Hard Rock Roots Box Set (91 page)

“Naomi, this is a conversation better left for later.”

“And why is that? When is it going to get better than this? More private? America, I don't know what you know or how you know it, but you better spill before anybody else gets lined up in a sniper's crosshairs. I'm sure that next time, they won't miss.” I purse my lips and turn away, moving barefoot across the tiled floor and onto the hardwood. I have no idea where Hayden went and that's bothering me. I feel like I should slap a GPS on her back. Wherever the bitch is, whatever she's doing, I'm sure it's not anything good.

“Have you ever considered that maybe that isn't why I'm holding back? That maybe there's something personal about the information I'm carrying?” Her voice is snippy, hard as ice and twice as cold. I pause next to the dining room table and look down at the green candles arranged in the centerpiece.
Pine Paradise
the stickers say. On impulse, I slide my lighter out of my pocket and toast the wicks with flame.

“To be honest with you,” I say, stepping back and examining the flickering glow dancing across the chocolate brown walls. It's kind of cozy in here, I guess. Well, when you look at it with squinted eyes maybe. I pull out a cig and use the candle to light up. “Never even crossed my mind.” I turn to look at her, smoke trailing out behind me, surrounding me in a ring of gray that hangs in the stagnant air like smog. “As far as you've always been concerned, the past is the past and what you've already told us is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You went to Harvard, you studied law, you passed the bar exam. Then you found us and the rest is history.” I raise my hands up and drop them back by my sides, holding my smoke between my lips. “So forgive me if I haven't been considerate of your feelings regarding the matter.”

“He was the love of my life,” she blurts, and I stop, frozen there like an irregularity in time, like something outside the normal flow of space and existence, an abnormality, a freak. America sighs and then turns in a storm of flurried emotions, smashing her wine glass into the basin sink. The wine bottle falls from her fingers and hits the floor, exploding into a million colored pieces, washing her slippered feet in wasted grapes. I watch as this woman, this soldier, this person who always acts as if she's perfection incarnate, breaks down right in front of me, collapsing emotionally into a heap of rage and pain. America grabs her face with her good hand, letting the sling swing by her side as she slams her back into the cabinets and lets out a controlled shriek into her palm.

“He?” I ask, glancing over at the bodyguard. As usual, the man's like a statue, frozen and emotionless, but listening. Always listening. Hey, this is the same guy that sat idly by while Turner and I fucked against a fence, so maybe he's alright, but you never know. You never freaking know. “Tyler Rutledge?”

“Travis,” she snaps, dropping her hand and snarling at me with white, white teeth, moving forward, through the puddle of alcohol, slippers soggy and squishing. From the darkened living room, I hear Turner stirring, sitting up with a start and a groan.

“Travis?” I ask, trying the name out on my tongue. Obviously, it's a fucking common ass name, but I feel like I'm missing something. Travis. Travis. Travis.

Oh.

Travis.

My head snaps up to America's blue eyes as Turner's footsteps move around the side of the couch and pause on the other side of the cabinets, flames dancing across his dark form as the candles flicker and smile on the blackness around us.

“What did you just say?” His voice is quiet and dark, like velvet wrapped around steel, soft but deadly. Ready to strike.

“He was the love of my life,” America whispers, voice so low I can barely make out the words. She clutches at her chest with her free hand, twists the fabric of her button up shirt with rigid corpse fingers. “Travis Gaborone. I loved him with everything,
everything
I had and everything I'll ever be. I loved him and then I lost him.” Her eyes tear up, staining her face with liquid I never thought I'd see. I take a step back and bump into the edge of the table. “And it's all my fault. All my fucking fault.”

“Travis' death was an accident,” Turner says, moving a few feet closer to me. “What happened to him was an accident.” America laughs, and it's dry as dirt, harsh and gritty.

“What happened to Travis,” she says. “Was murder.”

Chapter 6
Turner Campbell

“The fuck are you talking about, bitch?” I snarl, moving forward, getting in America's face, pushing her back with shaking hands. She pushes me right back and we get into a grapple that Naomi has to break up, moving us apart with quiet strength and presence more than anything else. What she doesn't know is that I'm not afraid to fuck up some bitch who's spewing lies about my best Goddamn friend, the friend who's been gone for a long, long time. Seven years without him. It's been a fucking ride, that's for sure. So, cast on her arm or no, I will beat the crap out of anyone who talks shit about Travis Gaborone, 'specially when they've got no right. No fucking right. “Travis was hit by a car when he was crossing the street. That's it. Ain't nobody ever said otherwise.”

