Hard Rock Roots Box Set (8 page)

I stab my cigarette out in an ashtray and stand up, dumping the rest of my food into the trash and tossing my plate onto the counter for America to clean up. One bonus of having a manager with OCD is that she'll clean shit up, if only to soothe her own anxieties. I snatch her tablet on the way out of my room and hold it up for confirmation. She nods at me and lets me disappear into the bathroom where I sit bare assed on the toilet and take a piss. Flicking my fingers across the screen until I find the video of me covered head to toe in blood.

It's kind of hard to watch, but I make myself do it over and over and over again until my eyes hurt and the seat starts to dig into my butt. I'm trying to play Nancy fucking Drew here, searching for clues as to who could've filmed this. They would've been standing in the hallway with the camera or phone or whatever it was about waist high. This makes it even harder for me to make any deductions about height.

I stand up and fasten my pants with one hand while I continue to hold the tablet in the other.

Picture's a bit shaky, like whoever it was was scared – or excited. I mean, they didn't say anything, didn't try to stop me. The shot ends with me crumpled over the bed, sobbing. The scissors fall to the floor and stain it crimson. So ominous. So, so ominous, the sound of that blade falling. I don't think I'll ever forget it.

When I exit the bathroom, America shoves my phone in my face and snatches back the tablet.

“Deal with your shit,” she tells me as I stare at the incoming call. Blocked number. Turner.

“What?” I snap as I answer it, crawling into my bunk, so I can at least pretend to have some privacy. A harsh chuckle slithers through the speaker and fucks my ear.

“Hey there,” he says, like we're old friends. “Glad to see that you're finally up and at 'em.”

“Fuck you.” I hang up and toss the phone down, knowing full well that when he calls me back, that I'll pick it up. Fifteen minutes pass. A half hour. Two.

When I fall asleep, I fall asleep dreaming of Turner soaked in blood.

Two secrets wrapped up in one and both ready to destroy me at the same time.

Great.

Chapter 8
Turner Campbell

I spend all day on the bus smoking weed and jacking off. I have to. Otherwise, my mind gets all wrapped up on Naomi fucking Knox. I'm so zoned into her right now that I didn't even take advantage of the girls waiting outside the door last night. They were all grayscale while Naomi was in full fucking technicolor.

Oh baby, you can bet your sweet ass I'm not giving up on you,
I think as I stroke my cock to her image and lean my head back against the wall behind me. Any girl that can sour hot pussy for me is worth chasing. I bring up the memory of our foreheads pressed together and the sweat rolling down between her breasts and blow my load into my hand, tossing it into the sink and washing it away before I get pissed again. Can't help it. My mood is night and day right now. One minute, I'm wanting to worship the ground she stands on, and the next, I want to destroy her.

She obviously doesn't like me, doesn't even respect me. But why? I comb my brain for that flickering punch of memory and can't find it.

“Fuck,” I snarl as I kick open the bathroom door and stalk to the front of the bus. Nobody talks to me right now; they all know better. I rip the charger out of my phone and call Knox back. When she answers, her voice is groggy and far away, soft. My hard-on springs back with a vengeance, pitching a big ass tent right there for Josh to ogle. He rolls his eyes and turns away in the captain's chair, focusing his gaze out the front window.

“Hello?”

“You gonna stop hanging up on me, so we can talk?” She pauses, and I swear to Christ, I can hear gears in her head clicking as she realizes it's me on the phone. Man, she must be pretty tired if it took her this long to get that.

“What do we have to talk about?” she asks me, and I can hear blankets rustling. I wonder if she's masturbated to me yet. If she hasn't, she will. They always do.
Even if this one's different?
my mind asks me. I'm too distracted to pay it much attention.

“Well, you never showed up for drinks last night. I was worried about you.”

“Bullshit,” she says, but her voice lacks any conviction, like she's too tired to even give me that emotion.

“And you owe me an explanation.”

“Oh? Do I?” Naomi says sarcastically, and my fist clenches hard at my side.

“You asked me if I sent it. Sent what?”

“Go to hell, Turner.” The phone crackles, and I think she's about to drop me again, so I speak quick. She needs to know that I know she has secrets. I could tell that from the moment I met her. It's a special trick of mine. I spent my whole life around people with dirty, little deeds to hide, so I consider myself an expert.

“Listen, babe,” I say to her, wanting to make this pretty fucking clear. “I know we've met before. I may not remember when or where
yet
, but I will. You can bet on it.” I pause and listen to her breathing for a moment. “And if it's one of those little secrets you want kept, come find me before I spill it.”

This time, it's my turn to hang up on her.

I clench my hand around the phone and drop it from my ear, noticing as I start to turn around that Josh is glaring at me again. Maybe he doesn't like the way I talked to Naomi. So what? He doesn't know that I'm just fucking with her. I'd never tell, no matter what it was. I may not have any secrets of my own, but I sure as shit know how to keep them. And let's be honest – most secrets are better left buried.

Phoenix is hot as fuck. No wonder I've never come here before. As soon as I step off the bus, sweat starts to pool on my lower back, and my head swims in the heat. It's the middle of the night for crying out loud, and the desert is still baking the shit out of this city.

I wipe my hand across my forehead and get out a cigarette, lighting it up before I start across the parking lot and catch a glimpse of Naomi moving across the pavement with a purpose in mind. She keeps looking over her shoulder like she expects something to leap out at her.

A grin spreads across my face.

I toss my cig down and hurry forward, cutting through the bushes and heading her off before she comes out the other side. When I step out at her, she doesn't scream, doesn't even flinch, just glares at me with her orange-brown eyes for a moment before taking out her shades and slipping them on her face. It's dark out, so that means she's trying to hide from me.

My grin gets bigger.

“Hey there, in a hurry?”

