Hard Rock Roots Box Set (126 page)

“Gimme whatever you got,” I say, sliding back into the group and lifting my chin. It's time to get wrecked, and it's time to play. I might not be able to take that girl back to my bus tonight, but I can sure as hell fuck her with my music, my words.

I hope she's ready for this shit.

A hush falls over the crowd right before I hit the stage, this eerie silence that descends like the wings of a fallen angel. Dark feathers shadow the faces of the people below me as I walk my boots through the darkness and pause at the edge of the spotlight that lies center stage.

Showtime, baby.

I think about that blonde girl again, gaze lifting up and searching for her, but it's too dark to see shit.

A grin curls my lips.

No matter. Tonight, this show is for her. She'll feel it, I'm sure. Rock music is like another language, one that only speaks to those who are fluent. You either get it or you don't; there is no learning period. You're born with rock 'n' roll as your native language, or you're not.

This girl, she'll get it. I know she will.

“Yo, Tulsa,” I say, my voice grating against the microphone as I make that final step and plunge myself into the spotlight. There's an intake of breath, a gasp, as the gathered masses inhale my scent, my sound, my very presence, take me into them like we're lovers sliding together in the heat of passion.

One, two, three.

With a collective exhale, they scream, exploding into motion, rushing the stage, smashing their bodies together in sheer desperation and desire, hands outreached and mouths agape. My body breaks out in chills as four other spotlights flick on behind me, revealing my brothers—and our poser bitch bassist.

“We're so excited to be here tonight,” I say, running my fingers over my dark mohawk, teasing the shaved sides and the star tattoos that gleam down on the crowd from on high. “And we're horny as hell, so I hope you're wet and ready for this shit.” Screams crackle through the crowd, men and women both throwing themselves forward. And in the center of it all … there's that girl. I almost pause, almost falter but I'm a goddamn rock star first and foremost.
She's so still though.
The blonde's just standing there staring at me, but this time, her luscious lips are slightly agape, her eyes wet and glistening.

I feel an answering call inside my pants and reach down, cupping the bulge of my junk for all the crowd to see, to admire, to lust after. Whatever drugs Ronnie gave me are just starting to take hold, turning my head into a swimming mess, a world of riffs and rhythms and sound. There's no room for thoughts in there, not tonight. Tonight, I just want to fucking
be.

I lock eyes with the blonde and curl my lips into a smirk, lifting up my right hand and flicking my fingers at Ronnie.

He kicks his kit into action and makes me bite my lip with the sound.
Goddamn, that's good.
I keep my hand up, my left foot bouncing as Trey and Jesse and New Guy leap in behind me, eating up the stage with their bodies as they grind into their instruments and fuck the shit out of 'em.

Me, I
am
my own instrument.

I run the fingers of my right hand down the front of my body and let the music in, let the thoughts go, curl my left hand around the mic.

“
Wanderer, broken, he walks away, but the truth follows him like him thunder. A crack in the distant sky, twisted, lighting breaks his back asunder.
” I kneel down at the edge of the stage as Trey tears it up behind me. “
Wish he could see the sun, find some peace in the things he's done, but a broken man, a wanderer, walks away and the truth swallows him down under.
”

I rise to my feet, curling over for a scream.

“
LOST FOREVER AND BROKEN DOWN, IN HELL AND MISERY HE WILL … DROWN!
” I drag the last word out, let it scrape across my tongue until it bleeds, pulling out the vowel and stretching it to the end of time in a primal growl that kills the crowd and resurrects them with a single syllable. “
TASTING HIS END, TASTING HIS END.
”

Blonde Babe watches me, traces my movements with her orange-brown eyes until tears begin to crawl their way down her cheeks, firing up my blood, making me giddy with the sound of my own music as it eats its way into the stage, crawls up the sides of my leather boots and destroys me. I keep my eyes locked with hers as I mark my territory, tracing the edges of the stage like a tiger trapped in a cage.

“
So no longer will he rise again, this wanderer, broken down. There's no way home, he is too far gone. Bid farewell to the rest of him, the heart that beat, the heart that's dead. Wanderer, broken, he walks away, but the truth follows him like thunder.
”

Her full, ripe mouth sings the lyrics to my song and then her body begins to move. Just one fist in the air at first, then both hands, and then she's jumping and lunging and fighting and clawing her way to me with the rest of them.

I stand up and put out my hands, making a come on gesture for the crowd. For the crowd … but mostly for her.

My head is so fucked up,
I think as I thrash around and let the energy of the stage, the drugs, this strange desire, let it all crawl through my veins until I'm choking on it.

“
TASTING HIS END, TASTING HIS END,
” I scream as I swing the mic around and catch it in my other hand. My boots slam against the floor as I curl my fist in my shirt and expose my belly to the crowd, feeling the backlash of their lust like a slap to the face.

And that girl … she's still weeping, bleeding salt from her eyes as she reaches out to me and I hold out a hand, reaching back.

“
TASTING HIS END, TASTING HIS END,
” I snarl as we keep our eyes locked. I'm singing the words and I'm looking right into the face of … of a fallen angel or a risen devil, not sure on that one … but I'm singing to her about the end and somehow, in the back of my mind, I'm wondering if I've just stumbled across my own.