“Yeah?” America asks with another laugh, one that makes my skin crawl. This chick is tough as nails with a thicker shell than Naomi Knox. Scary. “Hit by a car and then backed over. Yeah, that's right. The person who hit him went into reverse and ran over his body. Again. And Again. And again.” My blood starts to boil and the muscles in my jaw get tight, working hard as I grind my teeth together. I never got to see Travis' body, never got to hear the details of the accident. Just like with Trey, with Naomi, the law doesn't give a fuck how much love you got for that person. If you don't fit into their narrow ass bullshit definition of family, you can just forget about kissing your friend goodbye. Too fucking bad for you. And Travis' parents never said a thing, not one damn thing.

“How the hell would you know that?” I bark at her, trying but failing to keep my voice at a reasonable level. There's nothing reasonable about this shit. “How the fuck?!” I turn away before I hit her and move over to Naomi, wrapping an arm around her waist and burying my face against her blonde hair. I've never had anything like this,
anyone
like this. I close my eyes and breathe her in, feeling the pounding in my chest slow. If I wasn't so fucked in the head right now, I might feel good about this. Instead of drugs or drunken pussy, I've got Naomi, Goddess of Rock with legs for days and a smile so sharp it could cut. “How the fuck?”

“Because he was my fiancé, that's how,” America growls back at me, getting defensive. “You might not have known me, but I knew all about you. You and Ronnie, Jesse, Treyjan. Indecency. I was at every show. Every single fucking show.”

“Then how come I don't remember your ass?” I ask, moving back and turning towards her, letting my fists curls at my sides. The light from above the kitchen sink throws shadows across America's face, turning her perfect complexion into splotches of light and dark, intensified by the whisper of candles behind us. “Think I'd recall catching Travis tongue some yuppie bitch in the back of the venue.”

“We were careful to hide our relationship, so careful,” she whispers, hands shaking as she fingers the edges of her sling. And then her gaze snaps back to mine. “Besides, your head was so far up your ass back then, you couldn't see what was right in front of you.” America takes a step back and holds her hand out for something, Naomi's cigarette apparently. She hands it over without a fight.

“But why?” Naomi asks, standing stone still, eyebrows crinkled up and face full of questions. “Why even bother?”

“Because I knew what he'd do if he found out. Because I was afraid of him. Because I was already married.” America looks down at the fingers on her broken arm, reaching down with her other hand to touch a tan line on her ring finger.

“You were … married. And engaged?” Naomi asks while my head spins in circles and my stomach tightens up with emotion. I hate talking about Travis; we all do. Our lost brother. The pain is still so intense that I have a hard time even thinking about it without wanting to light up, shoot up, or fuck up. And I thought I knew everything about that night. I spent
days
on that street corner with candles and flowers and weeping fans. How could I have not known this? Bitch has to be lying. Has to be. Has to. Has to. Has to.

“Oh, don't get all high and mighty on me now, Naomi. You're certainly one to talk. Murder. Abortion. Drugs. You can't judge me!” she screams, and I take another step back. The raging blaze of ire in her voice is enough to set this whole place aflame. I spare a glance for the bodyguard, but he hasn't moved, and his face registers nothing. I hope we can trust him. Not that it matters anyway, right? Because this has got to be a lie. Or maybe I just wish it was. “I wanted to leave Stephen, but I couldn't. You don't understand how he is, what he's capable of.”

“Stephen Hammergren. Tyler Rutledge. You were married to this guy?” Naomi asks, and in her voice is an incredulous horror that hasn't started to sink into me yet. My soul's still getting used to the massive dick that's been shoved up in me, filling me with the sticky cum of reality. Yeah, it's fucking gross.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” I whisper, but nobody's listening to me. At least, I hope nobody is. If we're getting eavesdroppers, we might be fucked. I figure I should make a round through the hallway, check up the stairs, but I can't move. My feet may as well be chained to the fucking floor.
Travis was murdered? For loving a woman we didn't even know about?
My brain collapses into a memory of Travis, Jesse, Treyjan, Ronnie and I at Asuka's funeral. I can see the coffin in my mind like it was yesterday, white and gleaming, sterile and perfect, a ridiculous dichotomy of purity covering up the splash of ugly death inside. That was a bad day for all of us, but Travis kept a smile on his face, thanked our friends, our fans for their kind words, like he was a shield for Ronnie, absorbing some of that pain like a sponge. I miss the shit out of him.

