Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (6 page)

I keep my eyes focused on Dax, across the head of the hooded corpse, and lock onto that stormy gray gaze of his. When I look at him, I get this strange electric energy skittering across my skin, like I'm standing outside before a storm, listening to the far off howl of the wind, the sprinkle of rain, letting the pressure change push down on my flesh as the clouds roll in.

One touch from him and the pain would numb, the world would fall away. I know it would. I
felt
it. And if I could get all that from a quickie in a club then what would happen if we took some time to … explore each other?

I roll my eyes as he raises his brows, and look away.

I swore off of him just this morning, didn't I? I have a career to think about, a career and a corpse.

“This is the room?” I ask as I examine the white lettering across the front of the wooden door.

“I think so,” Dax says, scratching at the back of his neck as I glance over at him again (hard to keep my eyes away anyhow). The dark specters of his tattoos dance across his skin with the movement. “But like I said, I haven't been entirely … present as of late.” Something flashes over his face, a cut, not yet a scar.
Fresh pain.
My arms break out in goose bumps and I have to cross them over my chest to fend off a wave of sensation. Something happened to him today, something else. I can just tell.

But I shouldn't care.

I growl under my breath and get a weird look from both Dax and Ronnie. Oops. Did I do that out loud?

I smile big and shrug my shoulders, lifting up a hand to pound on the wood of KK Vogt's door.

“Isn't she like, fucked up pretty bad?” Ronnie whispers as Brayden's guys watch us from the end of the hallway. A smile curls my lips that I can't help.

“Yeah, because I
shot
her,” I whisper back under my breath. I haven't talked about the concert, barely even
thought
about it. The aftermath provided more than enough fodder for my already tired brain, but now that I'm reminiscing … yeah, yeah I capped the bitch. Right in the fucking leg.

Dax exchanges a look with me and I think, though I'm not sure, that the corner of his mouth twitches.

The door cracks open, drawing my attention away from a guy I know is nothin' but trouble and right around to the chick I shot in the thigh. I didn't
actually
mean to hit her, but she had a gun and I was firing a warning shot and well, hell, I don't know shit about guns.

I straighten out the hot pink tank I've got on and make myself smile.

“Hello, KK,” I say and then my palm comes up, pushing the door in before the woman in question can stop me.

“I have a message from Lola for you,” I lie as the woman stumbles back, a set of crutches under her arms and a look of abject terror on her bugged out face. Her eyes look like they're about to take a tumble down her cheeks. I'm not even sure that if that's how she usually looks or just a byproduct of a really bad week. As far as I can tell, Brayden Ryker was on America's side and KK was on Stephen's. So … she's a prisoner in this hotel I'm assuming? Either way, I hope my Lola lie's enough to keep the guys at the end of the hall standing still.

With each step I take, KK moves one back until she's dropping her crutches and sitting hard on the edge of the bed. She's dressed in a stained
Ice and Glass
tee and not much else. I wonder if she's even aware her lead singer is dead.

My guess is … probably not.

“Sorry,” I say, tucking my fingers into the back pockets on my jeans. “I can see you're probably already having a shit day, but we're here to plop some more poop into the pot.”

“Well said,” Ronnie comments, parking Trey's wheelchair in the center of the room and then lighting up a cigarette.

“You shouldn't be in here,” KK starts, but I cut her off with a tilt of the head and another smile. Crap. I don't know why I'm smiling so dang much. Unless … I let my gaze slide back over to Dax. He's looking at me. Again. And as sad as he is, as drunk or fucked up as he is, he's still got it bad for me. That hard bulge in the pants doesn't lie nor does it seem to be going away, cock blocker and all accounted for. Pretty fucking impressive. I want a guy who could fuck me on top of a coffin at a friend's funeral and not blink an eye. Call me a pervert if you want, but I celebrate life in all its beautiful ugly forms, baby.