Naomi ignores me and moves off into the darkness, blonde hair catching light from the street lamps and glowing as she moves between pools of brightness.
Angel, devil, angel, devil.
That's what she looks like as she crosses between light and dark. I follow a few steps behind her.

At the next intersection, she pauses and turns to look at me.

“Stalking is an actual crime, you know.”

I shrug.

“Yeah, but walking to the gas station isn't. I can't help it if we're going to the same place.” She continues to stare at me, and then turns away, letting smoke trail from her lips in a gray cloud and curl up and into her nostrils.

“What the hell do you want from me? You want to fuck me, is that it?”

I think about that for a minute and run my hand through my hair. That's a good question. What do I want with this girl? Even I don't know the answer to that.

“At first, I kind of wanted to punch you in the face,” I admit. Turner Campbell doesn't keep secrets of his own, not even little ones. Learned my lesson by watching the people around me fuck up royally, eaten alive from the inside. Stupid ass motherfuckers. Once it becomes a secret, it's hard to let it out. If you don't keep it inside to begin with, it doesn't get the chance to fester and rot. So, honesty is my policy. If it makes me a dick, so be it. “But now, yeah, I'd kinda like to fuck you.”

“As long as you promise not to leave me half-naked with my panties down around my ankles,” Naomi says with a sarcastic smile, and then starts across the street. I follow after her and flip off a trucker who honks at us when the light turns green.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask her as I catch up and watch as she rolls her eyes at me. Naomi pauses at the island of cement in the center of the road and turns to face me with raised brows.

“Wow. You don't even remember that girl, do you?” she asks, sounding disgusted. I look her up and down, take in her white wife beater, her black jeans and the high heels she's got on. Fuck me. If I don't scratch this itch soon, I'm gonna have the bluest balls in the fucking country.

“That roadie chick? Yeah, I remember her. I'm not always shit faced, you know? I do have moments of clarity.” I flick myself in the head and run my tongue over my lips, letting her take in the stud and pretend she isn't interested. From what I gathered onstage last night, she wants me just as hard as I want her. She just doesn't know it yet. See, that's the fucking problem with keeping secrets. Once you've got a few, you get so addicted that you even start keeping them from yourself. Poor Knox. Good thing she's got me to liberate her. “Somebody walked in on us. Despite what you might've heard, I don't really like to have an audience.”

Naomi's harsh laugh echoes through the darkness as she swipes off her shades and starts walking backward without even looking for traffic. It's a ballsy move, stupid, too. Fuck, I really do like this girl.

“You stupid, motherfucking, piece of shit asshole,” she says as she sticks the sunglasses in her pocket and turns away from me, blonde hair whipping around in the hot, dry air. I take a deep breath and watch after her, feeling that anger boiling inside of me again. Something about her just pisses me off at the same time it gets me off. Jesus Christ.

“What?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air. Naomi Knox is strange as fuck. I thought I was an expert on women, but this one is out of my range of knowledge. “What the fuck is it now?”

“That person that walked in on you,” she begins, stopping on the sidewalk and turning back to face me with a crooked smile, one that's sinfully wicked. “That was me, and I wasn't impressed.”

Aw, fuck me.

I start to move across the road after her and nearly get killed by a fucking semi carrying logs. Dirt and grit sting my eyes and push me back to the sidewalk as my heart frantically tries to explode from my chest. When I finally recover, Naomi's gone.

Chapter 9
Naomi Knox

I'll admit, seeing Turner almost get turned into hamburger meat really fucked with me. There was this second there where I really thought he was going to die, and I was mad at myself for not telling him. Yeah, the emotion was premature and stupid as shit, but now I know that at some point, I have to hunt the devil down and tell him what he put me through. I've been dragging this shit around for far too long, and it's getting old. If I'm ever going to escape really and truly, I've got to dig up my dirt and bury him in it, too.

I buy my cigs from the gas station and take them back to the bus where I search out Wren and score some coke off of him. It's not normally my drug of choice, but he's got plenty to go around and I need something to keep me up. Sleeping equals dreaming and right now, I've got nightmares in spades. Besides, a cocaine high sounds real good right now. I can tweak all over my guitar, blow some minds with my music. I play really good when I'm high.

I lay out white lines on the table in the front and snort them in quick succession. Wren watches me from the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks pretty hot tonight, dressed in a black tank and a pair of tight as fuck jeans. He doesn't have any shoes on either, which is a kind of a thing for me. Only problem is I hate him. Too bad because I'm horny as hell right now. I try not to admit to myself that it's all because of Turner.

“You want to talk about something?” he asks me, but I sure as shit don't. Not yet. I want to get high first. I lean back and rest my head on the seat behind me, waiting for the drugs to take over and give me courage, euphoria, confidence. It'll do all that, you know? Yeah, it could kill me, and yes, it's stupid as hell, but I do it anyway. I'm not right in the head, never have been. That's a problem of mine, one that I intend to work on at some point. I wonder briefly if I'd had real parents, if things would've been different. If, instead of being shuffled from home to home, I could've lived in one place, how I might've turned out.

I open my eyes and sit up, brushing the thoughts away like cobwebs. Introspection never helps; it only gets me more tangled up in my shit.

“Want to make out?” I ask Wren, studying his strong face, his stubbly jaw and then watching as he pulls his lip down with his middle finger and flashes me the tattoo there.
Fuck Yeah,
it reads. I scoot over and wait for him to join me, putting a hand on his chest before we start anything. “I don't want to screw though,” I tell him seriously. “Got it?” Wren just shrugs and wraps his arms around me, pressing his mouth to mine. I tangle my tongue with his and try not to imagine what Turner Campbell is doing right now, if he's dipping his dick into hot, wet heat and thinking of me.