Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) (4 page)

“See that's the best part about it all. Guess he thought it was cool to abuse the wicked stick to a mug shot.” I drop my hand back to my lap and watch Naomi smile. Behind me, Ronnie laughs so hard he coughs. Jesse stays silent. Any hope of igniting some sort of spark or something in this van just fizzles out, and I slump back against the seat, feeling twice as tired as before. At the very least, Naomi reaches out and puts a hand on my knee. As long as I have her by my side, I'm fucking positive that I can get through anything. Anything. Even if Trey doesn't make it.

But if my best friend does pass away, this Tyler Rutledge better watch his ass because I won't just kill him – I'll make him wish he was dead.

Safe house, huh?

Just another fancy word for some piece of shit rental in the middle of fucking nowhere.

“Where the shit are we?” I ask as I lean forward and stare out the front windshield. There's a long ass driveway, some spindly anorexic trees, and a three story house with wood shingles. Not my idea of a good time. “What the fuck is this? Milo,” I snap as Naomi grabs the door and slides it open, stepping out into the chilly air with her face raised up towards the sky and her eyes closed. She could not look anymore out of place here. It's a barren wasteland for God's sake.

My manager ignores me, climbing out of the vehicle like an old man, limbs shaky and uncertain, feet crunching across the dirty pavement of the driveway. He's got his man purse slung over one shoulder and a nervous expression on his face.

“Turner, what do you want me to do? I didn't pick this place out. And it's not a vacation.” Milo gives me a look over his shoulder as he makes his way to the unmarked police cruiser in front of us. I grit my teeth and hop out onto the pavement, sighing deep and sucking in a lungful of country bumpkin air.

“Fuck me,” I growl as I light up another cigarette and watch Ronnie crawl out beside me. He raises his brow at me, but I ignore him. “If I catch hillbilly or redneck or something, y'all are going to be sorry at the next show. I'll start singing about my aching, breaking heart or some shit.”

“This is only temporary, Mr. Campbell,” says one of the men from the police cruiser. Huh. He tries to smile at me, but I don't return the favor. I just spin in a circle and listen for distant sounds of life. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My blood goes cold. “As soon as we get a lead in this case, you're free to go. For now … ” The officer shakes his head of curly black hair. “Just lay low and let us take care of this.” I laugh, can't help it. Both Pube Hair Dude and his partner stare at me like I'm crazy.

“Kind of like you took care of Eric and Katie.” I kick at a pebble on the ground with my boot. “Like how you found Naomi? Kept Chelsea's and Phoebe's mothers alive? Yeah, I've got some real hope up in here.” I flip a finger to the sky and start off towards the house, dragging one of our bodyguards behind me. I
hate
having them around. Makes me feel like a damn pussy.
Besides, it's not like they were able to help Trey.
Trey. My heart spasms and I stumble up the steps to the deck. It's painted some dull gray-blue color, but it's still ragged and splintery as hell. “Fuck,” I growl, snatching my hand away from the peeling paint and rough wood. I shake my fingers out as I pause in front of the door and try the knob. Locked.

“Just a moment, Mr. Campbell,” says Pube Hair as he scoots around me and holds out an arm towards my chest. I look down at his hand touching my crunchy, bloody shirt and sneer at him, tossing my cigarette at his feet before I move back
voluntarily.
I don't do shit because I'm told to. Just doesn't happen. Besides, I hate cops. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cop, thought they saved people and crap. But they never saved me. Left me with my mother until I was able to get a court order of emancipation. “We just want to do a quick run-through of the house first.” I roll my eyes and slump against the swamp green siding, pretending the cold doesn't bother me. Or the isolation. Or the fact that Trey's hundreds of miles away lying in a hospital bed. “We've already done a sweep, but it never hurts to take precautions.” I narrow my eyes on the men as they unlock the door, wondering if either of them is planning on setting up a hidden camera or something. If these guys are in on the whole thing, we might be worse off out here in the middle of butt fuck nowhere than we would in a packed auditorium. I'm going to have to make my case to Milo and
quick.

