Doll Face Read online

  “After every tough climb to the top, there's a descent. Sometimes, it's real easy, just a matter of sliding down feet first. Other times, it's like a tumble off a steep cliff - with a hell of a lot of rocks. Nobody ever promised downhill would be a piece of cake. Have fun with that.”

  C.M. Stunich

  Sarian Royal

  Doll Face

  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: 1938623835 (eBook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-83-7 (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.

  to the growling whispers of unsung voices, may your words be heard and your ire soothed.

  this book is dedicated to the lost, the broken, and the bleeding. may you find your own song.

  *Author's Note:You know that feeling you get right after you sit down on a roller coaster? The one you get after waiting in the hot sun for an hour, working up your bravado and smiling at your friends to get past the butterflies in your stomach? Then you sit down in that hard seat, fasten that belt across your lap and wonder what the hell you just got yourself into. This book is kind of like that. Only worse. Enjoy! ~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

  Book #6: Dead Serious

  Book #7: Doll Face

  Book #8: Heart Broke

  ~CM

  Ten minutes earlier …

  Click.

  Crap. I smack my gum and ignore the sound of a hammer being pulled back behind me. At this point in my life, I'm not even surprised. My fingers curl around the handgun in my bag.

  “Poppet,” I say, twisting my head to look at my sister. She seems surprised that I knew it was her, but I already saw her when I was onstage, standing at the front of the crowd and staring up at me. Maybe she thought the press of sweaty bodies gave her anonymity?

  They didn't.

  “Nice heels, babe,” I tell her, my voice decidedly lackluster. Even discovering the spark in my life that is Ronnie fuckin' McGuire, I haven't been able to pull myself out of this funk. Thinking your sister's being held hostage is bloody terrifying. Finding out she's actually betrayed you is heartbreaking. It might sound selfish, but I think the fear was easier to deal with than the betrayal. I nod my chin at Poppet's orange heels and lift my eyes slowly to her face. Her blonde hair hangs loosely around her shoulders and her blue eyes are sparkling with an odd mixture of pain and frustration. I'm about to make a nasty comment about her ugly arse dye job, tell her that brunette was definitely a better look on her when I notice what's clutched in her left hand. Three times as fucked as the semi-automatic she's holding in her right, there's a Goddamn kid's T-shirt rumpled in her fingers – complete with ankle biter.

  Fuck a nun's dry cunt.

  “Oh, shit, Poppet,” I growl, squeezing my gun tighter. If it were anyone else – Cohen, Honesty, KK – I would've already shot 'em. But … Poppet is my sister. My sister. My brain swirls with happy memories as my heart weeps in frustrated pain. This is not how things were supposed to turn out. This bitch was supposed to be in fuckin' France, living with her cheese making husband. It's not right, just ain't fuckin' right. “Who's the kid?”

  “Doesn't matter, Lola,” she tells me confidently. There's a sense of conviction in her voice that scares the shite out of me. It's the kind of confidence that only crazy people get, right before they jump off the deep end and drown. She shakes the poor boy around by his shirt and a few tears escape, rolling down his cheeks as he looks at me in terrified desperation. I would say I knew my sister, that she'd never hurt a child, but this woman in front of me with the bad bleach blonde hair and the dangerous eyes? She might as well be a stranger. “What matters right now is that you've got one more chance, one chance to redeem yourself.” I rise to my feet, the sounds of Turner's and Naomi's voices blending into white noise around me. Poppet moves a step forward, keeping her gun trained on my chest, but she lets me keep my bag, doesn't even seem to notice I've got my hand all shoved up in it.

