Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (20 page)

“And why's that?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Because,” Brayden begins, and there's something in his voice that tells me I should be paying attention. “Paulette might be the producer, but I'm the host. I just wanted you to remember that.”

I set up my kit in Sydney's room—my room, too, I guess—and try not to let the feelings in my chest overwhelm me. I thought if more people knew about Tara, that the pain and failure I felt whenever I thought about her would go away.

It hasn't.

Fuck. With the Hayden thing, it's actually all gotten so much worse. Now, instead of remembering her sweet smile and the gentle touch of her mouth on mine, I see the way she looked as she swallowed that handful of pills, I see blood.

Splatters of red tint my nightmares and now that I'm working on weaning myself off the drugs, they taint my daylight too. When I see sunshine, I see the way it glittered off the darkness of her hair and the stain of blood that surrounded her head like a halo. When I hear birds chirp, I see Hayden putting the gun to her and head and blowing her brains out. All of that, though, it goes away when I'm with Sydney.

I stand up and shove my fingers through my hair, glancing over at her. She's laying across the bedspread in a glorious sprawl. Just the sight of her's enough to turn my dick to diamond and push back the pain—for a second anyway. But then I look at my kit and it all comes rushing in like a tsunami.
The hell did I let her talk me into bringing this stupid thing up here for?

I can still remember the day Tara surprised me with these drums, the way she yanked off the white sheet with a look of accomplishment and pride on her delicate face. She thought she'd really done something important that day, made a difference in the world. And she did, really. It wasn't enough for either of us at the time, but it was one of a few bright spots in an otherwise empty world for both of us.

“Tell me about it,” Sydney says and the bed creaks a little, sending a chill down my spine.

“It's a Tama SuperStar seven piece with maple shells and low-mass single lugs. It was used when Tara bought it. Maybe it's vintage now.” I shrug like I don't give a shit. But I do. Goddamn it, but I think I give
way
too many shits. Maybe I need another 'session' like we had down in the office? Something to clear my head. “I added on a few extras, like these custom dark hi-hats. Pretty fucking fly, right?”

“That's not what I'm talking about,” she says, but I don't care. I move around to the throne and sit down hard, sliding a pair of sticks from my right boot. I don't look up. Can't look at Sydney's face right now or it'll all come a tumblin' out. Hell, I might even cry and how the fuck would that help my emo boy persona?

“The heads aren't terrible, and if I remember correctly, the thing tunes up something decent.” I sigh and rub a thumb along the scratched blue lacquer. The entire kit's covered in stickers—an original teenage concept, I'm sure—and it's beat to shit, but I can still pound out a tune.

I spin my sticks in my hands and take a deep breath.

“You don't have to talk about music with me, Dax,” she says, her voice sounding softer, comforting in an almost frightening sort of way. Like, I could really count on Sydney if I needed to. I look up at her red mouth, at her brightly colored fingernails curling into the bedspread and I want to talk. And talk. And fucking talk.

But the reality is, we
still
don't know each other all that well and there's
still
a crazy Irish man threatening us with a bunch of vague statements and bullshit. I'm sure it's some screwed up scare tactic, like maybe Brayden actually
does
want to help us, but he got his point across.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Fuck him.

I spin my sticks again and turn my attention inward, away from Sydney and towards some distant sound that only I can hear. Now that we're off the tour and I've got some time on my hands (theoretically, right, since who the hell knows if I'll get shot by a sniper tomorrow), I'm going to write a song. Or maybe a couple. Naomi's laying in Turner's room, asleep and unaware, and this fame will only carry us so far for so long. Part of me knows that no matter how permanent something seems, whether good or bad, it'll eventually go away. Right now, that's a comfort, knowing that nothing lasts forever.

So maybe I'll write our next album? This fucking band owes me a song or two at least.

I start off with a standard rock fill, nothing fancy. Just a few drags on my tom and a clash of cymbals, anything to move my mind along and forget all this crap. If I want to get through this nightmare alive
and
intact, I have to remember exactly
why
it is that I'm doing all of this, why I'm here.

The music.

And maybe the girl,
my unconscious mind quips.
Motherfucker.

I stare into Sydney's blue eyes, letting her gaze lock me down as my hands start to wander and I have no idea what the hell it is that I'm playing anymore. A few blinks later and I realize I'm in the middle of some two-handed sixteenth note beats, my hands alternating between the hi-hats and the snare.

I distract myself by counting the notes.

1 e & a 2 e & a 3 e & a 4 e & a

One ee and uh two ee and uh three ee and a four ee and uh …

Sydney's still staring at me as I play, little beads of sweat dripping down my forehead as I look right back at her and try to figure this all out. The good thing about trying to think while I play is that I can't get distracted by my own head. The music, the movement, the contraction of my muscles, it distracts me enough that the thoughts actually coming through my brain are distilled, almost pure.

Rich people are trying to kill me.

Okay, at least I know that much.

None of this makes sense.

But since when has having money ever helped anyone have any fucking sense?

I'm in love with the girl.

Now there's a doozy.

