Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (23 page)

Fuck.

“This is good enough for now. I think even at this level Trey's capable of chasing you down at your shoot and wreaking havoc,” Ronnie jokes with a small smile, watching as Sydney continues to fuss with Trey's hair. She glances up at him, a fucking vision in a loose tank and jean shorts, high heels the color of coral but twice as bright. It's hard
not
to look at her, to get sucked into that vortex of color and brightness. She's like the sun, and me, I feel like the moon, something dark enough to reflect back her light.

“Damn straight. I don't know how I feel about my sister posing naked. Freaks me the fuck out.”

“I've been stripping for ten years,” Sydney says with a loose shrug of her shoulders. The baggy white fabric of the tank slides down her arm and reveals a bright pink bra strap, covered in lace. Bet you can guess what happens to me then.
Bingo.
“You guys need to chill out and relax. I think I can manage myself at this point.”

“Thirteen years,” Trey corrects. I give him a look meant to shut him down, but all he does is glare back at me from his wheelchair. “You always say ten, but it's been thirteen.”

“You know what,” she says as she leans down and flicks him behind the ear. “Why don't you shut the fuck up, you little smart ass.” Sydney stands up straight and gives me another look from across the room, one that says
let's get the hell out of here.
These group meetings are great and all, a way to stay grounded, to keep track of all the bullshit that's going on around us, but I need a frigging break every once in a while.

“Question,” Naomi says, her voice much more normal, less broken than it was the first day she got here.
Thank God.
I need some normal in my life, and even if Blair doesn't wake up … Shit. It's hard to even go there, but if she doesn't, then I need the music back. I need Kash and Wren and Naomi and Amatory Riot, and I need to try like hell to make things work right again, to figure out where I belong.

“Anything you want, baby doll,” Turner says, hooking his hands together behind his head, his face this disgustingly tender mixture of feelings that I find hard to look at. Guess I'm not the
only
emo bitch in attendance today, huh? I have a strong urge to pick at him, but I don't think that'll go over too well right now.

“Call me
baby doll
again, and you'll be in even hotter water than you already are—if that's even possible,” she adds under her breath, reaching up to push her blonde hair back. Naomi's got on this loose black tank, the paleness of her arms a strange contrast against Sydney's wrist to shoulder mural. They're standing so close right now, it'd be hard
not
to compare them. I find that I like Sydney a hell of a lot better—even if her singing leaves a lot to be desired.

My lips twitch with a small smile, one that slides off my face when I find Naomi glaring at me.

“What?” I ask, trying not to snap at her. Things have been tense since she threw the fucking laptop at me. But seriously? Hypocrite much? It's okay for her and Turner to have a sex tape, but not me and Sydney? Whatever.

“Brayden hinted at … something about Tyler, right?”

“Yeah,” Ronnie replies, even though Naomi's still looking at me. Her gaze swings over to him, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his dark hair razored and perfect, clean and straight, nothing at all like the old Ronnie, the one we started our nightmare tour with. “He said if we listened to him, played along with his shit, that maybe … we could get Travis' son back. Sounds like a fucking fantasy to me, but what the hell do I know?”

“What about Cassie?” Naomi croaks, starting to cough. Turner's there in a split second with a glass of water. I watch as our new lead singer yanks it from his grip with a scowl and chugs a swallow. Me, my blood goes completely cold and my breath hitches hard enough to make me wince.

Cassie. Hayden's daughter. Hayden's
and
Eric's daughter. The one that Stephen adopted, the one that somehow, through no fault of her own, lead America to find our band, use us, drag us into this crap.

My heart starts to beat frantically and my eyes close. I'm suddenly having a hard time standing, putting out a hand to lean against the wall.
Hayden.
Fuck. I know everybody hated her and hell, sometimes I did, too, but I still miss her. Shit, but I do. She was my friend—a crappy friend sometimes—but still my friend.

“He didn't mention her?” Ronnie says with a question mark, like he's not exactly sure about that answer.