  “Eh?” I lift an eyebrow and close my eyes, trying to decide exactly what it is here that's really important. I'm only going to have a split second to make a decision and once I do, that's it. “Redeem myself?” I open my eyes and find Ronnie looking back at me, mouth tight, hands shaking. Cohen Rose is standing next to him with a gun clutched in his grubby ass fingers. No. My heart picks up speed and slams into my ribcage, reverberating through my bones, liquifying them. I want to collapse to the floor, cover my head with my hands and scream. That dream I was chasin'? It's turned into a fucking nightmare. “How on earth do I go about doing that, Poppet? I was under the impression that I was one of the good guys.” I wink at her and force a smile to my face. If Cohen looks this way and sees the fear in my eyes, he'll shoot Ronnie and that'll be the end of that. Where's that stupid Irish fuck, Brayden Ryker? I'll tell you what, that ginger haired bastard isn't worth his weight in salt. Even I knew shit was going to go down tonight. Fucking hell.

  “Lola, this isn't about good versus evil. There's no such thing. It's just about us versus them. You're either with us or you're with them. When I first met Stephen, you were firmly entrenched in us. But now? Now, I don't know what to think.” Poppet swallows and yanks the kid closer. I don't know how old he is – six? seven, maybe? – but it doesn't matter. The fear in his eyes is hard to miss. I examine my sister's round face, letting my gaze sneak past her to catch on Ronnie. Cohen's got him and Jesse pinned against a wall now. Ronnie's brown eyes are still focused on me, his muscles tight with barely leashed violence. If I don't act now, he will. He'll risk everything to save me, I know that.

  Oh God.

  I close my eyes again and force myself to breathe. I love Ronnie. I do. I've been scared to admit that to myself because, bloody fuck, who falls in love this fast? But it's true. That's why I couldn't do what Stephen wanted me to do. I couldn't drive Ronnie into the dirt, crush his soul, break him. And I can't be a part of Poppet's madness, not even if I love her, too. I have to make a choice now. This kid in front of me, he hasn't done anything wrong. And Ronnie? He's got so much to live for. Friends that are really family, parents that love him, kids that are gonna need him.

  If I really think about it, the decision's easy to make.

  “I love you huge, babe,” I tell Poppet, opening my eyes back up and staring into hers. They're blue, just like mine, like the sea of the Gold Coast on a bright day. I force my lips to keep smiling as I grip the revolver inside the bag and make myself think about our last vacation there, when we were still in secondary school, when we stayed in a room on the thirtieth floor and sat on the patio painting each other's nails. If I'm going to die on this tour like I always suspected I might, it's going to be with fucking happy memories spinnin' round my skull. I pull up Ronnie's face, smiling down at me, his hand brushing my hair back, the feeling of his body inside mine. Poppet gives me a strange look as the bag slides to the floor between us.

  She sees the gun and starts to say something, but I'm not looking at her, I
'm looking past her at Joel, Ice and Glass' guitarist, with his shaved head and rapturous gaze. He's next to Cohen, yelling something, screaming who the fuck knows what. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion around me. Maybe this is what happens when you find out you're gonna die? Time slows because you ain't got much of it left, giving you a split second to lay out all your regrets, say your prayers, realize that you'll never again kiss the lips of the man you love.

  Joel is next to Cohen, and even though I'd love to put a bullet through my ex's skull, I think Joel is more dangerous. He loves Stephen like a God, and he's not as much of a coward as the big fat chode standing next to him. If anybody's going to follow orders and actually put bullets through brains, it's Joel.

  I lift up my revolver, right over Poppet's shoulder and I fire.

  The bullet hits Joel right in the chest, splatters blood across the wall behind him and drops him straight to his knees. I shift my aim and take another shot at Cohen, but I don't have the luxury of seeing it strike flesh.

  Pain blooms down below and my gaze moves back to Poppet as my arms collapse at my sides, as the revolver hits the floor, as my knees finally do collapse. My sister mouths something at me, but I can't hear what she says. My left hand touches my belly and comes away with thick redness. Blood.

  But that's okay.

  I smile because I deserve this. Because I've done things that can't be forgiven. I killed a girl that didn't deserve to die, played my part in the deaths of Ronnie's children's mothers. I fell in love too late, fucked up too damn much, and managed to help give Indecency a fighting chance.

