Born Wrong Read online

  “She wants to be engulfed in flame. I'm a nice guy, but you know.”

  “Turner,” Blair supplies with a sigh.

  “Turner,” I say and we both turn to look at Naomi then. She flips us the bird and spins away. “But I could kill a girl with my kiss. She did say that.” Blair looks back at me, flipping some of her hair over one shoulder. One of her dark brows raises in question. “Want to die?” I ask in my most horrible Dracula imitation. “Want to live forever?” I grab Blair by the cheeks and press a chaste kiss against her lips.

  “Ugh, gross,” she growls, shoving me back and wiping her mouth on her forearm. “Now that is disgusting. No wonder she turned your ass down.” I laugh again, and this time, it's a little more me, a little more real. I wish I felt something with Blair, some spark, some … magic. But I don't. Naomi is the only woman that's ever been able to stir my heart and my crotch at the same time. I suppose that eventually I'll have to move on. I look back over at her again and catch a glimpse of her throat moving carefully, water sluicing between her lips as she downs a water bottle. My dick immediately rises to the occasion, and I groan, dropping my hands down to hide the rising bulge. Eventually. But not yet. Naomi still has my heart, and she'll continue to own it until I figure out a way to get it back.

  “Careful there, Mr. McCann, you might put an eye out.” America smirks at me and then snaps her fingers, turning around and backing towards the curtain, drawing the attention of everyone in Amatory Riot. It's like a flip switches then. Naomi drops her water bottle by her side, Wren sits up and opens his eyes, and Kash puts his phone down. Blair and I exchange a glance and turn to face her fully while Hayden moves up beside us.

  Oh crap. Oh motherloving crap. This is it. This is it, right here.

  I do my best not to let my dad's voice filter in through my gray matter, but there it is, a haunting plague, a shrouding pall, always overhanging me, always stifling me. Enjoy your brief moment in the spotlight, boy. When it moves on and you're left in the dark, you'll come crawling back to me. I'm sure of it. I swallow hard and squeeze my hands at my sides, trying to relieve some of the stress that's just come crashing back into me like a freight train. On the bright side, my erection is completely and utterly erased. I adjust my belt and listen carefully, keeping my hands away from my hair. The stylist put so much gel in it that it, at least, is stiff as a board.

  “Listen up,” America says, her blonde hair coiffed and perfect, her suit pressed and styled just so. She looks like the president of a first world nation, one seriously bent on destruction. Team America, fuck yeah, I think and try not to smile. Sometimes, when I get really nervous, I get goofy. It's a pretty shitty tic to deal with. Try making Sesame Street jokes at a funeral. You see what I mean? “We're following Indecency, not an easy act to compete with.” Her smile gets tight and her teeth shimmer white as fresh snow. “You can thank Naomi for that, for setting the bar here.” America levels her hand above her forehead, catching her gaze on each and every one of us. “So we need to be here.” She raises it up a couple of inches. “Indecency is good, epic even, but that doesn't mean we can't be. In the world of music, you're only as good as your last live show. Make this one count. And remember, if you guys suck tonight, we can't market this concert as a DVD/Blu-ray package.”

  Naomi groans, but Hayden smiles, scooting over and leaning her forehead against my arm.

  “Tell me I can do this, Dax,” she whispers, but I don't know what to say to her because I'm not even sure if I can do this. I pull Hayden into a small half-hug anyway and pretend nobody's watching. They don't know the things I know, why she does what she does, but I do. I do and that's why I slept with her. Because I felt sorry for her. I feel horrible, but I can't say it's because I love her; I don't. Well, not like that. I mean, I do love Hayden, but not the way I love Naomi. Hayden doesn't make my mouth dry or my body ache, but I care what happens to her.

  “You can do this,” I respond automatically. “You can because you have to.” You can because your daughter is counting on you to make it happen.

