Born Wrong Read online

  “When you're born wrong, sometimes you get bent and you get fucked. Sometimes your life takes you places you don't want to go. Sometimes, it does.”

  Born Wrong

  Hard Rock Roots

  Book Five

  C.M. Stunich

  Sarian Royal

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Born Wrong

  Copyright © C.M. Stunich 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  ISBN-10: 1938623703 (eBook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-70-7(eBook)

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  "Optimus Princeps" Font © Manfred Klein

  "El&Font Gohtic!" Font © Jerome Delage

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  this one's simple.

  for my readers.

  because you mean the world to me.

  *Author's Note: Are you used to these notes yet? Don't you love them? ;) Well, I'm just here to tell you that this is book five in the Hard Rock Roots series. The books should be read in order so the full story can be understood. As always, Turner and Naomi will be back in a future book. For now, I hope that if you hate Dax today, you'll love him tomorrow. Read in and rock out. Kisses. ~CM

  “Hard Rock Roots” Reading Order: Book #1: Real Ugly; Book #2: Get Bent; Book #3: Tough Luck; Book #4: Bad Day; Book #5 Born Wrong

  I've never been so scared in all of my life.

  “Oh my God, I am so nervous,” Hayden says, pretending she doesn't see the exchange between Turner and Naomi. But I do. They're kissing now, not just once, but twice, three times. I roll my eyes and focus my gaze back on the black curtains swirling in front of my face. The fabric flows like a specter, whirled around by the staff as they move Indecency's instruments off the stage and move ours on. I crack my knuckles and try to breathe.

  In my mind, the audience already hates me. I'm just that emo bitch, that stupid drummer fag. That's what the Turners of the world think of me anyway. The number of people I've slept with isn't comparable to the population of a small country, and I don't post pictures of my dick online. I guess that makes me a loser. I get more hate mail than the rest of the band combined. But that's okay. In fact, I try to think of it as a good thing. If their expectations are so low, then it shouldn't be hard to impress them. One day, the audience will realize that I'm not just a robot on repeat, pounding out Naomi's songs for their listening pleasure. There's a little bit of me in there, too, and it is bad ass. Hey, her and Hayden might be the stars, but even stars need a sky, right?

  Right?

  I close my eyes and turn away, trying my best to drown out the roar of thousands. Outside this dark bubble backstage, there's a sun shining bright, ready to burn. Turner and Naomi took care of that for us, took the audience from lukewarm to scalding. This is going to hurt, isn't it?

  “I am just freaking the fuck out. How about you, Dax?” Hayden asks me, reaching over and massaging my shoulder with her nails. I jerk away and wrap my arms around myself, casting a glance over my shoulder at the departing backs of Indecency. Unlike Hayden Lee, I really am nervous.

  “I'm sick to my fucking stomach, Hayden,” I say, trying to keep my voice soft. I'm the only person on this earth that's nice to her, the only one who thinks she's redeemable. Deep down, she's a good person. I know it; I just have to find a way to prove it to everyone else. Right now however, the only thing I'm really capable of is trying to give myself an internal pep talk. I've never felt like this before, not even at the show in Little Rock. There are cameras here, broadcasting us to the world. This moment, whether good or bad, is going to be written into human history for the foreseeable future. In the past, I've rationalized my fear of performing live by telling myself that the only people who could see me, who would even know if I fucked up, were the people in the audience. This time, everyone will know. Even Dad.

  I feel my eyes growing wide, the blood draining from my face.

  Arnold and the rest of the McCann clan could be watching. Ugh.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, try not to think back on the last conversation we had.

  You're a freak, Dax, and I could never, never be proud to call you my son. And if your mother was still alive... Shame on you for wasting her life, boy. Shame on you.

  Somebody touches my shoulder again, and I jump, spinning to find Naomi standing behind me with a slight frown. My heart is pumping like crazy, smashing against the inside of my chest and drawing breaths from me in ragged gasps. I'm such a wreck.

  I untangle my arms from around my chest and dip my hands into the pockets of the sleeveless hoodie I'm wearing. It's not really something I'd have picked for myself, but it's alright. There's a glow-in-the-dark skeleton design on the front, and it does a decent job of showing off my tattoos. I run one hand across the grim reaper tat on my forearm.

  “Where the hell are they going?” I ask, tilting my chin at the door. Turner's in a big, fucking hurry. So much so that he doesn't even bother to turn around and look at Naomi on his way out. I figure it must have something to do with his friend, Trey. Yet another asshole, like a Turner clone. I don't like Treyjan, but I also hope that nothing bad's happened to him. This whole thing, this devious plot crap, is bullshit. Nobody deserves to die swimming in bullshit.

  “To the hospital,” Naomi says, voice cracking a bit. She's exhausted; I can tell by the way her shoulders sag and her hands shake. Four years of playing together, touring together, and I know what she's feeling just by looking at her. And that's not just because I'm in love with the girl – I can read this band like a book. Kash is feeling guilty about his love triangle; he always texts a lot when he's feeling conflicted. And Blair? She's lonely. I watch her standing still, like a statue in a crowd of people, the only person in this room who isn't hyperactive, brimming with energy. “Trey's awake.” I look back at her face, let myself burn in the sienna glaze of her eyes. She doesn't look away, just holds my gaze tight. “They're going to go see him, and come back tomorrow. I guess after our set we're heading to the hotel or something.” Her eyes stay locked on mine while she digs around in her pocket looking for something, probably a cigarette. When she doesn't find any, a frown drags the corners of her lips down.