  Guess this is as good a way to go as any.

  Five minutes earlier …

  “LOLA!”

  The scream that tears from my throat is fucking epic.

  No.

  No.

  No fucking way.

  “Lola!” I rise to my feet and slam into Cohen Rose, knocking him to his ass while he flails around and gapes like a fish out of water. I should probably stop and take the gun from his fingers, knock his ass out, but I can't think of anything but Lola Saints.

  The love of my life has just fallen to her knees with blood flowering across the front of her white tank top, the one that says You're Never Naked When You're Wearing Ink. The words are obscured by the sudden rush of red as Lola touches a hand to her belly and blinks her eyes several times in shocked surprise. The makeup running down her face might've started with the sweat she shed onstage, but now it's mixed with tears.

  Lola's sister draws her weapon back and stumbles, like even she's having a hard time realizing what she's just done. The kid she dragged back here by the shirt looks heartbreakingly familiar. Travis. I would bet my balls that this boy is the son America told Turner and Naomi about, the son I learned only a few hours earlier actually existed. Turner told me that shit in a text on his way here. Not the kind of information you want rammed into your brain via electronics, but whatever. Who gives a shit about that, especially right now. I want to help the kid, I do, but I can't lose Lola. I can't. If I do, we both die. Everything falls apart. I was willing to sacrifice myself for her, but never in a million years did I think she'd sacrifice herself for me.

  She loves me.

  Wish I could be happy about that emotion. But if to learn about it, I have to say good bye, I'd rather not have known.

  “Lola!” I collapse to the floor by her side and take her into my arms. There's so much going on around me, but as soon as my hands touch her skin, it all fades away. Chaos erupts around us like a volcano – spewing magma laden shit all over everything. One minute, I'm standing there with a water bottle in my hand, getting ready to take a peep out the curtains at Turner, the next there's a gun to my head. One pointed at Lola.

  Poppet stumbles away, adjusting a wireless headset that she got from God only knows where. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hold Lola in my trembling arms, digging my cell from my pocket while trying desperately not to jostle her. Shit is going down, and I'm torn between holding the girl I love and protecting my friends. FUCK!

  “Ronnie,” Lola whispers, her voice laced with terror as she grabs onto either side of my face. “What happens when I die? Do I go to hell for the things I've done?” Her nails scrape the skin from my cheeks as I dial 911 with my right hand and hold her as gently as I can with the other. A quick glance up shows me that Poppet's disappeared through the curtains. A split second later, the music stops and I can hear her voice booming through the speakers.

  “If you shoot him, then I'll shoot your son. I swear to God I'll do it.”

  “I don't know, doll face,” I tell her, trying my best to smile. The 911 operator's talking in my ear, but I don't care. She can fucking wait. “But I can promise you that wherever it is, you're not going to find out until much, much later. You're gonna be okay. You are.” Lola shakes her head as I look away and pinch my eyes closed, letting my voice turn mechanical as I try to report what's just happened to the operator. Uh, a big fucking conspiracy has just crashed down on our heads. You should already have cops here doing crowd control, but I don't see them. Brayden Ryker is going to fucking die when I get my hands around his neck.

  A hand wrenches my phone from my fingers and drops it to the floor, crunching it under a pair of heavy boots. I glance up to find the man in question standing there with a frown on his face.

  “What the FUCK?!” I scream at Brayden, but he's already moving away from us, leaving Lola there to bleed out on the floor. The man's face is a mask of professional hatred and deep-seated frustration. The look's enough to tell me that however it is that he got himself embroiled in this shit, it's personal.

  “Ronnie, I'm going to die. And I deserve it, so it's okay. It's really okay,” Lola whispers while Poppet's voice echoes through the speakers again, but I don't give a shit about what she's saying. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this.

