Bad Day (Hard Rock Roots) (20 page)

“Her name is Lola.”

“Either that or kick Ice and Glass off the tour entirely. I've considered it, but I'm afraid then that
'Tyler Rutledge',
” America makes quotes with her fingers. “Will panic and do something drastic. I firmly believe staying our course is the most viable option. And the safest, too.”

“Can I get a word in edgewise?” I ask as she moves away from the dresser and across to the bathroom. I lift my hands up in frustration and let them fall back by my sides.

“In the meantime, I think we need to schedule a visit with this Katie character.” I choke on my own spit and shake my head, moving around the end of the bed towards America's sprightly form. Sometimes, I find myself convinced that she must use. She's always so full of energy, going from here to there in the blink of an eye, and she never slows the fuck down. I've never asked, but it seems like a strong possibility. If she does, she'd never admit it. Drugs would imply that she had some kind of weakness, and America acts like she has none. But I've seen it. It was real ugly, but it was there. Travis Gaborone. The way she acted, like she'd never heard of Indecency before she started working with us. I bet she really knows all their old songs by heart.

“Why? That door seems pretty open and shut at this point. Katie was a pawn; Eric was a pawn. She's in a nuthouse, and he's dead. They'll … ” I drop my voice and move towards her, but she's already flicking the lights off in the bathroom and breezing past me. “Blame my parents' death on either her or Eric. And the cop, she's confessing to that, too.” Yes, she knows about that. I've told America everything. If I can trust her with the secret of my parents' murder, I can trust her with this.

“She really did kill the cop.” America pauses next to the dresser again and steps out of her heels, switching them out for a pair of black flats. She pauses and looks up at me. “You did say you were in, right? You have to be in. This interview is everything for us.” I shake my head. There's too much going on all at once.
Why did you become our manager? What was in it for you? What are you trying to prove here?

“How do you mean?”

“Pardon?” she asks, lifting her foot up and sticking her finger in the back of the shoe to adjust it. She looks perfect and polished still, no sign of the massive breakdown lingers near this bubble of professionalism. Fuck no. America'd shoot it down before she'd let that tragedy touch her facade of calm. It's almost like she's walking around drenched in one, big, fat lie. Turner's openness is starting to become more and more appealing to me. At least I know what I'm getting with him.
And I still need to tell him about Dax's kiss. That, and his proposition.
I haven't had even a single second to get him alone since, but the secret is burning a hole in my pocket. I
need
it gone. It's like I'm allergic to the fuckers now.

“I stabbed that guy. It
was
the same guy, too. I recognized his picture.” America drops her foot to the ground and kicks it against the carpet a few times to adjust the shoe so that it fits
just so.

“Yes, but he didn't die from a stab wound. He died from blunt force trauma to the head. He was working for Stephen – of course, nobody knows that but us – and he went after Katie. When he tried to apprehend her,” America smacks her hands together. “She smashed him in the skull with a baseball bat and killed him. So you're off the hook on that one.”

“How do you even know that?” I ask her, sitting down heavy on the edge of the bed. I can't even begin to describe the wash of relief that's flowing through me. I feel like I've been pumped full of helium, like I could float away at any moment.
I didn't kill that man; it wasn't me.
That is a friggin' load off.

“Brayden. If you ever have any questions, there's your answer. Brayden, Brayden, Brayden.”

“So, who the fuck is this guy, where did you find him, and why didn't you hire him sooner?” America just laughs at me and grabs her purse from the table near the door.

“I'm going to dinner downstairs. There's a restaurant in the lobby that looks promising. Care to join me?” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, and Brayden Ryker can't be hired. You don't hire the man. You plead your case to him and hope he takes mercy on you. Until Trey's shooting, I didn't have enough to convince him to show up.”

“Three dead women weren't enough?”

“Close but no cigar. Hiring a professional hit man? Now that, that was the last straw.” America smiles and starts towards the door. I move to cut her off, but like I said, the woman is crazy fast. She must be on speed or something. There's no other logical explanation. Just looking at her is giving me a headache.