  I smile.

  “Here.” I reach into the front pocket of the sweater and come up with a box of cigs, handing one to her and pulling out my lighter. Naomi takes the cigarette between her lips and sighs in pleasure.

  “Thanks.” Droplets of sweat slide down her neck and slither across her chest, tempting my gaze downwards, over her tattoo and towards her breasts. It takes a physical effort from me to hold my head up and stay focused on her eyes. I don't like how long she's holding me here. Naomi has something to say; I can tell.

  And I'm not going to like it.

  “Dax,” Hayden whines from behind me. Naomi's lip twitches, but I keep my expression
neutral and ignore her. She just wants attention, is desperate for it. I think it's because she misses her family so much, and I'm not just talking about her brothers and her dad. Her other family. The one nobody else knows about.

  “You have something to tell me, don't you?” I ask, getting out a cigarette of my own. I want to close my eyes and scream, let my voice curdle the blood of everyone backstage, melt them into nothing and get them the hell away from me. I already know what this is about. I've known for a long, long time. Since Naomi told Turner about her abortion. Since she came back from the grave. Since the hallway at the hotel last night. But mix this crap with my nerves? I feel fucking suicidal. Or homicidal maybe. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God, not now, Naomi.

  “You...” Naomi begins and then pauses, taking a step back. It's so hot in here; the air is swirling with the heat of a thousand plus bodies, too many voices, too much pain. We all carry some around, that's normal. But the people here? They're drenched in it, drowning in their own misery. And supposedly I'm the 'emo' one? Fuck. Why? Because I have ghosts tattooed on my freaking bicep? I feel like I'm one of the most stable people here. I have issues, sure, but I have normal issues. My family hates me, and I killed my mom. No big deal, right?

  My eyelashes flicker and come to rest on my cheeks, blocking out the movement around me. Born Wrong. I know Naomi can see the words tattooed on my eyelids. I told her what they meant because I wanted her to understand me, at least a little. I wanted to try. She's fascinating to me. I can't take my eyes off of her when she's onstage, can't look away when she's bent over her notebook, scribbling away. I'm in love with her and all she gives a rat's ass about is Turner Campbell.

  My lip curls involuntarily, and I take a step back, opening my eyes to find that she's still staring at me. Naomi wets her lips and looks away suddenly.

  “You kiss beautifully, Dax,” she tells me honestly, and my heart beat slows, comes to a complete stop, just so I can hear her better. “You could kill with that mouth, drop a girl into death and have her sighing in pleasure, desperate for it.” Naomi plays with her cigarette with shaking fingers, blowing smoke rings into the dense air around us. A roadie bumps into her arm and she frowns. Her eyes come back to rest on mine and stay there. Four years we've been friends. When I first met her, when Hayden brought Naomi back to my garage to play for us, I didn't like her. Not one bit. But as the years went on … I sigh. This trip down memory fucking lane is going nowhere for me.

  “But that's not good enough,” I say, and I try not to grit my teeth. I move back another step and stab my cigarette into a glass ashtray. “Because you want Turner Campbell. Because fucking everybody and their grandma wants Turner motherfucking Campbell.” I pretend I don't see Hayden tilting her head, hazelnut hair spilling over her shoulder. I don't want her to look at me right now, watch me be shot down. This a moment nobody should have to see.

  “I want fire, Dax,” she says, and her voice gets breathy. Naomi is in so deep it's not even funny. If Turner breaks her heart … I squeeze my fists at my sides. No, not if. When. When he breaks her heart. Fuuuuuuuck. “I want flame. I want to be engulfed and burned alive.”

  “Sounds fucking pleasant,” I say, and I don't look at her. I won't look at her. Not right now. My nerves are shot; I feel like a fallen angel about to approach the gates of Heaven. Today is my second judgment day. I failed before, but here I am again, ready to receive the disdain, the anger, the pain.

  “I like you, Dax, but I don't … I can't move on with my life if I don't at least give this a try. Turner … I love him.” Naomi chokes on the words, but it doesn't matter. They sting me so deep, I feel like I've got internal bleeding. My mouth goes dry and my whole body threatens to topple over. I spin around and put my hands on the edge of a table filled with water bottles. “I hope this doesn't fuck up our friendship, Dax. I still care about you.” I try to summon some words to my lips, but nothing will come out. What am I supposed to say to that anyway?

  “Why don't you fuck off and leave him alone, Naomi?” Hayden growls, coming up behind me and rubbing her body along my back. I don't need her to fight my battles for me, but I don't have the energy to say anything. I knew this was coming, really. I did. But, man, Naomi's timing fucking sucks.

