Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (10 page)

“How's Phoebe doing?” I ask, hoping she doesn't hang up on me before I tell her what I need to.

“She's fine, no thanks to you,” Shannon growls, switching from sadness to anger. “And I already told you, I don't want to see you. She doesn't want to see you.” I feel my own anger rising up to meet hers. How does she know what my three month old daughter wants? I'll tell you what most kids want. A father. So fuck her.

I force myself to calm down and take a deep breath. I
am
the bad guy here. I deserve this.

“Well, I'm not calling to flip your switch, doll face,” I tell her, and I hate how much like Turner I sound. When I get angry, I start to emulate him. He doesn't know it, but I respect him so friggin' much. He knows he's worth something; he respects himself, and he expects everybody else to. Is he cocky and arrogant sometimes? Yeah. Does he have hubris up to his eyeballs? Sure, he does. But at least he has a backbone.

“Then what the fuck do you want, Grandpa?” she retorts, giving me a headache right between the eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having your pervy old ass give me a call?” I want to hang up the phone right now. I really do. I didn't rape her. Shannon came to me; they all do. I don't have to seek anybody out. This business pretty much assures that there will always be someone willing to have sex with me, willing to pretend it's possible to fill that hole inside themselves with something as shallow as a one night stand. Maybe I didn't wear a condom, but that's only half my fault.

“You're in danger,” I tell her, and I cringe when she starts to laugh. How did I not think this was going to sound stupid?
So, listen, there're some people after me and my band. I don't know many of the details because our main contact is a psychotic bitch. All I can tell you is that anyone associated with me is in trouble.
I lick my lips and squeeze my left hand into a fist. The tattoos on my skin crawl like they're alive. “Phoebe and you both. I can't give you a lot of information but,” I pause and wait for her laughter to die down a bit.
Bitch. Nasally little bitch. How dare you keep my daughter from me? How dare you?
The emotion comes shooting out of my soul like fireworks, singeing me. I'm so surprised at the hidden rage that I forget to keep talking.

“Get a life, you pathetic pig,” she says, and I freak when I think she's going to hang up.

“The mother of my other daughter is dead,” I say. She stops laughing. Guess that got her attention. “She was murdered in her apartment, and then her body was transported to the city I'm staying in. Someone – the killer, I guess – left her in my manager's hotel room.” I pause. “Along with my daughter.” More silence. “Until I can figure this out, I want you to keep Phoebe close. Don't go anywhere alone, and lock all your doors and windows.”

“Do the police know about this?” she squeaks, and I feel suddenly bad for her. She sounds so young, and terrified. All my fault. It's all my freaking fault.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, even though that's not exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “They think they found the killer, but I'm not so sure about that. Just be careful for a little while, alright?”

“I wish I'd never met you,” Shannon says, sniffling again. “I wish I'd never let my friends drag me to that concert. I hope the killer gets you next.” And then she finally does hang up on me.

I shut my eyes, squeeze 'em tight and crawl down into that dark and dirty place I've spent most my adult life. Down here, there's peace and solitude. Things don't hurt quite so much. People don't die. Lives don't shatter like glass.

A knock at the door breaks my concentration, reminding me why I like drugs and alcohol so much. Each substance has a different side effect, a different plus or minus, but they all do the same thing – numb the pain and block out the world.

I stand up with a groan and snatch a half-empty beer that's sitting on the dresser next to the TV. I finish it in a single gulp and toss the bottle to the floor, kicking it aside as I yank the door open to find Turner waiting for me with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face.

“What?” I ask him, wishing I could just crumple to the floor and take a nap. “Where's your room key?” Turner shrugs and reaches into his pocket for a cigarette.

“Dropped it somewhere, I guess,” he says, snapping his lighter open. I stare at him for a second. Turner misses everything, but I don't miss
anything.

“When?” I ask him as he puts the cig in his mouth and inhales sharply. He's got on a bright pink shirt that says
Fuck 'em. Just fuck 'em.
And his pants are black, probably to hide the bloodstains. He looks like Turner, and he's dressed like Turner, but he doesn't sound like Turner. I think the bullet wound's hurting him more than he's willing to admit.

