Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (20 page)

More sobbing.

Fat tears slither down my cheeks and drip onto my breasts, sliding down my chest and reminding me how good it felt to be with Ronnie tonight. It was exciting. Not just the sex, but seeing him play. It made me realize how much I really do love the music. Somehow that bit of the equation, the part of it all that
really
matters, why we're all even fucking here, has been forgotten. I might not be a very good drummer, but I joined Ice and Glass because I wanted to show my soul to the world. Like Ronnie did tonight. Instead, I ended up embroiled in all of this shit, these lies, this pain.

I came up those stairs with a mission, ticking off the things I needed to do. Step one, find Naomi Knox. Tell her everything. She's strong, maybe the strongest one of them all. I wanted to tell her what I knew in case I didn't make it that far. Then I was going to find Tyler. That dirty fucking bastard is around here somewhere, I know he is. He likes to watch the shit go down.

My plan to be a catalyst for change got stopped before it even started.

My emotions have grabbed me in a choke hold and put me here, on the floor of the hotel bathroom lying on crumpled towels and dirty clothes.
Get ahold of yourself, Lola. Snap out of it. You knew this was coming.
Unfortunately, knowing that you've made a mistake and seeing the consequences of that mistake are two totally different things.

“Get your fat ass out here, Lola,” Cohen screams, pounding his fist on the door. “No glass when the cops are here!” I ignore him and struggle to push myself to my feet. There's a bottle of tequila on the sink. Honesty's, not mine, but I lunge toward it like it's my last hope. I thrust the bottle between my lips and chug it down unceremoniously.

I'm going to do this, end it all tonight.

Maybe talking to Naomi isn't the answer, or even confronting Tyler. That's just me being cowardly again. I have to tell the cops everything I know. I have to tell them Honesty, Cohen, Joel, Chris, Eric Rhineback, and I slipped on rubber Halloween masks like characters in a bad movie. That we walked right up to Amatory Riot's bus and went inside. That we killed a girl for being in the wrong place at the wrong time when what we were really supposed to do was paralyze America Harding. And how we kidnapped Naomi Knox with the dual purposes of increasing media attention on the tour – and to watch her suffer at the hands of her deranged brother.
Just
to watch her suffer.

I finish the tequila on a gag and smash the bottle in the sink, turning on the water and splashing my face with cold water. When I look in the mirror, my vision blurs and the world around me tilts on an axis. I grip the sides of the counter, breathing deep, letting the alcohol sink into my blood.
I can do this. I have to do this.

I turn around and unlock the door, kicking it open with my foot and letting it slam into the wall. The door to the bedroom is open, and Cohen's there watching people move up and down the hallway. I stumble over just in time to catch the scent of copper in the air, watch Ronnie moving past in a blur. Vomit climbs my throat, and I double over, throwing up all over the carpet by Cohen's feet. He ignores me, eyes sparkling as he takes in the damage we've caused. I don't know who actually killed these girls, who put the blades to their flesh, who dragged them halfway across the country, but I know that at least some of that blood is on my hands.

I shove Cohen out of the way, wiping my arm across my mouth and using the wall for support as I move across the beige carpeting – admittedly a lot better in this hotel than it was in the last one. I shove people out of my way, clawing forward until I get to the doorframe and pause right behind Turner. There's a body on the bed, the sheets beneath it stained a dark crimson color. Naomi is sitting down beside it, leaning over and pulling the blankets up to cover the corpse. But it doesn't matter. I've seen it. I've seen it.

My mouth fills with puke, but I swallow it back, my eyes landing on Ronnie at the foot of the bed. He's got a bloody bundle in his arms, squeezed tight to his chest. Phoebe.

“Where are the fucking cops?” Turner snaps, strutting into the room and spinning in a circle like he expects to find the killer hiding there. “What's taking so Goddamn long?” The crowd around me murmurs and shifts, rumors spreading like wildfire. Milo appears a moment later, sweeping them aside. I step back, letting him close the door and cut off my view. Already though, the damage has been done and we've reaped the reward. At least a handful of the people around me already have photos and videos. They're uploading them, contacting news sites and TV stations. It's all about the mighty buck and the sensationalism of it.

I'm not thinking so clearly in that moment. The room around me is dancing and the faces blurring into splotches of color. I blink it all away and lean back, resting against the wall while I wait. When the cops start questioning people again, I'll start talking. From the first meeting with Tyler Rutledge all the way until now.

“He wants to speak with you,” KK says, startling me, popping up out of nowhere. I blink and realize I've lost several minutes of time. The elevator doors at the end of the hallway are opening and people are pouring in, some hauling stretchers and carrying bags, others in blue uniforms. He. There's only one
He
in this little world of ours. My nails dig into the wall behind me, scraping against the gold and cream stripes.

“Why? I'm a little busy right now if you haven't noticed,” I say, swaying a little on my feet. I consider grabbing onto the arm of one of the cops, whispering in his ear that I know who the killer is. If I go with KK, bad things will happen. They always do. “Come back later,” I tell her, wishing maybe that I hadn't drank so much. Alcohol's always been my drug of choice. I'm half-cut and one hundred percent fucked up right now.
Shoulda stuck with the crystal, eh, Little Lola?
Hah.

“This isn't really a request,” KK hisses, her breath like swamp water, making me sick again. “This is a
now
sort of situation.” I feel the gun pressed up against my side, as hard and uncomfortable as a stranger's hard-on at a crowded party. Pretty ballsy of KK to whip out a pistol on me, especially with cops swarming the building. It's only a matter of time before they catch her with it. I open my mouth to scream when she pulls back the hammer. “My orders are to shoot you if you resist, and then go back and shoot your sister.”