I scoff at them and look away, watching as everyone but Dax files out of the van and stands milling around blank-faced and unsure. Ducks out of water. Plain and simple. No groupies, no drugs, no phones, no concerts. This is basically hell. But at least I've got an angel.

I smile at Naomi as she ascends the steps and goes right inside, silver boots flashing in a ray of stray sunshine. I stand up and follow after, hating the fact that she had the balls to just walk in.
Bitch is making me look bad.
I catch up to her in the living room. It's got vaulted ceilings and natural pine beams, some pretty standard furniture and a ten foot tall fireplace made up of river rock.

“Ugh,” Naomi says, popping a cigarette in her mouth. “It looks like the type of vacation rental my friends and I used to shack up in. We'd smoke pot and watch shitty VHS recordings of Adult Swim for days straight.” She pulls a lighter out of her pocket and flicks the top off. “How depressing.”

“You have friends, Knox?” I ask, pushing the darkness and the pain and the worry down as far as they'll go. I haven't felt like this in a long time, and I don't like it. The loss, the sense of helplessness, the fucking fear. It's not good for a person. “That's news to me.”

“I said
used to
, Turner. As in once upon a fucking time.” Naomi leans forward and blows a smoke ring in my face. Despite the situation, I can't hold back the rush of pure sex that invades my veins. Naomi makes me crazy for it. Besides, I imagine that if I was moving inside of her, that I'd have a lot less brain function to repeat the scene of the shooting over and over and over again in my head. I pinch my eyes shut and turn away.

I was on such a high in that moment. Now I'm on the lowest low I've had in a decade. My stomach's all knotted up like I've been falling for hours. Even the thought of hitting the ground sounds good at this point. I open my eyes again and move away from Naomi before she can see the hurt in my gaze.

“When do we get our phones back?” Ronnie asks, coming in after us and looking around with clouded eyes. Lola. That chick has grabbed ahold of his balls and won't let go. Hey, I don't blame him. In fact, I'm happy for the guy. Even if the woman he fell in love with is one of the bad guys. Ronnie's had it too hard for too long. That's why I stuck the condom in his pocket that day. I didn't want him to screw up the first good thing that's come his way in years. Besides, Asuka would've liked Lola Saints. Eh, what am I kidding myself? Asuka liked everybody.

“When we get the all clear and leave the safe house, you'll get them back. For now, there's a landline you can use,” Milo says, entering the living room and pausing to take a look around. “Phones can be tracked. We certainly don't need anymore … excitement right now. One step at a time.”

“No disrespect meant to Treyjan, of course,” Hayden begins when she walks in next, winking at the cops as they pass by each other. “But I think this will be good for us. A break from the road, a chance to get our heads on straight.” She smiles sweet enough to give me a fuckin' cavity. I look away from her and move up to the stairs. Ain't gonna be hanging around down here. I want to fuck Naomi and fall asleep. That's it. Well, maybe I'll shoot up first, but that's debatable. The come down from tar is a bitch. Besides, the shit we've been dealing with is only getting worse. I should be keeping a clear head here. It's just … once this first forty-eight hours is over, and Trey's not in such critical condition, I'll feel better. I put one foot on the stairs and pause when an unfamiliar voice answers.

“My thoughts exactly, Ms. Lee.” I look over at the door and in walks America, Amatory Riot's manager, smiling from ear to ear like a shark. She's covered in fading bruises and one arm's in a sling, but otherwise, she looks like a lawyer or something. All slicked up and shiny. Suit that costs as much as a small car, diamond bracelet on her uninjured arm, red, red lipstick spread across her mouth.

“America?” Naomi asks, blinking at her in surprise. Hayden just squeals and throws her arms around America's neck, prompting a very savage and extremely short-lived sneer. America untangles herself carefully.

“It's nice to see you,” she says, looking pointedly at Naomi. “All of you.” With a snap of her fingers, a roadie stumbles in carrying a guitar case and depositing it near the table and chairs in the dining area. “I brought Spencer here with me.” America glances over her shoulder at Milo. “She's trustworthy. I can vouch to her character.” She clears her throat and moves further into the house, looking around at the ceilings, the duck paintings on the walls, the cobwebs in the corners of the room. “Along with some extra equipment. If we're going to be here for any period of time, we might as well be productive.”

