Hard Rock Roots Box Set (88 page)

“I think a jam session is
exactly
what I need right now,” Hayden pipes up, her voice cutting straight through Ronnie's and blocking out the conversation. Not that I can get anything from it. Nobody could. He's good like that, McGuire is. He not only knows how to get gossip, but also how to keep it off of him. With the whole kid thing, he's the talk of the town right now, but I know he'll do anything to keep the monster from growing. I take a drag and hold the smoke tight in my chest, waiting for one of the members of Amatory Riot to respond to that statement.

“Fantastic.” America slams her laptop closed and stands up, taking her cup of coffee with her. “With this …
rodeo
we've been living for the past few weeks, practice has hardly been a priority, and it needs to be. We're not sounding our best lately, and nobody wants to pay to see a sloppy performance.” I turn around and watch Naomi raise her face to America. Behind her, Hayden sniffles and adjusts the bandages on her black and blue face. She looks like some kind of candy bitch from
Charlie and the
Goddamn
Chocolate Factory.
Violet Whore-regarde or some shit. I scoff and turn away.

“Like Turner said, how appropriate is that?” Naomi asks, voice low, directing some sort of hidden message towards her manager. Whatever it is, America ignores it and sets her coffee down after a careful sip. She swipes at some imaginary dust on her skirt and snaps her fingers, startling Wren half out of his chair and waking Dax up from a nap in the one opposite. He looks better today, but not great. Tornado ass kickings apparently don't go ever well with the Little Drummer Boy.

“Was it your friend who got shot, Naomi? As far as I can tell, you have little to nothing to do with the man. Using his accident as an excuse to be lazy is far more insulting than simply participating. I understand your kidnapping was traumatic, but the person responsible is dead and his sister incarcerated. I forgive them both for what they did to me. It's time you moved on from this and got back to work. We have a tour to finish, one that, if I understand Mr. Terrabotti correctly, could result in some international bookings as well.” Naomi stares at her manager with narrowed eyes. It's obvious that America's putting on a show. What's not obvious is why she's trying so hard. Is it just Hayden or something else? She knew this Tyler Rutledge guy, so I'm sure she knows a whole fuckload else, too. Are there more people involved than Lola knows? I try not to get too deep into thoughts of conspiracy and whatever the hell else. If this Stephen Hammergren dude is really after us, then he's got ways of looking in on us without using a spy. Maybe he even knows everything we do? The question here is: why the fuck does he care so much?

“You are such a fucking bitch sometimes,” Naomi says, rising to her feet with a groan. I look at her just in time to snag her gaze, holding on tight and narrowing my eyes. She looks at me, but she doesn't give me anything to go off. “Sorry, Turner.” She looks over at Ronnie who's still on the phone and then back at me. “Maybe after this we can go for a walk or something?” I nod and watch as she picks up her notebook, moving after her manager with a maniacally grinning Hayden Lee at her heels. When she passes by me, she actually reaches out and squeezes my biceps with her fingers, sending a scalding thrill through my blood that makes me grit my teeth and slide my tongue ring across the roof of my mouth.
Fuck.
My dick gets more rigid than a Catholic school teacher, and my heart pounds like a hammer against my chest.

I turn as she goes, heading down the hallway with her bandmates, stuck on her like fucking glue. One year, ten, a hundred, and I'll never get tired of Naomi Knox. That's how I know I love her. I know because all the other girls I've been with haven't meant shit. Being around them for more than an hour or two was like torture, like I was drowning in them and not in a good way. When Naomi's not around, I'm parched, dry, desperate to be soaked with her wet. I shiver as Ronnie hangs up the phone, and Wren and Dax struggle after their manager and her crew.

“Man, detox's a bitch. Don't know how much more of this I can take.” Ronnie rubs his hands down his face and gives me a look. “You want to get in line with Snow White, my friend?” he asks me and gestures up at the stairs. I shrug and follow after him, dropping my cig into the ashtray on the table behind the couch. I doubt Ronnie's really up to doing some blow, but it's a good excuse to get us up and out of that living room. The roadie chick's busy cleaning the coffee table off, and Milo's sighing and flipping pages in a notepad next to his computer. The bodyguards stay downstairs, too, which is a big motherfucking bonus.

