Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9) Page 4

  “Would not fucking surprise me,” Sydney says as she glances back at me, a small half-smile of apology on her full candy coated lips. They look like they've been slicked with the skin of a lollipop, shiny and smooth and so totally lick-able. “So what do we do now?”

  “Now?” Turner asks with that self-assured smirk hovering over his lips. The fucker should get that crap patented. I scowl at him. “We do what we're told: we party.”

  The Boom-Boom Shack in Seattle is a complete and total shit hole, less of a club and more of a dive bar. I wrinkle my nose as I step over a used condom on the sidewalk and stand in the alcove of the front entrance, the stench of old cigarettes and puke permeating the damp air around me.

  “This is the place that Brayden Ryker spirited us off to?” I ask with a scowl and an eye for the offensive shit scrawled across the swinging front door. I glance over at Turner as he studies the words Go to hell, Kunt etched into the door's surface. Yeah. Like, they couldn't even spell their insult right. This place is seriously low-class. “I haven't been to a crap box like this since I turned twenty-one. This is the kind of establishment that kids with fake IDs come to.”

  “Aw, come on, Knox. Just because you're engaged doesn't mean you can't enjoy a little boom-boom with your shack.” He flashes a sharp grin at me and pushes his way inside to the ragged screams of some shitty punk band with lime green mohawks and vests covered in pins. The bouncer takes the fake IDs that Brayden gave us and gives Turner a once-over like he almost, sort of maybe recognizes him.

  Turner snatches his ID back and squeezes between moshing teeny-boppers towards the bar. I sigh and hand my ID over next—apparently my new name is Jezebel Linux, fucking hilarious, right?—and follow after him. The band—and their small but worshipful cluster of fans—is screaming Fuck the ESTABLISHMENT over and over and over again. I appreciate the message but Jesus Christ.

  “The fuck is Vomit Insurance?” Turner is asking as I study his ridiculous incognito outfit. His dark brown eyes are slathered with liner three times as thick as usual, and he's wearing black plugs in his ears with white skull and crossbones on them. His dark hair is spiked up with gel, and his shirt is so tight that it rides up in the front, flashing flat toned abs. His pants are actually looser than normal, black skinny jeans that still manage to cup that sculpted ass of his. He's tucked them into a pair of boots that he borrowed from Dax—big red leather beasts with steel toes. He still looks like Turner, but like an emo-goth version.

  I hate how goddamn fucking attractive he looks. Part of me wants to drag him into the bathroom by his leather belt and suck him off. Instead, I light up a cigarette. Washington state has some stupid indoor clean air act bullshit that prohibits smoking in bars but guess what? Fuck The Establishment—which, according to the poster on the bar top in front of me is the name of the band playing—and their fans don't seem to give a crap what the rules are.

  “Vomit Insurance,” the bartender shouts above the noise, “you pay twenty bucks and we clean up your puke if you upchuck. You don't pay in advance, you clean it up yourself.”

  “I'm in—how much?” Turner asks as I roll my eyes to the ceiling. The entire surface is painted black with throbbing, pulsing lights that mimic the movement of the crowd. I drop my gaze back to the sea of bodies as Sydney squeezes in next to me—also incognito even though she's not with the bands. With that magazine cover of hers dropping last week though, that's probably a good thing. I've seen her and Dax's lurid couple shot splashed across every news site on the internet. Seems everyone's curious as to whether or not they were actually fucking in the picture.

  “I think I'm the oldest person here,” she says which makes me smile as the band breaks into a new song with rolling riffs and wild guitars. It's soothing, that rough angry sound of youth. It makes me smile around my cigarette.

  “Probably,” I say which garners me a laugh.

  Dax slides up next to Sydney dressed in Turner's clothes—tight purple t-shirt that says Fuck Bot on the front, a pair of jeans slung so low I can see the V of his hips and a pair of black boots. Dax is not wearing any eyeliner so his Born Wrong tattoo is easily visible, but he's pulled his freshly dyed black hair down over his face and slipped on a pair of fake lip rings on either side of his mouth.

  “These clip-ons fucking hurt,” he mumbles as Ronnie and Lola join us at the bar and Turner passes out a round of jello shots in syringes. Unlike the rest of us wet blankets, he seems actually excited to be out partying.

  “This is great!” Treyjan says, running his fingers through his hair and looking around excitedly. “This place is, like, so authentic.”