“Fuck, I don't know, Ronnie. When I left this morning?”

I look up as a door opens down the hall and watch as Lola Saints emerges looking shaken. Right away, I make the connection. They don't call me Gossip Bitch for nothing, you know? Takes a lot of work to gather all that info. Sometimes, I have no idea where it all comes from.

I reach out and grab Turner's shoulder, pushing him aside.

“The fuck, man? Why does it even matter?” He gapes at me as I storm down the hallway, my feet moving faster than my brain can process. I'm at her side before I even know what I'm doing there. Lola's hair swings out behind her, teasing my nostrils with the soft scent of shampoo before she's staring at me, openmouthed and wide-eyed. The softest glimmer of tears mars her lower lids.

“Ronnie?” she asks, stumbling a bit as I press in close to her, sliding my hand down her back and over the plump roundness of her ass.
Oh, God.
My body goes absolutely flapping nuts right there, leaving me with a cast-iron cock.
Shit.
My fingers enter her pocket, diving deep and slipping around the plastic card. I draw it out with a sharp intake of breath, noticing as my hand slides along her ass that her face is flushed and sweaty.

I hold it up in front of her face, forcing myself to swallow, for my hands to relax. My entire body is thrumming with adrenaline right now. She looks at it, and then up at me, and I know from the wrinkle between her brows that she can tell the gig is up.

Turner storms up beside us, tossing his cigarette to the carpet where it crackles and burns, curling the fibers and bending them to its will. He runs a hand through his hair aggressively and stares at me like I'm a crazy person.

“What's this?” I ask Lola because her mouth is still hanging open and nothing's coming out. After a second, she seems to get ahold of herself, flipping her hair over her shoulder and snorting.

“Fuck a nun's dry cunt, you scared me. Don't come barreling down on a girl like that, you cockwad.” Lola reaches up and tries to snatch the key card from my hand. I lift it up out of her reach, trying not to poke her with my hard-on as she struggles for it, clawing at the air like a little pussy cat. I squeeze my eyes shut, biting back the hormones.
Ornery little fuckers.
I lift my lids and stare at Lola who's panting, at Turner who's scowling. “That's my room key, numb nuts. Hand it over.”

“What are you doing, dude?” Turner asks as I shake my head and run my tongue over the fillings in my mouth.

“Is it?” I ask, spinning back around and slamming the card through the lock on Lola's door.
One, two.
The light flashes red. I try it again. And again.

“Okay, we get it. It's not working, you filthy splooge. Maybe it got switched with someone else's? No need to get your panties in a wad.” Lola's fingers slide across my shoulder blades, moving around my ribs and reaching for the card. I turn away from her and move down the hall with her scurrying by my side, stumbling in her heels and moving her hand across the wall for support. Turner groans and trails behind us mumbling. “Hey, what's your problem, mate? You got a tampon stuck up your arse hole?”

I'm on a mission now, storming down the hall and pausing next to my door. When I put the key through the lock, it clicks open. I hate being right sometimes. I toss the key on the floor by Turner's feet and turn to Lola, slumping against the door with my arms folded over my chest. I should be worrying about my daughter downstairs, or the murder, or the fact that my best friend's soul mate stabbed a cop
.
Instead, here I am wondering why Lola Saints was trying to get in my room. Where does she factor in?

Lola stares at me while Turner bends down to pick up the key. His brow is crinkled, and he looks like he's trying really hard to figure this out. Lola sticks her hands in the pockets of her skinny jeans and stares me down. After a moment, she reaches up and takes off the shades, stuffing them in her jacket.

“Saw it on the floor and thought it was mine.” Lola digs around for a second in her jeans and comes up with another card. “But I guess I was mistaken.” She scratches at the red rose tattoo on her hand as she stares at me, sucking me into the dark depths of her eyes, drowning my logical thoughts in desperation and need.

“We both know that's a fucking lie,” I say, and even though I don't know her at all, just barely met her, I can tell she's nervous. It's there in the way her fingernail scratches along her skin, teasing her body with just enough pain to keep her mind in check. I should know; I do it all the time. My voice is husky and dark, making Turner look real close at the situation. His eyes bounce between us. “Why did you steal the card?” I ask, silently cursing Turner for being so dense he didn't even notice it was gone. I'm honestly glad that this whole fucking whodunnit bullshit plot isn't centered solely on him. For sure, the stupid fuck would be dead. I love him fuckin' fierce, but he's an idiot extraordinaire.

