Hard Rock Roots Box Set (61 page)

“Why are we leaving so fucking early? Seems like a waste of time to me.” I cross my arms over my chest and let KK get a load of my tits. She doesn't have any of which to speak, so I know it pisses her off to see me flashing mine around like they're made of diamonds. She just stares at me, her frizzy hair clinging to the sides of her sweaty face. She always looks like a freaking train wreck, but today is worse than usual. Her eyes are all shifty, darting from side to side like she expects someone to leap out at her.

“Milo Terrabotti thinks it'd be best to remove his band from the situation boiling outside. I'm inclined to agree.”
Hah,
I think as I stare at her pimply chin.
You're inclined to agree? You're inclined to listen to whatever Mr. Rutledge tells you to do.
This is one of the reasons I hate dealing with KK so much. It's like she isn't even a real person, just a bot for Mr. Rutledge to use when he isn't around. I miss our old manager, Monroe. She might not have been able to book us a gig like this, but she had a passion for our music. Monroe actually gave a shit about the heart and soul. Right now, it's all about the money and the fame. And the destruction. Can't forget about that bit. Everything comes at a price anyway, right?

“Yeah, alright, whatever you say,
boss
.” I throw the term out there as an insult and open the door to my room. As soon as I get inside, I feel the wrongness in the air, but it's too late.

“Hey there, bitch,” Hayden Lee growls, grabbing me from behind and shoving me forward onto the bed. “Where've you been? You get Ronnie into bed yet? It's not really all that difficult, you know.”

“Get the fuck off me you anorexic scrag,” I snarl, elbowing her in the side and trying not to grin when I feel myself connect with her boney ribcage. I flip around and stumble away from the bed, watching as she sits back and leans against Cohen's bare leg. He's sitting in my bed smoking a cigarette, his junk hanging out like it's on display. Unfortunately for him his family jewels have never been museum quality.

“Put your ugly chode away, Cohen,” I say, adjusting my glasses while I try to assess the situation. It smells like dirty tuna and skank in here now. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what they've been doing. “Am I supposed to care that you fucked this ho?” I ask with a laugh while Hayden leans back and rubs all over Cohen's chest, curling his hair around her finger. Looking at him now, it's almost possible for me to remember the boy he was not so long ago. I've always thought he had a sloppy charming sort of look. Now, he just plain disgusts me. “Because believe me, from what I've heard that's not really a difficult accomplishment.” I pause and study Hayden's blue eyes. They're so clear, I can see straight through 'em and down to the murky depths of her shallow soul. I'd sure like to cut the bitch. There's nothing worse than a traitor. Nothing. “Naomi Knox is looking for you,” I tell her, watching her face for some flash of emotion, something that tells me she regrets getting involved in this. I know the circumstances, but what I can't understand is the fervor in her eyes, the way she relishes every cut, every scrape. She just doesn't act like someone who's being blackmailed.

“So?” Hayden asks, sitting up and snatching her purse from Honesty's bed. She digs around in it and comes up with a joint. “Why should I give a fuck?” She lights up and inhales deeply, blowing smoke into the stagnant air of the hotel room. “If you guys hadn't fucked things up, she wouldn't even
be
here right now.” Hayden closes her eyes and sways back and forth, in time to some beat neither Cohen or I can hear.

I put my hands on my hips and listen to the call of the ice crystallizing in my veins. It tells me I'm happy, that nothing bad's ever happened to me, that I am a fucking superwoman. My heart swears otherwise. I choose to ignore it. If I keep feeling sorry for Ronnie, for that … that dead girl, for myself, I won't ever get anything done. Besides, I know, just like we all know, that there's no getting out of this now. If I try to leave, I'll end up like Amatory Riot and Indecency: a walking corpse with an expiration date.

“You mean if Eric hadn't fucked up,” Cohen snarls, rubbing at his stubbly chin. He doesn't like to admit failure. “What kind of screwball bangs his own sister? Man, I'm glad that guy's dead and gone.” My ex struggles to sit up, focusing on my face with narrowed eyes, like I walked in here just to bother him, rub his feathers the wrong way.

