Dead Serious (8 page)

I feel an insult building in my throat, a sarcastic comment about how shocked I actually was to learn he wrote his own music, but I bite it back. I told myself I'd try, at the very least, to make this actually work. I can't respond to everything he says with a roll of my eyes and an insult. Most things, maybe, but not everything.

“What's your process?” I ask as we turn the corner and step out of the shadows of the nearby buildings, right into a bright shaft of sunlight that sears across my skin and makes me feel like a vampire, like I should be back on the bus curled up in a dark bunk with my earbuds jammed in my skull and some of Indecency's music blasting at full volume. I feel like I haven't even
seen
the sun since we started this stupid fucking tour. Spending all night partying, drinking, slamming dope, singing, fucking. There wasn't time for sunshine. I'm not sure whether that was a good thing or not.

“My process?” Turner says, like nobody's ever asked him that question before. Fuck, maybe they haven't? The press doesn't care about the music, not really. They want to know what we're drinking, smoking, who we're fucking, where we're partying and most importantly – who's been kidnapped, shot by a sniper rifle, or left for dead in our hotel room recently. “I guess … I … don't really know how to answer that question.” He wrinkles his brows up stares hard at the sidewalk in front of our feet. I don't say anything else because I think, for once in his life, Turner Campbell's actually thinking about what he wants to say
before
he actually says it. Small miracles, baby. “I know what yours is though,” he adds with a sultry grin, focusing his shades on my face. I wish I could see his eyes, but I guess it's only fair considering he can't see mine either.

“Yeah?” I ask, crossing one arm over my midsection and holding my cigarette with the other. Nobody's pulled up alongside us in a black SUV, taken a pot shot at our heads, or started throwing dirty panties at Turner's head. I'm feeling better and better by the second. “And what's that?”

“Your notebook,” he says, surprising me. I know I've written in it around him before, I just didn't think he was paying any attention. “You fuck the shit out of those pages and leave 'em crawling back for more. You draw weird faces and crying babies and angels with broken wings.” Turner looks straight ahead, spots the yellow and red Denny's sign and grins, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “And sometimes, when you're sleeping, you hum under your breath. Every now and again, you whisper words that don't make any sense, but they're beautiful.”

“And you're full of shit,” I tell him, even though I like what he's saying. Does that make me just as gullible as all those other bitches? I finish my cigarette and press it out on the side of a trash can before I toss it in. Going straight-edge makes a lot of sense, especially in this sort of situation where the shit can hit the fan at any moment, but that doesn't mean I have to like it, that I don't wish I could go back to the hotel and hit Wren up for something stronger than tobacco.

I sigh.

“I'm dead serious, Knox,” Turner tells me as we move across the parking lot and pause at the entrance to the restaurant. “You've got a style that's all your own. Not many can say that.” And then he blows my fucking mind to bits by opening the Goddamn door for me. I stare at it, then at him, then at the door again.

“I'm not a limp-wristed bitch in a petticoat who spends her evenings embroidering pillows, Turner.” I push past him and head inside, hating the way my own voice grates against my nerves. Why can't I just be nice to him? Smile? Thank him for being a freaking gentleman? Because nobody's ever treated me with respect before, so why should I expect it now? From Turner Campbell of all people?

“You don't like doors being held open for you, fine. I'll walk right through and let it swing shut in your face then.” He says all of this through gritted teeth before ripping off his shades and shoving them in his front pocket. I leave mine on, even though the lighting in here is dim and I can't see shit. The last thing I need right now is for Turner to see how tight the skin around my eyes is, how frustrated I am at my own behavior.
Fuuuuuck.
This isn't me, so what the hell am I doing then?
Learning to be in a relationship for the first time fucking ever.
That's what. “Yo, babe. Two please.” Turner holds up two fingers and motions at the stewardess in a vaguely vulgar gesture that wets the downstairs and simultaneously annoys me.

The woman stands there for all of thirty seconds, just staring at us with her mouth hanging open. She's pretty, young. Probably someone Turner would take back to his bed and fuck before kicking her off and moving on with the tour, memories wiped clean away. But he's not doing that anymore. Because of me. Me.