  “Oh, beg for this body, baby,” Hayden growls as she pushes between the curtains, transforming right before my eyes. She turns from an insecure, frightened girl to a powerful woman. Her hair changes from mousy brown to chocolate, burning bright under the spotlight as it trails across the stage. The gold shirt she's wearing reflects across the darkness like a disco ball while Hayden sways her hips and bends low, breathing into the microphone. Beside me, Naomi sighs begrudgingly. No matter how anybody feels about Hayden, they have to give her credit for being able to put on a good show. And her voice onstage is pure magic. She might not be a Turner Campbell or even a Naomi Knox, but she has fans that adore her. “Can I get some love?” she asks, pouting out her lips, putting her hand on her skinny hip.

  Backstage, the collective breath of the staff is hushed, waiting for America to give us the cue to walk out. For whatever reason, she's letting the crowd get fixated on Hayden. I was under the impression she was in the anti-Hayden camp, so I'm a little confused. I don't get her intentions and that makes me nervous. America might've just fessed up to the whole Travis-Tyler-Stephen fiasco, but that doesn't mean she's told us everything. Naomi and Turner, even Ronnie, they all see this is as black and white. Good guys versus bad guys. But I learned a long time ago that the world only functions in shades of gray.

  The crowd roars and ripples, a dark demon crouching in wait, just a taste of the evil that lurks behind the massive monitors that flank either side of the stage. Those are the eyes of the devil. I shiver and close my eyes, counting to ten under my breath. When I open them, I see the other members of Amatory Riot are already three steps ahead of me, shifting as they go from unseen to noticed, from invisible to ubiquitous. America is giving me a hurry the fuck up look and before I know it, I'm out there, too, smiling tightly, keeping my gaze focused on the dais at the back of the stage.

  The dichotomy of a drummer: worshipped but forgotten. We all feel it at some point in our careers. Look at me, I've got this raised bit of stage all to myself, a veritable throne of shimmering cymbals and glossy black shelled tom drums. I'm the only person in the auditorium who's seated, like a judge presiding over his court. At the same time, I spend the majority of my time shrouded in darkness, the single still body in a waving sea of motion. I don't get to put on a show with anything but my sticks. No hair swinging, foot stomping, shirt tearing madness.

  But I can still work it. I have to work it. This is all I'm good for, all I want to do with my life. I have to prove myself not only to the world, not only to my father, but also to me. I have to convince myself that my talent is worth something, that I am worth something. I move behind Naomi and Kash, watching as they swing their instruments over their shoulders, as their backs expand with massive breaths.

  I keep my eyes downcast as I ascend the steps to my kit, settling myself on the black leather stool, the throne as it's quite literally referred to. My hands find my sticks, my body finds a rhythm. I let my eyes close and listen to Hayden warming up the crowd, clapping her hands and swaying in time with the beat. My arms move, as if by their own accord, seeking that same rhythm, honing in on the gentle murmur of Naomi's guitar and the haunting whisper of Blair's keyboard.

  “Beg for this body, baby, but don't be surprised if I say no. Oh, no. Don't be surprised if I tell you to take a hike.”

  “Oh no, no no,” Naomi murmurs into her mic. Her voice is more subdued now than it was when she was singing with Turner, softer somehow. I open my eyes and watch her as she strums her Wolfgang with gentle fingers. It's like stepping back in time. Even though we're playing in front of God knows how many people, changing the future forever, I can see her onstage at the county fair, hugging the area near my drums, too shy to move forward and step into Hayden's spotlight. Something isn't right here, I tell myself as I picture that day under the sun, our audience less than a hundred faces. If one of them hadn't been America, we wouldn't be here today. I can't decide if that's a good
or a bad thing.

  “I'm a girl with the worst intentions, the darkest desires, the deepest dreams, so beg for this body, baby, but don't be surprised if I say no.”

  “Oh no, no, no.” Blair comes in alongside Naomi, slipping her voice into the fray and melting the words into simple vibrations. My foot pumps along with their words, teasing my bass drum with a deep undertone, one that worms into the floor and roots the audience to the ground. They might not know it, but I can control what they do, too. And they'll have no idea I'm doing it. I grab a quick hi-hat bark and watch the massive scourge of audience jump.

  “I shouldn't have even invited you here. Shouldn't have gone anywhere near. My heart is crying out to you, and my pain is rife, taking over, taking over and destroying my life. So, okay, baby, beg for this body, but don't be surprised.”