“She's alright?” I ask him quietly as we hit the landing and continue up. Ronnie's got this intense look in his brown eyes that I haven't seen in forever. It's thoughtful, but not so introspective you feel like he's about to drop away inside of himself and disappear for eternity. I'm glad to see he's back, and that he's on my side. He's fucking smart as hell. Never had trouble passing his classes when he really tried.

“Lola's fine,” he replies, scratching at the snake tats on his throat. He's got on clean clothes again today, another good sign. Might be covered in sweat and shaking like a whore off the pipe, but he's all there upstairs today. “And she said she saw her sister, but only through a window. They didn't get to talk. Lola doesn't think Poppet even knew she was there.”

“What about my … ” I can't even say it. I feel so guilty, like my antics onstage got Trey shot. If I'd kept my fat ass mouth shut like Ronnie had asked, would Trey still be with us? On the road and not holed up in some shit box in the middle of fuck ass nowhere? I can't shake that feeling that we're here because of me. “My declaration. Did anyone talk to her about that?” Ronnie sniffles and wipes at his nose with his wrist before unlocking the door to his room and holding out a hand for me to enter. I move inside and take a look around. Same boring ass décor as mine and Naomi's. A double bed with dark blue blankets, some pictures of cottages on the walls, one of those faux stone electric fireplace things. Tacky as all fuck off.

Ronnie moves into the room and looks around like he's searching for something.

“I hope there aren't any hidden cameras or mics in here,” he says with a sigh. “If America isn't shitting us, and Stephen Hammergren really is behind all of this shit, we're fucked. The guy has more money than a dozen small countries put together.” Ronnie hikes up his loose ass pants and then runs his fingers through his hair. It's clean and shiny for once. It's an odd new trend for him. I light up another cigarette. Might as well nurse the least deadly demon in my arsenal of darkness, if you catch my drift. Better to smoke a pack a day than hit up hell's kitchen for some smack. Ronnie sits down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, cig still hanging from his lips. “And honestly, I can't see that it's even feasible that she's telling the truth because then, why the fuck are we still alive? This guy could have swat teams descend on us. He could hire some kook to cook up ricin poison and lace our food.”

“Um,” I snap my fingers. “Unless he's a Goddamn sociopath who wants to see us suffer. You ever thought of that? To some people, it's not the end that justifies the means. It's the process that they're after, you know? Like, my momma for example. She could've knocked me out with a single hit, knew exactly how to do it, too. But that's not what it was about. It was about the pain. So she held back. Maybe that's what this dude, this Stephen guy, is doing.”

“But why?” Ronnie asks, throwing the million dollar question out there to hang in the air like smoke. We stare at each other for a long, silent moment, but nothing comes to mind. I get Ice and Glass's motivation, I do. The golden ticket's what everyone is after, isn't it? But this guy, he's already rich enough, obviously has some clout, some influence. What the fuck does he want with us? If he was just after the fame, the prestige of having a successful band under his label, why not just sign us? Why not do some bullshit market research crap and make up a fake group, one that meets all the criteria from some focus group? I hate to say it, but people are easily duped. It's not just that. There's more to all of this.

“Fuck if I know,” I say with a sigh, turning around and sitting down on the bed next to him. Smoke curls around our heads like perverse clouds, tentacles of tobacco licking at our hair and the rubber plugs in our earlobes. “But I think America does.” Ronnie smiles and tilts his head to look at me.

“You know what, Turner?” he asks with a slow grin. “So do I. Now we just have to figure out a way to get it out of her.” His smiles fades as quickly as it came, and he clears his throat, pulling his smoke out of his mouth with two fingers. “Anyway, Lola says nothing's changed. Terre Haute and Burning the Bleeding are considering backing out of the tour, but I doubt that'll happen, not with Milo and America in charge. Otherwise, she says she's just trying to lay low and wait. Frankly, I think that's probably best for all of us.”

