Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) Read online

  I shake my head because that's just ridiculous. I don't give a fuck about Dax. I don't. Seriously.

  My thumb hovers over the call button for a split second before I make my decision.

  Today, I'll be the friend that my brother and his buddies need, help 'em bury the body (quite literally) and all that, but tomorrow, I make room for Sydney Charell. I get my life back on track. I might be stuck with these assholes, but that doesn't mean I can't help them and do my own thing.

  Dax, well, I'm just going to have to forget all about him. That's what's best, right? I'll forget him and the cool brush of his fingers, the icy bite of his lips. Yep. Just wipe all of that weirdness from my mind. I mean, like, what did we really share? One drunken screw in the back of a strip club? Hah.

  I dial Dax up and wait, confident that I'm making the right choice.

  We're both better off this way.

  Besides, who has time to think about love when there's a dead rock star back at their place?

  Not this girl right here. Nope. I don't give a shit about love—or Dax—at all.

  So why do I feel pissed when I get kicked over to his voice mail?

  Holy fuck.

  I wake up a few hours later without a single memory of the night before. Honestly, I'm not surprised. I've been drinking and smoking and drugging away all of the moments since Hayden's—and Tara's—deaths. At this point it's like, why bother? Why keep trying to crawl out of this black hole when gravity keeps sucking me back in?

  “Fuck.”

  I toss an arm over my eyes, like a shield against my pounding headache, and do my best to fall back asleep. See, sleep is like this … this alternate universe where all the wrongs of the world fade away. Even nightmares feel like dreams at this point.

  “Hey dude.” A finger pokes my arm and I ignore it. Kash never gave a shit about me before, so why should he start caring now? I roll away from him and bury my face in a pillow. Juvenile, sure, but whatever. I'm so past the edge of giving a crap about anything at this point. Hayden, dead. Tara, dead. America, dead. Naomi and Blair, almost dead. I can only pray that I'm next. “I know you don't want to talk to me right now. Hell, I know you don't want to talk to anybody right now, but I just thought you should know, Naomi's awake.”

  I snap to like I've been slapped, sitting up so quick that my head spins and twists and my vision flickers like I'm two seconds away from passing the fuck out. I blink away the cobwebs and stare Kash down, demanding answers without a single word passing from my lips. He knows better than to screw around with something like this.

  “She, uh, woke up like an hour ago?” he asks as a question, his blond hair sticking up every which way. On the couch across from me, his girlfriend—well, one of them anyway—is fast asleep. At first I wonder why the hell she's in my room, and then I realize that I'm actually the one in Kash's room. “Turner Campbell called your phone like ten times. Texted you, too. I didn't mean to screw around with your stuff, but since you didn't seem like you'd be getting up anytime soon …” Kash trails off as I throw my feet over the edge of the bed and force myself up. The room spins around me for a second, but I manage to keep my balance. My friend, our lead guitarist, our new lead singer, she's not just alive, but awake. Right now, to me, that's a fucking miracle.

  “Can you …” I almost say call America. Almost. And then I realize that she's as dead as a doornail. Amatory Riot is like a boat without a sail right now, and I don't know what to do about it. I don't know what to do about anything in my life and that's the problem. Try Googling “what do I do when my band's manager passes away in a tragic gun fight” and see what comes up. That's right. Squat. Nothing. Nothing at fucking all. “Can you call a cab for me?”

  “A cab?” Kash asks, and I know what he's thinking: you'll never get out of here alive. The crowd outside is foaming at the mouth for a sighting of any of us—even me. But that's fine. I don't give two fucks at this point.

  I run a hand through my hair and cringe at the sticky, crusted state of it. I don't have a fucking clue what exactly that is. Puke? Cum? Definitely not hair gel. Definitely worth a shower before I go.

  “Yeah, if you don't mind. Have them meet me a block away. I'll figure out a way to get over there.” I turn away from Kash before he has a chance to respond. I know he'll do this for me; Kash and Wren, they've been treating me with kid gloves for days. I'd call myself, but I don't want to waste a single second.

