Dead Serious (21 page)

“Is there really some secret celebrity club hidden back here somewhere or is this actually a desperate attempt on your part to fuck me in another bathroom?” I turn and grin at Naomi, taking a step forward and putting my hands on either side of her head as she leans against the black tile wall. Her expression as she gazes back at me is priceless. Eyes hooded with desire, lips slightly parted but scowling, skin flushed. Fuck.

I lean down and run my tongue along the side of her jaw, just for the hell of it.

“Where's the club, Turner?” Naomi asks, trying her best to keep the beast at bay. I can hear it howling behind her words, ready to leap out and rake its claws across me. She wants me so bad right now. I'm loving it.

I step back and turn away, grateful that she seems to be enjoying herself thus far. I'm new to this whole dating thing. That, and my mind is struggling not to think of Travis. A kid. If he had a kid, he would've told us about it, especially if the circumstances were this fucked. Besides, one minute America says they were engaged and the next, that he broke up with her. One plus one is still two, and this shit is adding up to three. Still, some answers are better than none. We know shit now, and knowing is half the battle.
Right G.I. fuckin' Joe?
If you don't get the reference, go fuck yourself. Then Google that shit. G.I. Joe is killer. I used to play with a G.I. Joe action figure that was missing a leg. It was one of the few toys my mother didn't pawn off, smash up, or just light on fire for the sheer pleasure of watching me cry. It was broken, so I got to keep it. Is it such a wonder that I turned into an asshole?

I push the Travis bullshit back and move into the stall. About six inches from the base of the toilet, there's a small silver ring. A good tug on that and up it goes, revealing a set of stairs that descend into warm, throbbing darkness. I can hear music down there that's raw, inspired, that reminds me of our first show way back when, when Travis was still alive and things were so much simpler. So so so much simpler.

But lonely.

You don't realize you're suffering from that emotion until you're not.

“Wow. Look at that. It's like
Lord of the Rings
or some shit.” I give Naomi a look, but she's already smiling at me.

“Somehow, I don't remember Frodo having any scenes in a men's restroom. Did I miss the part where he traveled through a magic passage at the base of a porcelain shitter?” Naomi grins at me, and my chest tightens up. For a second there, she's just a girl and I'm a boy, and we're together. No secret stories of betrayal and heartache that need to be solved. Just us. It fucking rocks.

“That's because you only saw the movie. I read the book.”

Naomi pushes past me, the black leather of her jacket crinkling as she navigates the steep stairs like a pro, heels and all. I've never seen a woman who could strut her stuff in heels like that. Naomi never even bitches about her feet hurting. I don't know if she's a fucking superhero or just a badass. I follow after, careful to grab the rope dangling from the door and pull it shut. I bet Brayden's people will find the exit eventually, but it might take them awhile. Long enough for Naomi and me to slip away.

I follow behind her, too close maybe, but I like the smell of her hair, that sweet bite of soap and rock star bitch that she exudes.

“Stop breathing on my neck, Turner,” Naomi whispers, but we're both aware of how easy – and fun – it'd be to have sex in this tunnel. Even knowing we could get caught by Raelia or one of the other douche nozzles Brayden sent with us doesn't damper the fantasy for me. I lace my fingers together behind my neck and follow the small white lights on the floor, just a strip of them, enough to navigate by as we make a right turn and then continue onwards, towards a pulsing blue glow up ahead. There are steps that come down from here, right to a chain and another bouncer. There's no doubt that we could be partying with pop stars, heiresses, actresses. This place is always full of famous faces. Somehow though, that doesn't seem quite as appealing as it did last year. Hell, even last month.

“I thought this could be our endgame,” I tell her, but now that I think about it, it doesn't feel right. “But maybe this is just a good way to leave the muscle behind and find someplace better. Let's go to a show.”