“My sister?” My brain swims, and I get transported back to my childhood. I see Poppet swimming in the ocean, dark hair a stark contrast against the brightly colored water, the golden bath of sunshine. Poppet. Who ran off to make cheese. I start giggling, and I can't seem to stop. People are starting to stare at me, cock their heads to the side and take notice.

And then I throw up again, doubling over and emptying my stomach while KK holds me up, the gun hidden in the folds of my leather jacket. She bends down and whispers in my ear, pretending to soothe me.

“You didn't know? Your sister's stopped by to pay you a visit. Guess you wrote her an email she found concerning.” KK smiles and her ugly teeth stick out of her mouth like crooked fence posts. I raise my head up and stare at her, emotions going haywire inside of me. How did everything get so out of control? How did I go from being one of the bad guys to being one of their victims? I guess I just never did fit in here. I have a smart-mouth and I don't respect Mr. Rutledge's authority; I wouldn't let Cohen have his way with Naomi on the bus; I cried too much about Marta's death. It was just a matter of time before they saw I was a black sheep in a herd of snowy white bullshit. “So pick your ass up, and let's go. Quick now.”

I stand up straight and my head rolls like a bowling ball, heavy and weighted. I just want to collapse right here and be done with it. KK grabs me around the waist, pretending to be supportive, stabbing the gun into my side. We walk down the hall towards the staircase. Already there are cops there, blocking our access.
This is it,
I think.
This is where I make it all better.
I look one of the men in the face and open my mouth, getting ready to tell him I'm being held hostage, that my sister's in this building somewhere against her will.

KK flashes her badge, and neither officer really looks at it. My eyes shift slowly from theirs to my manager's bulging orbs. Recognition flashes between them. Understanding.
No! This can't be happening! NO!

“Thank you, ma'am,” says the cop on the right, and the doors are opening and we're stepping through them, aiming for the stairs that look like cliffs, ready for me to jump off and impale myself on the rocks at the bottom.
These are dirty cops. These are Tyler Rutledge's dirty cops.

The room around me spins, and my legs collapse. It feels like the floor is falling towards my face, not vice versa. Next thing I know, my view is of KK's ugly brown work boots, and the world just falls away to darkness.

When I wake up, I have a monster of a hangover, clinging to my face like spiderwebs. I reach up to brush it away, but it just makes my head pound harder. I don't know what it was that I had last night, but tequila and crystal? Doubt it. Usually when I mix my hard alcohol with a hit, they balance each other out. I don't doubt that Honesty probably tossed something in that drink.
Thanks a lot, bitch.

“Shit,” I groan, looking around the room. Everything seems relatively normal. Honesty's sleeping in the bed next to mine. Our suitcases are on the floor near the couch, and the sound of talking can be heard whispering through the walls. I swing my feet out of bed and groan, putting the palm of my hand to my forehead.

Shannon. Blood. Ronnie. Poppet.

Fuck! Poppet. Poppet is here?

I fling myself up and stumble a bit, reeling from the effects of God only knows what. But now that I'm sobered up, I feel better, like I puked up most of my anxiety along with the alcohol. I'm still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and I smell like a dirty muff, but I don't have time to change. I have to find KK and figure out what's happening. If my sister really is here … I try not to think about that. I slip my feet into some black and pink flats and open the door.

There aren't as many cops as last night, but the halls are still fairly full of people. Most of them ignore me as I work my way though the crowd towards KK's room. I should feel safe here, surrounded by these people, people who've pledged their lives to protecting others. Instead, I feel like a rabbit in a fox hole.
How many of them are in Rutledge's harem of horrors? Is there a single person here I can trust?
I can't risk it, especially not if KK was telling the truth last night.
My sister.
I haven't seen her in almost two years, but we email a lot. I told her how I was feeling, discreetly of course. I didn't exactly come out and say that I felt like shit because I'd murdered a woman. Guess even what I did say was too much.
Fuck you Tyler. Fuck you and your entire family, if you even have one that is.

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling a lot less confident in my lacy bra than I did last night. Maybe I'll wear a shirt today. Maybe.

I pause outside KK's door and raise my hand, gathering my mental courage together like a blanket against my anxiety. I want to bury my head in the sand again and pretend that nothing bad's happening, that we're just a band on tour. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, right? Unfortunately, that's not all it is. There are lives at stake, maybe even my sister's though I can't imagine that she'd fly all the way over from France to see little old me.

I knock on the door and wait. After a while, KK comes to the door with a smile. When I step into her room, it smells like pot and dirty sex.
Oh, fuck me gagging. That's just nasty.

“Good morning, Lola,” she says, skating across the carpet in her bare feet. She's so happy she's practically skipping. In her bed, a still form lies with the blankets pulled up to his shoulders. The bald head's pretty much a dead giveaway.
Oh, Joel. Come on, where are your standards, buddy?
“I assume you slept well?”

I cross my arms over my chest and breathe in deep, hoping the weed will help me relax.

“I guess you know why I'm here, KK.” I keep my voice even and steady. I had a meltdown last night. It happens. But now, in the warm light from outside, I feel better, reinforced, like I just slipped a suit of metal armor over my tight jeans and ballet flats.
I can do this.
“What's all this babbling about my sister?” KK pauses in the mini kitchen area and pours herself a cup of coffee, swaying with the sound of light music filtering from a pair of headphones on the table behind her. All she's got on is a robe, and I feel the urge to reach up and touch my ankh necklace, throw up a little prayer that it stays belted. I'd rather not get a face full of pasty, saggy tits and a hairy beaver this early in my day.

“Poppet,” she begins, spitting the name out like it disgusts her. “Is with Mr. Rutledge for the day today. You missed out on your chance to see her last night.” I narrow my eyes.