Dead Serious (24 page)

“What the … what the fuck is this?”

There's a fresh tattoo on my arm. A big one. It's stretched down my entire forearm. I can't quite make out what it says, but it better fucking not be
Turner Dakota Campbell.
I sit up suddenly, alarmed at the amount of lint trapped in the healing blob of my tattoo. I've got to get up and wash this bitch off, scope out some Aquaphor or lotion or something to put on it. Ever seen a tattoo that wasn't properly taken care of? Oh, you'll
know
if you have.

I look down, at my broken heart tattoo, my bare breasts. My bare
everything.
I'm naked.

I glance around and find that the hotel room I'm sitting in is most certainly
not
the one that America booked us at. There's a set of white French doors across the room from me, opening into a living room with a sunken tub. Definitely didn't have one of those. We're somewhere else, but where? I glance over at the empty space next to me. There's a large portion of the right side of the bed that's undisturbed, sheets still tucked in, pillows fluffy.

My heart catches in my throat.

I'm sixteen again, waking up with my head spinning, a brand new tattoo on my body, a strange hotel room. No Turner Campbell. No Turner Motherfucking Dakota Campbell.

My stomach spasms in ghostly pain, and I clamp a hand over my mouth as I remember last night, letting him fuck me without a condom.

“Shit, shit, shit, and bitch, and fuck and fuck and fuck.”

I scramble out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, my stomach lurching from the alcohol and the energy drinks and the sick realization that I really am in love.
So where is he?
I don't really think he'd leave me again, not even with his head fucked the hell up, but my past is clouding my vision, making it hard to think straight. As I sprint across the hotel room carpet, my hand over my mouth, I catch sight of the clock.

It's six thirty.

In the evening.

We have a show that opens in a half an hour. And yeah, yeah,
Burning the Bleeding
probably won't start their set until around seven thirty, but fuck. There are nearly a hundred thousand people showing up to see us play. One. Hundred.
Thousand.
Not the world's largest concert ever, but pretty fucking intense. Plus press. Plus Stephen Hammergren and America and the massive elephant in the room named Secrets and Bullshit.

I hit the bathroom door and find it locked.

I groan and stumble to the right, grabbing the ice bucket off the top of the dresser before my stomach clenches tight and I puke half in it, half on the floor.
Attractive, Naomi. Nice one.
A second later, the bathroom door opens behind me and I hear Turner chuckle softly.

“Sorry. Didn't realize I had locked it.”

“Get away from me,” I say, standing there buck naked with the ice bucket clenched tight in my fingers. Wow. This is going to be a hard one to live down. Party foul. Big time.

“It's okay,” Turner says and I hear him back away into the bathroom. “I threw up, too.” He reappears at my side with his dick in full glorious view, half-erect and on its way up. The tattoos draw my eye, even though I have way, way, way more things that I should be thinking about. He hands me a towel and turns back around, footsteps soft against the carpet.

“Do you know what time it is?” I ask him, bending down and sopping up my mess the best I can. Sorry house cleaning. I hope Turner put his credit card on file. If he did though, we should've already been assaulted with Brayden's men. I'm sure they can track that shit. So did he pay in cash? How did we even get here?

“Yep. Late as fuck and time to roll.”

I kick the dirty towel into the corner and take the ice bucket into the bathroom to dump it out. I flush my shame down the toilet and pull the plastic bag out, wrinkling it up and shoving it in the trash can. Downstairs, I'm sore. Upstairs, I have a pulsing, rolling headache. And a new tattoo. I lift it up and frown, moving to the sink to turn on the water.

“Did you know I got a tattoo last night?”
What self respecting artist would ink me up when I was shit faced? I hope this doesn't suck.
I grit my teeth and hold my arm under the water, using some liquid soap to wash it with gentle swirls of my fingertips. The whole arm is swollen and sore. An awesome place for a tat before a big show. I have to play the
guitar
tonight. And I can't just play. I have to whoop that audience into shape. And remember to bring my gun. And hope I don't die.

I groan and close my eyes for a moment.

“Not until I woke up, I didn't,” Turner says, and the softness in his voice draws my eyelids up. I glance over at him and find the leather jacket in his hand. I wonder when we managed to get that back? He tugs the napkin out and smiles, a real, true, human being sort of a smile. Not a smirk. Just a smile. “Recognize this?”

I look down at my tattoo, at the black ink etched into my flesh. Musical notes. Turner's musical notes, the ones from the napkin. The urge to hum the sound claws at the back of my throat, but I swallow it away. I'm not sure what to say. Apparently when Turner and I get together, we do weird shit.

“Where's yours?” I whisper, shutting off the faucet and shaking my arm out to get off excess drops of water. I can't stand how aware I am of the fact that we're both naked right now. There's no time for that.
Even though I wish there was. Even though I screwed him bareback again.
I might have to call Spencer first. Have her get me some morning after pills on her way over here. I don't know who else to call to come pick us up. I
really
don't want to talk to America or Brayden right now. Nor do I want to discuss my incompetence and lack of foresight with anyone.

“Right here.” He turns around and lets me see his back, the
Naomi Isabelle Knox
tattoo and the fresh ink underneath it, written out like my name's the lyrics to his song. My heart clenches, and I have a hard time swallowing. Based on Turner's wet hair, I figure he's already had a chance to shower. Good. Because I sort of need a moment alone to collect myself. Now that I'm up and the drugs and alcohol have cleared my system, I'm nervous. Even more so than I was yesterday.

