Dead Serious (25 page)

“Hey, Knox.” I move over to her chair and kneel down, putting my hand on her knee, trying to draw her closer instead of letting her float farther away. When she drops her brown eyed gaze to me, she seems okay. The frown fades a little. “Ready for another one of our famous duets?”

I grin and she smiles back at me. It's not a full smile, but we're both nervous, that's okay. I'll take it.

“I'm not holding anything back today, Turner. Nothing. I hope you're fucking ready for this.” Naomi's stylist removes the black cape and flashes me a long, lean body that's so ridiculously bare I almost feel like throwing a jealous hissy fit.

Naomi's got on these … well, shit, I wouldn't even call 'em shorts. They're practically panties. In leather. These, paired with her thigh highs, garters, and black bra top make it look like Knox is about to walk a Victoria's Secret runway. Her wrists are covered in thin silver bracelets and chunky leather straps, matched up with her silver skull belly button piercing, and a thick ass belt stamped with a silver ram's head. I don't know if it's intentional or not, but it reminds me of our band's logo. Goat, ram, same difference, right?

The thin scar running across her
Real Ugly
tattoo only adds to the image of this woman looking bad-fucking-ass. My dick is so hard it could cut diamond.

I stand up at the same moment she does, our eyes meeting, bodies so close I can feel the heat radiating off of her skin. My hand comes up of its own accord, brushes against Naomi's loose blonde hair. It's been brushed and blow-dried so that it froths around her face like gold, like sunshine, like wet dreams made reality.

“I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now,” I whisper, but Naomi's makeup artist is standing a few feet away, glaring daggers. She's a big guy, too. Yeah, that's what I said. She. The drag queen dude and his friends are back, same people that did our hair and makeup at the LMTV show. Her/his arms are three times the size of mine and he's wearing pantyhose. Definitely do not want to get my ass kicked by this guy.

“You touch that lipstick, honey, and I swear to God, I will slap you silly.”

I ignore the comment and focus on Naomi's eyes, ringed with liner, touched up with red eyeshadow that sparkles gold when she moves her head up and down, examining my outfit. Not as hot as hers, but it'll do. I get to wear an Amatory Riot tee this time, in white with their band's name scrawled across the front in red. Tight ass black jeans, black boots, all of my dumb ass
Mrs.
bracelets decorating my arm up to the elbow.

I guess Naomi approves because after her once-over, she meets my eyes and leans forward, pressing a kiss against my cheek before walking around me, ass hanging out of her shorts. I swear, I can feel pre-cum leaking from my dick.
Goddamn it.
It's going to be awfully freaking hard to concentrate if I have to stare at that all night. Stephen could put a gun to my head and pull the trigger, and I wouldn’t even notice. I'd die with a massive erection in my pants and a big grin on my face.

As I turn around, I catch sight of my face in the mirror. The kiss has left its mark on my cheek. Perfect, just perfect. When the makeup artist steps up to my side, I bat her hand away and saunter out of the room. Out of all the accessories I'm wearing onstage tonight, this one's my personal favorite.

So much for finding a place to stash my gun. I'm basically wearing
nothing
right now. I think about arguing with the stylist, putting on a pair of jeans, but it's just not going to happen. I don't know what I was thinking. If I stick the fucking thing in the waistband of some jeans, Brayden's people are going to notice.

I end up taking my duffel bag over to Lola Saints. She's sweaty and shaking after her set, half in pleasure and half in pain. She loves the music just as much as I do, I can see that, but I also know how much it hurts to play with people that you don't connect to. I did it with Hayden for years.

“I don't have anywhere to put this,” I tell her, looking straight in her face and thinking about last night's cocaine induced bravado, my solemn swearing to the universe that I would cap Stephen Hammergren in the face if I saw him. While I was onstage. With a hundred thousand souls in the audience. Like I'm that good of a shot? Seriously. I scored some coke off Wren when I got here and stuck it in the duffel bag, too, but I've decided that I'm not going to take it.

Lola brushes her dark hair back from her sweaty face and unzips the bag, looking inside with her makeup running down her cheeks.

“You're going to want it, doll face,” she tells me, swallowing hard and looking up. Our eyes meet and chills run down my spine. “But so am I.” She leans in and touches her mouth to my ear, sweaty hands grasping at my shoulders. “My bloody sister's here. I saw her in the front of the crowd. If she's here, that means Stephen is, too. I know it. If she were here on her own, Poppet'd be fighting back security to make her way to me.”

Lola leans back and shakes her head, dropping her chin to her chest.

A moment later Ronnie appears by her side, followed by Turner.

“What's the matter?” he asks, sliding an arm around Lola's waist protectively. They really do make a nice couple. I hope things work out for them.

Lola shakes her head and then looks back up, at me, at Turner, over at Ronnie. Her gaze rests on his and she sighs.

“KK and Cohen are practically salivating when they look at me. I'm done for. I told you this shit wasn't going away until I was locked behind bars or buried six feet under.” Her accent sounds extra clipped tonight, like she's only half pronouncing the words. I watch as her fingers curl around the strap of the duffel bag. “I'll keep watch at stage right. Signal me if you see anything. I'll know what you're talking about.”