Turner Campbell is looking right at me. No mistake about that. He
sees
me. When we lock eyes, I can feel his gaze penetrating me straight into my soul.

“The fuck was
that?!
” he screams at the crowd, squatting low and putting his hardened cock on display, trapped inside the tight denim of his jeans. I want it, him, this, all of it like I've never wanted anything in my life.
I love you, Turner Campbell,
I think to myself even though it's stupid, even though I don't know him and he doesn't know me. I've fallen in love with his story, his music, his face, his tattoos, the tongue piercing, all of it.
You're setting yourself up to fail, Naomi,
my conscious mind chirps in, but fuck her. Just … fuck her. “What the
fuck
was that? Tulsa, you are goddamn friggin' killin' me,” Turner growls, slapping a palm against his chest. “Now let me HEAR IT!” He cups a hand to his ear as we scream and shout and growl and snarl, like a pack of wild dogs after prey. We need that hot blood flowing down our throats just to survive.

“Really?” Turner asks, standing up and shaking his head. “I've heard a room full of mutes scream louder than that. Again.” I call out my joy and my pain without words, reaching for him. I
know
I saw him reach back at least once. He sees me. He really, really does. “That's better,” he says, sniffling and running his arm across his sweaty forehead. His blue-black hair gleams down the center of his skull, his tattoos bright and inviting, like a night sky full of stars. I want to touch,
need
to touch, but in the back of my mind, I know how far away they really are. “Now, we've got one last song for you tonight.” I groan with the rest of the crowd, but at the same time, my heart starts to pound.
So close. I'm so close.
After this, I'll find a way to get to Turner and everything … it'll all be okay.

Blood, scissors, screams, gurgles.

I blink away the nightmares, the memories of what I did that night, the fear I lived with everyday, the pain I saw in my foster sister's face when her father left her room at night.

I shiver and wrap my arms hard around myself, holding tight, closing my eyes and listening as the room goes suddenly quiet. When I open them again, I see Turner standing there staring at me. A few people around me turn to look, but most are too caught up in him, enraptured by their god.

“One last song,” he says and then nods like he's just figured out what he wants to do. “Maybe you've heard this little gem? It's called
Pretty Girl Won't Break
and it's dedicated to anyone who's ever felt that crack.” He slams his palm against his chest and sniffs, dropping his shoulders and nodding … at me? “Who's ever felt that little break start deep in their heart and said
fuck you.
That's it. Just … fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” I whisper, letting my demons prickle across my skin as I drop my arms to my sides and inhale, trying to match my breath to his.

“
What a day,
” Turner sings, voice soft, a wolf in sheep's clothing. A devil cloaked in angel. “
It was when I met you.
” His band members move forward with their guitars, framing him on either side, digging into their instruments in a way that makes my breath hitch, my fingers curl, my body ache.
I should be up there with him, a guitar in my hand, sweat pouring down my back, his voice in my head. Always running in my head.

“
What a day,
” he continues, making my soul quiver with need, my eyes water again. I squeeze my hands into fists and dash them away. I won't cry, not tonight. Tonight, everything I ever wanted comes true. I've been trained my whole life to fight for every scrap of happiness, so that's what I'm going to do here. Fight. Fight. Fight. “
And what a night when we first made love. And oh, oh,
” he breathes, sliding his tongue against the mic, dragging those sounds down my spine like claws. Down below, my pussy begins to throb and ache, so desperate for him that I almost cry out.

“What. A. Fucking. Night.”

Turner nods his head again as he spits those words out, tosses them on the floor at his feet and waits for his drummer to pick them up and beat the shit out of them.

“
This, this is truth. This is pain. This is us. Can't break what ain't fixed, can't mend what's not torn.
” He growls this out in a rumble, making the speakers quiver with desire as my head aches and spins and my ears bleed from the beautiful poison in the air. “
CAN'T BLEED FOREVER. CAN'T WEATHER ANY STORM!
”

“
WEATHER ANY STORM!
” the crowd calls back, myself included. I can feel the God of Rock watching us from down below, in his wicked cavern of pain and blood and fire, grinning with sharpened teeth at the suffering he sees above, at the beauty of it, the hideousness of it. It's ugly, real ugly, but it's
ours.
Ours. Fucking ours.

Turner snaps his mic into place on its stand and holds out a hand. A roadie rushes forward and puts a guitar into his fingers just in time for him to jump in on the solo, forcing his friend back as he slams his axe into the collective head of the crowd.

“
Gotta find a way, gotta know a way, gotta go away. Baby, I'm torn 'cause this pretty girl won't break. And in this bed, there isn't room to say, but fucking Christ, I love you anyway.
”

“
This, this is truth. This is pain. This is us. This. Is. US!
” I screech as I bounce, letting the rolling waves of the crowd move me forward and then lift me up, up, up. I crowd surf along the greedy hands of fate, tasting the music as Turner rains it down on my fucking head and blinds me.

“
And oh, what a night, what a fucking night, oh.
” Turner sings, his voice as gorgeous as my pain is ugly, the sound filling me up as I glide above, my eyes on the ceiling above me, my heart hammering in my throat, my stomach twisted into impossible knots. “
And oh, can't forget that blessed day. CAN'T FORGET EVER. CAN'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IN THERE. My pretty girl won't break, and she won't let me bend. That pretty girl knows the truth, the pain. She knows it's US.”