Real Ugly (24 page)

I check around to make sure that she's gone and then jack a pair of her sunglasses. I doubt she'll even know I took them considering she's giving up the spotlight tonight to go take care of whatever it is she's so damn worried about.
I'm singing tonight.
I try to keep that thought out of my head, pretty damn certain that if I let it, it'll take hold of me and fuck me until I'm too nervous to even set foot on that stage. Being the center of attention isn't my thing either. That too, I leave to Hayden Lee. She thrives on that kind of shit. Me, not so much.

Dax and America are sitting at the table when I come out, but neither turns to look at me which is a bad sign. They pretend like they're not watching which makes it all the more obvious that they are.

“Sorry about the late night conjugal visit,” I say which makes America cringe and swivel to face me with clenched teeth. I pour myself a cup of coffee and drink it black, leaning against the counter and praying to god that I won't get any more plastic doll heads in the mail today.

“Yes, well. Hmm.” That's all America says, but I can tell she's holding back. What she really wants to do is tear off that stupid red tie she's got on and leap at my face, claw my damn eyes out and tell me to stay the hell away from Turner Campbell. Instead, she just spins back to face Dax who still won't look at me. I feel like I should apologize for some reason, but I know how stupid that is. I don't owe him anything. He has a crush on me. So what? That's not my problem; that's his.

I finish my coffee and toss the mug in the sink, too riled up to sit still. Besides, there's so much going on, all I have to do is reach a hand into a hat and pull out a name.
Eric, Katie, Hayden, Turner.
If I don't start dismantling these mysteries, I'm going to drown in them.

Fortunately for me, one of them is waiting right outside the door.

“Hello, Eric,” I say as I turn towards my former foster brother and admire the cream colored suit he's got on. The sharp cut of the shoulders and the perfect tailoring at the waist tells me that this, too, is one expensive fucking coat he's got on.

“Naomi,” he says, glancing around like he thinks the cops are lurking around the corner. I light up a cigarette and watch as he shifts his feet nervously. “Did you find them?”

“I told you I'd call if I did.” I pause. “They were stolen.”

Eric freezes for a moment and then nods, short and crisp, like this is all just a business transaction to him.

“Okay. So the police really do have them … ” He trails off and rubs at his perfectly shaved chin, gleaming like a damn baby's bottom it's so fucking smooth. “But why do they have my fingerprints on them and not yours?”

“Good question,” I ask him as I move closer and grab the flask he's just removed with trembling hands from his pocket. “Why don't you ask it a little louder, so the whole camp can be sure to hear.” Eric lets me shoo him away and over towards the same spot Turner and I were sitting last night. There are some teenagers nearby smoking pot, but we ignore them. They're already high as kites. “Have you heard anything from Katie?” I ask, wondering where that bitch is. She's really starting to get to me. If I let it, the paranoia could really become a problem.

“Nothing,” he says with a sigh, adjusting his black tie and watching as I take a massive gulp of whatever it is he's got. Whiskey. Good whiskey this time. Nice. I hand it back. “But the police are still out looking for me.” He sighs and sits down on the curb, burying his face in his hands. I watch unsympathetically. I mean, I feel bad for the guy, but if it comes down to me or him, he's the one that's going down. Call me cruel, but it's just survival. And his parents probably would've killed all three of us eventually, so in a sense, he owes me one. “I don't know what to do. Even if I find her, that won't change anything. Somehow, I got it into my head that if I brought Katie back, things would be different. They won't be though, will they?” I just shrug and keep smoking, glancing over my shoulder occasionally to stare at Indecency's bus. It's at least twice the size of ours and a hell of a lot nicer, and that's saying a lot because ours costs as much as a fucking house.

“You just have to fight through it. You know you're innocent, so tell the damn truth. They'll figure it out eventually.” I think back to the massive amount of questioning I was subjected to after the murder. I'm still having a hard time believing I got away with it, figure there has to be some other reason, some freak accident or loophole or sloppy police work that messed things up on their end. I mean, I was
all
over that crime scene. Eric, too, for that matter. And even Hayden was there, watching from inside the Rhineback's closet. I swallow hard.

“Really? You really want me to do that? You'll be brought back in, too, you know.” And he's right, and I do know, and I absolutely cannot go through that again. Eventually, they're going to catch me in a lie and I'm going to be fried. If I'd shot them in the head, nice and clean, kept the videos of them torturing Katie then maybe I'd be alright. But I didn't. I killed them by stabbing a pair of
scissors
into their throats. Police kind of frown on that sort of thing. It's so much harder to claim self-defense in a situation like that, but I wasn't thinking clearly. After I found the videos, saw so much worse being done first-hand. And then when they came after me, beat me till I bled, promised worse the next time. A person can only handle so much.

“Guess not,” I say as he once again drops his head into his hands. A few seconds later, Eric's shoulders begin to shake and I guess that he's crying.
Pussy.
I didn't even cry after the abortion. Not before it either. I walked through those doors with a neutral face and stayed stoic for days after. God, I hate Turner. I hate him. Hate him. Hate him. Maybe if I repeat it enough, I'll be able to keep that emotion and that emotion only in my heart and ignore the other one that's been there since I was sixteen years old, the one that refuses to die. It's hard to kill love, isn't it? Even false love. It's like a persistent weed, one that has to be pulled out by the root and burned. I sigh. “Well, at the very least, you could be a bit more careful. I saw your car idling last night by the exit. Like that wasn't fucking obvious.”

Eric's eyes snap up to mine, a bright, piercing blue that cuts straight through me, reminding me of Katie and how she looked at me right before I left.

“And let me guess, that wasn't your car.”

