Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (24 page)

“What brings you over to this neck of the woods?” Sydney asks her as she sits down on the edge of the bed and starts up some music to mask our conversation. It's a practice we've really gotten into lately. After the sex tape and the hospital fiasco, it's almost a necessity to keep things private. Her music choices are as colorful as her tattoos, so I'm not surprised when she picks “Victorious” by Panic! At The Disco. Actually, that's kind of tame when it comes to Sydney Charell. Yesterday, she listened to some hardcore metal band from France on repeat. The day before that, it was a Japanese pop song that she was into. Not my music scene per se, but it provides a refreshing change of pace from all the Indecency and Amatory Riot shit.

“I, uh,” Naomi begins, stretching her arms above her head with a grimace. She puts a hand to her chest, right over the spot where the bullet entered her body. “I was actually wondering if you'd be okay with me coming to your photoshoot.”

Sydney raises the two pink smears that make up her eyebrows and reaches out for the joint. After she takes a drag, she offers it to me and I take it, ashing my cigarette in a tray by the TV.

“Uh, hell yeah,” Sydney says, leaning back and crossing her tattooed ankles. “Rock Goddess Extraordinaire, Tamer of Turner Motherfucking Campbell, how can you even ask? How could I ever say no?” Sydney gives me a quick look, just a flick of those beautiful blue eyes that says volumes. Fucking
tomes.
She's not jealous of Naomi anymore, that's for sure.

A warmth fills my body … and my … aw, fuck, you already know what I'm going to say at this point? If someone were to write a book about me, it'd be half-filled with descriptions of hard, throbbing erections and penises that could cut granite. Christ. Nobody wants to hear about that shit anymore.

“Thanks,” Naomi says, sitting down next to Sydney in a pair of black pajama pants and matching socks. “I just really need to get out of this fucking house.” She reaches up and runs her hands down her face. “This huge frigging monstrosity of a house.”

“It's a nightmare,” Sydney agrees sympathetically.

“Repellant,” Naomi adds as she drops her hands to her lap and smiles crookedly.

“Atrocious,” Sydney says with a laugh, bumping her shoulder against Naomi. “Girl, you got yourself into a heap o' trouble with that boy. What the hell are you going to do with him?”

“I think I'm going to marry him?” Naomi asks as a question, her face scrunched up with self-disgust. “Or murder him. I'm not exactly sure which. Split about fifty-fifty on that one.”

“I vote for the latter,” I say as I take a drag and pass her back the joint, noticing as her eyes catch on the Tama SuperStar kit behind me. Something happens in that moment, some flicker of passion and rage that I recognize oh so well. We're going to get a fucking killer album out of this bullshit, aren't we? Naomi's right hand curls tight, and I just
know
that she's going to spend the night writing lyrics.

“Yeah, well, I'm strongly considering it. I go into a coma and he buys a mansion—from America's sister. I mean, how the hell does that even happen? Stuff like that just doesn't fucking occur in real life.”

“It's the hard rock life for us I guess,” Sydney jokes as the song changes to something darker. I think it's “Dirty Pretty” by In This Moment. I listen to the lyrics for a moment. Yep. Sure is. The lead singer reminds me a lot of Naomi—in attitude, appearance, and voice. It makes me miss the stage suddenly and with a fierceness I didn't realize I had. Touring isn't easy. In fact, it sucks. It makes enemies of friends and friends of enemies. Too many drugs, too much sex, too much booze. But … I feel like that's where I'm most alive.

“I suppose so,” Naomi says with another sigh, rising to her feet and grimacing again at the movement. She tucks a hand against her chest and smiles tightly at us. “I just hope it's over soon. I'm ready to go back to sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll and all the drama that comes with it. I'm definitely fucking over the murder-mystery thing.”

“Agreed,” I say as she heads for the door and I step forward to open it for her.

“If I'm not awake when you get up, shake me,” she says and then waves goodbye before disappearing down the hallway. I hear Turner's voice as soon as her bedroom door opens, but I could give two shits less about what he's saying, so I slam our own door with a sigh.

