Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (11 page)

I move over to the bed and put my knee between Lola's legs, leaning over her and slipping my hands under her jacket, tickling her ribs and pressing a hot kiss to her neck. Her fucking skin tastes like flowers. Not fair. I might as well be under a spell for all this girl's doing to me. She's pretty, sure, but why the frenzy? I've got plenty of attractive prospects banging down my door. I don't get like this, and I certainly don't ever catch a fellow musician sneaking into my room.
Please, Jesus, don't let her be up to no good.

“Wichita,” Lola murmurs as I run my tongue up to her ear, sucking on her earlobe and the glittering earrings pierced through her flesh. My addled brain takes a whole minute to figure that one out. We're supposed to be leaving soon, piling in the shitty vans Milo rented to spend a nice twelve hour day waiting around for our show to start.
Lydia.
She's downstairs eating breakfast with my friend, not with me. I'm up here groping a woman I don't even know. Kind of how I got into hot water in the first place. I think about pulling away, calling it quits and asking Lola to leave.

Just then, she pulls her slick fingers out of her pants and rubs them down the muscles in my stomach, teasing a line down to my belly button. Her hand grips my cock, nails digging into the latex as she scrapes them along my shaft. I groan against her neck and nuzzle into her hair, wishing I could fucking inhale her scent like crack. Not a very romantic reference, but it's all I got.

“What are you waiting for?” she coos into my ear. “A green light? Fuckin' fuck me. Hurry up.”

I sit up, panting hard, and reach down to Lola's zipper. She stops me with a hand to the wrist.

“You gotta do me a favor first?” she says, and I almost drown in the rush of hormones. I feel like a live wire with no outlet, taut with electricity. “Stop hatin' yourself so much. It's hard to even look at your face.” She reaches up and slaps my cheek with her wet hand, teasing me with her own scent. We lock eyes for a moment, frozen there in that position, bodies dripping sweat, hearts pounding. I can't make her any promises, but I don't know if she knows that. She has no clue what kind of person I am. If she's just here for a fuck, that's fine, but if there's … anything else, anything at all, then I really feel sorry for her. I just bring down the world around me.

After a moment, I grab her zipper and slide it down.

She doesn't stop me.

The button comes off next, and I open her jeans, revealing the dark curls tucked inside. No panties. I like her style. I stand up off the bed, keeping the denim clutched between my fingers, and slide it over her hips, pausing as I go to kiss her right where it counts. Her clit is hard as a rock and soaked with her juices.
Crap-freaking-ola. She tastes as good as she smells, like nectar or honey or some other sweet shit.
I'm not ashamed to say that I'd like to get piss ass drunk on Lola Saints. One last pull and her pants come right off over her heels. I decide to leave those on.

“Show me what you got, baby,” she says, and then laughs, not like she's making fun of me – just like she's
having
fun. I'm not used to that. For a second there, it throws me for a loop. “Well come on there, soldier. Keep it at attention.” She sits up and needles my skin with her nails, brushing up my legs and letting her hands rest on my ass. She's not shy about gettin' to know me back there. When I look at Lola, I can tell she's not trying to sleep with me to fill a nook inside her heart. That's not why she's here. So I wonder why? No time to think about that crap right now though.

“Yes, ma'm,” I say, taking a handful of her hair and pulling her face back, dropping my mouth to hers and tasting the filthy sweet tang of cigarettes and vodka. Lola's got a dirty fucking mouth and a cloak of
fuck the world
wrapped around her shoulders. As I kiss her, I open my eyes and see that hers are already there, staring straight into my guts, untangling intestines and pushing aside major organs until she gets down to the nitty gritty. It should be uncomfortable, but somehow it's not.

Without taking my gaze from hers, I drop down to my knees and tug her towards me, crushing our sweaty bodies together. There's no time to take off her bra or jacket, so I don't even bother. Maybe next time – if there is a next time – I can play with her tits. Right now, that electricity I felt earlier is frying my brain, numbing my pain, fucking me straight up hardcore. I'm getting my ass kicked to the edge and curb stomped, and I am loving every horrible, filthy, fucked up second of it.

