Real Ugly (16 page)

I remind myself that that's why I'm here, why I'm doing this. I came on this tour because I wanted to make a life for myself. I didn't let Turner's presence scare me away then; I won't let it bother me now. I need to do what's right for me, what'll make me feel better, and right now, I just want this secret to go away. I don't want to carry it any longer, and I don't want March 15
^th
to mean a damn thing other than the day I finally broke free of one set of chains.

I check my watch and smile.

Just enough time left to pretty up.

After the police thing with Naomi, I'm even more interested in her. Even coming back to the bus to find that Ronnie and Treyjan had invited a girl into my bed hadn't done it for me. We'd fooled around for a bit, but I didn't fuck her. Told her I was tired and she stormed out after a massive sobbing fit that woke everybody on the damn bus. Fine. Her loss.

I slide some gel through the back of my hair, letting it stick out in all directions – messy, unassuming. But carefully planned. Perfect. Eyeliner goes around my eyes, not enough to look like some kind of emo fuck, but just enough that my eyes are haunted, far away. I change out the stud in my tongue, switch out the piercings on either side of my lip for rings, and slip red plugs into my earlobes.

“Primping for Miss Naomi Knox?” Treyjan asks, leaning around the edge of the door frame and flicking his tongue out at me. His brown hair is sticking straight up and he's got a tie around his neck, but no shirt. Typical Trey. I grin at myself in the mirror and give him a look over my shoulder.

“I might be. What's it to you? You interested?” Treyjan shrugs his shoulder and starts digging around in his jeans pockets for a smoke.

“I wasn't until I saw her running naked across the parking lot the other night. Damn, girl's got a body.” I try to ignore the fact that my hands curl at my sides and the air gets a hell of a lot thicker. I smirk and run my fingers through my hair once last time, just to make sure it's perfect.

“Yeah, we had a bit of a thing,” I tell him, refusing to elaborate. If he knows Naomi and I didn't have sex that night, he doesn't let on.

“I can see that,” he tells me as he moves back and makes room for me to step past him and start towards the door. We've been parked for about an hour now, and I'm tired of waiting. I want to see Naomi. No, maybe that's not it. I
need
to see her, and I need to find my kid. “But why? A few days ago, you acted like you couldn't stand her. Now you're in love or some shit? What's going on, Turner? I've known you a long ass time now, and I've never seen you look at a girl the way you look at her.” I pause with my foot on the top step, ready to descend. Part of me wants to break down and have some sort of gay ass heart to heart with Trey, tell him everything.

Instead I say, “Hey Treyjan, what are you named after again? Oh yeah, that thing that failed and got your mommy preggers with you.” I reach into my back pocket and grab a Trojan, tossing the little square package over my shoulder as I step out and onto the cement.

“Hey Turner,” he shouts after me. “Fuck you, dude.” And then for a few blissful moments there, everything is normal. Better than normal even. And then I run into Naomi, and a smile curls across my lips. My body goes crazy and my heart starts to pump.

She looks fucking perfect tonight, dressed in a white, sleeveless button up that isn't actually buttoned, just pinned together over her chest with an Amatory Riot button. The teal color of their logo only emphasizes the matching bra beneath, the one that peeks out at me as she moves. Around her neck is a black tie with a skull on it, made out of the same fabric as the very, very, very short fucking mini skirt she's got on.

She pauses in front of me and places her hands on her hips, letting out a sigh that I don't quite get.

“Hey there, sexy,” I say, and I can't help but notice the way her lip curls up at the edge. There's still heat between us, so much so that my dick is already hard and my body is starting to sweat. I find myself licking my lips and running my hand through my hair. And she, she just stands there and looks at me with eyes so shadowed in secrets that I can't even tell what color they are anymore. “You know,” I begin before she can say anything. “It's true. Honesty really is the best fucking policy. You had something you wanted to tell me?” She lets her mouth twist into an all out sneer and steps back, shaking her head like she can't even believe I just said that. “It'll clear your head, I promise.”

“Oh really?” she asks sarcastically. “You have no idea what it'll do for me, so don't even bother making false proclamations.” Naomi holds up her palms to pause the next words that are about to come out of my mouth. “Let me just get this out, so we can be done with each other, alright?” I raise my eyebrows and click my tongue stud against my teeth.

“Done with each other?” I ask, taking a step forward, clasping Naomi tight around the upper arms. As soon as our skin makes contact with one another, it's like a bomb going off, exploding my brain into mush, shrinking me down to nothing, pushing me forward. “But I'm just getting started.” My mouth captures hers and tastes hot heat and cigarettes, dragging a moan from my throat that gets lost in a desperate frenzy of clawing fingers and gnashing teeth. Naomi and I, we kiss hard and rough, like we're not just trying to make out, but like we're trying to hurt each other, too. I don't quite get the feelings that are running through my blood, tangling my fingers in her hair, pressing her face to mine.

I have to say, when she hits me in the stomach and steps back, I'm not surprised. Saliva shimmers on her full lips and makes them seem all the more appealing. My mouth waters in response as I take a hand to my lips and wipe away the spit.

