Hard Rock Roots Box Set (71 page)

“I have to stay. After the tour, we'll all come home for awhile and figure this out together. For now, I need to be here.” I clear my throat and get ready to launch into a speech, to tell my mother all the changes I'm going through.

“I'd fly out tonight for that little girl, Ronnie. Don't make up excuses just to get rid of her.”

I stand up suddenly, trying to control the anger that's building up inside of me. It's not my mom's fault. The things she's thinking about me are all justified. I've more than earned them. Shit, rewind back to a few weeks ago, before Turner started being obsessed with Naomi, before she went missing, before I found a purpose in life, and I really would've just tried to dump Lydia at my parents' so I could get high again. Today, that's not the case. That's not what's happening here.

“Mom, that's not what this is about!” I try not to shout, but I can't help it. She's hurt and angry, and she has every right to be. Look at what a fucking failure I am. Turner will never admit it, but he'd have given
anything
to have parents like I had. His mom beat him and his step-daddies joined in. He started third grade without any teeth, and the only thing he ever did to the bitch was write a song about her. I had it all, and I threw it away. I lost the most precious thing in the world to me, so I trashed the second and third and fourth. I slap the screen of the phone against my forehead and struggle to catch my breath. Lydia's starting to stir now, grumbling and sniffling.

“I love this fucking kid, and I just want to do right by her!” I'm shaking now, hands trembling, the word
LOVE
scrawled across my knuckles not as a curse or a reminder of what was lost, but a promise of what could be. “I just want to make things right. With you, with my kids, with my blackened, bloody fucking soul.” I kick a rock and watch as it ricochets off a metal pole and bounces back at me. “Jesus.” I swipe the back of my wrist against my forehead. For whatever reason, I'm soaked in sweat again.

My mom stays silent as I turn back to the hotel. Milo's standing patiently by the van, using his iPad to manage his PR work, a pro as always. Behind him, the glass doors of the building open and out comes a figure, sprinting across the lot. When she gets a little closer and passes under one of the parking lot lights, I see that it's Naomi.

“Okay, Ronnie. Okay. Here's what I'll do. Your father and I will book a flight in the morning.” She pauses. I can hear my dad's voice rising hysterically as the phone rustles, probably her waving him away. “Where are you right now?”

“Oklahoma … City,” I whisper as Naomi gets closer and I see the blood on her chest and stomach, her hands. She's running full out, aiming straight towards me, blonde hair flapping in the wind as she runs, high-heeled boots stomping across the pavement.

Fear chills me to the very core of my damaged soul.

“Fuck,” I whisper, paralyzed in place by the look of panic of Naomi's face.

“Ronnie? Is everything okay?” Lydia starts to cry, softly at first but escalating in volume as Naomi pounds closer, whisking right past Milo and the bodyguard. Like a boss, that fucker reaches out and snatches Knox by the shoulders. “Ronnie?”

“Let me go, you stupid fucking piece of shit!” When the man recognizes who it is that's flailing in his arms, he lets her go with a start, staring at the blood on his hands with wide eyes and a crooked grimace.

“Mom, I'll have to call you back.”

“Ronnie, wait!”

I stick the phone back in my pocket, not sure if I managed to actually hang up or not. Naomi and I move towards each other, pausing underneath a flickering streetlight. By this point, Lydia's howling like the little demon child she is. Okay, maybe half demon. I can't speak for her mother, but the father's a friggin' cockwad.

“The boys?” I ask, assuming the worst, assuming one of my bandmates is lying dead. Naomi shakes her head, her blonde hair loose and soft, like it's just been freshly washed. Her shredded Terre Haute tee is wet with crimson, leaking red lines down her exposed belly and across her
Real Ugly
tattoo.

“Fine,” she says, orange-brown eyes cutting into me. Her mouth moves, but it takes a minute to process the words.

“What?” I ask, not sure that I've heard her clearly. You know, when something horrible happens, something tragic as fuck, you don't expect to go through it again. That's the only good part of tragedy – the expectation that you've just been served yours and don't have to eat another helping.

What. The. Fuck.

“A girl … with a baby,” Naomi pants, chest rising and falling while she struggles to catch her breath. In the distance, I hear sirens. “Turner says it's … Shannon? Phoebe?”

I gape at her while Milo rushes up to us, trying to push his way in and demand an explanation.