  In the back of my mind, I wonder if I should call Sydney. But then I wonder why I'm wondering that. She's nothing to me in all reality. We fucked once, and in a half-drunk state, too. She's not my partner or my girlfriend or anything like that.

  The question that hovers at the edge of my thoughts though, it wants to know if I'd like her to be.

  Naomi Knox is awake in that she's no longer in a coma, but by the time I make it to the hospital, she's asleep again. Temporary, good for the soul sleep this time though.

  “You'd think we were flashing our junk the way these people glare at us. Hey, asshole, you want to see my dick, too? 'Cause I could arrange that.” I cringe at Turner's shout and pretend the man power walking next to us isn't holding his nose and coughing theatrically at our cigarette smoke. Ah, California. It's a special, special place.

  “Can you keep your voice down?” Ronnie McGuire asks, his words for Turner, but his eyes focused on me. I don't know why he keeps looking at me like that, like he feels sorry for me or something. I don't need anybody feeling anything for me right now. I'd like to play the part of the emo bitch that everyone criticizes me for being anyway and just hate life for a while. At least Naomi's okay. But Blair? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My childhood friend is still laid out like she's been run over by a tank, and there's nothing I can do about it. My brief moment of joy over Naomi has been squashed again. Currently, I've got a sherm clutched between my fingers, smoke curling in my lungs. It's not that I want to keep getting high; I have to. “If you want to get raped by fangirls, that's your prerogative, but don't bring them over here next to me.”

  “Jesus, Ronnie, big words so early in the morning? Take your prerogative and shove it up your ass.” Turner inflates his chest like a goddamn peacock, hardly able to hold back the abject glee he must be feeling right now. I hate him. I swear to Christ, I fucking can't stand this guy. I almost blurt out something about Blair, but what's the point? Turner doesn't give a shit. He's got Naomi Knox, millions of bucks in the bank, and a Beverly Hills mansion.

  I turn away with a scowl, sweeping my hand down my freshly shaved face. Not even sure why I bothered to dress up; Naomi's not really in a state to notice or care about anything like that. Besides, even if she was, it wouldn't matter. I have seriously gotten off the Naomi train and purposely lost my ticket. I guess if Sydney were to show up … Turner says she's here somewhere, but I haven't seen her yet.

  My heart starts to pound, but I ignore it. What do I care if Sydney shows up or not?

  I shake my head and look up to find both Turner and Ronnie staring at me. They both look good, too good, like rock stars. Me? I look like a friggin' bum, like one of those guys with hep C who used to hang around outside the recycling center when Tara and I would go to drop off cans. Seriously. I really need to get my act together.

  “You alright, bro?” Turner asks, sliding his fingers through messy bed hair, hair that he probably didn't even brush in his rush to get over here. Still looks perfect. Stupid piece of shit.

  “I'm not your bro,” I snap, dropping down to scrape my smoke against the cement before tucking it away in a plastic bag. Wouldn't normally bother, but this is no ordinary cigarette. And I need it. And today looks like it's shaping up to be almost as shitty as yesterday, so yeah. Whatever. “Gimme a call when Naomi wakes up,” I drawl, tucking my gloved hands into my front pockets. My fingers are itching to pick up some sticks, to hit my kit and feel the frustration and the fear and the confusion of the past few weeks leak right out of me, drained from my body like blood to a vampire. I glance down at the tattoos
on my left arm, a scene of horror stretched straight up from my fingertips to my shoulder. Fuck. I'd gladly surrender my throat to a vampire if it meant ditching all of this shit and leaving it behind me forever. “I am so done.”

  “So done with what?”

  A voice snaps me out of my reverie, out of the very conscious and frontal thought I keep having of taking my debit card and my passport and skipping town for good. I could go anywhere in the world. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

  “Sydney,” I whisper, getting that just-punched-in-the-gut feeling that hits me whenever I see her. I pause on the sidewalk, sunshine streaming around me, drawing long shadows from the palm trees to my left. When it hits Sydney's hair, the light breaks into a million beautiful pieces, like shards of glass crashing to the earth at her feet. Or maybe that's the drugs talking, I don't know.

  I glance away.