“Five minutes, Naomi,” America says, signaling to me and smiling with her red lipstick. The color looks out of place on her neutral face. I don't like the symbolism of it. “Try not to disappoint me, okay?”

As she moves away, Lola scowls and Ronnie shakes his head like he's not getting it.

“Signal you for what?” he asks as Turner glances at me with some strange mixture of relief and confusion. Lola grits her teeth at the both of them and takes a step away.

“The gun. The Goddamn revolver I gave Naomi. I'm going to hold onto it. Jesus.”

Ronnie doesn't seem all that pleased to find out that the gun's made its way here. He was frustrated when Lola originally gave it to me. In his opinion, it'll do us more harm than good. I'm not sure that I agree with that.

“Thanks, babe,” I say, reaching out to squeeze Lola's wrist. I throw another look Turner's way, trying not to smile at the smudge of lipstick on his left cheek. He reaches out to grab my arm as I move away and tugs me to him, wrapping his arms around my body, squeezing my ass with his hands. Our kiss in that moment probably qualifies more as throat fucking than anything else.

When I pull away, I'm breathless.

I force my lips to smile as I look between the three of them.

“One minute!” America's yelling from her spot next to the black curtain.

I shake my hands out, take a deep breath and start moving. If I don't go now, I'll run away and never come back.

“Show time,” I mutter.

The lights are dim when I walk onstage, moving over to my cue – a white X that supposedly tells me the spot where I'm going to stand. Fuck that. I resist the urge to bend down and tear the tape from the stage floor. Nobody tells me what to do, especially not here.
This is our show. Ours.
I am going to own this fucking shit.

I take a deep breath and then bend down to grab my Wolfgang. The strap settles over my shoulders, the heavy weight of my black and white beauty calming me, reassuring me that I'm doing the right thing by being here.

“Good luck,” Dax whispers as he passes by me. I wait until Wren, Kash, and Blair take their places before I reach out and pause with my fingers hovering over the microphone. I was offered a wireless headset, but I'm not a fucking pop star. Screw that. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and center myself. I have the strongest urge to run back and grab my shades, but I don't.
Eyes wide open, baby.

I flick the power button on the mic.

“Good evening, Los Angeles,” I whisper, my voice nothing at all like Turner's, not even like Hayden's. It's lower, rougher, more subdued. I swallow hard, enjoying the brief moment of darkness up here. Once the lights flick on, I'll be gutted and strewn across this stage, open for everyone to see.

The crowd murmurs and a cheer ripples through them like a wave in the ocean. This audience is
huge
, so much bigger than what we've dealt with before. Hayden is gone. America is insane. Everything is crazy and different and fucked up.

Doesn't matter.

I have to take this stage and own it. I
have
to. This is about the music.

I let my eyes scan the flickering glow of lighters and cell phones, trying my best to find the ends of the throbbing mass of humanity. Right now, from this vantage point, it seems endless.

I take another breath and it echoes through the auditorium. Above my head, the sloping roof glows with faux stars. Their beauty pales in comparison to the real thing, but I make myself look up, trying to find strength in the random scatters of color.

“This is supposed to be the
Hayden Lee Memorial Show,
supposed to honor a woman with fanatically impressive showmanship, tell the world we're sorry that she's gone.” The audience hangs on my every word, waiting. My throat goes dry, but my heart stays strong. In that split second, I make up my mind. “She killed herself. For that, I'm sorry, but Hayden could be ugly sometimes. Wretched.” I lick my lips and wonder if I'm making the right decision. “But she didn't deserve to go that way.” I wait in breathless anticipation for the sound to cut off, for my voice to drown in confused murmurs. But nobody cuts the power to the mic, and I keep talking. “She didn't deserve to be manipulated and dragged through the mud by two of the most selfish people I've ever had the displeasure of stumbling across.”

The lights above me flick on suddenly, and I'm left blinking at the crowd, fully exposed, my chest rising and falling as I struggle to catch my breath.

“In my opinion, she was murdered. As was my sister, Katie Rhineback. I'm sure you've all heard the news stories, but she wasn't a bad person. Katie was a
wronged
person. She did what she had to to protect herself.” I touch a hand to my chest. “To protect
me.
So. This song, this show, is not just dedicated to Hayden Lee, but to Katie Rhineback. And to their murderers, America Harding and Stephen Hammergren.”

Another breath, another thousand pounds lighter, another secret lopped off my list.

I smile.

My hand drops to my instrument.

I start to play.

I lean back into my guitar, strumming the strings with my pick as fast as my hands will allow me to go. My new tattoo throbs, but I try to take strength in that pain, let the thread of it tie me to Turner Campbell.
That asshole.
The thought of him makes me smile, helps drag that inner Naomi out and let her take control of my body, let her own this horrible little outfit that leaves way, way, way too much skin exposed. Whatever. I have the body. I have the music. I have the voice.