“Hmm.” That's all Naomi says, but when I look up, our eyes meet and I know we're both thinking about Amatory Riot, about America, about Hayden, about Blair. A flicker of memory hits me like a Mack truck, an early morning seated around the table on our bus, one of America's home-cooked meals in front of us.

“I need a break from this shit,” I say as I turn and flee that room like I'm on fire. I know there are cameras tracking my movements down the hallway, down the stairs, but I don't stop until I'm outside, staring down at the cool blue waters of the swimming pool.

Things have changed so much, so fucking much. I don't even know how to cope with any of it.

“Dax.” It's Sydney, appearing behind me in her tank top and shorts, her bangs hiding the questioning lift of her brows as she looks over at me, sunlight streaming across the golden halo of her hair. “You okay?”

“Not exactly,” I say, but I don't know how to explain what it is that I'm feeling. “I just … I haven't thought about Cassie once since the concert.” I tuck my fingers in my front pockets and look down at the black combat boots on my feet. “Am I that much of a selfish dick? All Hayden really wanted was to keep her daughter safe.” A small burst of laughter escapes my throat as I look up at the sky. “That's why she did what she did, you know? The reason behind it all. But … now that I know the full story, everything from start to finish, I don't really think Stephen would hurt Cassie anyway. I mean, he's been raising her since she was a baby. So … did Hayden die for nothing? Is this all for
nothing
?” I look back down at the pool and spread my hands helplessly.

I loved you, Dax. I loved you, and it's too late, and I tried.

“Not for nothing,” Sydney says, moving closer to me, reaching down to take one of my hands in hers. For a long quiet moment, we both stand stone still and stare at the lapping waters of the pool, the shadows of palm trees against the concrete deck. A few moments later, a hauntingly beautiful sound echoes out the open patio doors and surrounds us. After exchanging a look, Sydney and I turn and head inside, towards the foyer and the flutter of piano keys.

“Holy shit,” she says as we watch Lola Saints moving her fingers across the white and black surface with her eyes closed, her breath slow and uneasy, but her playing perfect. I don't know what song she's playing, but it makes my heart throb with each note, like the entire song is one last goodbye. I wonder if it's for her sister? “And I thought it was Ronnie I was hearing all these nights,” Sydney whispers, completely awestruck, her gaze focused on the melancholy figure at the piano.

There's a whole moment there where we get lost in the music, where I remember what it's
like
to get lost in the music. This is playing just to play, to heal the soul with sound. My left hand clenches into a fist by my side.
Holy crap, I'm really missing this. Really, really missing it.

“Dax,” Sydney says, drawing my attention up and over to the entrance to the living room. Paulette Washington is standing there with her head cocked to one side like a bird, like a
falcon
observing a song bird. It's creepy as fuck. The smile that stretches across her face while she watches Lola play scares the shit out of me.

She's up to something, that much is for sure. Now, just what the fuck is it, and is somebody else going to die?

My hands are covered in cotton candy pink, a by-product of the dye that I'm slathering over my new girlfriend's hair. I should probably wear gloves, but what the hell? It's not
my
photoshoot that's imminent, now is it?

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” I mumble, an unlit cigarette hanging out the side of my mouth.

“Why not?” Sydney challenges back, a drink in one hand, a smoke in the other. “I dyed your hair, didn't I? A nice, new layer of ebony black to cover up all that cute dirty blond you're trying to hide from me.” A smile curls my lip around the cigarette as I saturate Sydney's thick hair with the dye, committing her to the new look she's decided on for her national debut. I liked her blonde; I'll like her with pale pink hair, but she thinks the look's more edgy, more noticeable.
Blondes are forgettable,
I think is what she said.

“It's not the hair dying I have a problem with,” I say as I give her temples an extra rub for good measure. “I used to dye Blair's hair for her back in high school. What I meant was, I can't believe I'm helping you get ready to show your goods to the world. Shouldn't I be, like, tying you up and squirreling you away in my cave or something?”