I watch as Sydney flicks her hair back and stands up, running her tongue along her full lower lip as she lifts her hands to the ties of the skimpy black top she's got on and slowly—oh so fucking slowly—pulls the knot apart. I lick my lips, too, watching her, playing for her, getting ready for a striptease that I feel like I've been waiting for since the moment I met her …

And then the fucking door flies open and I drop my sticks to the floor.

It's Turner Campbell.

Son of a bitch.

“Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you right now?” I snarl and the man looks at me like he has no idea what language I'm speaking, let alone that I just threatened his life.

“Naomi's up,” he says, and I can see the flutter of lashes and the thumping pulse of his heart in his throat. “And she wants to see you. Now.”

I stand up from my throne and catch Sydney's lingering expression. She looks disappointed.

So is my dick.

Now I get to go greet my friend with a raging hard-on.

What's new, right?

“
Get me out of here,”
Naomi rasps, clinging to my arm for dear life. She looks better than I did after the whole tornado thing, but I can see even this small amount of effort is bringing beads of sweat up on her forehead.
“Now.”

“You're talkin' crazy, baby,” Turner says, squatting on the opposite side of the bed and resting his chin on the comforter. His face is so …
soft.
It's weird. Some deep, dark part of me likes seeing this side of him, makes me want to smirk and gloat and pick, but that's not who I am. Fuck, I know if our situations were reversed, Turner'd be cracking jokes left and right at my expense. Instead, I hold my tongue and draw my arm away from Naomi, crossing both over my chest as I try to make myself smile.

“It's nice to see you're awake,” I tell her honestly, risking a glance up at Sydney. “And joking around.” Naomi struggles to sit up, her breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts that make my lungs hurt just listening to 'em.

“It's not a joke,” she says, completely out of breath, blonde hair stuck to her chapped lips as she flicks a glance over at Turner. “I'm not living with him, and I'm
definitely
not marrying him, and who the
fuck
made him my power of attorney?”

“You said if you survived the concert,” Turner starts, but pauses at a knock on the door. We all freeze as Sydney opens it and steps back to let Ronnie in. The expression on his face is sour and pinched. Maybe he ran into Brayden, too?

“He's still out there, isn't he?” I ask and Ronnie shakes his head.

“No,
she's
out there now,” he corrects. No need for clarification. We both get it.

I light up a cigarette and look over at Sydney again; she doesn't look very happy.

“Who's still sitting there?” Naomi croaks, brushing shaking fingers through her hair as Turner stands up and pulls out a smoke. He lights it and passes it over to her. How fucking sweet, sharing the lung cancer with his girlfriend.

Naomi snatches the cigarette with shaking fingers and struggles to place it between her lips, lips that used to make me drool when they parted like that. Now … I let my gaze trail back to Sydney, to her fire engine red lipstick. Naomi's got this rough rocker chick thing going on that used to make me crazy, but I think I like Sydney's pop of color better.

I run a hand over my face.

“Not all that important,” Ronnie says as Turner raises a dark brow at him. “Anyway, it's good to see you up and about.”

“Yeah, well,” she starts, but her voice trails off and she glances away, breath heavy and hard. When she next speaks, her words are even raspier, even more broken than before. The sound is less an emotional bleed and more a physical thing. I think. I shift uncomfortably and tuck my hands in my back pockets.

That voice, that's key to our future as a band. If it's permanently broken … I don't let myself finish that thought.

“Get me the fuck out of here.” Naomi pauses, taking a drag on her cigarette and then looking up … up … up.
Jesus Christ, the ceilings in here are tall.
“Wherever
here
is.”

“I bought you a mansion,” Turner says, standing up straight and adjusting his nuts for good measure, just to remind us all that he's not actually a nice guy, just a tool with some soft edges. Fucker. “A palace. It's like the Taj Mahal, baby. Built for my very own princess.”

“You bought a mansion?” Naomi asks, her voice twice as full of skepticism and distaste as I'd expected.
Fantastic.
“Are you stupid? How much did this place cost anyway?” A flicker of irritation skitters across Turner's face before he shakes it off and opens his mouth to answer.

Ronnie steps in and interrupts before Turner seriously sends Naomi into a fit. She just woke up from a goddamn coma. Last thing she needs is sticker shock. Serious, serious sticker shock.

“We're just glad you're awake,” Ronnie says again, making himself smile as he risks a glance at the closed bedroom door. “Watching Turner mope around was getting to be too much for the rest of us. Talk about a wet blanket.”

“Screw you, motherfucker. I watched you mope for like, ten years or something.” Turner lights up another cigarette and starts smoking it, cupping the lighter with inked fingers as his gaze drifts over to me, Sydney, then back to Ronnie. “You can deal with a couple of weeks, asshole. What you should be worrying about,” Turner continues as he nods his chin at me and Naomi's gaze swings my way again. We lock eyes, my gray ones staring into her orange-brown. I should probably tell her about Blair, but I can barely think about my friend without getting sick to my stomach. “Is that this emo bitch signed us up for reality TV.”

There's a long, pregnant pause before Naomi blinks slowly at me. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” she says, and I do.