“I wanted to see you,” she says, trying to make her voice sound sultry and sexy. It works. Lola slips her jacket down her shoulders, flashing brightly colored tats at me. I drink her in, watching the leather slip down her arms and pool at her elbows.
Why is she here, seducing me? This doesn't feel like it usually does. My skin doesn't normally catch fire, and my pulse doesn't drown out the world. I haven't felt this way in forever.

“Why?” Just one word from me. Meanwhile, Turner's standing there completely still, lips pursed into a thin line. His brown eyes are unreadable, but I can tell he senses something different, too. I'm not just going looney after all these years.

“Because,” she begins, and my ears pop, drowning out all other sound. My focus narrows to a pinprick, zooming in right on her full lips. She starts to say something and then stops, sliding her tongue over her mouth like she's scraping off the words. When she next speaks, I can tell she's telling the truth. I can freaking
feel
it. “You're so sad.”

Lola lifts her hands up to my face and presses her palms against the smooth skin there, leaning in and balancing on her toes to reach my lips. Her mouth meets mine, and my body goes nuts. There's no controlling it now, no pausing this unstoppable tide. Why would I want to anyway? I've lost no time fucking any and everyone that came my way, but I haven't actually melted into anyone, burned up, caught fire. I don't know what this is, but it feels so damn good.
So
damn good.

I groan and reach up, sliding my hands under Lola's leather jacket, feeling her soft skin, kneading it with my rough fingers. She moans back at me, pushing her tongue against mine, eating me fucking alive. And I don't mind one bit. I could go this way and be happy for it.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
My dick is stabbing her in the stomach, poking and prodding until it gets what it wants.

I feel something being pushed into my pocket, but I ignore it. I'm too far gone now to think about anything else. I reach behind my back and fumble for the door to the room. Fortunately, it's still unlocked and it opens without a hitch, sending us both stumbling backwards.

Lola claws at my chest, scratching at the fabric of my shirt and making me crazy. I reach up and wrap my fingers around her arms, pulling her away and tossing her back onto the bed. I can't get my clothes off fast enough, practically strangling myself as I yank my tee up and off, throwing it to the floor and going for my fly before it even hits the carpet.

Lola just lies there, propped up on her elbows on the bed, watching me. Her pupils are dilated, and her mouth swollen. Her breasts bulge up and out of her bra, threatening to spill over at any second. Her body is like the worst drug there is, the kind I just know is going to fuck me up.
If you hit this, Ronnie, you are so screwed.
I pause with my pants hanging open and nearly flip shit. Condoms. I don't have any condoms.

Lola's sliding her hands down her belly now, past a set of tattooed sticks and a wicked kit with the words
Sugar Baby.
What a coincidence it is that we both play the same instrument. I touch my pants pockets desperately, certain that I don't have any. I never have any. If my fuck for the night doesn't have one, we don't use one.
Thus the four friggin' kids.
I feel something in my front left pocket and dig around. When I pull my fingers out, I see it shining there like a miracle from God himself. It's a condom, baby.

“Looks like we're in business, doll face,” I say as I drop my pants and tear open the package with my teeth. Lola's not even looking at me anymore, tilting her head back and letting her long hair whisper across the bedspread. Her hand is gone, buried in her jeans, stroking her sweet pussy. I watch her arm move up and down, watch the rhythm that she uses to pleasure herself. The condom wrapper goes fluttering to the floor like a butterfly as I stroke my hand along my cock, squeezing it tight, praying that this feels as good after as it does now. Sometimes, the high is good, but the comedown's a bitch.

“Hurry the fuck up with that franger and haul ass, bitch!” she snaps at me on the tail end of another moan. I've never been obsessed with accents before, but … shit damn. I think I'm really into this Aussie chick. I slide the slick latex over my dick, smoothing it down with a moan. This one's got ridges, nice. Real nice.