Hard Rock Roots Box Set (128 page)

“Blondie?” I ask, moving into the parking lot and pausing when I hear the scuffle of feet. I follow the sound around a large, white passenger van and freeze dead in my tracks. “The fuck?”

My little blonde songstress is struggling with some middle-aged dude, kicking and flailing as he struggles to undo his pants with one hand and keep her pushed over the trunk of his car with the other.

I blink at the scene for a split second, a surge of violent rage rushing up to take hold of me.

What. The. Fuck.

The girl kicks back and hits the man in the shin, making him grunt and release her for just long enough that he has to let go of his jeans and wrap his hand around her mouth to muffle a scream. She bites him
hard
as he slams her into the trunk with every ounce of his strength.

That's how long it takes me to get over there, to put everything I have into one, hard punch.

My fist cracks against the guy's face and sends him stumbling back, but he doesn't go down. Instead he comes at me and trips over the blonde girl's foot, slamming into my stomach. I take the hit like a champ, too drunk to care about anything as ridiculous as physical agony, and grab him by the hair, shoving his face into the bumper of the car as he falters and almost falls to the cement. When the man tries to lift his head up, blood pouring from his nostrils in two bright red streams, I elbow him as hard as I can in the temple and watch as he crumples to the ground like the sack of trash that he is.

“You alright?” I ask my songstress, glancing back over and finding her eyes wide and unblinking. They're … I swear to fuck, they're
orange.
And shiny with unshed tears. I take a step forward and she moves back. “I know how to hold my own,” I say, putting a palm on my chest. “My mom used to beat me up, so I learned how to fight.”

“You came back,” she whispers, her voice this rough, grainy texture that I want all the fuck over me, in every crevice of my soul, in every crack of my heart. “And … I think you saved my life,” she says, sniffling a little. “Because I would've killed him or died trying if … you know.”

“You serenaded me,” I say and the girl glances away sharply, but not like she's shy or anything, more like she's just stubborn or some shit. “What's your name, Blondie?”

“Naomi,” she states, turning back to look at me with a defiant stare that will haunt my dreams forever. “Naomi Knox.”

“You want to hang out, Naomi Knox?” I ask, shoving the would-be rapist over with my foot. We should probably call the cops or something, but I'm too enraptured by this girl, too twisted up in the drugs and alcohol, to think clearly. “Hit the town or something?” She stares at me for a long moment and then nods, tucking some blonde hair behind her ear. I think about asking her how old she is, but … she's old enough to be here doing this, right? Besides, that look in her eyes, she might as well be a hundred and twenty.

“I'd like that,” she says and then pauses. “Turner Campbell.” The sound of my name on her lips brings my cock raging to attention, stabbing at the inside of my jeans like he's positive he can find a way outta there. I grin and slide a smoke between my lips, offering one up to her. She takes it with a mumbled thanks and lights up, her eyes gazing up at me from underneath a fall of blonde hair.

“Where are we going?”

“Wherever you want to go,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “Dinner? Drinking? Back to my bus?”

“I … drinking isn't an option,” she says and my grin gets a little wider.

“It is if you're with me, Knox. I can get you in wherever you want to go.” She looks skeptical as she bends down and scoops up her guitar and a small backpack, keeping her gaze on my face as she goes, like she's not quite sure this is happening.
Look long and hard, baby, because this is as real as it gets.
I take a step forward and this time, she stays where she is. “Whatever you want,” I say, hoping I'm not swaying as much as I feel. I think my head's just fucked. “Tonight, I'm all yours, babe.”

She nods, almost like she expected to hear that from me. Whatever. It's a line I've used before, and it always works. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

“Let's get out of here,” Naomi tells me, looking down at the asshole moaning on the ground before sucking in a deep breath and spitting right in his face. “Dickwad,” she growls, hauling back her boot and kicking him as hard as she can right in the nuts. Normally, I'd say that was a low blow but this motherfucker deserves it. “That'll teach you to treat women like shit, you pig fucker.”

I park my cig in my mouth and unzip my pants as Naomi's eyes get big. But she doesn't look away, God bless her fucking heart. I take a nice, long hot piss on the rapist as he groans and curls his fingers against the filthy surface of the cement.

When I zip up and exhale, drawing my smoke from my mouth, Naomi smiles at me and then bends down and puts her cig out on the guy's leather jacket, burning a nice little hole in the fabric.

Didn't think it was possible, but my grin gets even bigger, spreading across my face as I hook an arm around Naomi's shoulders when she stands, hauling her against me. Doubt I'll remember this night when it's over, but this girl is interesting to me, way fucking cooler than some dumb groupie bitch anyway.

“I want to have fun tonight, Naomi
Knox,
” I say as she supports my stupid ass all the way to the curb and pauses as I hail a cab. The world spins a little, but I put it on pause by reaching into my back pocket and pulling out a small flask. A quick tip back and things are starting to look a little rosier. “You ready to have fun with me?” I hold out the drink and watch as she takes it, presses it against those ripe ass lips of hers and takes a huge swallow.
Wish she was swallowing something other than a little whiskey though.