  “You're such a fucking tool,” Turner says, shoving a syringe into his friend's mouth and depressing the plunger. Brayden's order encompassed both bands in their entireties, but Josh, Kash, and Wren bowed out at the last minute. Guess we'll see how Mr. FBI man likes that when we get back. I haven't seen the redheaded asshole at all today, just his cronies and the van they prepped to bring us over here. “You wouldn't know authentic if it bit you on the ass.”

  “Screw you, cum bag,” Trey snaps, lifting his hand up to rub subconsciously at his chest. I get the feeling—getting shot is like being stabbed with a hot poker, this aching, burning heat that seems to eat up any flesh that gets in its way. Basically, it fucking sucks. Mimicking Treyjan, I find my own hand rubbing at my chest. “Let's see if I can pick up one of these punk chicks.”

  He grins this cocky, stupid grin that reminds me too much of Turner, and takes off toward a trio of girls in skirts almost as short as my own. I smile and lean my elbows back against the bar.

  “Can I squirt some in your mouth?” Turner asks, lifting up a blue shot. I give him a look and part my lips with some cocky swagger of my own. He slides the fake plastic syringe in my mouth and runs his tongue over his lower lip, slowly pressing the plunger and covering my tongue with the sweet taste of blue curacao. “Thatta girl,” he growls as I reach up and wrap my fingers around his wrist, digging my nails into the flesh between rubber bracelets. Even incognito, the asshole insists on wearing them.

  “Don't push it, Campbell,” I snarl back, shoving him out of my way and moving out through the crowd. I find a boy with a shimmery gold mohawk that stretches up toward the ceiling and dance with him, pumping my fist and shouting angry punk bullshit. It doesn't take long for Turner to find me, pushing the kid out of the way and taking hold of my hips in a possessive manner that really should piss me off but … doesn't.

  Sometimes, it's best to just resign yourself to fate.

  My fate … is to fall in love with an asshole and live happily ever after.

  Or, at least until death do us part.

  I hate to think that that time might come sooner rather than later.

  “Not feeling the shots?” I ask as I lean against the side of the fucking disgusting bathroom stall and watch Lola Saints shoot one into the filthy toilet. I smoke my cigarette as she groans and stands up, slamming her back to the sticker and graffiti plastered wall, blue eyes pointed up at the ceiling, dark hair cascading around her face in thick curls. It's a good look for her, the curly hair.

  “Ronnie didn't see me come in here, did he?” she asks, her accent thick and cute as hell. But then she told me my GenAm accent was precious. Perspective people, perspective.

  “Nope,” I say, ashing my cigarette into the now blue waters of the porcelain can. “But he's a man. Their lack of perception is beaten into them starting at birth.”

  “How long did it take you to figure it out?” Lola asks as I stare at her and try to decide if it's sympathy or congratulations that are in order. She's dressed in this baggy orange boatneck dress with pockets, her heels tall and polka dotted.

  “That you were preggers? Or that you weren't drinking tonight?”

  “There are different bloody answers to those questions?!” she asks with a groan, closing her eyes for a moment. Lola lifts a hand and gestures in my direction. “Okay, spill it.”

  “Yesterday
and about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Fan-bloody-tastic,” she says with a snort, opening her eyes and shoving the empty plastic syringe into the silver trash can on the wall with all the tampons in it. Fucking sick, dude. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

  “I don't think subtle is in your vocabulary, sweetheart,” I say as I gesture at her outfit and try on a smile for size. It feels awkward and weird on my face, so I just let it slide off for one of my usual scowls as a group of teenage girls stumbles into the bathroom behind me. I'm buzzed just enough that I decide to leave them be. I almost trip the one in the pink with my heel, but then, I wouldn't envy any girl falling to her ass in this shit hole. Probably get pregnant just from sitting on the floor—that or chlamydia, I'm not sure. This bathroom is so fucking nasty that it makes the one Turner and I fucked in look clean. “When are you gonna tell him?”

  “I was trying to wait until after this tour,” Lola says as she plays with the front of her dress. She looks so little swimming inside all that fabric. I'd feel sorry for her if I wasn't seriously aware of how damn good she is at taking care of herself. Almost as good as yours truly. Almost. “But maybe that's not such a good idea, is it? Probably get my fucking head blown off by a sniper before I get a chance to have a kid, eh?”

  I shrug my shoulders, listening to the bass throb its way through the floor, the pulse of the music as steady and strong as the beating of my own heart. This grungy dirty quiver feels like it's made up of all the dark awful parts of my soul. As much as I hate the lyrics, as much as I could school the lead guitarist out there on his shit, I feel the message in my bones.

