Dead Serious (13 page)

I sit up and stare at Naomi. Her gaze is on her belly button ring, sitting pure and pristine in her bloodied hand. I don't know why she's cupping the small, silver skull like that, staring into its tiny surface like it holds all the answers. Scares me a little though. Won't lie about that. I think she might be in shock, but at least we've got a medic on staff at the hotel. Yeah, so I might've fucked his wife once or twice, but I'm sure he won't take our grudge out on Naomi.

“This shit's real, isn't it?” I ask her, even though I know that's a dumb freaking question to ask. How many times do I have to get hit over the head for it to really sink in? This game, this grudge, whatever it is, it's dead serious. Stephen Hammergren wants us all down and out for the count? It's going to happen unless we stop it. Yeah, so Hayden and Katie committed suicide – in two completely different ways, mind you, one of them being selfish and the other self
less
– but that doesn't make it feel any less like murder to me. When Naomi doesn't answer me, doesn't even look up, I lean my head back against the metal wall of the van and close my eyes.

Travis.
I send up another prayer to my dead buddy.
Tell me what I'm missing here man. What pieces of the puzzle have I overlooked? I know I'm an arrogant, fatheaded dumb shit, but I mean well. So come on. Please. Help me get through this.

“It's real,” Naomi whispers, her voice as gritty as sandpaper across my eardrums, but in a good way. In a
the next show I sing is going to blow your dick off
sort of a way. “It's real fucking ugly.”

When we get back to the hotel, the parking lot is packed to the gills with reporters.

Surprise, surprise. If I had to make a bet, I'd say that whoever took that video of Naomi and me called the cavalry in.

Naomi stares out the tinted windows in the back with an absent expression on her face that promises future violence to whoever crosses her path. Some people might think the shimmer in her eyes is a sign of tears, of weakness, of surrender, but I know better because Naomi and me, we're cut from the same cloth.

From the front seat, I can hear Brayden's people mumbling into their phones, figuring out the best way to get us inside. The last thing any of us want right now is a shot of Naomi soaked in dried blood on every fucking website in existence. I'll admit, I thought at first that the fame and the notoriety would make it all worth it in the end, but if it comes at any cost to Naomi, that shit can go fuck itself. The sex tape was a whole different animal, baby. I mean, who really cares if the world wants to immortalize a sex god and goddess? But this … I can see the snarl building around Naomi's lips. She's like, this fucking close to going rogue and hunting down Stephen Hammergren and all of his cronies in a pair of baggy camo pants and a black bra, AK-47 held menacingly by her side. While that thought is admittedly kind of hot, I can't wish for her pain to be immortalized for all the world to see. Not cool.

“We're going to move you two to a nearby hotel,” the Amazon woman says, staring intently at Naomi's bloody face and not bothering to even glance over at me. I watch my woman carefully as her hands clamp down on the bench with a death grip.

“I don't
want
to go to a different hotel. I need to speak to my friends, to
America.
” She bites her manager's name off on the end of a scowl. “You're the experts, get me inside. Who the fuck are all these people? Just camera crews and news reporters. Fuck them. Figure this out.”
Wow. Now doesn't somebody sound like a real rock star?
I can't fight a small smile, leaning forward and putting my elbows on my knees. “Don't say a word, Turner. Not one single word.” I don't normally take well to being ordered around, but I do it. For her. Just for her.
God, you are such a chick, Turner.

“Brayden's already made the arrangements,” the woman continues, obviously not grasping the severity of the situation. Naomi spins to face her, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Brayden doesn't own me. Nobody does. He wants to threaten to shoot me? Fine. I'm not going to a different hotel. I want to go to
this
fucking hotel.”

“The rest of your party will join us on the plane tomorrow morning, Miss Knox. I'm sorry, but this is really the only option.”