  Really, I owe Sydney an apology—and a thank you. Truly, I can't bring myself to look at her. I'm so ashamed, so sick of myself, more so than I've ever been before. Even my dad never brought me down to this level. You mean the man you always believed was your dad, I think before I can shut down the self-pity machine.

  “Just … done,” I whisper, hating how dry my lips feel, how shaky my hands are, even stuffed in my pockets like they are. “Naomi's awake,” I add because I'm not sure what else there is to say. So many things run through my mind and then get discarded in those few seconds it takes to connect my gaze to hers, to the bright blue of her eyes, like freaking candy. I want to take a lick, I do. But I can't. I won't drag this girl down with me.

  “I know,” she says, reaching into her back pocket with a slide of fingers and an arched back that makes me run my tongue across my lower lip. All she's doing is going for a smoke, but damn, I can barely contain myself. I take a step back as she lights up, her razored bangs falling in her eyes as she glances up at me, bright pink lips wrapped around her cigarette in the most tantalizing of ways. Shit. Other than our quickie in the back of the strip club, we haven't done much but cuddle. Yup. Cuddle. Sydney's spent a few nights in bed with me doing absolutely nothing but lying beside me and keeping me sane.

  I open my mouth, raise my hand, hit with a sudden impulse to say something meaningful when Turner appears out of nowhere, swinging an arm around my shoulders and yanking me to him like we're actually fucking friends or something, like everything is peachy keen, just a-o-fucking-kay.

  “I see why you were so eager to get away from us now. Got some plans, Little Drummer Boy?”

  “Get the fuck off of me,” I snarl, jerking out of Turner's grasp and stumbling a bit before I catch my feet. When I look up, Sydney's gazing at me with questions in her eyes, regret, like she's not sure why she ever let herself give two shits about me at all.

  I turn away.

  “Took you long enough. What the hell were you doing in there? Stripping for the ICU?” Turner asks, lighting up another cigarette.

  “I was paying my respects to Blair. I hope you're behaving yourself and keeping your celebratory attitude down to a minimum. People are still hurting, Turner. People are dead,” Sydney emphasizes through clenched teeth. She looks gorgeous, as usual, but exhausted, too. Stressed. Pulled thin. How much of that expression is because of me?

  “Whatever,” Turner mumbles, but I hear a heaviness in his voice that I didn't notice before. He knows how screwed up this whole situation is, even if he pretends he doesn't care. Great. Not only can he sing and fuck and play guitar, make the whole world fall in love with his ass, but he's also deep. A growl escapes from my lips, and it takes every ounce of strength I have to not punch Turner in his pretty face. It's not his fault—not this time—but I'm so disgusted with myself that I feel like I need someone to take my anger out on.

  “I gotta go,” I say before things can get awkward. Sydney doesn't want to see me right now … not after last night I'm sure. I made a complete ass out of myself. I mean, I think I did. I don't remember it, but I remember feeling sad and sick and desperate. Can't have made for a good time. I give her one last look before I turn away, but her face says nothing, nothing at all.

  And there's no worse feeling for me than that.

  Poser piece of shit is right. Are those dollar bill tats on Cohen's arm? What a douche.

  I lean down for a better look and use the toe of my purple high heel to poke at the corpse's arm. It's sticking out of the tarp, the rest of it wrapped up and hidden away. Thank God. I can't seem to get Dax's face out of my mind, and the last thing I need to add to my twisted mental state is another image of the dead man's rictus grin.

  I stand up, crossing my arms under my tits, my shoe tapping a gentle rhythm against the floor. What was that look that Dax gave me before he left? My fingers itch to pick up my cell and give him another call. I mean, not that he'd answer it anyway. I called and texted him like a dozen times this morning and he never once responded. Instead he was just there, standing outside with Ronnie and Turner.

  Fuck.

  Why do I care? What Dax does is none of my business. I need to focus on my own shit, like how to get this body out of here without the giant crowd of fangirls seeing. Chances are if they catch sight of Cohen's body … they'll probably snatch it up and take Instagram photos.