“I can totally see why you were in love with her,” Sydney says as I turn and give her a look. “No, seriously, I get it.
I'm
in love with her and I'm straight as the day is long,” she declares, one hand over her chest in staunch declaration.

“Stop it,” I say as I turn and put my back to the door, flicking the lock into place. Next time somebody knocks, I'm not fucking answering it. A wry smile twists my lips. “You hate her guts. Just admit it.”

“Not in the slightest,” Sydney says, her long lashes curling up against her bare forehead. With her hair covered in dye, slicked back away from her face, I can see her features so much better. I almost wish she'd cut it all off so I could drown in the azure depths of her eyes.
Fuck.
I swipe a hand down my face. “I promised myself when I found somewhere to settle, I'd make girlfriends. So, here I am, making them with my boyfriend's … ex-crush?”

“If you could even call her that,” I start hesitantly, thoughts of Sydney and my first time together leaking into the gray matter between my ears. I wasn't exactly a gentleman. And I wasn't exactly sober either. I'm surprised she was able to get past my sloppy idiocy.

You need a Naomi cleansing. I look a little bit like her, don't I?

I cringe at the memory—mostly because of my own idiotic response.

A little, maybe. You're both blonde, I guess.

Wow. Smooth. Suave. As. Fuck.

And then I start thinking about all the crazy shit I said to Naomi and things get even more awkward inside my head.
I came because I don't ever want it to be too late to say I love you.
Ugh. Just … ew. Ugh. The hell is wrong with me? Do I have no brain-to-mouth filter?

“Penny for your thoughts,” Sydney drawls, standing up and sliding her shirt above her head. It hits the ground in a pink and white heap, leaving her curvy midsection on display. “You're not thinking about Naomi again, are you? Because if you still have a crush on her, then I might have to slap a bitch and that would
definitely
lose me the girlfriend status.”

“I'm just thinking about what an idiot I am,” I say with a shrug. Then again … maybe there's a point to all this?
Or maybe Sydney's just about to take off her bra.
Shit. I try to gather my thoughts before her nipples are exposed and all logical thought goes out the window. It took me
four years
to tell Naomi how I felt. I lost her, or maybe I never had her in the first place. Hayden is dead; Tara is dead; Blair is damn near dead.

Crap.

I'm going to do it again, aren't I?

“Sydney,” I start and the look on her face is priceless. She almost looks … afraid. Why? Because of me? What I'm going to say? She gives a fuck, and that makes me give a million fucks, and I seriously just want to hug her right now.

“Yes?” she asks, pausing with her bra clasped over her breasts, waiting for me to say whatever it is that I'm going to say.
Now or never, right?

I take a deep breath, make myself look her straight in the face and say it.

“Sydney, I think … no, that's a cop-out.” Another breath, a step forward, my hands hot on her shoulders as I lean down and breathe against her lips. “I love you.”

There. That's it. That confirms it.

I really am an emo bitch—and I've never been so goddamn proud of it.

Hayden Lee stares up at me from an old copy of
Tin Dolls
Magazine, her back curved, ass up, one hand on her hip. She's the epitome of rock star goddess in this photo, her nipples just
barely
covered by the black strap of the book bag she's wearing on her shoulder. It's covered in pins and patches, the colors arranged to mimic the rainbow panties that curve over her narrow hips. Besides the matching knee-high socks and silver stilettos, that's all she's wearing.

I hear I'll be wearing even less.

“How do you know for sure?” I ask Naomi Knox, raising my head to stare at her, sitting across from me inside a fucking
limo.
Yeah. That's a new one. Limousine. The last time I rode in one of these, I was fucking my date on prom night in some messy teenage grope session. Gross. I run my finger across the glossy surface of the page and try not to feel sick. This magazine, the physical version of it anyway, is now selling for upwards of
ten grand
on eBay. No promo or advertisement is ever as powerful as death. I wonder if Hayden Lee is enjoying her posthumous infamy?