I pause with one hand on the stair railing and watch her interaction with her band and with Milo. He doesn't seem surprised to see her, so I'm guessing they talked. If he's okay with her then so am I. Besides, America was nearly beat to death on that bus. Lola told us point blank that she was their target, so she's obviously not involved. Anyway, Naomi told her everything we know, so if she was out to get us, I guess she would've gotten us by now.

Dax stumbles in next, arm around Kash's neck as he struggles to stay on his feet, sweat soaking his brow and sticking his shirt to his skin. The skinny druggy – Wren – follows after with Blair, Josh, and a pale faced Jesse. The gang's all here now, I guess.
Except for Trey.
I swallow back the pain.

“We're going to practice, practice, practice,” America says, making eye contact with all of her band members. “And we're going to get back on the road as soon as is humanly possible.” She spins around on her heel and crosses her good arm over her belly. “Officers, do you happen to know a timeframe for us?” The Pube Hair guy steps forward, eyes drifting towards the door like he'd rather just get out of here. Don't blame him. The thought of staying even a night or two in this place makes me feel stifled.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't. It all depends on how quickly we can apprehend a suspect.” The officer all but shrugs at her and wets his lips. I don't really blame him. This America chick, she's tough shit. “If you have any questions, we're just a phone call away.” And then with a tight smile, he retreats, taking the other officer with him. As they walk down the steps of the deck, I watch them and wonder if one or both is about to go tattling to this Tyler Rutledge guy. I take a deep breath and push the thought of that other cop out of my mind – the one that Naomi stabbed. She didn't mean to kill him, and hell, I don't even have any clue if that's what killed him. The police aren't releasing any fucking details about that crap. I have to admit though, girl's got a thing for knives. I glance over my shoulder at her.

“Well that was helpful,” America says, getting out a cigarette. Already half of us in this room are smoking. It's going to get real bad in here real fast. “And I don't want anyone hovering around me. I'm perfectly fine and well-bodied, so leave me the hell alone.”

“It's nice to see you, too,” Naomi says, turning to face her and crossing her arms over her chest. Her blonde hair wafts around her high cheekbones and sticks to her moist lips.
Fuck, if she keeps putting that lip gloss shit on I'm going to come in my fucking pants.
I take my hand off the banister and lean against the newel post, waiting for her. “Can we talk?” Chills travel up and down my spine, cooling me to the core. That's right. I almost forget – America knows shit. How or why, that's what we're waiting to find out. America takes a drag on her smoke and smiles wickedly, like the cat who got the cream. Shit, this woman's scary. I'm glad my manager's the short one with the wispy hair and the shaking hands. Milo knows how to get stuff done, but he's about as terrifying as a goldfish.

“No.” Just that one word. She turns away and starts gesturing at the roadie chick with her cig. “Just stack everything here and we'll deal with it later.”

“America?” Naomi needles, stepping closer to her while the rest of the group disperses, some moving down the darkened hallway behind me, others coming for the stairs.

“I get first pick,” I whisper as Ronnie passes, and he flips me off, trudging up the steps like his body's too heavy for him to hold. If I was into hugs, I'd probably give him one. Looks like he could use a fucking squeeze.

“Not right now, Naomi. Go get showered, get the blood off your chest.” She turns back to my girlfriend – because Naomi is
my
girlfriend whether she knows that or not, first one, too – and gives her a severe look, pupils shifting ever so slightly towards Hayden Lee who's just settled down on the couch next to Dax. I don't think he even knows she's there. I kinda think he might be asleep, but if he's not, then we might need to reconsider his involvement because he's letting Hayden put her head on his shoulder. “Once you've had some sleep, we'll talk.” She reaches out and pats Naomi's shoulder awkwardly. “I promise.” And then she's walking away, running her finger across the tabletop and frowning when she lifts it up for examination.