“What … how?” I whisper, eyes wide, my child screaming in my arms, kicking me, hitting me, slapping my face.

“Mommy, no!” she's screaming. “Mommy, help!” She flings her body around and spots Naomi, round green eyes taking in the woman, the blood. A wail escapes her throat, piercing through the darkness of the sky. “NO!” she shrieks. “NO! Daddy, help!”

“What is going on here?” Milo demands, panic clearly evident in his voice. Naomi stands there staring at me for a moment, gauging my reaction to the news. Then she turns and looks Milo square in the face.

“Upstairs, in Turner's room … there's another body.”

Chapter 12
Lola Saints

I'm sobbing so hard, I can barely see the needle as it slips into my arm.
Oh, God. Why? Why am I here? Why is this happening?
Ronnie. Fuck. I can't see Ronnie. All I saw was Naomi, covered in blood, tearing down the hallway towards the elevator. I heard the shouting; now I hear the sirens.

Shannon. They found Shannon. And underneath it all, buried in the commotion and the screaming, is the sound of a crying infant.
Phoebe.

I slump back against the wall and fall to the floor, coughing hard as the ice slithers into my veins, numbing me from the pain, from the tragedy. I yank the syringe out hard, not caring how much it hurts, and I toss it against the wall where it bounces back and hits me in the face.

More sobbing.

Fat tears slither down my cheeks and drip onto my breasts, sliding down my chest and reminding me how good it felt to be with Ronnie tonight. It was exciting. Not just the sex, but seeing him play. It made me realize how much I really do love the music. Somehow that bit of the equation, the part of it all that
really
matters, why we're all even fucking here, has been forgotten. I might not be a very good drummer, but I joined Ice and Glass because I wanted to show my soul to the world. Like Ronnie did tonight. Instead, I ended up embroiled in all of this shit, these lies, this pain.

I came up those stairs with a mission, ticking off the things I needed to do. Step one, find Naomi Knox. Tell her everything. She's strong, maybe the strongest one of them all. I wanted to tell her what I knew in case I didn't make it that far. Then I was going to find Tyler. That dirty fucking bastard is around here somewhere, I know he is. He likes to watch the shit go down.

My plan to be a catalyst for change got stopped before it even started.

My emotions have grabbed me in a choke hold and put me here, on the floor of the hotel bathroom lying on crumpled towels and dirty clothes.
Get ahold of yourself, Lola. Snap out of it. You knew this was coming.
Unfortunately, knowing that you've made a mistake and seeing the consequences of that mistake are two totally different things.

“Get your fat ass out here, Lola,” Cohen screams, pounding his fist on the door. “No glass when the cops are here!” I ignore him and struggle to push myself to my feet. There's a bottle of tequila on the sink. Honesty's, not mine, but I lunge toward it like it's my last hope. I thrust the bottle between my lips and chug it down unceremoniously.

I'm going to do this, end it all tonight.

Maybe talking to Naomi isn't the answer, or even confronting Tyler. That's just me being cowardly again. I have to tell the cops everything I know. I have to tell them Honesty, Cohen, Joel, Chris, Eric Rhineback, and I slipped on rubber Halloween masks like characters in a bad movie. That we walked right up to Amatory Riot's bus and went inside. That we killed a girl for being in the wrong place at the wrong time when what we were really supposed to do was paralyze America Harding. And how we kidnapped Naomi Knox with the dual purposes of increasing media attention on the tour – and to watch her suffer at the hands of her deranged brother.
Just
to watch her suffer.

I finish the tequila on a gag and smash the bottle in the sink, turning on the water and splashing my face with cold water. When I look in the mirror, my vision blurs and the world around me tilts on an axis. I grip the sides of the counter, breathing deep, letting the alcohol sink into my blood.
I can do this. I have to do this.

I turn around and unlock the door, kicking it open with my foot and letting it slam into the wall. The door to the bedroom is open, and Cohen's there watching people move up and down the hallway. I stumble over just in time to catch the scent of copper in the air, watch Ronnie moving past in a blur. Vomit climbs my throat, and I double over, throwing up all over the carpet by Cohen's feet. He ignores me, eyes sparkling as he takes in the damage we've caused. I don't know who actually killed these girls, who put the blades to their flesh, who dragged them halfway across the country, but I know that at least some of that blood is on my hands.

