Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (15 page)

“That's the Wilders. The Waltons are the rich, selfish a-holes who own Walmart,” I say and Turner smirks.

“Yeah, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? Get your tits done down there at the super center?”

“That's seriously fucking
it,
” Dax growls as I spin and spear Turner with a dead serious fucking gaze. “One more comment like that, and I
will drop you.
” The look on my new beau's face tells me he
means
it.

“Make all the jokes you want at my expense, but isn't Naomi scheduled to come home in the next few days? How funny would it be if that bullet Brayden was talking about was meant for her? You and Knox sure have done an admirable fucking job of drawing all the attention your way. If anyone should be worried about this shit, it should be
you.
”

Turner's mouth pinches tight as he jerks his head away like he could give two fucks less than nothing. Nice acting, but his hands are shaking as he lights a cigarette and puts it to his lips.

“Even if what you're saying—what that leprechaun
bitch
is saying—is true, so what? What do you want me to do about it?”

“Sounds to me like there are more than just two sides here,” I say, trying to keep my temper down and the punch of anxiety in my belly at bay. If I start flipping shit, the rest of these assholes are seriously screwed. “I don't trust Brayden Ryker, but when it comes to motivation, he seems to have it pointing in the right direction. I say for now, we stick with him and see what happens.”

“And if you're wrong about that?” Turner asks around his cigarette. I glance back at Dax, but it doesn't look like he's got any answers either. And I thought being a crack addict was hard. Heh. At least I wasn't always
aware
of my problems back then. Right now, my mind is crystal. I hold Dax's gray gaze for a moment before glancing over at my brother, at Turner, at Lola sitting on the bed next to Ronnie. Her small form is draped in a loose T-shirt, just long enough to hide whatever panties—or lack thereof—that she might be wearing. The sardonic expression on her face tells me she's not surprised by any of this.

I don't have an answer for her, for Turner, for any of them. My stripper senses only extend so fucking far. So I shrug my shoulders and turn away, my pink leopard trim heels loud on the cold marble floor. Dax follows and the bedroom door swings softly shut behind us.

“You sure you don't want to go back in there and tell my brother that we're dating?” I ask with a raised brow as I pause at the top of the stairs and glance back at Dax. “Might be a fun way to finish off our shit stained morning, don't you think?”

Dax gives me a tight smile that doesn't even come close to hiding the fear in his eyes. I think most of that look is for me, but I don't need it. I'm not scared of the Washingtons or the Hardings or the Hammergrens; I'm not fucking scared of anything. The thumping pulse in my throat begs to differ on that, but she can go fuck herself. Bravado's always worked for me in the past. What makes this situation any different?

“If we do that, I have a feeling he'll open his big mouth and then maybe we won't need the Washingtons or the Hammergrens to kill your brother because I'll be finishing the job for them.”

“Don't talk like that so early in the
a.m.,
” I drawl as I turn to face Dax, my heels precariously close to the edge of the staircase. I feel like Meryl Streep in
Death Becomes Her,
a few precious seconds away from tumbling down these steps and breaking my neck. “It turns me on somethin' fierce. No more Trey? Sounds like a dream come true.” I smile as Dax wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me away from the edge, resting his hands tentatively on my hips like he's trying to test these new waters of ours. I'll be right there with him, struggling to swim. I'm not exactly an expert on relationships. Sex, I know how to do. Everything else … eh, there's a learning curve.

“Come to think of it, I thought I had
permission
to date you?” he asks with a crooked twist of his lips. Right now, in the golden light streaming in from the skylights above us, I can see the tattoos on the backs of his eyelids with perfect clarity.
Born Wrong.
But right. Oh so right.

“Well, there's a definite difference between practice and theory. You sure you don't want to make a shitty morning even shittier? I bet Turner'd jump in there, too.”

“Just promise me that you won't be pissed when I have to punch your brother. I know he's crippled and all that, but he's kind of a dick.”

I pause for a moment, tapping my finger against my lips and then shrug.

“I must admit, I've gone there a time or two in my day.” I slide my arms around Dax's neck, feeling the strong muscles in his back and shoulders. Our mouths meet and I shiver at the icy coolness of his lips against his mine. Kissing Dax is like leaping headfirst off a cliff into the cool blue ice of a winter frosted lake. It stops the heart and then starts it again at a frantic, thumping pace.

I almost wish it'd kill me.

I draw back with a gasp and a sigh before grinning up at him. It feels like something momentous happened last night, but I know that to everyone
but
Dax and me, it's just another day.
Didn't you just swear off this dude?
my mind asks me yet again, but I'm no longer listening. I am Crazy Sydney, and I do things just to do 'em. Oh, and emo dudes. I
do
those too, apparently. Go figure.

“Shall we
breakfast?
” I ask, keeping the mood light because well, it just fucking has to be. I'm not going to live my life slinking around, shrouded in darkness, not for Paulette Washington, not for anybody. Speaking of Paulette …

I pause and glance over my shoulder as I catch a snippet of conversation from downstairs.

“Do you hear what I hear?” I ask as the skin around Dax's nose crinkles up. It could be a news anchor from CNN … or even worse, one from
Fox
. More than likely though, that perfect, polished gem of a voice belongs to the Devil herself. “Fuck a crapper,” I groan under my breath, turning back towards the staircase.

