Hard Rock Roots Box Set (129 page)

I can't stop myself from shivering when he says that.

We stumble from bar to bar, Turner's arm wrapped around my waist, my skin tingling where his fingertips are pressed tight into my flesh.
What would it be like to feel him against me, inside of me?
I bite my lower lip as Turner slaps yet another bouncer on the back and slurs his drunken thanks to the man for letting me in.

“Last bar of the night,
Knox,
” Turner says, and I love the way he says my name, like it's a scalding hot coal singeing the tip of his tongue, like it's the beginning of a song or the end of a dirty little poem. “They're pretty strict about the two o'clock cutoff 'round here.” Turner—very poorly—imitates some sort of Midwestern/Southern accent that I've literally never heard before.

I smile, but the expression is tinged with bitterness. Last bar? Two o'clock? It feels like we just left the restaurant.

“But this roadie chick invited me to an after-party in some warehouse or something. You want to go? These things usually last until dawn.” Turner releases my waist and leans his back against the wall of the bar, yanking his phone from his pocket with hands dancing in stars, paw prints, spiderwebs. He's just this dirty sexy mess of color … so wrong that he's right. He's got a filthy mouth and an arrogant attitude and he's so drunk he can barely stand right now … but I like him anyway. More than I did before tonight. Most.

I'm totally in love with this guy.

I suck in a deep breath. Stupid thought. Really stupid thought. I know that, but I can't help it. I came here tonight chasing an impossible dream and so far, it kind of looks like it's coming true. I mean, Turner Campbell came to me. Me. He came to
me,
and we're hanging out and he keeps looking at me like he can't get enough.

I run my fingers through my blonde hair as he lifts his eyes and traces the movement.

“You're way too hot for your own good, you know that?” Turner asks, sliding his phone back in his pocket and taking a step towards me. “Like a broken angel Barbie doll.”

“I'm no fucking Barbie doll,” I say, but his hands are sliding along my jaw and tangling in my hair, pulling my lips to his, burning a hole straight through to my heart. Our mouths slide together and his tongue teases mine with this slow burn that makes my whole body start to ache, that encourages me to raise up onto my toes and taste him, drag as much broken royal bloody rock star into my mouth that I can get.

Turner tastes like a dirty lollipop dipped in whiskey and swirled in dirt, a little bit sweet and a whole lot sour. A little bit wrong. A little bit like mistakes.

My arms come up and wrap his neck, pull him into me as tight as I can get, my breasts smashing into his hard chest as we slide our tongues together and he grinds his erection into me. Turner's music rides his kiss like a wave, crashing into my mouth and drowning me in old pain, hard lessons, fresh starts. I want to start over with this guy, chase him onto the stage and scream every thought and feeling and heartache I've ever had into the microphone.

I'm in heaven right now. Or hell. Probably hell, but that's okay, too.

For years I've wanted to be anywhere but here, anywhere but this ugly world with its ugly people and its ugly truths.

“Turner Campbell?” a voice asks and he pauses with a groan and a growl, his teeth nicking my lower lip as he pulls away and I gasp, breath hitching and chest going so tight I can barely breathe. “Oh my god, you really are him, aren't you?”

Turner relaxes his grip on me and slides a smoke into his mouth before turning to face a pair of girls in Indecency T-shirts and tight jeans.

“We were at the show tonight and you were fucking amazing,” the redhead on the right says. The other girl just bats her lashes and bites her lower lip. “Could we get an autograph?” she continues. “On our tits.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever, but then get the fuck out of here. Can't you see I'm frigging busy?” I raise both my brows as he stumbles over and snatches a Sharpie from Brown Eyes' hand, scribbling a quick scrawl across both their heaving bosoms before tossing the pen over his shoulder and hailing another cab. “Now scram. I'm done with groupie bitches,” he drawls, waving me over. I follow the movement of his hand, trapped in his spell like a spider in a web. I couldn't have escaped in that moment if I'd tried. Turner's charisma is … infectious. I can feel the purple poison of it seeping into my heart and trying to stake a permanent hold. “Found the best girl ever, like fucking best.”

I grit my teeth and take a breath, trying not to take his words too seriously. He's, like, totally drunk, isn't he? But I can't help myself. I just can't. I believe him because I
want
to believe him. Later, I'll hate the shit out of him for it.

“And I'm gonna prove it. Best fucking girl. Last one I'll ever need.” Turner holds out a hand and I take it, ignoring the glares of the two girls behind me as we tumble into the backseat and he ends up leaning over me, lips so close I can feel his breath. Turner tosses the address of our next destination to the cabbie and then slides his tongue along my bottom lip until I'm gasping and wishing that we
weren't
going to some warehouse party or whatever, that we were going to his bus or a hotel or something. “I want to fuck you so hard,” he whispers, moving his attention to my ear, nibbling on the tender flesh until I gasp. “But you're … shit. How old are you again?”

I feel a tightening in my chest, but … he's drunk and I want him and this is
my
night. My fucking night.

“Eighteen,” I lie as Turner pulls away and leans back in his seat, tugging me along with him until I'm sitting on his lap in the cramped backseat of some stupid smelly taxicab.

“I thought you said … ” Turner begins and then shakes his head with a groan, running his fingers though his mohawk. “What'd you say?”