  “Why don't you let him speak for himself, you stupid, anorexic bitch?” Naomi snarls, and then there's a sudden draft of air behind me as she yanks Hayden away from me and shoves her into a roadie with an armful of sweaty towels. A fight breaks out as I turn around and try to step between them, but America is already there, yanking Naomi back by the waistband and using her sling as a barrier between the two girls.

  “Self-control, please. I realize it's a difficult thing for you ladies, but keep in mind that there are more important things to worry about than fighting over Mr. McCann here.” America gives Naomi a pressing look and drops her hands by her sides.

  I purse my lips and push the surge of anger back, squeezing my fists so tight that it feels like the bones in my fingers are going to break. This is such crap. Fuck. Want me to be emo? Shit, man, I fucking hate my life right now. I look at Hayden, panting, eyes wide, gold shirt sparkling weakly in the dim light, and then I glance over at Naomi, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear and scowling. Two women, two completely different personalities, wants, needs, fears. They're both fighting over me yet neither of them really wants me. Depressing.

  “Let it go,” I whisper, staring between them, catching the stares of the staff from the corner of my eye. These aren't our usual people. Most of the folks back here belong to the magazine, LMTV, or that rocker website, the one that's famous for comparing every album they review to a recreational drug. And some of them are writing things down, not at all discreetly. Whatever we do back here is going to become public. This isn't our tour, taking place behind locked gates and in the backs of buses with tinted windows. Our dirty laundry's out in the open now. I sigh. As long as they don't ask us to do a reality show. Dear God, please don't let that happen. If somebody offered, America would jump on that faster than Turner Campbell on a hot, young roadie. “Just remember,” I say as Naomi rolls her eyes and Hayden lifts her chin defiantly. “Everything you do is being watched.” I whisper this last part and move away towards the curtains, peeping out to check on the progress onstage. It's dark as hell out there, but in the dim lighting I can just barely make out the lines of my kit. It's almost time. We are this close to the biggest day of our lives.

  And here I am praying that nobody I know sees it.

  How did I even get to this point? I close my eyes and slump sideways against the wall. My mind keeps recycling Naomi's words over and over again, no matter how hard I try to block them out. Even through the nerves and the anxiety, it hurts like hell. I want fire, Dax. I sway on my feet and listen to the ache of my body, the throbbing soreness of my bones. That tornado really fucked me hard, left me lying on my back on the pavement wondering what the hell my purpose in life was. I was there dying for a woman who barely sees me, a friend I wish could be more but never will be.

  I wish love was like a faucet, something you could turn on and off at will. I'd switch my flow away from Naomi, from my father. I touch my fingers to my face, wishing I was wearing gloves on my hands. They feel naked without them, raw, like everything I touch is twice as rough as it should be. I press against the bruise on my cheek gently and decide that the pain level has dropped from hurts like a motherfucking bitch from hell to simply hurts like a bitch. A definite upgrade.

  “Are you alright?” Blair asks, coming up close and whispering so nobody else can hear. We've been friends since elementary school, so I know she knows me just as well as I know her. No point in bullshitting.

  “I'm lonely,” I whisper back because I know Blair understands how that feels. But at least she has a family that loves her, that cares. They might be a thousand miles away from here, but they're there and they don't hate her guts. But then, that's not the kind of lonely Blair is. She's desperate to find that other half, the one person
out there in the universe that understands her. I get it.

  “It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely,” Blair quotes and then grins. “Einstein,” she says, and I smile. “Don't be so down in the dirt, Dax. Things'll get better, they will.” She pats my arm gently and then reaches down to adjust the waistband of her designer jeans. They don't look right on her, not at all. Whoever styled Blair today either completely misread her or wanted to rebrand her in a different light. Blair Ashton likes to wear clothing fished from the bottom of clearance bins, torn up and sewn back together, mixed with fabric scraps she's up-cycled from God knows where. “Naomi's in a hard place right now. Things are … complicated.”

  “I've been after her for a year, and she's only just now noticed. Now, after she started getting mixed up with Turner Campbell. I have the worst luck, don't I?”

  “At least you're standing all by yourself today,” Blair jokes, reminding me that just a few days ago, I could barely walk. I can't say I'm completely healed, but a handful of Vicodin goes a long way. I stand up straight and flex my bicep, proud to see that I've actually got a good amount of muscle there. Drumming is no easy task; I've built up quite the arsenal from playing my instrument. That, and I make an effort to work out at least three times a week. The zombie tattoo on my arm shifts as I roll my shoulders out and try to work the kinks from my bones. Being this sore all the time blows. My body tenses all on its own, without my even knowing it, and I end up with these cramps and aching bones to match the bruises. No fun at all.

  “At least there's that,” I say with another smile, sliding my hands down into the pockets of my black jeans. “Almost makes up for getting shot down.” Blair's eyes widen, her white feather eyelashes fluttering gently against her forehead.

  “She didn't?” I laugh. It's not a nice laugh, but at least there's some sound coming out of my throat. My chest feels so tight, it doesn't seem like I should be able to talk. “That bitch!” Blair whispers, glancing over her shoulder. Naomi's looking this way, so maybe she knows we're talking about her. Oh well. “What did she say?”