“I don't think you're quite hearing what I have to say,” Naomi growls, her voice sending all sorts of hormones rocketing through my body.
Holy mother of fuck.
The animal in me wants the animal in her
bad.
If those guards weren't in the van with us, I'd grab her by the back of the neck and shove my tongue down her throat. My dick agrees wholeheartedly, checking to make sure my pants are still zipped up tight. Little fucker's already on his way to planning an escape. “Pull the van over. I'm tired of running. I'm in charge of my own life. If you can't come up with a plan, I'll make one for you. Unlock the doors. I'm walking inside.”

Amazon Chick sighs and shakes her head as the van pulls out of the parking lot and turns the corner, pulling up in a space in front of a nearby restaurant. We're hidden from the mob by a thick hedge of green to our right, but I don't doubt that if we were to sit here long enough that the vultures would descend. I guess we're still pretending that Naomi and I are free souls that make our own decisions. Nobody Tasers us, ties us up and drags us where we need to go. Really fucking interesting, huh?

“Just a minute.” Amazon Chick slides open her door and climbs out with one of the other guards. The door slams shut behind them and they disappear around the hedge. The other two guards sit in the front, pointedly ignoring us.

“I can't believe Katie is dead,” Naomi whispers, shaking her head like she's just realized today actually happened. Most of the blood on her skin is dried and flaking, but her clothes are still wet, smearing red across the bench and the wall of the van. She was offered a change of clothes at the prison, but turned it down. Don't ask me why. I'm not even close to understanding this chick, and that's one of the things I love about her. No boring bitches. I should write a song about that shit. “Eric. Katie. Hayden.” Her voice drops a bit as she leans in close to me, closing the distance separating us. I keep my elbows on my knees and watch as her lips get so close I could fucking bite them if I wanted to. And oh, baby, believe me, I want to so bad I'm leaking pre-cum in my fucking chick pants that everyone makes fun of me for wearing. Sorry that I look so damn good in them. “The perfect trifecta, don't you think? The three people that shared my worst moment in history. All dead. Coincidence?”

“I ain't no Ronnie,” I say because it's true – that fucker notices
all
the little details. “But I mean, we got two suicides and a murder from one of our victims. Stephen might've tried to fuck shit up, so things like that would happen, but he didn't put that gun to Hayden's head.”

Naomi licks her lips, one of the only parts of her body that
isn't
covered in blood. Her orange-brown eyes cut straight through my brain, making me feel like I'm missing a crucial part of this puzzle. I can't fail my one woman though, so I squint my brows and think real, real hard about that.

“Somebody filmed us and posted that sex tape. Somebody who also managed to get a hold of Jesse's tape. Somebody on the tour. Probably the same person that keeps tipping off the press. If those things weren't done by Hayden, then who?”

I focus on the floor for a minute while I scramble around the facts that I do know inside my head. I look up and meet Naomi's eyes. The air in that van is so hot it could melt the panties off a nun. I feel like I'm getting it. But also like I don't
want
to get it.

“Same person who had me threatened to keep me on the tour, but didn't stop me from leaving the hotel to go to Denny's, just to keep me complacent.” Naomi lowers her voice to a point that it's almost painful for me to listen to. This, also, makes me want to fuck the shit out of her. Don't ask why. I don't know. I'm a dude, I guess. It's kind of what we do. When she speaks again, I swear I can feel the words gliding across my face, beckoning me to reach out and take her by the upper arms, drag her a few inches closer. Naomi doesn't protest. “Same person who's feeding information into Brayden's ear, who's telling me that maybe we shouldn't have to go to another hotel if we don't want to.” I lick my own lips, mimicking Naomi's motion, my gaze stuck on her mouth. I cannot fucking look away. “That very same person who set me up to go to that prison, who gave permission for a background check, who got us on this tour, who's fucking full of fucking shit.”

“America,” I say because I have instincts and Sydney has instincts and we both thought her Travis story was bullshit. Do I believe she really loved him? Sure, I do. Do I believe he loved her? Seems like he might've at some point. But something's not adding up. Something isn't right. This isn't just Stephen Hammergren versus America Harding, is it?