“Eighteen,” I repeat and then I lean in and kiss him full on the lips, taking a rock star between my thighs as I adjust myself and don't give two fucks that our creepy cabbie driver is probably checking me out in his rearview. “I'm eighteen,” I whisper, kissing his face, his neck, tasting the sweat on his skin and enjoying the raw, primal groans that escape his throat. I can hear bits and pieces of his songs in each gritty, grating, glorious sound.

“You're the hottest fucking chick I've ever seen,” he slurs, running his hands over my hips and cupping my ass with a surprisingly strong grip. “And the coolest. You're too cool. You serenaded me.”

“I needed you to see me,” I tell him honestly, feeling brave in my slight buzz, in his total drunkenness. “I needed you to see that I'm fucked, as fucked up as you are. We were made for each other, Turner Campbell. I know it sounds stupid—”

“I want to prove it to you,” he says suddenly, interrupting me as he wraps his fingers in my hair and makes me gasp. “I'm gonna prove how fucking awesome you are.”

“Turner,” I say, knowing that any promises he makes tonight are pretty much null and void. He's too drunk to remember any of this, but … I'm a lost girl and I want to be found. “I want to go with you, on tour I mean. Take you with me. I can't stay here.”

“Fuck yeah,” he says, like this is the best idea he's ever heard in his life. “Fuck yes. I'll take you with me and let you serenade me every night under the fucking moon and the stars and we'll let all of them bitches know I'm done. I'm just fucking done with them.”

I smile, even though I shouldn't, even though he's got to be full of shit, right? But it feels so good to see someone offering up a dream I've been after for so long. I want him to want me, and I want to belong. I want a family of misfits and fuck-ups where I know I can be me, where I can say screw the rest of the world. He's offering it to me right here, right now. How could I say no?

“You'll change your mind in the morning,” I say reluctantly, but Turner shakes his head, putting on that dirty ass grin of his, letting it slice across his face like a scar.

“Fuck that shit. I'll prove it to you. Let me prove it, Naomi Knox.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting back and trying not to let the feel of his hard cock between my legs distract me from the moment. “And how exactly are you planning on doing that?”

So I like have this fucking friend who does tattoos and shit, and I get this brilliant beyond brilliant idea that Naomi and I should get new tats at like two something in the a.m. If I'd had even three drinks less, I probably would've seen how stupid this idea was.

If.

But I am drunk as hell and I swear to Christ, there's a halo around this girl's head. I want to worship the ground she walks on, put a ring on her finger and marry her. Oh, and maybe I want to forget that she said she was sixteen earlier. I mean, she did, right? But then I can't exactly remember and I'm having such a good night that I don't want to ruin it.

“You are one stupid asshole,” my friend, Nicco, says as he smooths his gloved hands across my upper back while I grin up at Naomi Knox, wide-eyed and gorgeous standing in Nicco's tattoo studio. “Call me in the middle of the best damn party I've seen in years and drag my butt over here to give you a tattoo that you're gonna regret in the morning.”

“Shut the fuck up, man. You owe me. I, like, introduced you to your wife or whatever.”

“Yeah, after you slept with her.”

“Small details,” I snap, kicking at his arm and getting a blue-eyed glare in return. Nicco's not even a friend really, more of an acquaintance, but we went to school together way back when in California. He met his future wife there and she ended up dragging him back to wherever the hell it is that we're at. I can't even remember anymore. North Dakota? South Dakota? Illinois?
Holy crap, I am trashed.
“Quit your whining and get the needle out already.”

“You don't have to do this,” Naomi says, but her eyes are glittering and her curvy body is casting a shadow across me that makes my dick so damn hard that I'm sure I'm rising up off this table like a ghost gone to heaven.
Fuck, that body of hers makes me want to die.
But only after I get a piece of it; then I could pass on to the next life knowing I'd really
lived.

“I'm proving my shit,” I say, dragging my flask out of my pocket as Nicco rolls his chair back and grabs the piece of paper that's got his tattoo design on it.
Naomi Isabelle Knox
it says. And I'm going to wear it on my skin forever. Hell yes. “Your name, my back, my promise. Coolest girl I ever met.” I swig another drink of whiskey and pass the flask to Naomi. She takes a swig and holds it tight in her hands, those orange-brown eyes looking down at me with so much … something that all I can think about is holding and kissing and loving on her.

Weird as hell.

Never in my life have I given two wild fucks about any chick. Could be the booze and the drugs talking, but then, I'm always on the booze and the drugs. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, right?

“Prick me, bitch,” I say, waving Nicco over as he presses the stencil to my skin and smoothes it into place. “Penetrate me real good.”

“Seriously? Fuck you,” Nicco says with a roll of his eyes as he tosses a smile at Naomi. “You actually like this guy?” he asks her and even though my head's swimming like the Northern Pacific, I can see that she's honestly thinking his question over.

“He's everything I shouldn't have and everything I've ever wanted.”

“God, I could kiss your fucking face off!” I shout, snatching her wrist and dragging her close to me. When Naomi bends low, I tongue the shit out of her face. She tastes like forbidden fucking fruit, like some wild grown berry that poisons the hell out of you, drops you dead right there on the forest floor, but leaves your corpse with a smile and the sweetest whisper of sugar on the mouth. “Let's do this, goddamn it.”

“Going as fast as I can,” Nicco murmurs, peeling the paper off and examining the outline that I can't see, but that gets Naomi's eyes big and wide and wet. They're so moist, like she could cry at any moment but never will, like she's way too tough for that shit. Never seen a person with eyes like this in my life. “You don't want a scratcher tat, do you, bro?”