Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (32 page)

“I can't believe we almost fucked Naomi and … Turner,” I say as I lean against the doorjamb to the bathroom and watch Sydney brush her teeth. It's such a normal, usual, everyday thing that it helps ground me. And as I do it, I feel like I'm getting to know Sydney through the little things, the way she sets a timer for three minutes and brushes religiously until it goes off or the way she swishes mouthwash for all of two seconds before spitting it in the toilet.

“Almost meaning what?” Sydney asks as she leans down and rinses her mouth with cool water from the sink, flipping her pale pink hair back as she stands up and giving me a look. “Meaning … you have no idea how far things would've gone if we hadn't been shot at?”

“I …” I start, but I'm not really sure how to answer that question. Sydney smiles wickedly and steps close, sliding her hands along the back of my neck, burning a trail along my skin with her fingertips. When she looks up at me, I forget everything about last night. I don't even
care
what happened. All I care about is Sydney Charell.

I lean down and capture her mouth in a kiss, one that gets her hands moving, roaming down my arms, tracing along the waistband of my pajama pants. In a second, I have her up on the counter, her legs around my waist, my cock slipping out into my hand.

I thrust into her heat without preamble, leaning down and kissing along her collarbone, enjoying the way she lets her head fall back. The warm, wet feel of her body wrapping around mine is so good that I ignore a knock at our bedroom door.

“Fuck them,” I whisper as I capture her face in my hands, kiss her again, move slow and purposefully until her moans are music, until she's shuddering in my arms and I'm filling her up in a way I've never done with another woman.

The knocking continues.

“What the
hell
?” I snap as Sydney and I pull apart and she straightens the oversize sleeping shirt she's wearing, padding over to the door and cracking it open. Her bare ass peeks out from beneath it as she bends forward. I keep my eyes on that and refuse to look at my bloody white T-shirt from yesterday. There's no sense in thinking about what
might
have happened to Sydney, to me, to Naomi or Turner.
How many of us are actually going to live through this?

I curl my hands into fists at my sides and force the darker thoughts from my mind.

“Yes?” Sydney asks as I move up behind her and use the space in the door to glare at Brayden Ryker. “Can I help you with something?” The man gives us both a long, lingering stare that says maybe he regrets bringing us in on his plans, like maybe he should've just let us die. The look gives me the chills.

“Paulette needs everyone downstairs in the front yard. Now. Make it quick.”

Sydney flings the door open as he walks away without an explanation, boots loud on the tile floors.

“Hey!” she shouts as Lola appears from the room across the hall, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and an orange dress draped over her shoulders. It has a smiling pink cat on the front of it, and it's seriously one of the weirdest things I've ever seen in my life. “You're not going to tell us what this is about, asshole?”

“Something bloody fucked as usual,” Lola says with a roll of her eyes. “Can't imagine it's anything
good.
” She looks us both over in our rumpled pajamas and smirks. “Certainly not as good as what was going on in that limo of yours last night.”

“Oh yeah?” Sydney asks, flipping up the front of her shirt and laughing at the shocked expression on Lola's face. “Don't you just wish you were there?”

“Is that a bloody heart?” she asks, the cigarette falling from her parted lips to the floor. Lola stomps it out with her fuzzy pink high heel as Sydney grabs my wrist and drags me back into the bedroom. “Oi!” Lola shouts as the door slams and Sydney pushes me up against it.

My hands come down to rest on her hips as our eyes meet and I lean in for a kiss.

“You want to get
coitus-interrupted
by Brayden Ryker knocking down the door?” she asks with a devilish grin, pulling away and bending down enough that
everything
is on display. I have to grit my teeth to keep from ravishing her again.

“Should we get dressed?” I ask as Sydney roots around on the floor for a pair of clean panties and a bra. She even sniffs the armpits of some of them. Is that normal? Do women do that? “Because, to be honest, I don't care if the cameras capture me shirtless and disheveled. Screw them. They want to film me moping around in dirty pjs, have at it. I'm not going rock star glam everyday for that bitch—especially not after the night we just had.”

“I don't know about you,” Sydney says as she stands up and squeezes her legs together, crossing her arms under her full breasts. “But I have
got
to grab a quick shower and wash off, if you know what I mean.” She gives me a big grin. “You know, the cum and all.”

“Thanks,” I say with a small laugh. “Because I didn't get the vague reference before.”

With a wink, Sydney backs away towards the bathroom and then pauses, reaching up to touch the bloody scab on her arm.

“With my wound and all, I could use some help cleaning off and getting all warm and soapy.”

She turns around and heads for the shower … and I follow.

I assume Paulette's calling us all down to bitch about our antics last night, talk about the shooting or whatever. I doubt I would've been able to do what I did in that shower with Sydney if I'd known how much worse it was all going to get.

How much, much worse.

We've been standing in the front yard waiting for Turner Campbell for like, twenty goddamn minutes.

“I'm getting a really bad case of déjà vu,” I tell Sydney and her lips curl into a small smile. She's still wearing her dirty T-shirt, no shoes, and she doesn't seem to give a flying fuck that there's a camera crew about two feet away from her, zooming in on my face as I talk. Whatever. Let them look.

I scowl and adjust the waistband on my sweatpants. I decided not to wear a shirt down here. Maybe I'll regret that when I see this episode? Who the hell knows?

“Who the fuck does this guy think he is?” Kash asks me, standing next to Wren and smoking a cigarette. “He better not be on one of his infamous Denny's trips.” A pause as I sigh and pray that's not true. Any douchery on Turner's part this morning is only going to be amplified tenfold by the fact that we got freaky in a limo last night. Ugh. What the
hell
was I thinking? Must be temporary insanity due to cocaine and alcohol overdose. Only explanation.