  Hayden drops into a low squat and hums into the microphone, singing Naomi's words without even understanding what they mean. Poor Hayden. No, seriously poor fucking Hayden.

  I hit the snare with my left hand and try not to let my feelings show on my face. She didn't ask for this. Could she have handled it better? Sure. But she didn't want this to happen, any of it. All Hayden really wants is her daughter back. I feel the skin on my forehead tightening, and I imagine the camera zooming in on it, panning down across my arms, the tattoos that my dad hates so much. I relax my face and drop my chin to my chest, letting the music writhe inside of me, taking over me like tentacles. I don't even want to be in control anymore, but they do, so I let them consume me, body and soul and watch as everything comes crashing down around me.

  As Hayden's on her knees moaning and riling up the crowd, Naomi sneaks up behind her and puts her boot on her lower back, strumming her guitar in a pattern that definitely doesn't suggest she's onboard with this performance. Goddamn it and crap, I think as the rest of the band follows Naomi's lead and switches into a completely different song. This is exactly what I need. Naomi trusted me enough to bring me into the fold, but at the same time, I can't abandon Hayden. If I do, she'll sink faster than the fucking Titanic. I know things nobody else does. She doesn't deserve this, even if everyone else thinks she does. At least this explains Naomi's supposed meekness. That girl goes straight for the throat.

  I watch as Hayden's entire body goes still, like she's caught in a time warp, a frozen entity completely at odds with the writhing chaos around us. Please God, let her make a good decision right now. Naomi keeps strumming her guitar, moving us along into that Believe song, the one we've never played before. I have no choice but to follow along with her. It feels like a betrayal, but what else can I do? I take my frustration out on my cymbals, smashing the wooden sticks into the metal like they fucking owe me.

  “I can't believe I was ever that stupid,” Naomi sings, bending down low and breathing into Hayden's microphone. It only lasts a second before Hayden is standing up and spinning away. Naomi moves back in a turn, wrapping the cord of her guitar around her ankles and owning it like she's Turner Campbell incarnate. She retreats back to her own mic just in time to sing the next verse. “And I can't believe I was ever that young. That my heart beat that fast. That my voice sung that bright. I can't believe I ever fell in love with you.”

  The crowd flips shit, exploding with excitement and barely restrained violence. Naomi is owning it, I'll admit, but this is not my thing. I like a different vibe, a darker, more melodic strand of anarchy and disjointed disapproval. I don't want the fans to lose their minds and go crazy with need. I want them here, with me. I want to hold their hands and show them the other side of life, a different avenue, a beautiful sky. This whole crazy, murder your next door neighbor and smash the venue to shit thing isn't our usual MO. I guess I'm just not used to going onstage after Indecency. Naomi's making things worse, bouncing up and down, destroying her guitar with her pick and belting out the lyrics to a song she knows Hayden doesn't know.

  “Most of all, I can't believe that I wanted to believe.” The room is bouncing, the audience taking a page from our books and smashing the floor with vibrations that travel up through the soles of my boots and into my toes, infiltrating my bones and making me grit my teeth. Hayden stands at the side of the stage, completely and utterly lost, sides heaving, mouth turned down in a frown. The cameras keep zooming in on her, flashing her frustration to the world. Hey, if I was worried about my family seeing me, I needn't have been. Doubt I'll be getting any airtime today.

  I send up a silent prayer of strength for Hayden to get it together. She's the Queen of Show Business. Pull yourself together, Goddamn it. After another thirty seconds passes however, I can see that she's not going to. Her cheeks are flushed red with rage and her fists are curled so tightly at her sides that her knuckles are white.

  I'm the first one to stop playing.

  “Hayden, don't!” I shout as the other members of my band keep going, dragging the song along without me. After a second, Wren falters a bit and drops his game, but Naomi keeps playing. Even when Hayden starts moving across the stage towards her. “Hayden!” I stumble down off the dais, but I'm not fast enough to stop the explosion of rage and jealousy and hatred that's been brewing for a long time coming. If Naomi only knew about the kid. If she only knew...

  I know shit's serious when Hayden says nothing, no fuck you, no stupid bitch, nothing.