“You call your kids?” I ask him, wondering how Jesse's doing. I haven't seen him this morning. He's locked away in his room and won't answer the door. I think he might be strung out on junk, but who the hell knows?
Fucking Trey. You better make it out of this alright, you Goddamn tool.
My throat gets tight, but I ignore the emotion. No news is good news. I've gotta believe that. I
have
to. I did for Naomi and things worked out alright, didn't they?

“Yeah. I made my rounds. Everything's alright with Eve and Maria for now. Nothing new to report there. Shannon's fucking piece of shit parents won't talk to me other than to say that Phoebe's alive, and my parents … God, I miss Lydia already.” Ronnie closes his eyes tight and then opens them slowly. “I miss the fuck out of that kid, Turner.” I clamp my hand on my friend's shoulder and squeeze hard. I don't know what it's like to have a child, but I know that I'd do fucking
anything
for them if I had one. Someday soon, maybe. Me and Naomi. Fuck, it's almost enough to make me man swoon. “After … this crap and this tour are over, I gotta go back home and figure out how to make this work.” He pauses, sniffles. I'm not really all that good with these heart to heart bro talks, but Ronnie is, and he makes the effort, so I go with it. “You guys'll come with?”

“Duh, you stupid fuckwad,” I say, trying not to get too into the emotional stuff. With Trey lying out bloody and fucked up in a hospital, I'm prone to get deep, and I don't want to go there. “I wouldn't trust you to raise a child alone anyway. It'd be like reckless abandonment or some crap if I didn't go.” I smoke my cigarette and we smile at each other. Just two fucking brothers sharing a friggin' Hallmark moment.

Let's just hope that Trey comes back to pick up the slack. With bleeding heart Ronnie over here, I could use all the help I can get.
You better make it through this, asshole. You damn well better. Because if you don't, I'm afraid a lightbulb's going to go out on my shiny new future.

Amatory Riot's jam session is taking place in the downstairs rec room at the end of the hallway. It's this massive open area with a couple beat up couches and a big ass TV. I didn't see it yesterday, but then, I didn't really explore the house. It's a lot bigger than it first looks, stretching back into the spindly wilderness like a plague, cutting through the trees and looming over the desolate landscape like a boogie monster.

“Hah.”

I'm standing on a balcony that overlooks the room, smoking yet another cigarette and nursing a beer. I want to stay clean, but it's so damn hard. Instead of going cold turkey, I'm trying to wean myself off the good stuff, take a few steps down the flight of stairs into sobriety. Ugh. Stone cold and unforgiving. Not sure how long I'm going to be able to do it.

“If you're not going to give a shit, you might as well fuck off and beat it upstairs in your bedroom, Kash,” America snarls as she sits back against the wall, balanced on the top of a speaker with a bottled water in one hand and a sneer on her face wicked enough to burn holes in the friggin' stratosphere. Ain't no practice pads or portable bullshit set up here. America's had all of Amatory Riot's equipment brought in and set up as if they were playing a set, right here, right now. Poor Spencer with the butterfly wing tats has had her work cut out for her. Makes sense though. There aren't any neighbors to piss off, and this is more than just about the music. This about putting on a fucking show. That, and politics.

“Doesn't really matter what I do, does it? I'm not the star of this show. I'm just a Goddamn backup dancer. As long as I'm hitting all the moves, nobody's gonna notice otherwise.” Kash lets his head drop back with a groan. He's pissed; I don't blame him. The focus isn't on him. The spotlight's shining for Naomi, for Hayden, me, even Ronnie. But he hasn't been picked out of the elite for a spot amongst the gods.

“Olympus is a long way off my friend,” I mumble as I lean forward and rest my head on my hands, gazing down over the railing at the six members of a band I barely knew existed at the start of this tour. A smirk crawls across my face. Oh, how things have changed. And I wonder, if Hayden's right, Lola's right, and we're all targets then they're all in trouble, even the poor disenchanted Kash. And Wren. That retro chick, Blair. Dax.