“Why are you in my fucking bed?” I ask him, hoping the maids haven't done their rounds yet. Last thing I need is a bed full of Cohen's runny jizz. “Don't you have your own room?”

“We wanted to check in on you,” Hayden says, forcing herself to her feet. She's wearing these five inch yellow heels. Watching her stumble around in them makes me think of a giraffe or something. Wish I could send this bitch back to the wild where she belongs. I wouldn't mind seeing her get eaten by a lion. I smile with my teeth.

“Check in on me? Don't you have jobs of your own to do?”

I turn to go when Hayden appears out of nowhere, shoving me hard in the center of the back and sending me stumbling. I hit the wall hard and turn to face her. She just stands there smiling, her shirt hanging off her shoulder, wet with sweat, panties sagging on her skinny hips. I thought Ronnie was pathetic, but he's nothing compared to this bitch. At least he knows there's something wrong with him. I don't know if Hayden has any clue.

“The second one goes down tonight,” she says, and my heart stops. I don't think of Ronnie or his kids then. I can't, not even with the drugs kissing my soul with sweet, sinful lips. Some things are just too hard to mask. Some things are simply unforgivable.

Chapter 7
Ronnie McGuire

I sit on the bed for a long time, so long that I'm afraid Milo's going to come in and tell me we have to leave. My hands are shaking so bad, I can hardly scan through my contacts, searching for the women I have to call. This isn't about me and my discomfort; this could mean their lives.

Shannon (Phoebe).

That's the entry I want, the one that's going to be the hardest to get through. Phoebe's only a few months old, and her mother thinks I shit sin. She won't even let me meet our daughter though she's got no problem taking a cut of my checks. I slap the phone against my lips and close my eyes, trying to picture her face.

I got nothin'.

I always make fun of Turner for being a whore, but there's a pretty good chance I'm worse than he is. At least he doesn't have any children out in the world, suffering because he was too fucked up to bag his junk.

I sit there for another five minutes, my heart racing in my chest. What if I call Shannon and her parents answer again? How am I going to deal with that? Last time nearly killed me.
How dare you touch my daughter, you parasite?! Is there something wrong with you? She's only eighteen years old for God's sake.
If I hadn't been on the phone with the man, I think her father might've killed me.

Sucking in a massive breath, I yank the phone away from my mouth, hit the dial button and wait. My vision blurs and white splotches cover my eyes. I listen to the ring tone, letting the repetitive sound put me into a small trance. I can't help it. I am literally terrified of these women. I don't know if it's because I see my inadequacies so clearly when I think of them and my children or what, but it's almost paralyzing. If someone were to break in this room and come at me, I wouldn't be able to stop them. I'd lay down and die, and be happy for the opportunity.

“
You've gotta stop that self-deprecating crap, Ronnie. I told you last night, if you don't care about yourself, who the else is going to? Pull your head out of your ass and just stop.”

Lola Saints' words again. Not Asuka's. The fuck is going on?

As the phone continues to ring, I get caught up in another memory. One that's less crisp than the other, more like a watercolor painting instead of an oil. I think about that first moment when I saw Asuka Maebara in Japanese 1A at the high school. She was standing at the front of the room, leaning over the teacher's desk, laughing, her hands curled around the edges of a textbook. When she turned around and spotted me, she smiled.
“Konnichiwa. Namae wa nan desu ka?”
I had no clue what she was saying, but her words swirled my brain like a tropical storm. I could barely sit down in my desk, could barely focus on the teacher. All I cared about was his beautiful helper, the girl who would consume my life and break my soul.

“Hello?”

I leap to my feet and swallow back a rush of vomit.
Oh God, I can't do this. Shit. I can't. I can't.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line is young and feminine. It has to be Shannon. And I hate myself for even having to
guess
that. I should just know. I open my mouth and come up blank. I have no idea what to say.
Might've been nice to mull that over first huh, genius?

“Shannon?” I ask tentatively. I'd hate to launch into some long-winded speech only to find out it's her sister on the end of the line or something. I only have the guts in me to pull this off once.