  “Are you sure you don't want to call Brayden?” Jesse asks, but shuts his trap real quick when Ronnie casts a scalding glance his way. “I mean, after what happened this morning, don't you think it might be a good idea?”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know that Milo was having a staff meeting here?” Ronnie grumbles, his arm around Lola's waist as we all stand there staring stupidly at the body. Some part of me realizes that we should be more freaked-out by the whole situation, but there's no use cryin' over spilt milk, right?

  Currently, Mr. Rose is lying in the closet beneath a row of party dresses that some personal shopper picked up for Lola. Jesus Christ. Personal shopper. Wow. Talk about a cushy job. Oh, and when I say closet, I mean really fucking large room pretending to be a closet. This is one luxury I can get behind though. What girl doesn't want a tricked out fucking closet?

  “We need to get him out of here,” I say, because burying this guy on the premises just sounds like a really, really bad idea. “But how? Milo's still here, not to mention the security staff. You guys couldn't even get him out of the bedroom this morning without being seen. How are we supposed to get him out of the house?”

  Nobody answers me, and I get this really sick, sinking feeling in my stomach like no one's going to.

  “Shit, damn, and bitch,” I mumble, raking my fingers through my hair. Shoulda known the boys couldn't get anything done without me. I might blame this all on Lola since, you know, she's the woman and therefore like, literally all of the brains, but this is her dead boyfriend and shit's just messed all the hell up right now. I am the outsider, a girl removed. I guess it's up to me to figure this crap out. I might very well be the only one with a clear head. “Clearly, dragging a large man shaped tarp outside right now is a pretty terrible idea.”

  “Duly noted,” Ronnie mumbles, smoking a cigarette as he glances up at me. “So what the fuck do we do? I was going to sneak his ass out in one of the vans while it was still dark out this morning, but unless we want to leave him here all day, that's not really an option.”

  I stand there for several moments, tapping a bright orange fingernail against my lips.

  And then I hear the squeak of Trey's wheelchair …

  Bingo.

  “Can somebody help me down these fucking stairs?” he shouts from the hallway, doing his best Turner impersonation. I glance up sharply at Ronnie and he catches my gaze.

  “Oh, hell no,” he murmurs, but I'm already grinning.

  “Hell no what?” Lola asks, glancing between the two of us.

  “It's perfect, Ronnie. Unless you have a better idea?” He stares right back at me with his brown eyes and then sighs, pulling his cigarette from his lips with two fingers. I can see the resignation in his gaze, th
e fatigue pulling at the skin on his face. Ronnie is tired and he's done and he just wants this fucking over, like we all do.

  “Trey, honey, come 'ere for a sec,” I call, stepping back and moving across the room towards the door. I unlock it and find my little brother glaring up at me from his chair, a suspicious expression crawling over his features.

  “What the hell are you doing in Ronnie's room? You guys aren't, like, fucking or whatever, right?” I roll my eyes and send up a pray to whatever goddess will listen. Please help my brother to be less of a frigging Turner clone. Not sure I can take much more of this.

  “Just get your ass in here for a second, okay?” I take a step back and hold out my hand. Luckily, the dumb ass wheels himself in without further complaint and then sits there glaring at me. His brown hair's all mussed up and his skin is pale, but for the first time in weeks he looks like he's actually going to be okay, like he's going to stand up out of this chair and get his hands on a guitar again.

  “What do you want, Sydney?” he grumbles, glancing around the room with a wary expression that I can hardly blame him for.

  “Weeeell,” I drawl, leaning back and sliding my fingers into the back pockets of my jeans. Ronnie, Lola, and Jesse choose that moment to make an appearance, filling the doorway between the sitting room area and the bedroom proper. Trey looks at them for a moment and then flicks his eyes back to me.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  A smile pulls my lips apart, but I don't think it's very pretty.

  “Trey, we need to borrow your wheelchair for a little while.”

  Indecency hoodie. Check. A pair of Trey's Converse. Check. Some of those black fingerless gloves that Dax likes to wear. Dax … I shake my head to clear thoughts of Dax McCann and his sad little puppy dog face after he found out that his dad wasn't his dad. Oh god. And the way he collapsed after that anorexic bitch shot herself … Goddamn it.

  I shake my hands out and take a deep breath. Not thinking about Dax right now. No way. Nuh uh.