Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (10 page)

“Yeah, well maybe you should,” Turner says as the roar behind me turns to deafening. We probably shouldn't have a scene right at the front of the property like this, but what the hell? Who cares? There are
two
gates between us and them. “Look at this. Look. Look
at it.
” I spin around and snatch the papers from his hand, glancing at the spot he jabs his finger at.

“What?” I snap, trying to shuffle through the legal mumbo jumbo. It all seems pretty standard to me. Until I see the paragraph that starts talking about location, location, location. It's an address in Beverly Hills.
This
address in Beverly Hills.

“Welcome to the fucking house,
roomie,
” Turner snaps, flinging the rest of the papers at me. They flutter to the ground and come to rest in the hot California sun. “Stupid asshole. You're just lucky Ronnie'd already talked her out of having cameras in the bathrooms. Read before you sign next time, you stupid emo fuck.”

He turns and stalks up the drive as I glance over at Sydney and catch her gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.

I'd be pissed … if I didn't think she was about to smile at me.

I almost smile back.

Guess I'm movin' in. With Turner Campbell. Somebody shoot me, please.

I don't see Dax for two days, and he doesn't call either. I pretend like I don't give a shit, but I keep checking my phone and frowning when the only text is from a stripper friend of mine back in Detroit.
Saw you on the news!
it says.
How's your brother?
And then there's the inevitable question of money and can I maybe borrow some until next payday because my car broke down and my boyfriend's an asshole and all that. I text her back and tell her I'll send a thousand bucks—of Trey's money, of course. Until I get the advance for this stupid show, I'm dead broke. Dead broke and living in a house with three swimming pools. Heh.

When I come down the stairs and find the man in question walking in the front door with his suitcases, a grin splits my face right in half—especially when I catch snippets of Turner's mumbling monologue.

“Fucking emo bitch freeloader motherfucker.” He's grumbling and smoking a cigarette in the foyer, but he doesn't look particularly pissed off. Despite what he says, I think he likes Dax.

“Mr. Campbell, have you ever considered smoking
outside?
” Milo asks, wrinkling his nose at the lazy curls of gray smoke that twist and shimmer around the shining black surfaces of the piano. Ronnie's been sneaking down here at night and playing soft spoken tunes that send chills down my spine when I catch snippets of them. Not sure if anyone knows about that but me. Doubt Campbell would slouch disrespectfully against the piano like that if he'd heard his friend strumming heartbreak from those ivory keys.

Turner rolls his eyes and moves over to the door, ashing his cigarette in the bushes as he glares at Amatory Riot's other boys, Kash and Wren.

“This is gonna be real, real fun,” I say with a wink as Dax's attention snaps over to me. I can't see his eyes through his sunglasses, but I'm dressed to please today. Hell, I'm dressed to please everyday just in case.
We need to have a talk, me and Dax.
I cross my arms over my yellow tank. The metallic gold cursive ripples, the words
No, They're Not Real
highlighting my very expensive personal enhancements. “Like a sleepover or something. Can we throw a few sleeping bags in the living room and tell ghost stories?”

“Screw you Sydney,” Turner says because, well, he's just a fucking asshole like that. I notice Dax's fingers curling around the straps of his bags, his teeth gritting as he casts a glance over his shoulder at my brother's best friend. “I'm not saying I'm totally opposed to being immortalized on TV, but why do we need these motherfuckers here with us? This is my crash pad. I should get to decide who to invite over, not some dumb bitch in a pantsuit. Besides, I don't know how healthy it is for me to be feeding Sydney's emo cock addiction. Bet that shit's, like, chronic or something.”

“I'm not exactly thrilled about this either,” Dax snaps, sliding off his shades and giving me another look, one that smolders and burns as I take him in with a single sweeping glance and tilt my lips up in a smile.
You're supposed to be distancing yourself from this guy,
my logical brain peeps, but I ignore her and move into the foyer, looking up into Dax's gray eyes. That little quickie in the hotel was a serious mistake, like someone trying to quit smoking by sneaking a few puffs. I got that nicotine in my blood now, baby.

“Maybe we can finally go ring shopping?” Turner muses, completely ignoring Dax and saying every goddamn thing that pops into his head every second that it flickers into existence. “I need to buy Naomi a rock before she's like, fully conscious and everything. She's too perceptive. If I wait, she'll know.”

“Are you
sure
you're actually engaged?” Ronnie asks, pausing next to Kash and Wren and looking them over with a distinctly paternal gaze, Lola by his side. “I mean, you did actually ask?”

“I did more than offer her a green card,” Turner snaps, and I roll my eyes.

“You'll get used to the banter,” I promise as Dax gazes down at me. I don't tell him that I tried to catch a glimpse of him by visiting Blair and Naomi in the hospital yesterday. Some bitch nurse named Dina told me I'd just missed him. It's too embarrassing to admit that I even tried. “Eventually it'll fade away into white noise.”

I flick my fingers at the boys, my body going tight as Dax keeps looking at me, just staring down at my face like he's trying to memorize every feature. I've never had a guy look at me like that before, like the shape of my smile mattered.

I bite my lower lip hard and tilt my head to the side. Dax almost looks ashamed. Can't figure out for the life of me why.

“I've been trying to stay out of your way,” he says suddenly, his lips barely moving with the words. “You've been taking care of me. I'm not sure why, but you have. And I owe you for that. But I don't want to be a burden anymore. Since we're … kind of living together now, I thought we should talk. Set up some boundaries or something?”