“Yeah? Who's this?” she asks, sounding slightly annoyed. Her voice is high and piercing, and her accent nasally. Not sure how we ever made it into the bedroom.
Shut your fucking mouth, Ronnie. You have room to criticize others? I don't friggin' think so.

“This is Ronnie,” I say and then thinking she might not know me either, decide to add, “McGuire.” Silence. “I'm the father of your baby.”

“I know who the fuck you are, asshole,” she snaps at me, suddenly on the verge of tears. “What do you want?” Another sniffle breaks through the line. I nibble at my lip for a moment, running my tongue across the newly bare skin below my mouth.

“How's Phoebe doing?” I ask, hoping she doesn't hang up on me before I tell her what I need to.

“She's fine, no thanks to you,” Shannon growls, switching from sadness to anger. “And I already told you, I don't want to see you. She doesn't want to see you.” I feel my own anger rising up to meet hers. How does she know what my three month old daughter wants? I'll tell you what most kids want. A father. So fuck her.

I force myself to calm down and take a deep breath. I
am
the bad guy here. I deserve this.

“Well, I'm not calling to flip your switch, doll face,” I tell her, and I hate how much like Turner I sound. When I get angry, I start to emulate him. He doesn't know it, but I respect him so friggin' much. He knows he's worth something; he respects himself, and he expects everybody else to. Is he cocky and arrogant sometimes? Yeah. Does he have hubris up to his eyeballs? Sure, he does. But at least he has a backbone.

“Then what the fuck do you want, Grandpa?” she retorts, giving me a headache right between the eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having your pervy old ass give me a call?” I want to hang up the phone right now. I really do. I didn't rape her. Shannon came to me; they all do. I don't have to seek anybody out. This business pretty much assures that there will always be someone willing to have sex with me, willing to pretend it's possible to fill that hole inside themselves with something as shallow as a one night stand. Maybe I didn't wear a condom, but that's only half my fault.

“You're in danger,” I tell her, and I cringe when she starts to laugh. How did I not think this was going to sound stupid?
So, listen, there're some people after me and my band. I don't know many of the details because our main contact is a psychotic bitch. All I can tell you is that anyone associated with me is in trouble.
I lick my lips and squeeze my left hand into a fist. The tattoos on my skin crawl like they're alive. “Phoebe and you both. I can't give you a lot of information but,” I pause and wait for her laughter to die down a bit.
Bitch. Nasally little bitch. How dare you keep my daughter from me? How dare you?
The emotion comes shooting out of my soul like fireworks, singeing me. I'm so surprised at the hidden rage that I forget to keep talking.

“Get a life, you pathetic pig,” she says, and I freak when I think she's going to hang up.

“The mother of my other daughter is dead,” I say. She stops laughing. Guess that got her attention. “She was murdered in her apartment, and then her body was transported to the city I'm staying in. Someone – the killer, I guess – left her in my manager's hotel room.” I pause. “Along with my daughter.” More silence. “Until I can figure this out, I want you to keep Phoebe close. Don't go anywhere alone, and lock all your doors and windows.”

“Do the police know about this?” she squeaks, and I feel suddenly bad for her. She sounds so young, and terrified. All my fault. It's all my freaking fault.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, even though that's not exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “They think they found the killer, but I'm not so sure about that. Just be careful for a little while, alright?”

“I wish I'd never met you,” Shannon says, sniffling again. “I wish I'd never let my friends drag me to that concert. I hope the killer gets you next.” And then she finally does hang up on me.

I shut my eyes, squeeze 'em tight and crawl down into that dark and dirty place I've spent most my adult life. Down here, there's peace and solitude. Things don't hurt quite so much. People don't die. Lives don't shatter like glass.

A knock at the door breaks my concentration, reminding me why I like drugs and alcohol so much. Each substance has a different side effect, a different plus or minus, but they all do the same thing – numb the pain and block out the world.

I stand up with a groan and snatch a half-empty beer that's sitting on the dresser next to the TV. I finish it in a single gulp and toss the bottle to the floor, kicking it aside as I yank the door open to find Turner waiting for me with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face.

“What?” I ask him, wishing I could just crumple to the floor and take a nap. “Where's your room key?” Turner shrugs and reaches into his pocket for a cigarette.