“Um, are, um. Oh my God.” Turner bathes in her stare and her stutters for a moment before she turns her attention to me and gets tears in her eyes. “
Naomi Knox,
” she gulps, her knees shaking as she holds back what I can only assume is a scream.
Oh God, no.
Heads in the dining room swing our way, but I take advantage of the strange architecture in the restaurant and grab Turner's arm, tugging him back behind the hostess station and over towards the cash register. This little alcove protects us from rubberneckers, at least for the moment. But not from the hostess.

She follows right after us, running her hand over her frizzy blonde hair and tugging at her ponytail. Her pale blue eyes shimmer wildly and she's got her phone in her hand.

“Can I please, please take a picture with you?” she asks, and before I get the chance to respond, Turner is wrapping his arm around my waist and tugging me close. His fingers feel hot, like they're burning trails of ruined flesh in their wake.

“Sure thing, beautiful,” Turner says as the hostess wiggles in between us and lifts her phone for a selfie. I wonder what America will think when she sees this? She's definitely going to blow a gasket, but she can go fuck herself. With all of the shit she's brought down on us, the least she could do is damage control. At the same time, I realize how strange this picture is going to seem when news of Hayden's death hits the media shit storm. My lead singer dies and I go out for a late breakfast/early lunch? That's fucking awesome. “Now,” Turner continues, releasing me and helping the hostess step back by placing his hands gently on her shoulders. She's so starstruck right now, I doubt she can even remember her own name. Turner steers her around and forces her back a few paces, all while doing it with this smug ass smile on his face. “About that table? Get us a booth in a back corner maybe? You know, something with a little privacy.” She nods and shakes her head like she's waking from a daze. No doubt the first thing she's going to do after she seats us is start blowing up her friends' fucking phones. In a matter of minutes, the media could descend on us like vultures.

Frankly, I find myself not giving a fuck.

I take off my shades just in time to see Turner slap the hostess on the ass as she totters away. Goddamn it.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, the moment she's out of earshot. He turns to me with a
can you believe this bitch?
look that I return with a steely-eyed glare. Over Turner's shoulder and out the window, I catch a glimpse of one of our bodyguards scanning the parking lot in his red T-shirt and blue jeans, smoking a cigarette all casual like. Another one of the assholes comes inside a moment later, nods to me and grabs a menu, taking a seat in the nearest booth without waiting for the hostess. “Thought that bitch was going to lip-lock you and go all lesbo on your ass. She was happy to see me, but she almost cried at the sight of you.”

“So you spanked her because she was a nasty little bitch, huh? Is that it?”

Turner's face blanks for a moment, his full lips parting slightly, emphasizing the lip rings on either side, flashing me a momentary glimpse of his tongue ring. Fucking Christ. If he weren't quite so attractive to me, it would make things a hell of a lot easier. And I wouldn't have to change my panties ten times a day.

“Are you
jealous?
” he manages to choke out before the hostess reappears, menus clutched in her shaking hands. I breeze past Turner without answering and stare intently at the baseboards, doing my best to cover up my face with my left hand.

“I got you the best seat in the house, really. It's in the very back. Technically it's in Sandy's section, but she's really busy, so I'll be taking care of you today, okay?” I grunt noncommittally and while I don't believe that
nobody
has noticed our presence, there aren't any teenage girls scrambling at Turner's zipper or fanboys whooping in joy at the sight of my tits. This is good. We're good.

I scoot into the booth with a sigh, the sticky pleather catching on my jeans and the moist tabletop uncomfortable beneath my elbows. Instantly, I relax. This, this is what I'm used to. Real life, real shit, crappy diners, scrounging up rent money, wondering how the fuck I'm going to fill my gas tank. I got used to that shit. What I'm not used to is having somebody around trying to wipe my fucking ass, managing my finances, telling me where to go and what to do. I've become complacent. Since I got kidnapped, I haven't been taking charge of my life the way I should. I've been running with all of this, but not sprinting. I need to stay ahead of the pack, not let myself got lost inside of it.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” the hostess, whose name tag says
Deb,
asks us, breaking me out of my thoughts. I give her a bored look and then shrug.