  Her tiny body barrels into Naomi mid-riff and sends her stumbling, tripping over the cord to her guitar and sending her flat on her ass. At this point, Blair is the only one still playing, drowning the audience in haunting melodies stripped from the ivory keys of her board. The ghostly murmurs belt out the speakers, highlighting the sudden lack of sound from down below. Everyone's watching with bated breath, sucking up this angst and tragedy through a fucking straw. See, and that's my problem with this whole thing. I love the music, and I want to marry the crap out of my drums, but I don't like this desperate greed for trouble and drama. Why can't we just play? Why can't we just transform their souls with melodies and carefully drawn out notes? These people, most of whom have never truly suffered a moment in their lives, they don't know what it's like to feel pain so deep it becomes a part of you. So they show up here in flocks and herds and they drink us up, lap our blood like candy and smack their lips on the way out. I don't want them eating my pain anymore, not mine or Naomi's or Hayden's. Fuck you Tyler Rutledge, Stephen Hammergren. You're a petri dish to this virus, a breeding ground for this shit.

  The mics screech as they roll away in the scuffle, and Naomi's Wolfgang howls its darkness to the soaring ceilings above us as the girls break out into a brawl that's twice as tough as the one at the safe house. This is a no-holds-barred, claws out, break the skin sort of a fight right here.

  “Stop!” I scream, reaching in, getting hit in the jaw by Naomi first and then Hayden. The bruises on my face explode in white hot agony, and I stumble back. These two are a hell of a lot tougher than they look, rising to their feet in a flurry of blood and rage. Nobody else moves in to help. Why the fuck would they? This is too good to pass up. Perfect press, the right amount of violence, sex, jealousy. If America didn't already have this planned out, I'd be surprised.

  I shake my head and move back in, grabbing Hayden around the waist and physically lifting her out of Naomi's reach. It takes a lot out of me, but it doesn't stop the fight, not by a long shot.

  “You like this?” Naomi asks, grabbing the mic from the stage and lifting it back up to her bleeding lips. “Are you enjoying the show?” The crowd starts off in a gentle murmur and then rises up, as if in protest. “Because I know I am. I know I'm tired of being pushed around and played for a fucking fool. I'm tired of people getting hurt, and I'm tired of playing second best.”

  Hayden growls, and even lets out a small scream when I won't let her go. If she gets to that mic, it's only going to make things worse.

  “Remember why you're here and what you're doing this for,” I whisper into her ear. Hayden doesn't stop struggling, her body a lithe mixture of lean muscle and bones
. She hasn't been eating enough lately. Not that I blame her. “You have a daughter that's counting on you, Hayden,” I say and even though her eyes well up with tears, she doesn't stop fighting, kicking and elbowing me as hard as she can. All of that practiced professionalism, the white-toothed smile, and the glowing stage presence, it's fading away. Even her arrogance, that shield against the pain and the frustration, it's starting to go, too. Eventually, this woman is going to wither away into nothingness, consumed from the inside out. All I want to do is make sure that doesn't happen.

  “Yeah, that's what I fucking thought,” Naomi says and then drops the mic on the stage, sliding her Wolfgang off, and moving offstage like she could give two fucks less than none.

  “Hayden,” I whisper into her hair, trying to get her to calm down, to remember that the world is watching, that he could be watching. “Tyler wants you to play a part, remember?”

  “Tyler doesn't give a fuck,” she growls out, finally breaking from my grasp as I take a step back and try to calm the white spots blurring my vision. Fucking tornado. Hayden spins to face me, tucking brunette strands behind her ear, struggling to catch her breath as she stands there pink cheeked and fuming. “Tyler. Doesn't. Give. A. Fuck. Because Tyler isn't here.”

  “But he could be watching,” I say, well aware that for probably the first time since we've come onstage, the cameras are focused on me.

  “He could be,” Hayden says, her mouth twisting up into a smirk, emotions being crushed under a veil of false bravado. “He could be, but he's not. Right now, Tyler Rutledge is at the hospital.”

  “Tyler?” Ronnie's girlfriend asks a split second before some dude in a trench coat is getting up close and personal with my face.