I cup Lola's ass and drag her to the edge of the bed, crushing her hips against the side of the mattress with my body, slipping my cock between her folds and feeling the hot hot heat burn me like the motherfucking sun. We keep kissing, nipping and biting at one another like wild animals. That's one of the things I love so much about sex – there's not much thinking involved. Reaching down, I grab my shaft, give it one last stroke for good luck, and plunge straight inside of Lola, filling up every last inch of her until I rock bottom.
Yeah, baby. I was fucking made for this.

Sober sex. Wow. Just wow. I thought it was better when I was fucked up, but I guess it's been awhile. Every nerve in my body has a direct path to my brain, setting off little ticks of pleasure that flicker like fireworks.

Lola whimpers and squirms, digging her nails into my back, sliding the leather of her jacket over my skin, smashing me to shit with the rush of sensations and textures. Soft here, hard there,
wet as fuck downstairs.

“Holy spanking shitballs,” she moans, grinding the lace of her bra against my chest. “Feels so damn good.” She hooks her heels behind my back and the feel of that fuzzy freaking fabric just makes me go nuts. I snatch Lola up in my arms and slam her down on the hideous carpet, pounding my dick into her as fast and hard as I can go. She doesn't complain. Instead she raises her hands above her head and digs her fingers into the floor, moans growing louder and louder by the second. Like any good drummers, we find the most perfect Goddamn rhythm, this slip and slide, rise and fall thing. Hips meeting hips, crotch to friggin' crotch. It's not glamorous, sure as shit ain't no romance novel love conquers all montage, but it's so easy and so perfect. Best sex I've had in a long ass time.

I hold onto Lola's hips, moving us towards that perfect crescendo, to that moment when the lights go dark and the crowd holds its collective breath. It's the single most perfect moment in time, and I'm determined to get us there.

Lola's screaming now, and the world is spinning. I have no mind, no logical thought process. All I've got is music and rhythm, a tight, thrumming pulse of her body wrapped around mine. I pump my hips as hard as I can, watching her face, feeling her move against me and then, just as we're about to hit that stride, jump off the edge of that cavernous cliff … Shit and FUCK, just as we're about to
come …

The cops kick the door in.

Red faced and pissed the hell off, I kick the wheel of the van and pummel my palms against the glass.

“Fucking pigs,” I snarl, pressing my forehead against the cool surface of the window. I don't care what they thought was going on in there: you
never
interrupt a chick right before orgasm. Now my head's all stuffed up with lady lust and my body's tappin' out a drum solo in my brain, letting the notes echo and ricochet around my skull until I feel like I'm going to throw up. After the whole fiasco with the guns, and the red faces, the mumbled apologies, I even excused myself to the bathroom for a little friendly play session with Ms. Clit.

Did. Not. Help.

I sniffle and dig into my pocket for another one of my infamous mini vodka bottles. Can never have enough of those. I collect these like teenage boys collect porn. Before anyone can see me, I unscrew the top and finish off my drink of choice. Does it taste and smell like nail polish remover? Sure, it does, but it's my baby, and I ain't never gonna leave it. Besides, I was in there with Ronnie for less than a half hour and I'm having trouble walking. He's huge, a lot bigger than I remembered from our utility closet visit. Definitely bigger than that fat, stubby chode lover, Cohen. That, and he's a crazy animal. My ass and back are still aching from the rug burns.

“And I'd kill for another taste,” I whisper against the glass, sliding my finger along the edge and wishing we could've just gotten back to it. Unfortunately, Ronnie's manager exploded into that room like a concerned father and herded us out like cattle. On the road we go! I sigh and turn around, slumping back and waiting for the rest of the group to get their asses down here. I'm not climbing onto that van until everyone's here. We're
all
familiar with Turner Campbell, and his ways. I've spent more hours on this tour waiting around for him than I have onstage.

“You look like shit,” Joel says, skipping out of the hotel like he's on a crazy acid trip. Probably is, anyway. Who am I kidding? I light up a smoke and sit there with one arm over my stomach, the elbow of the other resting on my hand.