“I dunno, orange juice, I guess?”
Or a bottle of vodka. And no, I don't want a screwdriver. I'll drink it straight,
thanks. Too bad this joint doesn't serve hard liquor. I push some hair back from my face and try not to frown. The sunshine streaming through the window to our left makes me want to squint. Maybe I really have gone nocturnal during this tour? Guess I should get a fucking coffin or something to sleep in. It'd probably make me even more popular.

“Just give me a fuckin' soda,” Turner says, setting his phone down on the tabletop and spinning it in a circle. “Something with carbonation in it, I don't care.”

“Yes, sir,” Deb squeaks as I give her a look. Her eyes pause on mine before she turns away, and takes a massive breath. Uh oh. I don't know what she's getting ready to say, but there's something inside her chest that she's desperate to get out. “I just want to say that I really love your music.” She pauses, glances back at Turner. “Both of you. But … Naomi … when you sing, I get goose bumps. And I know you, like, write the music, too. I think you're a way better singer than Hayden Lee.” Deb bites her lip, and I hope she doesn't notice how my face pales at her statement. “That's it. All I wanted to say.” She turns away, pauses, turns back. “Sorry.” Another pause. “I'll get your drinks.”

As Deb skitters off, I see her pull her cell out from her apron pocket.

“Well, well, look who's got fangirls now?” he asks me, but I'm not listening. I can't stop thinking about the way Dax's voice broke over the phone when he told me the news.
Hayden is dead.
And she killed somebody. Who, I don't know. Guess Dax has secrets of his own. I hope that when he snaps out of his daze that he'll tell me. “I'm almost jealous.” Turner stretches his legs out beneath the table and bumps my feet with his boots, crossing them at the ankles as he smiles across the table at me. “Almost, of course, because we're still whooping Amatory Riot's ass on the charts.” He winks at me, but I can't seem to find the words to respond.

My fingers find the salt shaker and drag it towards me, just so I have something to hold onto.

“Am I an insensitive bitch?” I ask Turner, spilling some white granules onto the table. Turner immediately reaches over and grabs a pinch, flicking it over my left shoulder.

“To banish the devil,” he explains, sitting back with a half-smile on his luscious lips. “Old superstition, you know. Spilled salt equals serious trouble.”

“We're already in serious trouble,” I tell him as he leans into the booth with a half-smile on his face. The colorful tattoos on his arms draw my eyes, focus my attention as I try to wrap my mind around the enormity of my life at the moment. It feels too big to fit inside my heart, like it could burst at any moment and see me as nothing but a blood stain on the back of this booth.

“Listen, Knox. You didn't kill Hayden. She killed herself. It's a sad sort of poetic justice. We can't sit here and weep for somebody who chose to take an early exit. This,” he gestures between us with his pretty little inked up fingers, “this shit right here is real, and it's just between you and me.” When Turner reaches down and takes my hand, I almost puke. Swear to God, my stomach rumbles and nausea sweeps over me. Thank fuck I'm sitting down right now. “I know you cared about her in your own weird, sort of masochistic way.” I squeeze his hands and hope my nails are digging into his flesh. “But Hayden was like a Goddamn disease. We got the cure, baby. She's done. Gone. Good fucking riddance.”

“The first night on the tour that you and I had any real sort of contact was the night I found you banging her over the counter in my bus. Blair and I cleaned your puke off the carpet.”

“Mistakes happen,” he says, but at least he has the decency to look chagrined about the whole thing. “Why you gotta bring that shit up again?” Turner gives me a look, narrowing his eyes. He's got on just a dash of eyeliner today, enough to make his eyes pop, but not so much that he looks like Dax. The thought is almost enough to make me smile. “We could talk about Trey? You screwed my best friend, remember?”

“Yeah, but you didn't have to see it.” I draw my fingers from Turner's grasp and lean back against the booth with a smirk growing on my face. If I didn't know better, I might think I actually
liked
pissing him off. “Didn't have to see him lift me up and slam my ass into your tour bus.” My smile gets a little wider.
Hayden.
Her name pulses in the back of my brain, desperate to rip the expression away. I refuse to let it. When I get back to the hotel, I'll freak out. I'll worry about the fact that I'm essentially being held hostage. Right now, I just want to fuck around and flirt.