Hard Rock Roots Box Set (16 page)

Naomi drops the knife and scrambles backward, lurching to her feet and stumbling out of there with blood trailing behind her, beading on the dusty cement in crimson dots.

Chapter 17
Naomi Knox

How do you live down a scene like that? Hmm? How do you walk away knowing that everybody thinks you're a friggin' psychopath? And maybe I am, just a little. For a second, I lost it there, but now that I'm standing on the stage with my ankle throbbing and my axe pressed against my crotch, I feel a whole lot better.

One secret down, one to go.

I slam my pick down hard, squat into the guitar, meet Wren for a little back to back rendezvous center stage. This, this is where I was always meant to be – drowning in music and sweat and blood. The stage is my life now, and the day I forget that, I'm royally screwed. I don't need Turner or the ghost of that baby or anything like that. Me and my Wolfgang, me and my music. That's all there has to be.

So I rock hard, and then I run away, retreating to the safety of the bus without seeing Turner. Somehow, like by magic, Dax is there waiting for me. The softness in his gray eyes scares the shit out of me and tells me that he's about to admit it, to me and to himself. Dax has a thing for me. Fuck.

“Dax, I can't do this right now,” I tell him when his lips part and he starts to speak. I put my hand on the counter to steady myself. I don't want a confession of undying love right now. I don't want love at all. I don't understand it, and it scares the ever living shit out of me.

Dax blinks a few times like he isn't sure what to make of my words. We're both soaked in sweat and tired, shaking from the rush of adrenaline that performing always brings up. I just want to shower and sleep. Or just sleep. Maybe just that.

“Naomi, I … ”

“Dax, I'm fucking serious!” I scream at him, and I don't feel guilty, not even a little bit, not even when his face falls and his eyes darken. Dax looks at me for a long moment, one that seems to stretch into eternity. I don't move. I can't right now. When he finally just nods and moves away, all I feel is relief.

My hands start to shake, and I find myself suddenly desperate for empty attention, like a sex addict or something. I think of this book I read once where the main character fucked people to feel whole inside. I get it, sort of, I do. But I don't need to feel whole. Right now, I'm practically bursting with emotion. I want to feel empty.

So I descend the stairs of the bus and go off in search of a partner.

What I find instead is my long, lost foster brother. Eric Rhineback.

“What do you want?” First words out of my mouth.

Eric smiles a smile that's so like his father's that I feel sick. He's standing about six feet away from me, dressed in a fancy suit, like he's somebody. I call bullshit. Eric is just a nobody with a trailer of false hope being towed behind him.

“Good to see you, too, Naomi.” Eric moves forward and extends his hand. I don't move away from his advance, but I also refuse to shake with him. If I touch him, in even the smallest way, I may kill him.

“Cops are looking for you.” I light up and blow smoke out through my teeth, examining the dark suit and the way it's tailored perfectly to his body. Must've cost a lot of money, that thing. I wonder where he got it from. Eric drops his thin, pale hand and licks his lips. “Apparently, they think you killed your parents.”

“Strange that, isn't it?” he asks, dark hair so clean and polished that it glistens, even with only the dim lights from the street nearby. Music trickles out of the building, shouting, screaming. Turner's onstage right now, singing his heart out, spreading his angel wings so wide that they obscure his devil tail. “Since supposedly you and I got rid of the evidence. I wonder how they got it into their heads that it was me.” I stare at him and take a drag on my cig.

“You're blaming me for this?” I ask him, incredulous. Eric shrugs and the movement is just as easy and carefree now as it was back then, when he was young and I was younger, when I thought he walked on water and shit. Good thing I learned quick that that wasn't true. “I'm not involved in any of this.” I pause as a thought hits me. “Did you send it?” I ask him, being purposefully vague. Eric looks at me like I'm nuts.

“You think I'd mail the cops the murder weapon? With my fingerprints on it? Wow, you really have lost it.”

“Murder weapon?” I ask, thinking of the bloodstained scissors, the way they felt in my hand when I plunged them into that rapist's throat. “They can't possibly have the murder weapon.”

“Why not?” Eric asks, but I'm hardly listening.

“Because I do.”
Okay, so he obviously doesn't know what I'm talking about. If he did send the video, then he's doing a damn good job of hiding it.
“And the birds,” I continue, curious to see his reaction. Again, I get the crazy person look.

“What the fuck are you blabbering about, Naomi?” he hisses, leaning forward, blue eyes winking back at me, shiny with fear. “I don't know anything about fucking birds. What I do know is that the cops are convinced that it was me. Are you sure you still have the scissors? If you do, then I'll know they're bluffing. If not … ”

“If not, what?” I ask him, heart pounding furiously. I don't know why. Eric doesn't know it was me. In fact, he's thoroughly convinced that it was his sister. And he's never blamed her. All he's ever done is try to cover this up, brush it under the rug. He knows what they did to her, but he never tried to stop it. I wonder if he thinks cleaning up some blood redeems him for that.

“Shit, I don't know,” he snarls. “Things are going good for me, Naomi. I can't have this screw it up.”

“So you came looking for me?”

“Yes!” He throws up his hands and then pinches his thin lips together. “Katie is missing.” My heart skips a beat, starts up again at a galloping pace.

“Missing?”

“Yeah, as in gone. I can't find her anywhere, and Naomi, it's gotten worse.” I swallow hard.

“It has?”

