Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (12 page)

“She's gorgeous, pretty little thing,” I say, trying to smile. I guess it comes across more as a grimace because the girl starts to cry, reaching her hands out for Turner who's standing there like he's Ronnie's personal bodyguard or something. I don't like the way he's looking at me. It's freaking me out. It almost feels like he
knows
something. But he can't. He's an idiot, right?

“Daddy,” she sobs, and her voice breaks my heart in half. She just lost her mum, can't really blame her.
And it's your fault. You could've stopped it. You could stop all of this.
There's an opportunity here for me to make everything okay, to fix it all. Just a wave of Lola's magic wand, and it all goes away.

Ronnie winces and gives me an apologetic look before passing his daughter over to his friend. He's not much of a fighter, is he? I stare at him staring at me, and feel my lips part. Consequences catch my tongue and tie it in a knot. No outcome sounds good for me.
Lose my life, lose my freedom, lose my soul.
A spin of the chamber and pull the trigger, see what it'll be.

“She looks a lot like you,” I say instead, disgusted at myself for my own cowardice. Ronnie raises his eyebrows and reaches up to touch his hair. He's feeling self-conscious. How stupid. He looks ridiculously delicious right about now. His black hair's parted to the side, dripping into his face like a curtain, hanging just past his ears on either side. The ends are all razored up, rock 'n' roll fab. I love it. But I shouldn't. Fuck.

“You think?” Ronnie asks, sounding skeptical. Turner holds Lydia tight, but awkward, like he's never held a kid before. I reach out my hands and pretend they're not shaking. If I don't notice, nobody else will, right?

“May I?” I ask, and Turner looks over at Ronnie for permission. “I had lots of little cousins. It usually fell to me to keep 'em out of the cane fields. Hand her over.”

“Cane fields?” Turner asks, wrinkling his handsome face up. “The hell is that?”

“Sugar, numb nuts,” Ronnie says, borrowing the unlit cigarette from my mouth.

“Yup,” I say as I take Lydia against my chest and smile as she immediately catches on one of my tattoos, poking her hand into my jacket and stabbing her finger against the ink. Holding her like this makes me sick to my stomach. Tears spring to my eyes and it takes every ounce of self-control and fuck-the-world-bitch I have inside of me to keep them back. “I was a cane cocky's daughter.”

“Kitty,” Lydia says, petting the leopard print tattoo I have on my shoulder. “I like kitties.”

“A sugar farmer's daughter,” Ronnie whispers into Turner's ear. Turner scowls and shoves his friend away, straightening his neon pink shirt and pulling his belt off to the side, so it hangs crooked. I always thought the point was to put it through the loops, but fuck me running, guess I don't know shit about fashion. Besides, it's not like the asswad needs anything to hold up his pants. They're so tight, they might as well be painted on.

“I know that, fuckface. And don't breathe on me. I'd rather not catch a disease.” Turner steals the still unlit cig from Ronnie and slaps his cheek. “Full disclosure, remember? Warn your date next time.” He moves away to stand next to Treyjan and lights up. He's pretending not to listen, but I can tell otherwise.
Idiot in disguise, huh?
I wonder as I smile at Lydia.

“I like kitties, too,” I tell her, too. “I had a whole bunch growing up, to keep away the mice.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, and she smiles wider. Just behind the glint in her eyes is a terrible memory, darkening what should be an innocent face. Here is the vicim of this tragedy, held tight in my arms, a girl who will never know her mother. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to push back another set of tears.
Not all mothers are gifts from God, remember? She might've been like yours, like that crack whore junkie bitch from hell.
But she might not have been. That's the part that makes me sick to my stomach. “Birds, too.” I shrug my jacket off and let it slide down my arm, noticing as I do that Ronnie's watching me very, very closely. He runs his tongue across his lips and adjusts his stance, reaching down to pull up his baggy jeans.

My rainbow lorikeet tattoo smiles up at us, a sea of bright colors curling down my bicep, making me nostalgic for home. I hope my dad is managing the birds alright. Might have to kick his ass if I find out he isn't. He always had a head for plants, but animals … and daughters, not so much.

“My mother used to breed them when I was a kid.” Lydia rubs her hand down my arm and pats the ink gently.