“It must've been Katie,” Eric whispers, and I describe to him as best I can what the damn thing looked like. I realize as I start to do this that I need to be paying more attention. I can hardly remember anything other than the color. “Did you see where it went?” he asks me. “What direction?” I shake my head and Eric groans, letting his shoulders droop for a second before he perks up again. “If we checked the parking lot, do you think you could find it?” I shrug my shoulders, but I think I could, so I follow up with a nod.

“Yeah, sure, maybe.”

“If I find her, maybe I can get her to confess to sending the scissors in and … ” Eric trails off, and I can see wheels turning inside his head.

“You're going to pin this on her?” I ask, feeling annoyed as fuck with this man. I can't believe I ever had a crush on him, gave him my first kiss, let him hold my hand. I'm a terrible judge of men. Or I was. Now, I know better. Just like I know to stay clear of Turner Campbell. I need to start taking my own advice.

“What else do you want me to do, Naomi? It's either her or me, and we both know damn well that she's guilty.”

I scrape the inside of my cheek with my teeth, using the sharpness of the pain to keep myself in check.

“I thought you wanted to protect her,” I say nonchalantly, hoping he'll change his mind about this. I mean, pinning the murder on him is one thing. Pinning it on Katie, as crazy as she turned out to be, sort of defeats the whole purpose of my saving her in the first place. That girl's been locked up enough in her life. Yes, I'd prefer it if she'd stop sending videos of me murdering people to my acquaintances' phones, but I also don't want to see her in jail. I want her to live a nice, long, healthy, happy life far, far away from me.

“You don't know how bad it's gotten,” he tells me, shaking his head like he can't come to terms with what's going on around him. “I had to have her committed.”

“So you've said,” I tell him as I fish out another cigarette. Eric takes a sip from his flask and stands up, letting his eyes slide over to the flow of traffic on the highway. I wonder, and not for the first time, where he might've gotten that suit from. What business ventures does he have going on now? I almost don't want to know. I follow his gaze over to the cars and then back, glancing surreptitiously over at Indecency's bus, just to see if I can catch a glimpse of Turner. My lips purse and I end up getting angry with myself. “But you never bothered to give me any details. Like, what, she changed her hair to match mine? Her name? No, no, no, wait. She has a shrine dedicated to me in her bedroom with a dream catcher made of my hair. Is that it?”

Eric stands up without a word, letting the skin around the edges of his mouth wrinkle in disgust. When the moonlight hits his eyes just right, they reflect back at me.

“I didn't come here to be ridiculed, Naomi. I came here to ask for your help.” He starts to walk away and then pauses to glance over his shoulder at me. “Oh, and if you see Katie, be careful. She might seem innocent, but looks are deceiving. You'd be surprised at what she's capable of.”

About fifteen minutes before our set, America notices that Hayden isn't around anymore. She was earlier which surprised me since I hadn't seen her all night. She popped in backstage and started bitching about something so inconsequential that I can't even remember what it was about. A few minutes later, right before Terre Haute took the stage, she said she was going outside to have a smoke and never came back in.

When America realizes this, she does what she does best and gets on her phone, making calls and texting Hayden. When that doesn't work, she sends me outside to look for her which, of course, is fruitless because Miss Lee is long gone by then.

I linger outside, just so she'll think I tried. If she doesn't believe I looked hard enough, she'll make me go back out again.

“Hey there, beautiful.” I roll my eyes and turn to face a pair of twinkling brown eyes and an arrogant smirk.

“What do you want?” I ask Turner, doing my best to keep last night out of my mind and away from conscious thought. If I think about it, he'll know.

“To see how you were doing is all. That a crime?” I stare at him, taking in the tight black T-shirt he has plastered against his firm body, the ridiculous pants, the thick, leather boots. If he wasn't so attractive, this whole situation would be a lot easier to deal with.

“No, but breaking into someone's bus and fucking them while they're in a drunken stupor is.” Turner laughs, harsh and loud, and puts the brown beer bottle he's got clutched in his hand up to his lips.

“Oh come on,” he says and then takes a sip. “You think I'm that fucking stupid? That I was born yesterday? I asked your friend, the one with the blonde hair and the blue fingernails to let me in. I figured since he's always sneaking onto my bus at night to screw my driver, that he might be willing to return the favor.”

“So, let me get this straight. You, what, blackmailed Kash into letting you on the bus and then decided it was cool to fuck me while I was high?” Turner just stares at me and the arrogant expression on his face slips a bit, like he isn't quite sure what's going on. What did he expect? For me to throw myself into his arms and tell him what a stud he is? I mean, I'm not saying I didn't enjoy what happened between us last night, but let's be honest, it was a little weird. I keep that thought to myself and just stare him straight in the face.

“Seemed to me like you were enjoying yourself,” he says, finishing his drink and tossing the bottle into the dumpster nearby. His full lips are starting to purse and he looks a little let down. Bad sign. I think about hitting him again just so he'll get pissed off, start swinging, go back to that volatile asshole he was a few days ago. Instead, he just clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides.

“Yeah, well, there are some meth addicts out back, behind the fence near the highway. They're enjoying themselves, too. Doesn't mean it's good for them.” The smallest hint of a smirk rides back up and onto Turner's face, causing his lip ring to catch the moonlight and reflect it into my face. I squint.

“So you're comparing me to meth, huh? Didn't know I was so addictive.”

“Fuck you, Turner,” I say, spinning around to grab the handle of the door. Before my fingers can wrap around the metal, he's touching me, sliding up close and grabbing me around the waist, pressing the heat of my body against his. My heart starts to pump and my hands begin to sweat. This is precisely the
last
thing I need before I hit the stage. When his lips brush my ear, my elbow goes back automatically and cracks him in the ribs.

A grunt escapes Turner's lips as he stumbles away and then looks up at me like I've lost my friggin' mind.