“We've got a little present for you,” I start, drawing my focus off of Dax. It takes a painful amount of effort, you know what I mean? When I look at him, I see more than just a drummer or a guy covered in tattoos, a guy with pierced junk … Dax McCann has the quiet strength and the loyalty inside of him that I've always wished for in a guy.

But is he right dude, wrong place, wrong time?

I step back and distract myself by sliding the shades off Cohen Rose's waxy face, careful not to let my fingers touch his cool, stiff flesh.
Talk about some serious ech.

Dax flips the hood off while Ronnie watches KK for her reaction. Maybe it's cruel to drag Cohen in here like this, maybe it's a few shades of fucked the fuck up, but what can I say? When life gives you lemonades, you squirt that juice into the eye of somebody who deserves it.

KK left Ronnie's baby mama in Milo's hotel room; we leave Cohen in hers.

“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” Dax says with a tiny hint of Midwestern drawl. His words are cold, icy as fuck. Maybe even … a little bit scary? A shiver takes over me again and I cross my arms under my tits as I look over at him.

Jesus.

I have got a girl crush bad. I need to get the hell out of here before I act on it. Again. Before those strange feelings that overcame me in the strip club come crashing down and I start worrying about Dax and Naomi, start getting jealous, start giving two fucks too many.

As KK blinks once, twice, three times and then starts to scream, we take our leave and let the door slam shut behind us.

“At least I know there's somebody around here that's having a shittier day than I am,” Dax says as he pulls a plastic bag from his back pocket and extracts whatever it is that's in there. Looks like a cig, probably isn't.

Damn it.
I want to save him from himself so bad it hurts.

Dax is lonely; Dax is sad; Dax needs me. I like to be needed.

And he is so fucking cute. I could bite his little face off.

None of the above are good reasons for me to stick around.

“Hey,” I say as he unlocks his door and Ronnie pauses behind me, Trey's wheelchair loaded up with Cohen's discarded hoodie, gloves, and shoes. Now we just got to figure out how to get the
empty
chair back to our place without anyone taking note. I sigh and Dax notices, holding his door open and looking at me like he isn't sure what comes next.

I tuck my lower lip under my teeth and taste pink lemonade lip gloss as I stare up at him from beneath a fall of blonde bangs. When he blinks at me, I catch the words
Born Wrong
on the backs of his eyelids. The phrase reminds me of the flash of pain I saw cross over his face earlier. I want to ask about it, but … “I gotta bounce,” I tell him instead.

Shit. It really feels like I'm running away here.
Fuck.

“Yeah, okay,” Dax says, his voice a monotone drawl. Whatever it is he's feeling right now, he's trying to hold it back, hide it from me. But why? I know he wants me. At least, his cock definitely does. It's still hard as a rock.

I glance over my shoulder, blonde hair and plastic earrings swinging with the movement. Ronnie and I exchange a glance and he smiles, flashing silver fillings at me.

“I'll give you two a moment,” he says, turning around and wheeling Trey's chair down the hall towards Brayden's guys. Hell, maybe he can dig up some dirt while he's standing there? They don't call Ronnie the Gossip King for nothing.

“No worries,” Dax says, slumping back against the door as I turn to look at him again. I want to grab him by the waistband of his jeans, drag his emo ass into this bedroom and see how many positions we can nail before we both pass out into orgasmic comas.

I feel a smile crack my lips, even as I'm thinking about all the reasons why that would be a bad idea.
I want to fall in love.
I clamp down hard on that thought and shove it aside. No. Not important right now. I have a life to figure out. I gave up my job to come out here and pose for
Tattoo Terror
and now … I'm just screwed, blued and tattooed, baby.

“Got any killer plans?” he asks, almost like he's reluctant for me to leave. He parks his smoke between his bow-tie lips and frowns down at me. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,” he adds after a moment, trying to make himself smile.

“Well,” I start, my gaze drifting down low again. Christ. I can't keep my vagina in my pants when I'm around this guy. I may as well start selling tickets for
Niagara Falls
and just open my legs to tourists. “I was planning on hitting up the magazine and finding out what the fuck is up. It's all fine and dandy that Turner's got a mansion in his name, but I'm still dead broke.”

