Hard Rock Roots Box Set (127 page)

The crowd drops me to my feet not six inches from Turner Campbell's boots, and I reach up, flick my gaze to his as his fingers come down and brush across mine, sending shivers and chills through my body, breaking me in half and putting me back together with just a touch.

Just one, simple, little touch.

The crowd disperses around me as I stand there with heaving breaths and stare at the stage, watching the roadies drag equipment away, disassemble the Rock God's throne. I glance over my shoulder and search the room, looking for anyone in a
staff
or a
security
shirt, wondering if they're really going to gather girls to go backstage.
I can't miss this opportunity,
I think as I keep my arms crossed over my chest and turn around, heart hammering in my chest, sweat pouring down my back. I've never felt like this before, never felt this … this
energy
in my blood, like I've just injected caffeine straight into my brain. I'm flying high, soaring above, and I won't let anyone drag me down.

I drop my arms to my sides and meander through the crowd, searching, searching …
there!
I see a man in a
staff
T-shirt talking to a gaggle of pretty girls, hair twirled around their fingers as they giggle and bat their lashes. Maybe that bitch in line was right? I move towards them, knowing I should've come in here with a better plan than this.
What was I thinking?
Maybe that I'd never been to a concert in all my life? I hadn't known to expect … this.

I gasp and put my hand to my throat as I pause next to the group, curling my fingers around my neck as I feel words trapped inside of me, little demon wings fluttering against my soul just begging to get out. I feel like … like I need a pen in my hand, something to scribble with, to write things down. Music. I could make music feeling like this.

“I need to see Turner Campbell,” I say and while the girls snicker at me and give me cruel once-overs, something in my voice must catch this man's attention because he tilts his head to the side and looks really, really hard at my face.

“Got any ID?” he asks, and my heart drops. ID? I have my ID, but …

“I'm sixteen,” I say and the man nods like he figured as much. “Almost seventeen,” I blurt, but it's too late, and I grit my teeth as he turns his attention back to the other girls.
No.
“Look at me, goddamn it!” I shout at him and his brows go up. “I need to see him.”

“Get in line,” one of the other girls says, leaning forward and letting herself get wrapped up in this guy's arms. I glare at her, but fuck, he doesn't look like he's going to let them back there either, more like he's just trying to get laid. Screw him.

I spin away and walk the stage, looking for a spot to climb up and sneak back. Indecency is big, getting bigger, but they're not like auditorium big or national TV big or anything like that. This shouldn't be so goddamn hard.

“Hey.” I turn and come face to face with a black T-shirt.
Yay, the other one I was looking for: security.
“You can't go back there, honey.”

“Don't call me that,” I snap as I back away and the man watches me warily, like I'm crazy or something. And hell, maybe I am? Maybe I'm just some lost foster brat with delusions of grandeur? But I refuse to let life intimidate me. I won't. I have to
fight
for everything that I want, everything that I believe in. “And cool it, man, I'm not trying for shit.”

I get out a cigarette and move away, towards the front door and the clog of people clustered around it. I elbow my way out and light up as soon as I hit the sidewalk, eyes darting from side to side as I try to figure out how to get around back. The buildings here are old, all clustered together, but I'm sure if I walk far enough, I can find an alley and sneak my way around.

Somehow, someway, I'm getting to Turner Campbell tonight, the rest of the world be damned.

Two fucking hours.

Two goddamn, shit filled, piss soaked, crappy ass motherfucking cock sucking hours of
hell.

That's how long I've been trying to find a way into the gated area around back where the buses are, how long my heart's been aching and bleeding everywhere, trailing a sea of red behind me. Two hours in and I've found after-parties galore, in every bar down Main Street, been invited to climb in with every group of drunken idiots on their way to God only knows where.

But I haven't seen hide nor hair of Turner motherfucking Campbell.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I say, scraping my trembling fingers through my hair as I stand outside the gate with my guitar hanging around my neck and my body quivering with fear. This is my last chance, my last try, my only hope. I take a deep breath to calm myself and close my eyes.
I can do this.

When I open them back up, I feel my fingers moving as if of their own accord, strumming across the strings of my guitar and drawing Turner's music up and out of my soul. I've committed every song to memory, drilled it into my heart until I'm sure that if a surgeon opened me up, he'd see it stamped there into my beating flesh.

“Hear me, Turner,” I breathe, kissing the guitar with my fingertips. “Hear me, goddamn it.” I might be playing acoustic here, but I can still make this shit work. I tap my boot against the dirty cement and let the music into my soul.