“God, I have a freaking hangover,” I say as I run my hand down my face and try not to let the hot, golden rays of the sun piss me off. After a night of partying, the last thing anyone wants to see is a giant glowing orb in their face.

“Is it true?” Wren asks, his clothes twice as baggy and rumpled as mine.
What was
he
up to last night?

“Is what true?” I ask as I look over at him, at the black studs between his brows. He's giving me an expression that says I should know
exactly
what it is he's talking about. I notice Indecency's rhythm guitarist, Jesse, scooting in closer to listen. That can't be good.

“You fucked Turner Campbell last night?” Kash asks on the edge of a snicker, making Sydney burst out laughing. I groan again and put my head in my hand.

“We got shot at last night. We almost
died
and you want to know about something as stupid as that?” Kash raises both his blond brows and lets out a guffawing laugh that makes me want to strangle him. “Of
course
I didn't fuck Turner,” I snap as I cross my arms over my bare chest and give them all a caustic stare.

“We got interrupted,” Sydney jokes, elbowing that kid, Josh, with her arm when he tries to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping. “Who
knows
what might've happened.”

“I'm glad you're okay,” he says awkwardly, trying to fit in somewhere in this ragtag group of assholes. I feel bad for the kid, really, I do, but isn't he like eighteen or something? Turner keeps saying he's twelve, so I have no frickin' clue.

“Thanks, cutie,” Sydney says, reaching over to pinch his cheeks with her pink fingernails. I smile a little, the expression morphing quickly back into a frown as Naomi Knox appears at the front door, shades over her eyes and the same clothes from last night draped on her body.

“Where the hell is your boyfriend?” I ask her and she cringes, a cigarette in her mouth, a scowl on her face.

“Please don't call him that,” she says, pausing next to me and taking a deep breath. “He's … you know … he's—” And then she just stops talking and continues to smoke, surveying the group of people standing around us. Jesse, Treyjan, Ronnie, Lola, Josh, Kash, Wren, Milo Terrabotti, Brayden Ryker. The gang's all here.
Except for Blair Ashton.
I close my eyes and suck in a harsh breath. I was planning on hitting the hospital later today, but my head is spinning and my hangover is worthy of an entire bottle of ibuprofen, a plate of fried eggs, and a stack of pancakes.

And another round with Sydney.

I look down at her and find that she's already looking at me, leaning into my arm, my touch, like a flower turning towards the sun. I never imagined I could be that to anyone, ever. It's … I'm still getting used to it, but after last night? Things could've been a
lot
different. Instead of a quick scare to knock some sense into me, I could've been picking out a casket with Treyjan.

“TURNER!” Trey screams, turning back and looking up the side of the mansion like he'll be able to see his friend through a window. “It's hot as fuck out here! Hurry up!”

“I'm fucking here, alright?” Turner says, rubbing at his eyes and appearing in the doorway. “Jesus. You don't have to friggin' scream like that. I have a goddamn hangover, and all I want is some fucking sleep. What the hell is all this anyway?”

“If you'd been here thirty minutes ago, you'd already know,” Paulette says, her almond colored hair loose and straight, her suit pressed, smile wide. She looks like a
politician.
Gross … but not as gross as Turner when he stumbles to the bushes and pukes into them. Fantastic. Paulette … she never stops smiling.

“Your fiancé is so super cute,” Sydney says as Naomi groans and puts her head in her hand. Overhead, the sun beat downs as Paulette picks up her cell phone and makes a quick call. I notice as she's dialing that Milo, Indecency's manager, is fidgeting something fierce. He looks like a guy that knows he's about to get reamed. For what, I'm not sure. But I'm afraid to find out.

“I have a surprise that I think you're going to like,” Paulette says while she stands on the brick walkway, framed by expensive tropical plants and blue, blue sky. “I've been working on the details over the past few weeks, trying to put everything together.” She puts a hand out to indicate Treyjan. “But with Trey's impressive progress in physical therapy,” a pause, “and my discovery of Lola's incredible talent on the keyboard, I think we can make this work.”

“Make what work?” Sydney asks slowly, taking a step forward, several inches shorter than Paulette, but ten times tougher in looks—even in dirty pajamas. I smile. A little. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Paulette doesn't answer, just grins and steps back, turning to look at the gate that leads onto the property, at Brayden Ryker as he opens it wide …

At the parade of tour buses that roll through, past the cordoned off crowds and the police escorts. Black and silver, black and red, shining in the bright California sun, they glide smoothly down the drive and pause in front of us, towering up above with tinted windows and flawless paint. No more scratches, no more damage from the tornado, just … these. Relics. Our recent past sitting pretty in metal and rubber and glass.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“We're going on tour,” Paulette says, her voice bringing goose bumps up on my arms as I stare at the buses and let memories of Hayden, of the tornado, of Blair getting shot wash over and through me. The camera crew moves over our shocked and silent faces, taking it all in for the world's viewing pleasure, zooming in on Sydney's raised brows and the parted pink perfection of her lips.

Last time we went on tour, people got hurt. People
died.

I open my mouth to protest, but Paulette stops me with a raised hand, nodding at the TV show's crew until the cameras come down and they stop filming for a moment, obeying their mistress' every wish.

I almost puke in my mouth; Turner decides to let it all out in the bushes again.

“One last tour,” Paulette continues, like she's trying to convince us. I'm not sure why. Last time, she just threatened our lives and that seemed to work well, now didn't it? Her words ring in my skull, ricocheting through the gooey substance my brain has become. It's fucking melted, man. Just …
mush.

One last tour.

Now that's not ominous at all.

“One more tour and we're done here, I promise. No more shootings, no more intrigue, just … music. Play for me, and I'll get you go. I mean, or, as you witnessed last night, you can keep living your lives until … you don't anymore. What happened before can always happen again.”