“Nice birdie,” she says, eyes still cloudy but with a hint of sunshine in there somewhere. Ronnie's smile gets wider too, a bit more curled at the edges. I study Lydia's baggy shirt and the tiny boxer shorts she's wearing. Not the most appropriate clothes for an ankle-biter.

“You need any help shopping?” I ask him, and he laughs, throwing his head back to the sky and putting his hands together in a prayer position.

“I would fucking love you for it,” he says, tilting his head back down and smiling at me. He's just got the most perfect face. I can't seem to resist it. Thought I'd have no problem going in and taking care of what had to be done, but now that I'm getting to know the guy, I can't imagine hurting him. Or his kid. I guess striking a blind target is a hell of a lot easier than spitting in someone's face. My eyes trail over his lips, down to his neck where brightly colored snakes twine with vines and roses, making the sickest freaking neck piece I have ever seen. “Really, I'd owe you one.” I raise my brows at him and pop out my hip, making sure Lydia's sitting nice and comfy. It's the least I can do. That, and get her out of these nasty ass clothes.

“Think you already owe me one,” I say, and I don't mean for my voice to drop and get all husky. “Remember? Cops? Guns? No climax?” Ronnie laughs and takes a step closer, enveloping me with his heat. There's this weird moment where time stops and my stomach gets all knotted up.
It's like we're a family or something. Me, and him, and this kid.
I wonder what someone outside this bubble would think looking in at us? Of course, this isn't my kid, and Ronnie isn't my anything, but there's that fantasy of it.

“It was your screams that drew them in,” he whispers, leaning over me and breathing hot against my ear. I'm just glad Lydia's entertained by my skin art. Can't have her witnessing this play by play between her dad and me. It's sneaking up into that PG-13 realm. Ronnie lifts his hand and pushes my jacket down my other arm, pressing a kiss to my shoulder that makes my knees go weak and my downstairs start strokin' a furnace.
Load on the firewood, baby.

“And it was your rep that forced their hand. That and the fact that you were so intent on digging for gold that you didn't hear them knock.” He laughs, the sound fluttering against my skin, soft and insistent. Maybe it's not fair for me to blame him. After all, the only reason the police were there is because of me, us, my band and our twisted sponsor. “Well, you were killing me softly, so I guess they were right to interfere,” I whisper, voice so low I'm sure Lydia can't hear me. “You're a hot fuck, McGuire, I had no idea. I've heard otherwise.” Ronnie steps back, still smiling, and slips a bracelet off his wrist, grabbing the hand that's not supporting Lydia and slipping it on me.
Mrs. Ronnie McGuire
it says. “Little soon for that, eh, fuckface?” He snaps the purple rubber against my skin and grins, flashing me some silver fillings in his mouth. For whatever reason, even those make my lady bits grumble. We just have some magic chemistry, me and this pathetic cockwad.

“Just keep it until we get to finish up,” he says, pushing the last word off his lips like candy. “Ready for Wichita?”

“Can I keep my eyes closed until it's over?” I ask him, and get another laugh. I've been watching Ronnie for weeks now, and this is the most emotion I've ever seen from him. My mission's right on track, and I couldn't feel worse about it. Fuck a duck.

“So lemme get this straight,” Turner says, turning around and stomping over to us. Is this guy eternally pissed off? For Christ's sake, Naomi has got her hands full with this one. I look at Ronnie's face, at the amusement there, the love he has for his best friend. And then I look at Turner, at the concern he has for Ronnie. Looking at them and knowing what's in store isn't easy. It's like reading the end of a book first and finding out the main character dies. This is just shit. I can't do it.
You had no problem beating a girl to death though, did ya? Got a soft spot for cock all of a sudden?
I refocus my attention on Lydia, tucking some girls behind her ear. “You like pussies, breed birdies, and farm sugar in your spare time. Aren't you a fucking saint? It's like looking at a walking, talking
Care Bear
commercial.” He smiles at me, but it's not a nice smile. “Did we ever figure out where she really got that key card from, Ronnie?” Uh oh. My heart stops in my chest as Ronnie's face falls. Guess the sex took both our minds off the important stuff.