“I'm ready,” she says as I try and fail to open the door to the cab. If she's at all freaked-out by how trashed I am, she doesn't show it. In the back of my mind, I kind of wish I'd met this girl while I was sober.
Not that it would've mattered. She's still too young, still bad news.
I glance over at her as she opens the car door and tosses her stuff inside. That look on her face is one I recognize well, a beat and battered soul searching for
something
to use as a handhold, something to grab onto and climb out of the pit that's called life. If I'd ever found it, damn would I share it with her. But I ain't got nothing yet. One day, I'll be something. Today, I'm just a stupid fuck with a drug problem, a band, and a bad attitude. “In fact,” Naomi says as she climbs inside the cab and I crawl after her, “I've been waiting a long time for this night.”

I'm on a date with Turner Campbell.
I think. I mean, it feels like a date. He's a little drunk, maybe a little messed up on something else, but that's okay. He's here, and he came back for me, and he's looking at me like he wants to toss me onto his bed and …

I swallow hard and flip some hair over my shoulder.

We're having dinner at some packed little hole-in-the-wall with dim lighting and food that's too good to be real and that I'm too excited to do more than taste. My stomach's all twisted up in knots, a strange mixture of relief and anxiety. I almost got … some guy almost
raped
me tonight. If Turner hadn't stepped in then I don't know
what
would've happened to me. I definitely would've gone down fighting, that's for sure, but … that's not how I want to end my life. I have to do things, be someone, make music. And after tonight, I know for sure: I
have
to get up on that stage. It's my destiny.

“Can't believe you serenaded me,” Turner says with a chuckle and a wink, leaning back in his stool and knocking back a shot. He slams it down on the tabletop and looks across at me with a small smirk. “Why?”

I blink back at him and push the plates of food away. We've got, like, ten appetizers piled up here that neither of us is eating.

“Why?”

“Yeah,” he asks me, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. “Why? You wanted to see me that badly?” It's hard to meet his eyes, to see my idol in the flesh and have him staring at me like I'm more than just a kid, some used throwaway child that got passed from home to home and ended up in the hands of some seriously fucked up psychopaths. Turner's looking at me like I'm a woman, an adult, like I might have an opinion that matters.

“I thought if I could just show you that we're the same, you'd talk to me. I just wanted you to talk to me.”
Not entirely true, but I don't want to freak him out. Turner Campbell, it's stupid but for whatever reason, I've pinned all of my hopes on you.
I take a deep breath and curl my fingers around the edge of the tabletop. I'm a sixteen year old ward of the state and he's a twenty-one year old rock star that's going somewhere with his music. What do I
really
expect from him?

The answer scares the shit out of me:
everything.
If I'd known in that moment how much growing I had to do, how hard it would be to learn to stand on my own two feet, and how much harder it would be
because
of this night, because of Turner Campbell, I probably would've stood up and sprinted out of that restaurant.

Instead, I sit there and watch him as he tilts his head to the side, flicking his tongue along his lower lip and teasing the lip piercings on either side. He's beyond gorgeous up close, this chiseled, tight slice of perfection in jeans, boots, and a band tee. The tattoos that swirl down his arm draw my attention like a moth to flame. I don't even care that my wings could sizzle up and drop me straight to the ground. I can't resist.

“What secrets are you hiding, Naomi Knox?” Turner asks me, taking another shot and dropping his chin to his arms. He's so drunk right now, I could probably tell him everything, tell him that I stabbed my foster parents in the throat with a pair of scissors, and I doubt he'd remember.

Instead I ask, “how do you know I have secrets?”

Turner taps a tattooed finger against the side of his nose.

“I can fucking smell 'em,” he drawls, sitting up straight and crossing his arms over his sexy chest. I wiggle a little in my seat. “Secrets are the worst kind of fucking poison, Knox. You let them take over and they'll rot you from the inside out. You should really take care of that shit while you're young.”

“We're only five years apart,” I blurt and Turner's brows go up.
Crap.
I shouldn't have said that. Fuck. But … he's acting like he's a million years older than me. Maybe he just feels like he is? Turner rubs his hands down his face and shakes his head.

“Sixteen, holy fuck.”

“I'll be seventeen in a few weeks,” I say with a slight shrug, sliding my drink towards me and sipping the cool green liquid from a straw. I ordered some weird mixed drink thing and, true to Turner's word, nobody bothered to card me.
Holy shit, that's sweet. It tastes
and
looks like diabetic Leprechaun’s piss.
I make a face and push it away. Turner might be drunk tonight, but I'm not sure that I want to be. I want to remember all of this, every single second.

“First time?” he asks and a shiver goes down my spine. But then I see that he's gesturing at the glass. “Drinking?”

I feel a bitter smile trace my lips.

“Not exactly.” I've stolen bottles from the Rhineback's cupboards, shared flasks with my foster brother, Eric, and paid bums to buy me the cheapest, most potent alcohol they could find. Think what you want about that, but I needed a way to cope so I found one.

“Not a fan of the frilly shit?” Turner asks instead, smirking at me and shoving a shot glass across the table. I catch it in the palm of my hand as he raises his brows and gestures at me to drink it. “Put your money where your mouth is, doll face.”

I narrow my eyes and drop the shot down my throat, taking the burn in a single swallow and slamming it back down on the table. Turner laughs his ass off and then passes me another one.

“You and me, babe,” he says as I down that, too, and swipe my arm over my mouth. “We're gonna have a real fucking good time tonight.”