Naomi stops walking, and I end up slamming into her back. It's not comical, not in the least. I wrap my arms around her and let the fire in my blood take over, burning all logical thought and reason to ash. My head is swimming with alcohol, my brain with blow, and my heart with love. It's the most intense high I've ever had.

“A show?” she asks, her voice cracking open and revealing all sorts of emotion to me.

“Yeah. We're in the fucking ghetto here which means only one thing.”

“Good concert venues,” Naomi says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “No amphitheaters or concert halls, just grungy shit holes with small stages and crappy sound systems.” My hands slide up and find her breasts under the jacket, massaging the tender flesh as she leans back into me.

“Cheap beer. Rancid metalcore bands. Mosh pits.” Naomi moans and bites her lip, leaning fully into me, sliding her hands over mine as they dive underneath the fabric of her shirt and tease her lacy bra. The darkness closes in on us and makes me feel braver, bolder, more so than usual.

“Ten dollar T-shirts and bad lighting, a half-empty floor, and truth. Honesty. Real life. I want it bad, Turner. Let's fucking go.”

“I want to tell you something first, Knox. Don't freak out.” She freezes in my arms and then pulls away, turning to look at me. It's not easy to see her face down here. It's all shadows and sharp planes. “It's not a bad thing, or at least I don't think it is.” I take a deep breath. “Remember when I asked you to marry me?”

“No, Turner.” Naomi's voice is firm, solid. She isn't going to waver on this. Not without some more prodding on my part.

“I was going to get a ring. I even asked Dax for his help.”

“You did what?”

“I was going to propose to you onstage tomorrow, in front of fucking everyone, just like I said I was.”

“I still would've said no.” Her voice doesn't waver, doesn't change from its original course. I take a step closer and she lets me.

“I didn't have a chance to get a ring, not with, you know, everything that happened. And besides, now that I'm standing here, I feel like maybe I don't want to ask in front of the world. Maybe the only person that needs to be around to see me pop the question is you?”

“It'd be awkward if I wasn't,” she says, cracking a joke to break the tension. Thing is, I don't want the tension broken. I want it to stretch and tangle, wrap around us until we're bound so tightly neither of us can breathe. We both have money now, lots of it. I could buy Naomi any ring I fucking want to, but it wouldn't mean a whole hell of a lot unless I had this … this fucking feeling behind it.

“What could I do to convince you to say yes?” I ask, putting my hands on her shoulders and sliding my fingers down the arms of her leather jacket. Naomi's silent for another minute or so before she answers. When she does, I get chills down my spine.

“Let's just get through tomorrow night, okay?”

“Okay, and then?”

She sighs, letting out a long puff of air, like she might very well regret what she's about to say.

“And then if we survive the night, I'll seriously consider it.”

I feel my lips twist up into a grin.
Fuck yes.

“Is that a yes from you?”

Naomi puts her mouth directly against my ear before she responds, cupping my junk with her left hand and squeezing hard.

“It's the closest thing you're ever going to get.”

The party at the end of the hall is fucking out of control.

There are so many people here, it's almost impossible to navigate our way through the crowd to the bar. All around us, there are recognizable faces. People that should be scared shitless their crap's going to end up on the front page of every website every-fucking-where, people who wouldn't necessarily get a boost in their popularity from being caught slamming dope in the fancy ass bathrooms or from fucking some guy against the wall to our right.

“Is that Cameron Koons in the corner over there?” Naomi asks as I order us a pair of Jäger bombs. While I wait for the drinks, I follow the direction of her gaze and try to figure out if the blonde chick in the pink sweater is actually having sex with the man that's pinned her to the wall, or if they're just seriously in the throes of a good dry humping session.

“Who the fuck is that?” I ask, taking the glasses from the bartender and sliding a shot glass and a cup of Red Bull in her direction. Yeah, more energy drinks and alcohol. It's a real fun mixture, will keep your ass up
all
night long. Something about the combination of the caffeine and the booze makes it feel like you can stay up later and party harder than you could before. These types of drinks have been the subject of many a legal discussion, even got banned in a few states. If they're at that level, you know they have to be good.