“You've got room to talk, huh?” I ask Turner, glancing down at his crotch and then back up at his face. “It's a wonder you don't sing like a budgie with pants that tight. If I didn't know differently, I'd think you were trying to show off how small your junk is.” I flick him in the nuts and shrug my jacket back up on my shoulders. “Try and wrap your mind around that, cupcake.”

And then I pass Lydia to Ronnie, kiss her forehead, and saunter off, wondering all the while if I should tell them what I really know.

Tonight, there's going to be another murder.

Rockers Set Loose in Wichita: A City in Ruins.

I imagine that's what the headlines will say tonight after the plague that is Ice and Glass descends on the city like a horde of locusts. Okay, so there are only five of us, but we're all pretty effed in the head. Couple hours from now and there'll be a fire somewhere, a mob, a car accident. Milo thinks getting Indecency away from the paparazzi will keep everyone safer, and maybe that's true, but honestly little Lola here's worried for the safety of these fine American citizens.

I suck on my lollipop, keeping Lydia's tiny hand tucked in mine, pretending I don't see Ronnie staring at my mouth, hungry as a Goddamn lion.
Rawr, eat this shit up, baby.
I swirl the strawberry cheesecake candy around and switch my gaze over to the woman behind the counter. She hasn't stopped staring at us since we came in here. Not sure if it's the tats, the piercings, or the fact that I've got no shirt on. Maybe all of the above.

“I just don't know what to pick out,” Ronnie says, grabbing a shirt off the shelf and fingering the fabric with a slight smile. The white text on it reads
Rocker Baby Coming Through.
It's way too small for Lydia, but maybe he's not thinking of her. He's probably got Phoebe on the brain. That's his youngest, the one he's never met. The one whose life cord is in the hands of the fates, just waiting to be twisted and curled, her life altered before she even learns to walk.

I didn't get to ride on the van with Indecency – trust me, I tried. Milo is Manager of the Fucking Year apparently, doing all he can to keep control of his charges. For
safety
purposes, Ice and Glass had to ride in another vehicle, so I missed out on whatever intense phone conversations Ronnie was having back there. I could see him through the window when I turned around (when our driver wasn't trying to kill us by making blind lane changes, of course). He's got big, dark circles under his eyes now, ones that I swear weren't there before we left. Either that or he's finally worn the foundation off his face by rubbing at his eyes too much. I imagine it's a nervous twitch or something.

“I haven't bought clothes for myself in … fuck. A decade? Feels like that long anyway.” Ronnie scratches at the back of his head. The muscles in his arm contract and slide beneath his tattoos, drawing my attention like flies to shit. I grin. Vulgar references turn me on, what can I say? I'm a nasty bitch. For a druggy, he looks pretty good. Honestly, I'm surprised at what good shape he's in. Pleasantly surprised, of course.

“Mine?” Lydia asks, stabbing her own lollipop into the fabric of a green dress. “Can this mine?” she repeats, gesturing with the candy and wrinkling the fabric up in sticky pink goo.

“It is now, I reckon,” I tell her, trying to put on a Southern accent when in all reality, I don't know shit about Southern accents. I'm from fucking Australia. Lydia smiles at me, and I smile back. I feel so wrong being here right now, like I'm taking a crap right on Ronnie's face. I should tell him. But how? How do I do that without fucking everything else up?

I grab the dress off the rack and drape it over my arm, giving Lydia my candy since hers is now permanently attached to the ruffles that cover the front of the skirt. I shove some more of the clothes aside, looking for something, anything, that has a little personality.

“Hey,” Ronnie calls softly, drawing my eyes up to his. They're just plain brown, but there's something else in them that makes me swoon, just a little. I think it's the depth of his emotions. I'm so tired of guys who'd rather shit their pants than cry, who get that squinched, ugly look on their faces as they fight against their feelings like they're devils come to take 'em home. Ronnie doesn't bother to hide anything. He's sad, nervous, overworked. And underneath it all, he's pissed off. There's this righteous rage boiling inside of him that's practically screaming for release. I don't think he sees it or even senses that it's there, but I do. I hope I'm around when it finally explodes. Sounds so liberating. “Thanks. Seriously.”