Real Ugly (5 page)

Naomi Isabelle Knox. Lead guitarist for Amatory Riot. Twenty-three years old. Hot as hell. Mean as sin.

I ask around; I get answers. What can I say? I have a face that's hard to resist. I spend the majority of the drive stalking her online, scoping out pictures on her band's website, raiding their Facebook page, scanning their blog. Naomi herself doesn't have an online presence for shit. All the info I've got on her is generic and unhelpful. I
know
that we've met before, and I'm determined to find out where. Don't know why I'm so obsessed with it. Maybe I'm losing it one fucking binge at a time, but that's okay. Live fast and die young, right? I want to leave a beautiful corpse.

I stuff my phone into the pocket of my jeans and stand up, slipping out from behind the table and making my way to the back where there's a small sofa and not much else. Hey, it's nice, but it's still a fucking bus. Might be a long way from the yellow piece of shit I used to ride to school, but that doesn't mean it's a friggin' mansion.

Ronnie is laying on his back, shirtless, sleeping away a hangover that makes my migraine look easy. He's been really into dropping acid lately, so I figure that's probably it.

“Hey bitch.” I poke him with my boot. Ain't no way I'm touching that motherfucker. Let's just say that Ronnie isn't as discerning as little old me. Turner Campbell never forgets to bring balloons to the party, if you catch my drift. Ronnie … well, let's just say that half his fucking check goes to child support. The asshole has like, four kids or some shit.

He groans and turns away from me, burying his face in the red leather cushions, probably drooling all fucking over them, too.

“Get the fuck up,” I command him, planting my hands on my hips. If you need answers about someone on the tour, just ask Ronnie. He's either fucked them, shared drugs with them, or had a fight with them. Probably all three. Ronnie's bisexual, so he makes sure to canvass the entire traveling party from roadies to managers to guitarists.

“Leave me alone, fucker,” he snarls as he bats his hands at some imaginary someone above his head. I kick his ass, literally. The scenery is fading to black outside and I can tell from Milo's anxiety attacks that we're almost to San Diego. The closer we get to our destination city, the more often he freaks out. Sometimes it seems like Milo Terrabotti has more issues than the rest of the band combined. Either that or the straight-edge little bitch's refusal to self-medicate isn't as pretty a practice as it is a thought.

“I need some dirt on a chick I met this morning,” I tell him, hoping to grab his attention. Ronnie gossips worse than my eighty year old auntie. “Something about her has got under my skin and I'm itching for a little info here. Think you can snap yourself out of it long enough to tell me her story?” I smile as Ronnie sits up and runs his hand over his pale face. “Besides, you know we've got another show tonight, right?”

“Another?” he groans as he leans back and lets his mouth hang open wide, flashing me silver fillings. The stubble on his chin and cheeks crawls with shadows as lights flicker up and over us before disappearing into the night.

“Yeah, man,” I say as I pull out a cigarette and light up real quick. “That's why they call it a tour, you know? You travel around; you play music. Or are you too fucked up to remember that we're chasing a dream here?” Ronnie snorts and snaps his lips shut.

“Your dream, maybe,” he tells me as he fishes out a joint and holds his hand out for a light. “Whatever it was I was after, is long gone now.” He breathes deep and sighs, slinging his arms up along the back of the sofa, resting his grungy boots up on the table. If Milo saw this, he'd have a friggin' fit. Don't know why he cares so much anyhow; it's my fucking bus. “So, what's this mystery chick's name?” Ronnie lets his shadowed lids flutter closed, and a smile teases the edges of his lips. “And why the hell are you so interested in her? Last time you were this into a woman, you were trying to get the manager of Heartstrings Records to book us.” A harsh laugh escapes my throat as I lean back against the door frame and pull a drag on my cig. “You must be crap in bed because as soon as she banged you, she was up and running like her life depended on it.” Ronnie chuckles and opens his brown eyes. His pupils are so big they look almost black and kind of creepy, surrounded by shots of red veins that seem to pulse in the changing light. Normally, I'd blame that on the drugs, but this time, I think it has more to do with his past than anything else. Poor bastard.