Today's the day.

Something's going to happen, I know it will. Last night, something definitely did.

“Turner,” I begin, but he's already moving towards me, pulling my naked body against his. I cover my mouth with my hand and glare at him. “I'm going to call Spencer and have her come get us.”

“Good,” he says, staring down at me with those brown eyes, that frustratingly beautiful set of lips, those star tattoos at his hairline. I pull on one of his lip rings and he releases me with a simple kiss to the forehead. “Because it's time for us to tear the face off this city.”

“Not just that,” I correct him, locking gazes, letting him see the determination in my face. We made progress last night, good progress. I mean, other than the drugs and the heavy drinking. I'm talking about the more important stuff, the emotional crap.
Please don't let that all be for naught.
“It's time to get off the leash and let America, Stephen, whoever the hell else, know we're the fucking stars of our own show.”

Naomi's roadie, Spencer Harmon, shows up at our hotel room – with a cadre of Brayden's bodyguards in tow. They don't say anything to us, not even Raelia, the Amazon chick with the permanent frown. I don't acknowledge them either, just wait for Naomi to take her stupid pills with my arms crossed, and stare out the window.

The girls are in the bathroom for a good ten minutes before they come out, Spencer with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth and Naomi with a swagger that says she is beyond ready for this shit to be over. I wonder if she has that gun, the one Lola gave her. Why else would Spencer bring that duffel bag? We're going straight to hair, makeup, and wardrobe. We don't need a change of clothes. And I'm not an idiot. Seriously. I pick up on things.

If Naomi is hiding her gun however, I don't see it and apparently neither do Brayden's people. Maybe it's still in the bag?

I grab her arm as we exit the hotel, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Please don't do anything rash, Knox. If you have a plan, you've gotta tell me what it is.” Naomi sighs and pulls her arm away, moving over to the black SUV without responding to me. I don't know if she's upset with me or what. She woke up in a pretty sour mood. I thought at first it might've been the tattoo – even though I think they're both killer – but it's not. It's deeper than that. It's the concert, and the connection we built last night both. Everything spiraling into one, big, tangled mess.

“I'm just trying to protect myself, Turner,” she whispers as I climb in next to her. The leather seats squeak as we scoot together and wait for the car to start up. Spencer sits in the back with two of the bodyguards while the other two sit up front. Nobody else speaks. It is awkward as hell. I wonder what happened when we went missing? Did anyone alert the media? Or did America keep it contained on the hope she'd find us? I guess we'll find out when we get there. “But if I see Stephen Hammergren, I'm going to shoot him.” She shrugs her shoulders and chills crawl down my spine. I don't doubt her words, but they freak me the fuck out. I can't stop her though. She won't let me anyway, and if I were to do something drastic – like tell America – I'd lose her trust forever.

I grit my teeth and force myself to sit still, to wait. Tonight's going to be fine. No, no, tonight is going to be epic. I'm sure of it. I'll protect Naomi. I'll do anything for her. If Stephen Hammergren really is there, maybe I can get to him first? I don't have a gun, but I can bet Brayden Ryker does. He'd be willing to shoot Stephen, I know he would. I have a weird feeling that he doesn't want to be dealing with this situation anymore than we do.

“Stay safe, Knox,” I whisper to her, feeling a slight twinge in my bullet wound, like a reminder of how bad things can get. “Stay safe.”

“I will,” she breathes back.

I don't think she intends her words to be a lie.

“I'm very disappointed in you, Mr. Campbell,” Milo says as I sit slumped in a chair, letting some lady with creepily long fingers run her nails through my hair. I hope this styling shit isn't a permanent change to our routine. I'm a grown man. I can dress myself, put on my own makeup, brush my own damn hair.

I ignore Milo's scolding and glance over at Naomi. She's frowning at her reflection in the mirror, but that's the only sign of her unhappiness. America hasn't even
spoken
to her since we got back, and Ronnie told me nobody mentioned us missing until they actually piled in the SUVs and drove to the venue.

She knew we would show up. She was counting on it.

I look back at Naomi again, biting my lip, eyes sliding between her and the door to the dressing room. It's ajar, leading down a dark hallway into the massive clusterfuck that's backstage. Everybody else is dressed and ready to go, waiting in tense anticipation for their shot on the big stage, their chance to woo the crowd, to fuck their minds and leave them pregnant with wanting. Their chance to look danger straight in the face and wonder
is it gonna be tonight?

I swallow hard and shake my head, waving my hand dismissively at my hairstylist.

“I'm done with this. My hair looks fucking perfect, as usual. I don't need anymore gel.”

I stand up and shrug off the black cape that's wrapped around my neck.

“Turner,” Milo warns, sounding at least a smidgen more like his normal self. “Remember the discussion we had before? Musicians in your day and age have reputations to keep.”

“Yeah,” I snap, turning to look at him, small and pale in his black suit and navy blue tie, “so I kept it. I went out, got drunk, did some blow, and fucked my woman in the back of a gay club. The public expects certain things from me, I deliver.”

I snap my fingers and smile, leaving Milo sputtering behind me. We got off lucky last night. I borrowed Ronnie's phone when we first got here and tried to troll the Internet, looking for evidence of last night's unforgettable fucking romp. Not a single thing. Not even anything about our new tattoos. Hallelujah.