I shove Cohen out of the way, wiping my arm across my mouth and using the wall for support as I move across the beige carpeting – admittedly a lot better in this hotel than it was in the last one. I shove people out of my way, clawing forward until I get to the doorframe and pause right behind Turner. There's a body on the bed, the sheets beneath it stained a dark crimson color. Naomi is sitting down beside it, leaning over and pulling the blankets up to cover the corpse. But it doesn't matter. I've seen it. I've seen it.

My mouth fills with puke, but I swallow it back, my eyes landing on Ronnie at the foot of the bed. He's got a bloody bundle in his arms, squeezed tight to his chest. Phoebe.

“Where are the fucking cops?” Turner snaps, strutting into the room and spinning in a circle like he expects to find the killer hiding there. “What's taking so Goddamn long?” The crowd around me murmurs and shifts, rumors spreading like wildfire. Milo appears a moment later, sweeping them aside. I step back, letting him close the door and cut off my view. Already though, the damage has been done and we've reaped the reward. At least a handful of the people around me already have photos and videos. They're uploading them, contacting news sites and TV stations. It's all about the mighty buck and the sensationalism of it.

I'm not thinking so clearly in that moment. The room around me is dancing and the faces blurring into splotches of color. I blink it all away and lean back, resting against the wall while I wait. When the cops start questioning people again, I'll start talking. From the first meeting with Tyler Rutledge all the way until now.

“He wants to speak with you,” KK says, startling me, popping up out of nowhere. I blink and realize I've lost several minutes of time. The elevator doors at the end of the hallway are opening and people are pouring in, some hauling stretchers and carrying bags, others in blue uniforms. He. There's only one
He
in this little world of ours. My nails dig into the wall behind me, scraping against the gold and cream stripes.

“Why? I'm a little busy right now if you haven't noticed,” I say, swaying a little on my feet. I consider grabbing onto the arm of one of the cops, whispering in his ear that I know who the killer is. If I go with KK, bad things will happen. They always do. “Come back later,” I tell her, wishing maybe that I hadn't drank so much. Alcohol's always been my drug of choice. I'm half-cut and one hundred percent fucked up right now.
Shoulda stuck with the crystal, eh, Little Lola?
Hah.

“This isn't really a request,” KK hisses, her breath like swamp water, making me sick again. “This is a
now
sort of situation.” I feel the gun pressed up against my side, as hard and uncomfortable as a stranger's hard-on at a crowded party. Pretty ballsy of KK to whip out a pistol on me, especially with cops swarming the building. It's only a matter of time before they catch her with it. I open my mouth to scream when she pulls back the hammer. “My orders are to shoot you if you resist, and then go back and shoot your sister.”

“My sister?” My brain swims, and I get transported back to my childhood. I see Poppet swimming in the ocean, dark hair a stark contrast against the brightly colored water, the golden bath of sunshine. Poppet. Who ran off to make cheese. I start giggling, and I can't seem to stop. People are starting to stare at me, cock their heads to the side and take notice.

And then I throw up again, doubling over and emptying my stomach while KK holds me up, the gun hidden in the folds of my leather jacket. She bends down and whispers in my ear, pretending to soothe me.

“You didn't know? Your sister's stopped by to pay you a visit. Guess you wrote her an email she found concerning.” KK smiles and her ugly teeth stick out of her mouth like crooked fence posts. I raise my head up and stare at her, emotions going haywire inside of me. How did everything get so out of control? How did I go from being one of the bad guys to being one of their victims? I guess I just never did fit in here. I have a smart-mouth and I don't respect Mr. Rutledge's authority; I wouldn't let Cohen have his way with Naomi on the bus; I cried too much about Marta's death. It was just a matter of time before they saw I was a black sheep in a herd of snowy white bullshit. “So pick your ass up, and let's go. Quick now.”

I stand up straight and my head rolls like a bowling ball, heavy and weighted. I just want to collapse right here and be done with it. KK grabs me around the waist, pretending to be supportive, stabbing the gun into my side. We walk down the hall towards the staircase. Already there are cops there, blocking our access.
This is it,
I think.
This is where I make it all better.
I look one of the men in the face and open my mouth, getting ready to tell him I'm being held hostage, that my sister's in this building somewhere against her will.