“Hey, I showed her a good time that night. It was her fucking mistake to leave her phone on the nightstand. Her husband called, and I answered.” I shrug and brush off the past with a wave of my hand. I don't like to live in the what's been; I'd rather live in the now. The what's been wasn't all that great to me, and the now's been like some kind of fucked up fairytale. I sing; I sell records; I own the fucking world. The one thing I always wanted, I've got: respect.

Except from that girl.

Even thinking of her now is getting my blood hot and my fingers tight. I squeeze my cigarette hard and try not to let her get to me. It's hard though; I can still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek, see the disdain in her eyes. I grind the cherry of my cig into a glass ashtray and cross my arms over my chest.

“Naomi Knox,” I say, and I watch as Ronnie's face registers the name. His mouth twitches and he scratches at the snake tattoos that crawl out of his shirt and around his neck.

“Huh.” Just that one word. Now I'm even more intrigued. Ronnie's staring out the window with a wistful expression, letting his joint dangle from his lips while he thinks. His
Terre Haute
tee is stained with sweat, and I know it's just a matter of time before Milo bursts in here and starts shouting about appearances and image and all that crap. Me, I've already showered and done my hair, applied a slash eyeliner around my eyes, and slipped into a black tee with a bleeding heart on the front. I've got on a new pair of jeans and a custom pair of hi-tops in solid black with our band logo on the side. Ronnie might not have a problem going onstage looking like he just stepped out of his double wide, but I do. I already lived a major part of my life doing just that. I've got money now, and fame, and respect, and I want to look the part. “Yeah, I know a little about Naomi Knox.”

“A little?” I ask, leaning forward a bit. I feel like a kid sitting around a fucking campfire, waiting for a ghost story or some shit. I get pissed off all over again and lean back with a scowl. Ronnie smirks at me.

“Damn, Turner. You really are all wrapped up in this, huh? Something happen that I should know about it?”

“Do you know something or not?” I snap at him, feeling these little lines of fire open up in my veins. My blood gets hot, and I have to squeeze my fists tight to keep from getting angry again. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I get, and the last thing I need to be doing right now is starting some kind of shit with another band.

“Cool your jets, Turner. I said I know a little.” He pauses and smokes for a minute before continuing. “I'm guessing you already know the basics, so I'll skip right to the good stuff.” Ronnie smiles. “Naomi Knox is your typical disgruntled foster kid. She doesn't have any family, blood or otherwise living, and she started playing guitar when was thirteen. She's a big fan of Monster energy drinks, and she won't fuck anybody on tour – not a manager, a roadie, or even a fellow musician.” Ronnie pauses and pulls the joint from his mouth with one hand while he tugs on a black plug in his ear with the other. “That's not to say she's a vestal virgin or anything like that. I've seen her bring people back to her bus.” Ronnie pauses again and a grin splits his face. “Not like you though, Turner,” he amends. “Nobody's as a big a fucking whore as you.”

“Hey, thanks for nothing,” I tell him, flicking some cigarette ash at his face before I start back towards the front and bump into Milo. He looks me up and down, and I raise my brows at him. Guess he decides that I look okay and doesn't start any shit, scooting back, so I can slide past him.

Well, fuck. I feel like I know even less than I did when I started. I wanted a full history on this girl, and I got a smattering of useless fucking facts. Fine. That's fine.

A smile breaks my lips as I glance out the window and see the welcome sign for San Diego. Time for me to do a little digging. When I'm done with this girl, she won't even know what hit her.

I pull out my phone and dial a number.

As we roll into San Diego, I get a phone call.

I grab a quick glance at the screen and see that the number's blocked. Not a good sign. I reject the call and slip it back into my pocket.