“If you want to give it a try, go for it, Tarzan, but I'm stronger than I look.” Sydney stands up and turns to examine her muddied hair in the mirror before tossing a wink in my direction. “Anyway, you think this'll look good, right?”

“I think you'd look good no matter what you did with your hair,” I say and enjoy the movement of her lips as she curls them up into a smile for me.
I could wake up everyday to that fucking smile,
I say, my mind already desperately trying to access obscure movie references to spout out and make me look like an idiot. “But I also think you'd look better with clothes,” I add as Sydney turns to look at me and parks her hands on her hips.

“Oh, really?” she begins, reaching up and hooking a thumb on her exposed bra strap. “I look better with clothes on? Then I suppose I don't need to take this off?”

“Hey,” I say, stepping close and looking down at her, my dyed pink hands sliding up and smearing her tank top with more color before I make my way down to her ass. “Now you're just taking my words out of context.” Sydney grins at me as I pull her close, bending down to kiss those sugar sweet fucking lips. She's always wearing something on them—lipstick, gloss, Chapstick—so they always taste like something fresh, fruity, or floral.
Goddamn, that's good.
Today's flavor lies somewhere between citrus groves and rose petals. I'm digging it, that's for sure.

Until somebody knocks at our damn door.

“Fucking Christ,” I snap as I pull back and swing it open, fully prepared to do some hardcore bitching. We're a ways into our new relationship, and we've officially had sex as a couple like, what, two times? This is really getting old. But my anger dies right where it got started, sitting heavy and hard on my lips as I find myself staring at Naomi Knox. “Holy crap,” I say because while I know she's been getting out of bed to go to the bathroom or sit on the balcony, I haven't actually seen her walking around the house.

“Can I come in?” she asks, tucking her arms across her chest and glaring up at the bulbous eye of the camera above our door.

“Um, of course,” I say, stepping back and letting her in. First thing she does is notice the pink handprints on Sydney's top—and on her ass. A blonde brow raises as she watches my new girlfriend swirl her finger in the dye atop her head and slide it across her own eyebrows.

“Before you say anything,” Sydney tells her, smacking her lips as she checks herself out in the mirror. “Now the carpet really
will
match the drapes.”

“I don't want to know what that means, do I?” Naomi asks, a slight smile taking over her lips.

“She has a pierced clit and some fancy new pube 'do,” I say, just for shock factor, lighting up my cigarette and watching as my lead singer takes in our bedroom with a face that's half curiosity, half disgust. I think that latter half is for Turner, not for us, so I don't let it bother me. And anyway, other than some scattered clothes—mostly Sydney's colorful array of bras, panties, and …
nylons—
the place is exactly the way it was when Sydney first moved in.
God, I love tights,
I think as I kick a black pair away from Naomi's feet.

“Dax, naughty boy,” Sydney says, getting out a joint to smoke before she unbuttons her pants and fucking flashes that pink heart of hair to Naomi. “Spilling all my secrets,” she says as Naomi bends down and gives it a thorough look. Like, really?

“You gonna start comparing boobs next?” I ask as Naomi crosses her arms over her chest and stands back up.

“We might,” Sydney says as she fixes her jean shorts with a smile. “Chicks have to compare that stuff, you know? Girl to girl and all that. Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” she asks with a flirtatious wink in my direction.

“I've seriously never seen anything like that in my life,” Naomi admits with a shrug of her shoulders. She still looks thin, a little worn-out, but better. Much, much better. I study her with a practiced eye, trying to make myself recall the bitchy whirlwind of her presence sliding on and off the bus, curling up on a bunk with her headphones firmly in place, scribbling songs down at the table. If I was worried about the trauma going to her head, I needn't have been. She doesn't look any worse for wear after shooting our manager. Besides, she's rocking a loose T-shirt that says
Fuck You
, so I guess she's probably okay. “That's craziness,” Naomi says, pinching the joint from Sydney's fingers and taking a long, slow drag.