“Who
is
this guy?” I ask, rubbing at my temples. “And where did he come from? No single person is that fucking boss without some serious history. Are we in any danger here? Either from him personally or from thinking too highly of him?” I raise my brow at my manager, but she's not paying attention to me, moving into the hallway without answering the question. And now I know she won't since we can't be overheard. Still, this is real life, and in real life, fucking badass redhead dudes don't just come sailing into town with muscles twice the size of your torso and mystical radar eyes. “Have fun down there,” I snap at her as she moves away and lifts a hand up in a wave. As America disappears into the elevator, I turn around and survey the hallway.

This hotel is
nice,
a lot nicer than the ones we stayed in before. Not that they were bad; they just weren't like this. It's
luxurious
up in here.

“And this is exactly what happens when America's in charge of things instead of Milo,” I grumble as I wander back towards my room. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen. I couldn't possibly have a quiet evening, now could I? There's too much going on around here, too many balls in the air. I try to make myself a mental list of all the crap I should be concerned about, but it just takes my migraine from bad to worse. “Ugh.”

“Want to watch a movie with me?” The voice to my right startles the shit out of me, and I spin with the full intention of punching whoever it is in the face. But it's just Dax.

“You almost got a right hook to the jaw,” I tell him, but he just smiles and opens his door a little wider. We all got private rooms this time, imagine that. I don't know how good of an idea that is, but America seemed confident and Brayden okayed it, so here we are. Not that it really matters, I guess. This crazy Hammergren fuck doesn't seem to care if his dirty deeds are done in dark shadows. In fact, it seems like he'd actually rather spill blood in the light of day. Or in front of a thousand raging fans, whatever. I stand there longer than is really necessary, staring into the shadowy dimness of Dax's room. Is going in there a bad idea? With Turner around? Probably. But it's not like I'm planning on sleeping with Dax.

I wet my lips, but I find that my feet won't move me forward.

Dax keeps staring at me. First, with a smile and then, as the moment drags on a little long, a frown. His gray eyes swirl with frustration, and the slightest burn of anger.

“Dax,” I begin, but he's already shaking his head and slumping against the door.

“Just forget it, Naomi. I'll go smoke some dust. You go do … whatever it is that you and Turner do.” I sigh and touch my hands to my cheeks, pulling up the memory of Dax's frozen kiss. If Turner was the king of molten tongues, then Dax would be the lord of ice. I don't know how to weigh those two things together. My logical mind says I should give Dax a chance, see where this takes me. After all, what the fuck do I really owe Turner? But my heart and soul are screeching at me, a swarm of demons and devils pricking my heart with swords, slicing me up and bleeding me all over the hallway.
Logically,
I should be more concerned with the sociopath that's chasing us, but all I can think about is this. Well, less than this really. The Turner part of this. I open my mouth to tell Dax this when Hayden shows up, appearing by my side as if by magic. If I hadn't already beat the crap out of her, I might've punched her then.

“I scored some awesome acid off the guy in the skirt, Jason, or whatever his name is. You up to take a trip?” She ignores me completely, waving around a metal container near my face. I resist the urge to reach up and smack it. I don't want to get into anything with her tonight.

“Not right now,” Dax says, sounding tired. He gives Hayden a weird look that I can't even begin to decipher. Something odd has always been between them, and I've never been able to figure it out. He goes hot and cold on her all the time. Every time we learn something new, he gets mad, gets over it, forgives her. And then, of course, she fucks us again. And again. When will he learn that she's the real bad guy here?
She was taken captive and tied up. Naomi, she was raped.
I let Dax's words worm their way into my brain. If I take them as truth, then maybe there's
something
about Hayden that's redeemable. But she also could've lied. We have no way of knowing that.

“Why don't you go ask that womanizing wife beater, Cohen Rose? You've been spending an awful lot of time with him lately. I'm sure he'd love to see your flabby ass.” Hayden doesn't stop smiling, doesn't stop sparkling underneath the hallway lights, her shirt a distant cousin to the sparkly red shoes in
The Wizard of Oz.
God, I hate her.