“
What a day
,” I croon, getting close to the chain-link, leaning forward and laying my forehead against it. “
It was when I met you. What a day. And what a night when we first made love. And oh, oh,
” I groan out, my voice rough and untried but desperate, needy, like the soft whisper of leather against stone. I'm here and I'm tough and I'll survive no matter what happens tonight, but … but I feel like this is important. Turner and me, we could make beautiful music together. “
What … a … fucking … NIGHT!
”

I open up my throat and project, sending the words across the empty space, drawing attention from roadies and security guards and a bunch of stupid ass bimbos in red high heels.

“
This, this is truth
,” I sing as I strum my baby and cradle her against my body, just another extension of my soul. “
This is pain. This is us. Can't break what ain't fixed, can't mend what's not torn.
” As I sing, I see the door to a black bus swing open, black toed boots on the steps … Turner.

We lock eyes across that parking lot and I see his brows raise as he sways a little and hits his shoulder into the wall next to him, watching me watching him. He can hear me, I know he can. And he can
feel
me. I know that, too.

“
CAN'T BLEED FOREVER,
” I yell, wishing his voice would rise up and claw its way out of his chest, join with mine, mingle our twisted sounds together in this silent air. But then … like he's in pain or something, he shakes his head and turns away, retreating back into the bus and slamming the door behind him, cutting the words from my throat like I've been slit ear to ear with a knife.

My fingers drop from my guitar and my voice dies in my throat as the sound of distant clapping comes to me from the gathered roadies.

“Pretty good!” one of them shouts, but I can't hear him over the pounding pulse inside my head. Turner … he saw me, just like I knew he would. He saw me, but then he turned his back and walked away.

I wish he'd never even looked at me at all.

Jesus fuck.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

“Dude, have another drink,” Trey says, shoving a glass into my hand. I think it's tequila, but I'm so fucked up at this point that I'm not really sure.
Is that Blonde Chick really serenading me?
Never been serenaded before.

“She's got balls,” I slur as I tip the alcohol back and let it burn down my throat. “Seriously, like a massive hairy fucking sack.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ronnie asks, leaning his head back on the bench seat. This bus is so goddamn small that I feel like I'm standing in his lap. One day, I'm going to buy a big ass bus, one that costs more than a house. “Who has balls?”

“That girl,” I mumble, tossing the glass to the floor and grinning when it shatters into pieces at Trey's feet. There's a chick on her knees fumbling with the button on his pants, but he acts like he doesn't notice, tipping a beer back and letting his throat work as he chugs it all in one go. “The blonde,” I murmur, waving my hand around. “The sexy, beautiful blonde.”

“There's a sexy, beautiful blonde right here,” says this other girl, some skinny waif of a woman with an Indecency T-shirt stretched across her massive tits. Think they're fake. “You don't need her when you've got me.” Her hands trail down my chest towards my belt as I lean against the cabinets and try to make my mind work right.
I got serenaded. But she's jailbait. But I like her. Why did I run away again?
Because the sound of her voice turned my dick into a rock and made my heart pound like Ronnie's drums. Bad news, that's what it'll be if I go running after some high schooler.

“Back off, babe, I need to cool my head,” I say, pushing the girl away from me with one hand and rubbing at my head with the other. “What'd you give me, Ronnie? I can't see straight.”

“Just thank me and enjoy the high,” he says as the skinny blonde plops herself into his lap and locks lips with him. His hands come up and wrap around her waist as I shake my head and turn, kicking open the door to the bus. “Don't do it!” Ronnie yells at me, breaking away from his groupie long enough to act like he's my fucking father or something. “You're gonna regret it!”

I ignore him and slam the door to the bus, bumping into my manager and knocking his iPad to the cement.

“Goodness, Turner,” he says, bending down to pick it up with a shake of his head. “Where do you think you're going?”

“I need to clear my head,” I repeat, pushing past him and heading towards the gate. That girl is gone, but so is most of the crowd. Shouldn't have much problem finding her, right? All I want to do is say
hi.
And ask about her tears.
Who cries at a rock show?
I kind of want to kiss her for it, but maybe that's just the booze talking?

“I'm not really sure—”

“Shut the fuck up, Milo,” I snap, shoving open the gate and yanking my cell out of my pocket. I shake it at him. “If you need me, call. Otherwise, I'm a grown ass man.” I spin back around and meander out the gate, around the side of the building and into the small garbage strewn parking lot that's now mostly empty.
What a fucking show.
I made an impression tonight, that's for sure. My best performance yet. And I think it had something to do with that chick, that little blonde serenading, weeping angel.

“Fuck,” I groan, scraping my hand against the dirty brick wall of the building, my eyes searching the lot, trying to separate the shadows into something meaningful, piece together the images that my drug addled brain is trying to process. Travis, God rest his wicked soul, knew how to party with the best of them, but even he would've kicked our asses if he could see us now.

I stand up straight and run my hands over my scalp, teasing the dying spikes of my mohawk, fingertips grazing against the shaved sections.