“My thoughts exactly,” Dax muses as he follows me down the stone steps. We pause at the entrance to the living room to find Paulette Washington sitting with Milo Terrabotti around the coffee table, white paper cups held in their hands.

“Miss
Shuh-Rell,
” Paulette oozes as she glances over her shoulder, actually pronouncing my last name correctly. Almost no one does. “Mr. McCann. How are you both doing this morning?”

“We
were
doing great …” I get out a smoke and flick my thumb over the metal wheel on my magenta lighter. “… until you showed up.” I take a drag, staring at Paulette with a caustic smile marring my face. She's remarkably similar to her sister, America. Maybe not in looks, but in attitude certainly. If I have to, I will tear this bitch down the same way I did the other one. “What do you want? Isn't filming supposed to start on Wednesday? Or did you come here to rustle up a little more drama?”

Paulette rises from the couch and smooths out her skirt, smiling up at me like she actually
likes
me. This coming from the woman who killed Cohen Rose and dumped him in a bathtub. I shiver a little when I think about it.

“Do you know why I'm still alive, Sydney?”

“You can keep calling me Miss Charell,” I say, crossing my arms under my breasts. “And can I take a guess and say that it's because you continue to eat, breathe, and fuck?”

“The Hammergren family, with Stephen at its helm, killed nearly everyone I loved. It might be difficult for you to understand, considering your low socioeconomic status, but there is an elite in this beautiful ugly world of ours, a nobility. My family was a part of that,” she continues, moving towards me. I stand stone still with Dax at my side. He's frowning, the corner of his lip twisted in disgust. I appreciate the emotion, but I don't give a fuck. Low socioeconomic status? Is that supposed to be an insult? Fuck this bitch. “But it wasn't enough, not for my parents or my brother.” Paulette pauses next to me and continues to smile. She looks like a magazine ad, all glossy and perfect. A stock photo.

“Your point being?” I ask as she pauses and shakes her head softly, those brunette waves of hers glossy and shimmering in the sunshine streaming in from the backyard. I open my mouth to add a little more fat to the fire when I catch sight of Brayden standing near the sliding back doors, his arms crossed over his massive chest. The look he sends me says everything.
Play nice.

Well, shit. That's a lesson I missed in kindergarten. Maybe because I never went … But I do know a whole hell of a lot about self-preservation. Something in my chest besides my implants is telling me to keep my mouth shut right now.

Grin and bear it, baby. I look Paulette straight in the face and raise a single brow.

“My point is that my family is dead, so what makes you so special? You're a stripper from Los Angeles, a drifter, a nobody. The only person alive on this earth that can help you now is … me.” Paulette sweeps her hair back and smiles at me. “To me, this is a game. To you, it's life or death. So why not play to help me win?”

It's hard to relax with threats and intrigue hanging in the air like rotten, maggot infested fruit. It's as if this whole mansion—this beautifully ostentatious swath of luxury—smells cloyingly sweet, like a bloated peach. I know it's all in my fucking head, but I can't shake the feeling off. It clings to my skin like the sweat I'm
not
sporting thanks to a killer HVAC unit.

“This place is ridiculous,” I tell Sydney as we stand awkwardly in the kitchen, both our gazes drawn to the cameras dotting the ceiling. There's a few more in here, I'm sure, but I'd rather not go looking for them; I'd rather
not
know.

I run my hand over the stone countertop and shake my head. I feel like an asshole complaining about all of this, but come on, how much does a person really need to be happy? A place this big, it's too much for
both
bands combined. I feel like a dick just sleeping here.

“He couldn't just run out and buy a house in the 'burbs?” I ask as Sydney turns around and leans her elbows against the upper portion of the breakfast bar. Her breasts are on full display when she stands like that, trussed up and swollen from the white maxi dress she slipped on over her bathing suit. We've been dating officially for like, six hours and I'm already starting to freak.

The hell did I bring all that up for last night? We went out to talk and ended up an item? I really am an emo bitch sometimes.

“Well, you know,” Sydney begins as she glances around the gleaming palace of stainless steel, precious stone, and custom cabinets, “Turner
is
an asshole of the worst kind. I don't think he knows any better.”

“Better?” the asshole in question asks as he saunters into the kitchen with a smug expression that's just
begging
to be slapped off his pretty little face. “I lived in a fucking trailer with step-daddies who jacked it to my sleeping face. I
deserve
this fucking shit.” Turner points to the floor and then raises his chin with a grin, casting a look my way that just begs me to argue with him. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and wait for whatever it is he wants to say. Clearly, he came in here with a purpose in mind.

“Let me guess, I missed something important? Did the San Andreas fault finally blow? Are we awaiting a tsunami?” Sydney asks as she stands up straight and plants her hands on her hips, the peacock feather earrings she slipped through her lobes floating in the artificial breeze from the AC.
Goddamn, she's beautiful,
I think as I take in her generous curves, the high peaks of her cheekbones, her glimmering baby blues.

Turner doesn't answer right away, letting his lips curl up in a massive grin as he digs out a pack of cigarettes and lights up, the rubber bracelets on his arms squeaking with the motion. He's got a good dozen crammed on his forearm. I think one of them even says
Mrs. McCann.
Where the fuck did that come from?