“I was.” America's words, so quiet the crackle of the burning cherry nearly drowns them out. “I was married to him, and I was working towards a goal,
his
goal. To be a lawyer. At the time, I told myself he simply wanted success for me. Now, I know he was just grooming me to be at his side when he took over the world.” Her smile slices through the air, vibrating the molecules and making it hard to breathe. I snap my lips closed and suck in breath through my nostrils. I pat my pant pockets down looking for a joint. There's a good time for everything, right? Right? “But when I met Travis at a party, I … I changed. I saw Stephen for who he was, and things just went downhill from there. Down a slippery slope of blood and horror and fear like you wouldn't believe.” America finishes her cigarette and drops it into the sink with the broken glass. “You think this is bad now? Hit men? Murdered women? This is nothing compared to the hell he put me through when I tried to leave him. My parents are dead. My sister is dead. My soul mate is
dead.
Stephen Hammergren gets what he wants when he wants it, and if he can't have it? Nobody will. Nobody.” She sniffles once more and closes her eyes as I step back and pull out a chair, sinking down to the green cushion with a groan, putting my face in my hands.

Secrets.

They will fuck you every time, right up the ass, no reach around, no thank you, and sure as shit, no lube. No fucking lube. If ever there was a plague on humanity, this is it. Worse than the black plague, this shit is epidemic.

“I fucking
hate
secrets,” I growl against my palms. “Rotten, festering, rancid, rank, sour ass BULLSHIT!” My hand comes out and smacks the lit candle, smattering the table and the wall with hot wax as it rolls off, the flame sputtering to its death as it falls to the floor with a clatter. How am I going to tell Ronnie this? Jesse? I swallow hard and try not to black out, fly into a rage that'll make Stephen Hammergren look like a mewling kitten. Treyjan. How am I supposed to tell Treyjan this? What if he doesn't make it? What if he never knows that that shot to the head is all because of this. This bitch in a beige suit and pantyhose. I want it to be a lie so bad I feel like I'm giving myself a fucking hernia. But you know how the worst shit ever is always true? Always fucking true. It's usually the good stuff that's a lie.

“America … ” Naomi begins, but then the words fail her and she stands in silence, the weight of a revelation crushing our souls to shit. And I was having such a nice day, too. I wasn't shitting my pants thinking about Trey. I was relaxed to the ways of the universe, confident enough with Naomi in my arms. Calm. Now, I'm a live wire, ready to electrocute some motherfuckers and send them to an early grave. Oh, man. If I thought my rage was intense before, this is nothing. I feel like I've just descended into a new level of hell, something that little bitch Dante never saw in his inferno. This shit is so on. Stephen, Tyler, whoever the fuck he is wanted a war? Well, he's going to get one, and he better hope we're never alone in a room together. Can't guarantee he'd make it out of there alive. Or whole. I start getting these lurid fantasies about pulling fingernails off this cocksucker.

“When the phone calls stopped, and the threats, when I had nothing left to lose, I thought it was over. I guess he was just biding his time.” I hear her swallow hard, but I don't look that way. I can't help but blame her. Frankly, I'd like to grab America by the hair and smash her face into the countertop. But the other part of me, the Turner Campbell I'm just getting to know, wants to protect her. For Travis. Because that's what Travis would want. Now that I have Naomi, I know what love's like. You can't control it or tame it, and it can't be stopped. It's like a herd of fangirls, ready to trample you into the dirt. And he obviously loved this girl enough to sneak around with her, to try and keep her safe. He died for her. I have to remember that.

I reach up to my face and find that there are tears there. Fuck. I snatch the place mat off the table and wipe at my cheeks. Ain't nobody gonna see me sitting here crying like a fucking baby. I'm bigger than that. I can do better than that.