, I get the urge to pull him back.

Before I can stop myself, I'm spinning around in front of him and bumping the toes of my shoes against his, clutching his shirt in two grasping hands and pressing our mouths together. I'm not shy with my tongue, forcing it between his lips and tasting all of that melancholy and anguish. At first it's like kissing a fireplace hearth, all old ash and extinguished flames, but just as I'm about to pull away, I see a spark. It's small at first, burning deep within him, taking over his lips and scorching me with brilliant heat.

Ronnie's hands come up and find my ass. He doesn't start off with small talk either. He goes straight for the gold, grabbing and caressing my flesh with greedy hands.
Careful, Lola, or you might get burned.
I push up against him, struggling to stay on my tiptoes so our faces can stay somewhat even. I kind of want to climb his ass like Godzilla on top of the Empire State Building, just get all up in there and find my perch. Ronnie responds to my scrambling by lifting me up by the cheeks and slamming my back into the metal pole of a street sign.

“Oi, watch yourself, fuckface,” I growl out, but the small ache in my spine is
nothing
compared to the raging burn that's coming up from below.
What the hell are you playing at, bitch? This is not what you're supposed to be doing.
I hear my logical self screaming at me from the back of my mind, but I don't pay it any never mind. What I am supposed to do anyway? A forest fire's just caught in a dry bush. I could put it out, but it'd take a lot of effort. It's easier just to let it burn.

I wrap my legs around Ronnie and grind my naughty place right up against his. He's hard and ready to fuck me right here on a street against a fucking stop sign. I can't help the grin that pulls across my face. Hey, I'm proud of myself, alright. The guy went from a sad sack to a raging horn ball in just a few short minutes. Good for me. Guess I've still got it.

Ronnie pulls back suddenly and blinks a few times like he's waking up from a drunken stupor something.

“You alright?” I ask him, fully prepared to go at it right there on the sidewalk. Hey, I already admitted I was little fucked in the head, alright? What other proof do you need?

“I can't do this right now,” he says, letting those dark clouds slide back across his eyes. “My daughter … she … ” I give him a peck on the check and push him back. He lets me slide to the pavement, and I hit the ground with a sharp clack of my heels.

“Hey, I said no strings attached,” I tell him, putting my hands on my hips and doing my best to smile. I examine the stubble on Ronnie's face and neck, the dark shadows under his eyes. I may not have cured him, but even a second of reprieve from all of that darkness has to be a good thing, right? My pussy isn't happy though, and it's swearing up and down that I oughta kick this man's ass and be done with it. “Told ya I'd make you feel better, didn't I?” He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Instead, he tugs on the black plug in his ear and sucks in a massive breath.

“My daughter needs me,” he says, and then pauses. A harsh laugh slithers from his throat as he turns back towards the hotel, letting his gaze sweep up the sides of the building like he can see through the walls. “Or I mean, she will, as soon as she realizes Turner isn't me.” He looks over his shoulder at me. I hope I look like I'm in control of myself because I don't feel like I am. My heart is flip-flopping like a fish out of water and my brain feels about as organized as a pan of scrambled eggs, burnt ones. This man is my target. My job is to get rid of him to make room for us, bulldoze Indecency for Ice and Glass. When I left Giru, I had a dream, and for a while there, I didn't think I could make it happen. When Mr. Rutledge showed up, he gave me a chance and I jumped at it. It shouldn't be so easy for me to question my luck, to even consider rendering everything I've done and all I've been through null and void.

But I am.

The question here is why. Just because he's a friggin' sperm donor? He doesn't even know his kid, but the look of eagerness on his face, that stark sense of desperation. That's what it is. It has to be. That and this weird churning I get in my stomach when I look at him. Something about Ronnie McGuire makes me want to put on my big girl panties and kick some ass. I want to hold him in my arms and kiss away the ghosts I can see cutting through his heart. And believe me when I tell you I have
never
felt this way about anyone before. Not once. Bless his horrid little heart, I think I've got a crush.

“You have a pretzel on your right ass cheek,” he says randomly, pulling me out of my thoughts. I blink at him and cock my head to the side.

“And how the fuck do you know what?” I ask, and he grins, flashing me a few silver fillings in the back of his mouth. He shakes out his baggy shirt and tosses me a wink.

“You're a damn good drummer, for your age that is.”

“Hey there, asshole, watch your tits, or I might just have to give you a different kind of twister, one that doesn't fall from the sky. Trust me when I tell you your nipples are not going to like it.” He laughs at me then, and there's something about it that feels more genuine, less forced.

“Took me a while, but once I heard your name, I knew.” Ronnie taps the side of his head with a finger. “I know everybody on this tour, and I sure as shit have heard about you. Guess I just needed to put a name to a face.” He pauses, but before I can get the chance to speak, he continues. “See you around soon?” he asks me. “Because if you're this fun with your back on a metal bar, I'd like to see you in action somewhere a little more private.”

I smile back at Ronnie, but this time, it's my turn to hold back.

“You'll be seeing me around,” I tell him. “I promise.”

He gives me a little wave and turns away. As I watch him go, I cross my arms over my chest and take a deep breath. I hope that neither of us lives to regret that.

When I get back upstairs, I find that the commotion has only gotten worse. The cops all eye me like they're pretty sure I'm the killer, even if it defies all logic. Their questions were pretty pointed, too. They'd love to pin this crap on me. Thank the friggin' stars that I was onstage at Chelsea's estimated time of death. Stupid fuckers.

I pause in front of Turner's room and take a deep breath, wishing I didn't have a massive, throbbing fucking erection. That's nice. Great way to reintroduce myself to my daughter. I have no idea what I was thinking following Lola downstairs, but … strangely enough, even though we barely made it out the damn doors, I feel better. A lot better.

I raise my hand to knock, but the door flies open in front of me and leaves me face to face with Naomi Knox.

“You better get your ass in here before he kills your kid on accident. Never in my life have I been so happy to be sure he's
not
a father,” she tells me, stepping aside and sweeping some of her blonde hair over her shoulder.

Turner's sitting on the floor with Lydia, turning the pages of a tattoo magazine and pointing at half-naked girls with his finger.

“See the rose?” he asks, gesturing at a bright, red flower on the back of some skinny chick's butt. Nice. Real nice. He looks up at me when I step into the room and narrows his eyes.

“Star,” Lydia says, leaning forward and pointing at the tattoos that line the edge of Turner's hairline. “Daddy has stars.” He groans and leans back, letting his head fall so that he's staring up at the ceiling. When he looks back up at me, he's frowning hard.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he growls as Naomi rolls her eyes and plops into a chair near the small table by the kitchen. Fucking Turner got a Goddamn suite all to himself. How special.

“Answering questions from the cops,” I say, and before he can protest and call me out on that, I move forward and squat down next to Lydia. She's not covered in blood anymore. Her red ringlets are damp and she's dressed in a T-shirt that's
way
too big for her. It's got our logo on the front, the one with the stupid goat with X's for eyes. She doesn't turn to look at me, just keeps staring at Turner and pointing at his tattoos.

“Kitty paw,” she says and he sighs, raising his brows and giving me a look.

“You are in deep shit, man,” he says. “Deep, deep shit.” Turner gets to his feet and Lydia reaches forward, grasping with her fingers for his pants.

“Daddy, no!” she calls out, tears filling her green eyes and dripping down her face. God, I'd love to be able to cry like children do. They don't hold anything back. Their emotions are all out on the table, laid flat and unforgiving. They never apologize for feeling the way they do. They just let it out and move on. I'm envious as fuck.