“Was I talking to you,
Naomi
?” she grounds out between her flat teeth. “You should be in prison for assault right now. If it wasn't for America and Dax, you would be. I suggest you leave now before I change my mind and decide to press charges.”

“And you should be hand washing knickers in the slammer for accessory to murder in the first degree.” Lola Saints leans out the door of her room and smiles at us all, eyes hidden behind a pair of big, round sunglasses. “Sorry, walls are paper thin.” She raps on the burgundy wallpaper with her knuckles.

“Go to hell you fucking cunt from down under. Go back to Australia where you belong,” Hayden snarls, glancing up and down the hallway to see if anyone else is listening in. The few guards there are left don't even glance our way.

“If we're playing that game, then shouldn't you be in some trailer park somewhere, you stupid scrag?” Hayden flips her hazelnut hair over one shoulder and lifts her chin up, looking down at Lola with a nasty expression, like a cornered dog. When I see her like that, I almost believe the things she tells Dax. She just doesn't have any real strength about her; all of it seems forced, defensive rather than offensive. Hmm.

“Actually, I grew up in a well to do family,” she says, putting a hand on her hip and tilting her ass up for display, for Dax's benefit no doubt. “If it's white trash that you smell, you might want to talk to Naomi.” Hayden waves her hand in front of her face, ever the drama queen.

“I calls 'em like I sees 'em,” Lola slurs, leaning forward and tossing a pair of double birds Hayden's way. Seeing the two of them fight like this really, really, really makes me like Lola Saints. “Now, why don't you scurry off and go ride Cohen's stubby dick again. I'd sure he'd be happy to see ya.”

“And I'd watch my mouth if I were you,” Hayden snarls and then her voice cuts off like a flip's been switched. She turns around to look at Dax who's frowning and staring at her like she's gone completely and utterly mad.

“Hayden, if you want our help,” he whispers. “If you want to change, this isn't the way to go about doing it. Don't threaten her. She's in the same position as you are.”

“Nobody's in the position I am!” Hayden screams smashing her fists into the wall by Dax's door. “Nobody!” And then she twirls on the heel of her red boots and storms down the hallway, throwing the metal container against the wall as she goes. It breaks open and blotters float to the ground like discarded rose petals, dozens of little paper squares soaked in acid. How nice.

“Hayden!” Dax calls after her, but she doesn't stop until she hits the door to her room and disappears inside. With a sigh, he slides out of his room and scoots down the wall, using it as support for his tired body. When he squats down to pick up Hayden's mess, Lola and I join him until the container is full again. “I'll give it back to her,” he says, tucking it into the pocket of his white sweatshirt. “When she calms down a little anyway.” Dax looks up, the unique color of his eyes piercing as he splits his stare between Lola and me. “Please, please try to cut her some slack. Try and … try and think of her like Turner. When she's upset or scared, she throws up this bitchy arrogance. It's not real, and it's not entirely her fault. That picture … I think I figured out where it might have come from.”

“A bad Halloween party with too much vodka?” Lola jokes, the skin on her face still tight and her lips pursed. I wonder how much Ronnie's been able to fill her in on. And if it made any difference in her feelings. Can't imagine that it would. I know if I had a sister, and she was being held hostage, that I'd be about ten bricks short of a house right now. Dax sniffles and reaches in his pocket, coming back out with a single square, a single hit of LSD. He flips it around in his fingers and examines the goat head logo – Indecency's logo – that's printed on the front before putting it in his mouth, under his tongue. He holds it there for a moment and then swallows.

Dax stands up with a sigh and closes his eyes. When he opens them, I can see he's warring with himself, trying to decide if we deserve this information or not. I wait patiently.

“I know this is going to sound stupid, and I don't even know if it's true or not, but I … I've been doing some research online, and I think – ” Dax stops abruptly and sucks in a massive breath.

“That Hayden's just piss and vinegar?” Lola asks. I stay quiet, waiting patiently for his next breath. Down the hall, I hear the sound of Turner emerging from Ronnie's room. Dax sees him and leans over abruptly, lips brushing against my ear.

“I think Hayden was in a snuff film.”