I drop the shot of Jäger in the glass next to it and then slam it back.

“You don't know who Cameron Koons is?” she asks, like I really should get my shit together. Naomi sighs and grabs her shot glass. Out here in the pulsing blue lights from above, her face is magnified tenfold. I don't know what it is, but it's like I can see every feature in stark relief and it is absolutely fucking beautiful. Her slightly crooked nose, those ripe ass lips, the way her eyes catch and reflect the light back at me, like a Goddamn pussycat.

“Nope.” Naomi drops her shot glass into the amber liquid and chugs it. Doesn't spill a single drop either.
That's my kind of woman.
I shake myself out and shrug my shoulders. This is just a fucking pit stop. I can already feel my skin itching for some metal music, the way it grates across your pores and fills you up like nothing else. I can still feel that high from when I stood in the audience and watched Naomi play, stroking my dick to the sound of her raging Wolfgang. There's nothing like listening to real music, letting it touch your soul through your ears. The music in here's okay, cycling through some rock tracks every now and again, but for the most part it's all electronica and techno beats for people to shake their shit to.

“Cameron Koons,” Naomi begins, leaning close to me with a smile on her face, “is the girl whose pop single
Belittle
is one spot higher on the Billboard Hot 100 charts than
One Woman
by this little rock group from Los Angeles called Indecency.”

I purse my lips tight and look back over at the bitch in the pink sweater. Huh. A little friendly competition never hurt anybody. I get out another cigarette as the track changes and a perky voice breaks through the layers in my brain, infecting me with a really strong desire to run the fuck away. Far, far away.

You can belittle me, baby, but you're not gettin' underneath. Ooh, ooh, ooh. Stop being a little bitch and reach for my seat. I got da junk and I know how to shake it nice and neat.

I wrinkle up my nose and try not to choke on my cigarette as Naomi points up at the ceiling to indicate the song.

“Cameroon Koons.”

“Really? Really? Are you fucking shitting me?” The bartender gives me a companionable smile, like he agrees but would never dare voice it aloud. I pass him a few twenties and order a couple pints at the same time.
At least somebody's on my side
. It's not really a party unless there's beer involved, is it?
God, we're going to get fucking trashed.
I wonder briefly what it was that fucked me up so bad I didn't remember Naomi for seven Goddamn years after our encounter, not even with the tattoo on my back. I'm pathetic, I know, I get it.

“I guess you'll just have to try harder,” Naomi whispers, taking her pint glass and spinning around to face the massive crowd. The walls here are covered in pearlescent wallpaper, a strange mix with the concrete floors and exposed ductwork in the ceiling. It makes for a pretty psychedelic fucking experience with the lights and the smoke and the smell of privilege and careless abandon. Huh.

“When we kill it tomorrow night, I'll show that bitch how it's done.” I pause and look over at Naomi, at her sweeping stray strands of blonde hair behind an ear as she surveys the crowd. I want to say something encouraging about her singing, about how thrilled I am to see her step up as the leader of Amatory Riot, but I don't want to rub salt in her wounds. She's still upset about Hayden, obviously. It's only been two fucking days. With their lead singer's death, however, it's almost a guarantee that Miss Cameron fucking Koons will be knocked several spaces back by an Amatory Riot single come next Thursday, when the charts get updated again.

“I should've known better when you dragged me into Slick's that you wouldn't fuck up a party.” Naomi leans her head back and chugs the beer, throat moving seductively as she swallows. I finish my cigarette up and toss it in the ashtray near my elbow.

“Never doubt Turner Motherfucking Campbell's ability to drum up a good time.” I finish my beer and slide the glass across the counter, reaching out to take Naomi's elbow. “Come on, Knox, let's go fuck up some shit. I smell a mosh pit calling my name.”