Dax's mouth turns up a little at that, but it's a bit of a sad smile.

“I'm sorry you got mixed up in this shit.”

I'm already shaking my head, leaning against the doorjamb opposite Dax. We're pretty close together right now. Wouldn't take much for him to put his hands on my hips or brush my hair back, lock our mouths together, drag me into the bedroom and toss me on the bed …

“Not your fault,” I tell him honestly, crossing my ankles together and staring at my purple heels for a moment. “None of this is, you know that, right? Not Naomi or Blair or Tara or Hayden.”

When Dax doesn't answer, I look up and find him staring towards the window on the back wall of his room. His eyes flicker with pain again as silver smoke trails out his nostrils.

Goddamn it. I can't help myself.

I reach down and grab his wrist, locking my fingers over the purple and black sweatband, and drag him into the room. The door swings shut and locks behind us.

“What?” I ask, but all Dax does is raise his brows at me. I narrow my eyes back at him. “I've been watching you for the last few weeks, Dax. Something's up. Something new. What is it? It isn't an America/Stephen thing, is it?”

“Nope,” he says, but he doesn't bother to elaborate, ashing his smoke in a silver tray and jamming it back into the plastic bag. One way or another, he's going to tell me. And then when I'm sure he's not going to hurt himself, I'll go. I have to get my life together.
Have to.
I'm not a musician, and I won't just live off my brother's scraps. I've got to make my own life happen.

But I also can't just abandon Dax.

“I'm not leaving here until you tell me,” I state firmly, putting my hands in my front pockets. I manage to bump my iPod and start another playlist. This time, it's all Amatory Riot that comes blaring out at me. Hayden's voice has a ghostly quality to it that rings too true to life, and I shiver.

“We're all lonely souls looking for a sympathetic ear, a broken heart that makes a perfect pair. I'm me, but I'm also you; there's nothing wrong with being two … halves of a whole … oh no.”

I turn the track off as fast as I can, letting Blondie's
Call Me
play instead.

“I hate this song,” Dax says, leaning back against the small table against the wall and crossing his muscular arms over his tight chest. His Amatory Riot shirt stretches over his pecs, reveals the two sharp points of his nipples. “It starts off with a big tom fill, but the drums are just taped up and flat as fuck.”

“Don't you dare drummer up on me, Mr. McCann.” I take a few steps forward and poke him in the chest.
Oh lordy lord, that feels nice. Rock solid.
An image flashes in my mind of Dax playing his drums, sweat flying all over the place, his biceps bunching and bulging as he slams out an unrivaled beat that travels from my ears all the way down to my toes and curls them.

Fuck.

He drops his hands to my hips and grabs on
tight,
drawing a gasp from my lips.

“I'm not leaving here until you tell me what's wrong,” I whisper, but my voice is all husky and dripping with sex. I can feel the hard press of Dax's erection against my belly and my breath hitches painfully.

“My dad …” Dax grinds out between his teeth as he pushes me back and guides us to the edge of his bed. Shit. Fuck. “I just really don't feel like talking about it right now. Is it okay if I fuck you and explain later?”

A sultry sigh escapes my throat and my hands go around Dax's neck as he pushes us back into the mattress. Our combined weight makes a dip in the bed, cradling us there as Dax fumbles with my jeans and I press a series of panting kisses against his face.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
I should go. Seriously. But this is literally the first time he's tried to kiss me, to fuck me, since our first time in the strip club.

That was a quickie, this'll probably be a quickie … but I still want it.

And then some. I want more. More. More.

My tongue tangles with Dax's as he finally unbuttons my jeans and tears down the zipper. I let him go reluctantly as he drags the denim away and pauses at my heels, sliding the purple velvet off my feet. I prop myself up on my elbows and watch hungrily as he tears his own jeans open and frees his cock. It's thick and long and practically dripping pre-cum from the tip.