“Yeah. So bad that she was committed.” Eric pauses and tucks his hands into his pockets. When the right one escapes, it's clasped around a silver flask. He tips it to his lips and drinks deep. Reminds me of the nights we used to spend looking at the stars and getting plastered. I used to think he took me out there because he liked me. In reality, he just didn't want to hear what was happening to his sister.

I take it and swallow big. If Katie is missing, then I have my answers. Not for sure maybe, but probably. It would explain a lot.

“Come on,” I say, turning away slightly and motioning for Eric to follow me. “Let's go find those scissors.”

They're gone, of course. Six years of carrying them around in the bottom of the purse I never use and suddenly, they're just missing. I sit on the floor with my legs bent at the knee, feet trailing behind me. Useless items sprawl everywhere in the tiny space – gum wrappers, tubes of lipstick, an old cell phone that doesn't work anymore held together with tape.

Eric is gone; he had no choice. Dax was still in the shower when we got back, but America was sitting at the table in front. I sent him away with a promise to call if I found the scissors. He gave me a business card and left. It's sitting next to my right knee now, under a box of gold thumbtacks.

Katie Rhineback.

I can't blame her for the problems she has; one time, her mother locked her in a closet for a week with two water bottles – one full of orange juice to drink, the other to piss in. She was ten at the time. I rub my hands over my face and I remind myself that it was worth it, that the Rhinebacks were miserable excuses for human beings. They had to die for what they did to Katie, for what they tried to do to me, for what they could've and would've done to many others.

“Fuck.”

“Everything okay?”

The voice to my right scares the shit out of me and makes me jump. But it's just Dax. I ignore him and start shoveling the items together, pushing them in the purse and out of sight. Back they go in the drawer beneath my bunk. I have to keep my shit there or Spencer fucks with it when she cleans. I stand up just in time to see Hayden appear from behind Dax like a ghost, all pale and sweaty, fucked up as shit.

She stumbles forward and catches herself on Dax's shoulder, gigging raucously, letting her tits fall out of the tight, black corset she donned for tonight's show. Dax's face shows no irritation, just concern as he helps Hayden find her feet and lets her throw herself into his arms. As she kisses his neck, he looks straight over her shoulder at me.

“I don't want to talk right now,” I tell him, hoping he'll understand. I consider asking him for a hit of acid, but I know that's just wishful thinking. If there's anything I shouldn't be doing right now, it's getting fucked up. Looking at Hayden sweating like a pig with pupils so big her eyes look like pits, I know that I won't be able to deal with this shit if I'm tripping. Katie, I now presume, is the one who sent the video and who killed the birds, stole the scissors, too. Definitely her MO. In fact, now that I'm thinking of her as a suspect, it doesn't seem so strange anymore. Murdering innocent animals so she can use their life force like macabre Crayolas? Right up Katie's alley. Raped her whole life, tortured incessantly, starved. It's a wonder
she
hasn't killed anyone yet. If she does decide to go rogue though, I'm probably first on her list.

“I know, but I think you should.”

“I'm not suicidal,” I tell him as Hayden leans back and grabs his shirt in two fistfuls, glancing at me over her shoulder.

“You can't have them both, you know,” she murmurs at me, and then goes back to trying to kiss Dax. He gently pushes her back and tries to help her lay down in bed; she lets him but then tries to spread her legs. She's not wearing underwear under that short skirt of hers. What a surprise.

“I'll deal with her,” I tell him as she grabs at the fingerless glove on his hand and slides it off seductively. “But please, just go away.”

Dax purses his lips and the pale skin on his face gets even paler. This is him getting angry. Doesn't happen often, but when it does …

“Why? Because you don't want to hear what I have to say? Because you don't want to know how I feel about you?”

I reach over and snatch Hayden's hands away from Dax, clamping her wrists together in my hand, cuffing her with tight, angry fingers. She giggles and struggles a bit, but it's all a show. She's not even trying. Anorexic bitch can fight. Trust me, I've been on the receiving end of those blows. Do I hit back? Sure. Does it still hurt? Fuck yeah, it does.

“You mistake my actions for an emotional response,” I hiss as I drag Hayden off the bunk closest to Dax and shove her into the bathroom. She's got that squinched up face on that says she's about to puke. A few seconds later, she does. Right into the bathroom sink. Hot dog. Much easier to clean up. “When in all reality, it's just indifference. Leave me alone, Dax, and keep your confessions to yourself.”
God, Naomi. Harsh, much?
I know that the words I'm saying are a little intense, but I'm emotionally tapped out right now, and it doesn't look like I'm going to be let out of the ring anytime soon. I don't need Dax adding anything else to the mix.

“Oh? Huh. Seemed like you were more than willing to spill your heart out for Turner.” I ignore Dax's words, refusing to get drawn into an argument. Why bother? What's the point? I sweep Hayden's hair away from her face, pulling back the pale hazelnut locks to keep them from getting covered in puke. The less mess I have to deal with, the happier I'll be. When she leans too far forward and smacks her forehead against the faucet, I can't hold back a smirk. “Fine. Don't talk to me. Ignore me.” I hear rustling behind me and soon Dax's hand is coming up over my shoulder and flashing something in my face. “But you might not want to ignore this.”

The item clatters to the countertop next to Hayden and footsteps sound down the hall behind me. Before I pick it up, I stick a cigarette in my mouth and lift Hayden up by the shoulders, pulling her skirt up and pushing her down on the toilet. I leave her there to do whatever it is she needs to do and pause for just a second to pick up the small, round object. As I exit the bathroom, it takes me a second to register the sight.