  “Lola, baby, you're not going to die.” I try not to grit my teeth while I say it, but I can't help myself. Memories of Asuka are assaulting me from all angles. Her voice is reverberating in my skull and a scream rests on the tip of my tongue, a cry of outrage and pain that I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back much longer. But I have to. I have to stay strong for Lola. More gunshots ring out and my heart seizes. Turner and Jesse. They're my brothers and if they go, I go. And Naomi. If she goes, Turner goes. We're all connected here by the threads of fate, connected by a glistening web of heartstrings. One snaps, we bleed out collectively. Nice how the strongest emotion on earth can also become a weakness when put into the wrong hands. “I'm going to get you through this, okay?” I tell her, struggling to tear my shirt from my shoulders without jostling her body. Once I get the fabric free, I press it against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding as best I can. I don't know why Brayden Ryker crushed my cell, but I'm damn sure I have to get Lola some medical attention or she really will die here in my arms.

  A hand slides across the floor next to us, diving for something … Lola's fucking gun. My body tenses, but I can't push Lola aside and fight for it, so I clutch her tight and glance up sharply to find Trey's sister, Sydney, whipping the revolver around and pointing it at someone behind us.

  “Back the fuck off!” she snaps, panting heavily, eyes focused on something I can't see.

  “Go help your friends, love,” Lola breathes, closing her eyes and reclining into my arms like she doesn't even have the will to fight.

  “Goddamn it, Lola,” I growl at her, snapping her out of her trance. “Wake the fuck up and stay with me. We'll get through this together.” I can see that cursing at her's not doing me much good, so I switch tactics. “If you die, I die. I will seriously walk out of this building, find a knife and slit my own throat. Lola, I've already lost a soul mate and a brother. I barely survived it. If you leave me, too, that'll be the end, baby. Game over for Ronnie McGuire.” I brush her hair back as she sets her lips in a thin line and curls her fingers around my arm. Maybe, just maybe, the strength and determination I know she has inside
of her will buy us a few more minutes. “Sydney,” I shout, hating how immobile I am. I want to get up, but I can't. Truth comes down to this: nothing here is more important to me than this woman. If I were to put her down and she died while I was somewhere else, my soul would be irreparably damaged, so fucked up that even if I were lucky enough to get reborn, I'd still be sad-sack Ronnie McGuire.

  “Yep?” she asks, her voice rough and shaken. When she slipped her guest pass on and jumped in the van with us, I doubt she expected all of this.

  “I need an ambulance for Lola, but Brayden fucked my phone up. Can you get out of here? Find a way to contact 911?” Sydney grunts in response as footsteps scatter around us, more shouts, another gunshot, and then another. The crowd explodes from beyond the curtain, bursting like a blister. I can hear the screaming, and I can just imagine the flailing stampede that it'll become. Within seconds, the death toll out there could reach astronomical levels. Don't believe me? At a concert for The Who in 1979, the doors weren't even opened yet, but the crowd heard the band's warm-up from outside and rushed the entrance thinking the concert was getting started without them. They managed to crush eleven people to death. Eleven people because they thought the band was starting the concert. Here? There's a crazy woman on the speakers, gunshots, a history of violent excitement surrounding our band's tour.

  What's eleven times like fucking infinity?

  Shit.

  “Lola,” I say, feeling a few tears leak down my cheeks. She looks up at me from that beautiful round face of hers while crimson heat oozes out around my fingers, soaking through the shirt and dripping onto my jeans, pooling on the floor. Her lips are gently parted and her face is pale, so pale, ghostly white. No, no, no, no. I swallow hard, trying to get control of myself.

  “LOS ANGELES!” It's a scream twice as epic as my own. Turner Campbell. “CALM THE FUCK DOWN!” The sound echoes around us all, smashing into my brain, paralyzing me even though I'm not fucking moving. Thank God. “Nobody's going to shoot you!” Turner sobs. Yes, sobs. You heard me. Freaking sobs. Oh my God, Naomi Knox, NO. “But if you don't calm down, you'll kill each other. You'll kill Naomi Knox. We need a doctor up here. Get on your phones, call 911. Somebody please. There has to be a fucking doctor out there.”