“America,” Naomi confirms, and my self-control snaps. Our mouths collide as my fingers wrap around her waist, blood soaked clothes and all, and drag her to the floor, pinning her to the metal with my body. Naomi cringes a little as I put pressure on her belly. I still don't know how bad that cut is, but she won't let me stop and look. When I try to sit up and peel back the bandage, she wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my back.

“If I knew this detective shit would get you to treat me like a Sherlock Holmes fangirl, I would've started a long fucking time ago.” I spare a momentary glance for the guards in the front seat, but they're either too professional to watch what we're doing or they just don't know how Goddamn lucky they are to see a sight as sweet as this.

I don't know what Naomi's real motivation is right now, but frankly, I don't give a shit. If she wants to fuck to forget, then who am I to stop her? I drop my mouth back to hers, letting her breathe me in, suck my fucking spirit down her throat. My mind flashes me images of her in her shades, pounding the floor with her Wolfgang wrapped around her body like a second skin. The way her fingers move across the guitar strings only further encourages me to undo my pants, so she can wrap them around my cock. I groan as I free myself, feeling Naomi's grip tight and unyielding as she pumps me furiously, taking out some of that rage and frustration on my dick. And oh, fuck, but it feels so good.

I slide my hand down her blood soaked belly, past the bandage over her tattoo, and into her jeans. Naomi's more than ready for me, hot and wet and willing. Her legs spread wide, knees opening as I thrust three fingers in and feel her back arch beneath me.

“Fucking assholes,” I hear someone mutter up front, but I'm too far gone to give a crap what they have to say. I'm a rock star, baby, and I'll do whatever I damn well please.

“I'm going to fucking blow my load if you keep squeezing like that,” I growl at her as she bites my lip ring and pulls on it hard enough to hurt. The pain mixes with the pleasure, giving me goose bumps, as her hand slicks up my shaft and her body shudders beneath me with excitement. I slide my wet fingers out of her pussy and find her clit.
Fuckin' A, she's as hard as I am.
I slide my fingertips across her sweet spot and eat up the gasps that spill from her throat as she plays my dick like a Goddamn guitar, drawing notes from my throat the same way she does to her instrument. While my right hand works her body up into a crescendo, my left tangles in her bloody hair, pushing her head back as she drags her teeth down my tongue and catches them on my piercing, filling my mouth with the slightest hint of copper as it bleeds. “Fuck,” I grunt, my muscles clenching tight as my body tries to bring Naomi's guitar solo to an abrupt ending. Musician that she is, she knows when to stop, when to let the beat work itself back up. Can't give the crowd the whole show all at once, huh?

Our duet amps the fuck up when Naomi releases me and undoes the top button on her jeans, unzipping them and wrenching my hand from her clit. She places my wet fingers on her hip and slides the bloody pants down as far as they'll go before they stick to her skin like leggings. Doesn't matter though. They're down by her knees and that's far enough for me to do what I need to do. I pull back from our kisses and sit up, enjoying the heavy rise and fall of her chest as she pants and stares up at me with an expression that reconfirms what I've known since the first moment she tossed my jacket at my chest and told me to fuck off: this girl isn't my pet. She's not my little kitty cat or my fangirl or one of my roadies – this chick is giving me the privilege of fucking her and I better damn well be grateful. Told you: cut from the same Goddamn cloth. It might be black and covered in skeleton hands flipping the bird, but it's our cloth. It's us. This shit back here, bloody and wild and desperate, this is
us.

I pull a condom out of my back pocket, giving the goat's head logo on the front a kiss before I rip open the plastic and discard the wrapper. I slide the slick silicone down my dick as Naomi watches and waits, her eyes on my face, her mouth slightly parted and waiting. Hey, I'm a gentleman about it; I don't make her wait long.