“You two going to kiss or what?” Turner laughs, flicking some cigarette ash at Dax as he prances by. Dax grits his teeth, but he doesn't pull his gaze away from mine.

“You want to get out of here? Go for a picnic or something? You can throw your stuff in my room for now.”

“Hear that, Trey! Emo Boy's shacking up with your sister.” I glance over my shoulder with a sigh just in time to catch my brother flipping Dax off from the direction of the living room.

“Dear God, please,” Dax whispers and then we both pause and turn at the sound of boots on the marble floor behind us. It's Brayden Ryker with a big smile plastered across his face, Paulette Washington at his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I've asked Brayden Ryker to continue as the head of security for both bands and he's graciously accepted the position.”

“Fantastic. The guy who let my girlfriend and my best friend get shot is going to be protecting us again. I feel so much safer now.” Turner slaps his palm on his chest as he backs away and into the living room. “Oh, and thanks for bringing a bunch of strangers into my house. Who the hell is this anyway?”

“My name is Kash,” the blond says with a small sigh. “We played several gigs together while Naomi was missing.”

“Sure thing, bro. I'll try to remember your name, but I'm sure you'll get shot and killed at the next concert, so I might not even bother.”

“Can we please go now?” Dax asks, and I nod. “Another minute of this shit and
I'll
be the one with a gun in my hand.”

“Sure thing. Let me pack us a lunch and we'll get the hell out of here.” My eyes sparkle as I glance up at Dax again, my fingers finding their way to his chest, feeling the hardness of the muscles beneath his shirt. “I have just the place in mind.”

A couple o' forty ounces, a handful of condoms, and three day old pizza and I've got a picnic fit for a king. Kind of reminds of me of lazy high school afternoons spent cutting class and smoking cigarettes in the cemetery that sat adjacent to our trailer park. Ah, the good ol' days. Wish I could say I missed 'em, but … sayonara baby.

“Think we'll really be able to get out of here?” Dax asks as I flick the lights off and turn the volume on the TV up as high as it can go. There's a porno playing, some filthy fucking thing that I charged to Trey's debit card. He owes me one anyway.

I glance back at Dax, highlighted by the flickering colors of the TV. His eyes are on the screen and his fists are curled tight by his sides. Oh yeah. It's getting hot up in here. I look away with a smile and move over to the sliding doors that lead out to my balcony.

“If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that if people think you're fucking, they'll generally leave things well enough alone. Whenever I was short on rent and the first would roll around, I'd just slap on some bukkake video and climb down the fire escape.”

“Bukkake?” Dax asks and I almost choke on a laugh. For a rock star, he's so fucking innocent it's cute. I turn around and watch as Dax slings our bag over his shoulder. I can't help teasing him, so I slide my fingers up his jaw, over the slight stubble and enjoy the moment as he shivers under my touch.

“You know, when like a dozen guys spank their junk and come all over a single girl?”

“This is a thing?” Dax asks as I lean up and follow the path my hand just took with my tongue. Behind me, the woman on the TV screams in false porno pleasure. “People do that?”

“Some people,” I say as I step back and move towards the sliding doors.

“Like you?” Dax asks as I wink at him and swing my leg over the bars of the patio.

“Wouldn't you like to know,” I tease as I drop down and let myself hang suspended for a moment over the hot tub. When I let go, there's a second of weightlessness and then I'm landing on the soft top and reaching up to catch the bag when Dax tosses it down to me. He follows after me and lands with a grunt, running his fingers through his hair.

“Please tell me the answer to my question is a no.”

“What? You don't like the idea of a bunch of dudes jacking off on me?”

“Not particularly,” Dax says as he follows me over to the wall and gives me a boost up. I dragged a patio chair over here earlier, but this is a lot more pleasant, letting Dax lift me up like I weigh nothing.
Fuck, he's strong.
It's that quiet easy strength that you don't notice at first, not all up in your face like some of Brayden's bodyguards.

“Jealous?” I ask as Dax spots my chair and uses that to get a hold of the top of the wall, hauling himself over like it's nothing. “Because if you are …”

“I'm not jealous,” he says as he examines the dark street, the small dedicated crowd that hangs out overnight, candles lit in remembrance for the people that died on the tour. I don't let myself think about them, tossing the bag to the strip of grass that borders the sidewalk and climbing down with Dax by my side. “It's not any of my business anyway.”

“Oh, please,” I say, casting a glance over my shoulder to make sure none of the crazies spotted us. The last thing I want to do tonight is fight off some psycho ass fangirls. Whether Dax knows it or not, he's got 'em. “You're saying one thing, but you're thinking another. Tell me what's on your mind. This is the first time in over a week that you've been this sober. I want to keep it real.” I smile over at him, but Dax is already frowning.

“Am I that obvious?” Dax asks, following me down the street, his eyes hooded with shadow as we pass through the patches of darkness between streetlights. “When I'm fucked up, I mean?”

I shrug my shoulders. I don't want to talk about any of that. Tonight, this is our night. Maybe the only one we'll get for a while. With the way things have been going, it's hard to know what'll happen tomorrow. If there'll even
be
a tomorrow.

“Okay, so I'm thinking that I want it to be my business,” Dax says as I follow a set of directions that I crammed into my skull before we left. I'm good at that kind of thing, like a human GPS or something. This is the best route out of Beverly Hills, the path that we're least likely to get caught on. Then, we'll take a cab to our final destination. “I'm thinking that I really don't like the idea of a dozen guys blowing their loads all over you.”