A notebook lies open in front of me, filled with scribbled, black drawings of wings and crying faces, swaying trees, and grinning demons. Whenever I can't write, I draw. Someday, maybe when I finally escape from Hayden's shadow, I'd like to draw our own cover art. I look up at the bitch in question and send her a silent
fuck you.
She's got on another of her Hot Topic outfits today – a black corset with buckles and a pair of designer jeans that came pre-ripped. I want to tear her red stilettos off her feet and stab her in one of her too blue eyes.

“Got anything yet?” she asks me, like I'm some sort of lyrical machine. Hayden likes to play front woman and bask in the glory of masturbating boys and jealous women, but she doesn't do shit for this band. I mean, I'm sure her time is so much better spent taking topless photos for Tin Dolls Magazine, but it would be nice if she actually contributed something other than her tits and her voice.

“No.” I don't justify her actions by saying anything aloud. Seems like Hayden will go out of her way to piss me off. Whenever I've voiced my displeasure, she seems to get worse, so I've learned to keep (most) of my thoughts to myself. I drum my fingers on the table and pull my phone out when I get another call from the mystery number. Reject, again. I slam the screen down on my notebook and slide my hands over my face.

“Are we there yet?” Dax asks, appearing in the kitchen dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts and a sheen of droplets from the shower. Hayden watches him like a hungry lioness and licks her lip, but he ignore her.

“Thirty-two minutes and counting,” America says without ever pausing in her frenzied texting spree. “Get dressed and be ready to go. Thanks to Mr. Campbell, we're running horribly late. We'll be lucky if the venue even lets us play our set.”

I sigh and pick up my pen, brushing ink across the blue-lined pages. Pen and paper are so much more inspirational than electronics. I find it unbelievable that anybody gets anything creative done on a computer. I like to cross words out and draw arrows and kiss the page; I like to feel the words under my fingertips, pressed so hard into the paper that they've let deep grooves. I think the day handwriting disappears for good is the day humanity is really and truly fucked.

Another call comes through from the mystery number, and I answer it.

“Who the fuck are you and what the hell do you want?”

“Wow. Your foster parents never taught you any manners?” My heart catches in my chest.

“Who the fuck is this?” I repeat, my pulse racing in my veins. America's pried her eyes from her iPhone and is staring at me with a frown on her face. She can tell something's wrong. Luckily, everybody else in my band is a fucking idiot and doesn't notice the sweat on my forehead or the quiver in my voice. The other person on the line has to be the one that sent me that video. Who else would call and answer with such a cryptic message?

There's a long span of silence and then a deep exhalation of breath, like whoever's on the other end of this line is pissed off.

“This is Turner Campbell.”

Oh.

I frown, but at least my heart can stop trying to explode from my chest. America stands up and moves over to me, holding out her hand for the phone, but I shake my head.
I got this,
I mouth at her.

“How the hell did you get my number?” I snarl at him, feeling horribly violated. I want nothing to do with this man, haven't wanted anything to do with him since he left me after taking my virginity. And the worst part of it all? He doesn't even remember doing it. I feel sick. What's that old saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? I used to worship Indecency, Turner in particular, and now … even the sound of his voice gives me chills.

“The Internet is a beautiful, beautiful thing,” he responds, and I can hear the smile taking over his voice. This man flips moods like a picture book. One page, a smiley face, the next, a frown. That's dangerous fucking behavior. Besides, the deeper he digs, the more likely he is to hit things long buried. I want my secrets kept six feet under, thank you very much.

“Leave me the fuck alone, you psycho stalker,” I say and draw the attention of everyone on the bus. Hayden swoops in close and tries to listen while Blair gives me a sympathetic smile from across the room. I hear Turner scoff and then the call ends abruptly. A few seconds later, it rings again, and I answer with a, “What, you didn't get it the first time? I said to fuck off.” I swear to God, I can hear his jaw clenching, can practically see veins bulging out of his throat. I bet he's all red-faced and pissed, just like he was the night that he saved my life and fucked me both at the same time.