“Thanks,” I respond caustically, pursing my lips so tight, the smoke gets caught inside my mouth and floats there. I blow it out in a rush. “Me and Lady Blue Balls are hanging out today. She makes for piss poor company.”

“Eh, that's not so bad,” Joel says, running his hand over his shaved head. “I thought you got a slap on the wrist from the boss or something. That'd be a bad day, man.”

I drop my cigarette to the cement near my feet. Thank God I'm wearing my shades or Joel would see the look of stricken terror in my eyes. I was so shocked by Ronnie coming after me like that, that I forgot I was looking for him in the first place. My hormones kicked my moral crisis to the back burner.
What kind of monster am I?

Joel adjusts the bandage on his arm, the one he uses to hide his shitty prison tattoo, and stares at my smoldering cigarette. He's not very perceptive, so I doubt he notices the slight shake in my hands and the tremble of my lips.

“And, uh, if you ever need help with those blue balls, I know all the colors of the rainbow.” Fucker follows this up with a sleazy wink.

“Righto,” I say, wondering what I should do now.
Do I tell Ronnie? After that, I just kind of have to, don't I? Unless, of course, I decide to write that off as business.
I swallow a lump in my throat, trying my best to keep my voice even. Joel is one of Mr. Rutledge's lapdogs, loves the man like he's God. “I'll keep that in mind in case we ever end up in an apocalypse – one without any other men, women, or plastic kitchen utensils. Frankly mate, you'd be my absolute last choice.” I smash my discarded cigarette with my heel and start off towards the doors to the hotel. Before I can even get there, Ronnie comes out holding his daughter, the little girl with the red curls. Turner Campbell's on one side, and that spiky haired shithead Treyjan Charell's on the other.
Fuck me swingin', now what?
I wonder as I wring my hands and wait for them to come closer to me.

Already, Ronnie's eyes are on me. Well, at least I think they're on me. He's wearing a set of shades, too. It's kind of a thing on this tour. Lots of secrets to hide, I guess. But I can feel something, some sort of sharpness digging into my soul. This stupid sad sap is compromising everything!

I turn away and touch my hands to my cheeks.

If I warn Ronnie now, then I'm done for. I can kiss my dream goodbye. And my life, too, for that matter. Even if I hopped on a plane back to Queensland right now, he'd hunt me down. Tyler Rutledge was very, very clear about that.

“Lola?” Ronnie's standing behind me, waiting for me to turn around and acknowledge him. I can feel sweat beading on my upper lip.
How attractive I must look.
I get out another cigarette, biting down on it for comfort and spin to face him. He's painfully gorgeous, especially now with his baby in his arms and a soft smile on his face. Doesn't look like such a sad sack right now. Wonder if that was my doing?

“Hey,” I say, and because I'm stalling for time, I reach out and touch my fingers to his daughter's hair. “Who's this beautiful lady?” Ronnie grins – actually grins! – and turns so that the girl's face is looking straight at mine. She has neon green eyes, like two sour apples stuck right there in her pudgy face. Fuckin' cute. She reminds me of my kid sister, the way her gaze seemed to pick up on things even the adults couldn't see. I miss her face. Screw her for running off with a misogynistic Frenchman. Who makes cheese for a living anyway? Goddamn prick.

“This is my middle daughter, Lydia,” Ronnie says, and I can see gears turning in his head. This is his first time doing this, and he has no idea if he's getting it right. I wish I could help him out a little. Nobody deserves to feel so lost in life.
Not that I have much room to talk.
I can't imagine what Ronnie would do if he found out I actually know the names of all his kids, their mothers, their ages. My job in life right now is to get to know him, wrap him around my finger and watch his life fall apart. And then, when everything's just gone to shit, I'm supposed to break his heart and walk away like nothing ever happened. That's my role, that's it. It's not complicated; I don't have to kill him. Not like Cohen. Cohen's target already has a gravestone with his name on it, and just doesn't know it.