“Fuck, what is it now?” I ask her and for the first time, I see this hint of vulnerability, this trickle of uncertainty flutter across her face and then it's gone like it never was. I life my hands up and cross them behind my head, letting my eyes close, so I won't get pissed. I want to scream at her, ask her what her problem is. Despite what she might think, I'm not invincible. Certain things set me off, and getting hit is one of them. I got hit enough by my mom and step daddies. Getting wailed on again is not an option. Only her. I only let her do it, and I don't know why.

“Turner, there is no kid,” she blurts and my eyes open quickly, fix her with a tight stare.

“What?” My first thought is that she fucking lied to me. The thought makes me crazy, so crazy that I almost turn around and walk away. I've had girls play the pregnancy card before, say that the condom didn't work or some shit. They were all liars, eventually copped to the fact that they were just trying to trap me. I don't want to be trapped. I want to be enraptured. Naomi does that to me, and when she told me, I could tell she wasn't saying the words to get a reaction out of me. She was speaking to empty herself. How could what she said have been a lie? How? I blink and my mouth curls dangerously. The muscles in my arms twitch.

Naomi runs her hand through her hair and pulls out a lighter, snapping it open and jamming a cigarette between her teeth. She's shaking, just a little, but whether with anger or excitement or fear, I have no clue.

“There is no kid, Turner. Not anymore.” She snaps her eyes to mine, dares me to defy her with that dry, desert gaze. I drop my arms to my sides.

“I don't follow.”

She barks out a bit of harsh laughter and shakes her head, stepping back and putting her hands on her lower back, bending over so that she's facing the ground and not me.

“Of course you don't,” I hear her whisper, and then my anger gets the better of me, and I'm stepping forward and pushing her back. She stumbles a bit and then recovers, launching herself at me and decking me under the chin with a hard right upper cut that makes my teeth hurt and forces me back a step or two.

“My kid is dead?” I ask and then she starts to laugh, crazy laugh, like so loud that people start to stare. “He's dead and you're laughing?”

I hear footsteps and I know people are coming to break up the fight that we're only sort of having.

“My kid,” she repeats, pulling herself up straight, filling her lungs with air. “It was my kid and my choice to make. You hold no rights to that memory, Turner. The only reason I'm even telling you this is because I'm tired of being haunted by all these ghosts.” Naomi gestures violently at the air around her. “I'm tired of counting down the time to this day, this day that six years ago I had the abortion. It shouldn't bother me anymore, but it does. It does, and you know why, Turner?” She points at me and then holds up her other hand to stop Dax from bursting into the mix. He's followed closely by their skinny bitch singer; I hear Trey pause behind me. “It bothers me because I let myself get tangled up in you. I fell in love with an image, a false idol beaming down at me from on high, and right after I lost everything – my dignity, my morals, my sense of self – you took all that was left. You may not have meant to, and it may not have been personal, but that just makes it worse. You brought me to my knees without knowing you were doing it, not even caring. You meant the world to me, and I meant nothing to you. Well, you know what? I'm not a teenager anymore, and I don't look up to you. I don't respect you, and honestly, I think you're one of the most despicable creatures to ever grace this earth.” Naomi stands tall and for a second there, I think she's going to cry, but she doesn't. Naomi Knox holds her head high and spills one of her festering, rotten secrets into the air. I hope it makes her feel better to talk to me like that, get all these things off her chest, because it makes me sick.

My head starts to spin, and I feel dizzy.

“Naomi,” I start, but she interrupts me.

“Just over six years ago, you stepped in and helped me out, and then we spent a night together that I will never forget.” Naomi reaches behind her back and comes up with a knife. I take a step back and Dax moves in close, but she isn't coming after me. Instead, she bends down and unzips her boot, revealing a bare calf and ankle underneath. The tattoo of my name winks back at me. “You left me with a full belly and an empty heart,” she says with a sigh. “And you still had power over me because I let you.” Naomi pauses. “Not anymore. The cat's out of the bag and about to get skinned.”

The knife flashes down and slices skin, cuts right down the side of that little heart tattoo, and before I know it, I'm moving forward and shoving Dax back, sliding to my knees in the dirt and cupping Naomi under the chin with my hands. I don't try to take away the knife because that isn't my fucking choice to make, but I look her in the eyes and I don't know what to say. My chest and throat get tight, and I feel something there, bubbling beneath the angry, but I'm upset and I'm only thinking of myself. What's new?

All I can think is that she was right: I was looking for some kind of fantasy family. What the shit was I thinking? And she lead me on. Sort of. Or maybe I just jumped to conclusions all on my own … I can't even keep my mind straight right now. Instead of coming up with something meaningful, I just kiss her which is so totally out of place for the moment that I don't even blame her when the knife comes up and slashes my arm, mixes my blood with hers.

Naomi drops the knife and scrambles backward, lurching to her feet and stumbling out of there with blood trailing behind her, beading on the dusty cement in crimson dots.

How do you live down a scene like that? Hmm? How do you walk away knowing that everybody thinks you're a friggin' psychopath? And maybe I am, just a little. For a second, I lost it there, but now that I'm standing on the stage with my ankle throbbing and my axe pressed against my crotch, I feel a whole lot better.

One secret down, one to go.

I slam my pick down hard, squat into the guitar, meet Wren for a little back to back rendezvous center stage. This, this is where I was always meant to be – drowning in music and sweat and blood. The stage is my life now, and the day I forget that, I'm royally screwed. I don't need Turner or the ghost of that baby or anything like that. Me and my Wolfgang, me and my music. That's all there has to be.