“Hayden threw a temper tantrum about her tiny tits,” Naomi says, her words bitchy but her voice soft, tinged with a mixture of regret and sadness. She takes a drag on her cigarette and sighs. “But they wouldn't let her wear a top, so they compromised with the panties and the footwear.”

Another drag, another sigh.

“I remember that,” Dax says, his voice low as he stares at the photo. His eyes are more blue than gray right now, like the sky right after a good rain.
A sky that said 'I love you' last night.
I curl my fingers against my leg and try not to freak—in a good way, of course. “And Hayden was throwing such a goddamn hissy that America had to step in and make peace.” Dax purses his lips tight and flicks his gaze up, directing an obviously aggressive stare in Turner's direction, like he's just daring him to say something rude. Turner notices and raises a dark brow.

“Cool it, man, my lips are
sealed,
” he mumbles, his chin parked on his hand as he stares out the tinted windows at the city. “I'm just here to keep my woman safe.”

“If you call me your
woman
one more time, I swear to Christ,” Naomi starts, her hands quivering as she curls them into fists against her knees. She seems a bit shaky today, but if she's cool with wearing booty shorts and a midriff tank, she must be feeling a little better, right? Confident, at the very least. Hell, when I was walking the halls yesterday, I heard the growling rumble of a guitar from Naomi's room. I may or may not have taken advantage of her unlocked door to peek in and catch her fawning over her instrument. Bitch has got spunk, and I am
beyond
excited that she asked to come with me today.
New girlfriend, yay.
Oh, and possible future sister-in-law if Turner doesn't screw this up.

“Oh, come on, Knox. You've been giving me the cold shoulder since the day you got home.”

“That
palace
is not my home,” Naomi growls, her orange-brown eyes flashing as she turns a glare on her own boyfriend. “I didn't ask for that. I didn't ask to move in there. I didn't ask to be on a reality TV show.” She takes a deep breath and shakes out her hands, turning to look at me like she's almost ashamed of herself. “Sorry. I don't mean to keep being such a bitch. This is your day, your moment.”

“Thing is,” I say as I play with the edge of my black bandage dress. “I still can't figure out
why
this is my moment. I mean, why put
me
on the cover of
Tin Dolls
? Why not you? Or Lola? I'm not a member of any band, and I can't sing for shit.”

“I heard,” Naomi chuckles, her voice this warm, sexy mix of old school rock and modern metal. So cool, so fab, so fem. I wanna be Naomi Knox when I grow up. “Anyway,” she waves her hand dismissively, silver bracelets clinking. “Don't sell yourself short. First of all, you're fucking gorgeous, and those boobs …”

“Ugh, no,” Turner interrupts, sitting up and giving me a look that says I'm cat vomit on the bottom of his shoe. I stick my tongue out at him. “If you're into girl-on-girl, you're gonna have to pick someone else out. This bitch is ratchet as hell.”

“The only person in this car that's
ratchet,
” Day says as he leans forward. “Is you—after I beat your fucking face to a pulp. I don't care if you grew up with Sydney, it doesn't give you the right to insult her all the goddamn time. Have you ever considered that she might be an actual person with actual feelings?”

“Feelings?” Turner crows with laughter, getting an elbow in the gut from Naomi. I smile crookedly and lean over to give Dax a kiss on the cheek. I'm used to the boys ragging on me, but it's nice to have someone stand up for me once in a while, someone to take charge on occasion.

“Thanks for defending my honor, cowboy,” I say with a faux drawl, sitting back in the seat hard and smacking my gum as I give Hayden another once-over. The reigning queen of rock is dead, and here I am, with the audacity to think I could take her place on the cover of this magazine. I still can't figure out
why
I'm being given the opportunity, but what the hell? There are lots of people famous for their associations. I mean, like, what the hell does Kim Kardashian do anyway? Or Paris Hilton? Or Victoria Beckham? Like, they got famous just for being famous, so why not me? Why the fuck not?