  “Up to you,” I say as I take a drag on my cigarette. “It's your life to live,” I say with a tight smile, standing up and stepping back, letting the door to the bathroom stall swing shut to give Lola a bit of privacy. When I push open the door to the bathroom itself, I bump into a girl with a purple wig and bright blue contacts in her eyes.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, scooting around me as I rejoin the fray and find Turner knocking back another shot. I don't care how damn much he drinks as long as he puts out later. I step up beside him in my black tank and red plaid schoolgirl skirt. It's obscene as fuck, but after almost dying in that coma, I don't feel much like living in black and white; I'm all about Technicolor.

  I slide the shot from Turner's fingers and down it, wrinkling my nose at the taste of pineapple.

  “Don't get too fucked-up,” I warn him as his gaze slides over me, hot and wanting and not at all shy about checking me out from head to toe. “If you can't perform later, you'll have trouble planning our wedding.”

  “Aren't you the little comedian?” he slurs as he balances himself on the edge of the bar with an elbow, slumping onto a stool and resting his chin on his arm. “You think I'm joking around? Nah, Knox, I don't joke about serious shit like this.” Turner sits up and slams his fist against the counter. “When it comes to getting hitched to my woman, I am all about doing shit right. I won't screw things up again.”

  “Things like … signing us up for a shitty reality TV show?” I ask with raised brows, glad for the brief reprieve from the cameras. Brayden worked his magic apparently because the camera crew that's been following us around for the past month—since Paulette's dramatic reveal of the tour buses—is nowhere to be seen.

  “That was Dax's fault,” Turner says as the man in question steps up to us and steals a shot from the counter.

  “What was my fault?” he growls—he seems to seriously fucking enjoy growling at Turner—before he tosses back the drink.

  “The reality show shit,” Turner tells him as I spot the girl in the purple wig and the blue contacts watching me. I notice because in a room full of grinding, kissing, drinking, swaying people, she's the only still soul to be seen.

  I tap my silver nails on the counter and wonder if my ponytail and heavy makeup are enough to keep a hardcore fangirl from recognizing me. Raising my chin, I throw a smile the girl's way and crook a finger in invitation. If she is a fangirl—or just a bisexual or lesbian chick looking to score with me—she'll come over here.

  Only, she doesn't.

  She turns and moves quickly through the crowd toward the back entrance.

  “Naomi?” Turner asks as I stand up and shove my way between shirtless punk boys and girls with Union Jack and American flag tees. Without thinking twice about it, I burst out the heavy black door marked Exit and spot the woman half a block away, sprinting down the rain soaked pavement as fast as her spiked heels can carry her.

  I chase after her, adrenaline pumping, and come to an abrupt stop at the next alley when fingers wrap around my bicep and jerk me to a sudden halt. Panting and flushed, I turn to see Brayden Ryker standing there in a black jacket and jeans.

  “Do you have a goddamn death wish?” he asks me as he gives me a little shake, and footsteps pound the pavement behind me. Within a few seconds, I've got Turner, Dax, and Sydney at my back.

  “There was a girl watching me,” I tell him, snatching my arm back and trying to keep myself from spitting in the bastard's face. He admitted to having me kept in a chemically induced coma—I have a right to be pissed. Now whether that was his choice—the FBI's choice—or Paulette Washington's, I'm not sure. Frankly, I don't much give two fucks.

  Brayden sighs and gives me a look with his green eyes that frankly makes me so pissed I feel like I could fry an egg on my fucking forehead. Heat rises from my skin as I try to control my rage. It's not something I've ever been good at, but let's be honest: I've had a lot to be angry about in my shitty twenty-three years on this ugly, ugly earth.

  “So what? Did I ask you to perform surveillance? Just get your arses back in there and drink, fuck, smoke, whatever the hell it is that you do.”

  “Why? So we can wait around for someone like that to pick us off?” I ask, feeling this thrill of fear inside of me that I refuse to admit to out loud. Yeah, I'm scared as hell. I shot America plain as day. Paulette knows it and it's Paulette who's pulling the strings. She had that poser Cohen Rose killed because he happened to belong to the wrong team. He didn't kill the only family member she had left.

  Above my head, I swear, there's a countdown timer ticking away to nothing. So sure, maybe I'm overreacting, but it's not a matter of if something might happen to me, just when. When, when, when.

  “We're trying to prompt a reaction out of these people—either side, doesn't matter. Something big. So what if they've got people watching you? Good. Let them watch. I can't make a move until they do.”

  “Snipers weren't enough?” I ask as Turner puts a hand on my shoulder and I shrug it off. “Dead mothers left with their babies? If that wasn't enough for you—for the Bureau,” I say with a sarcastic flip to my voice, “to make a move then what? You told us this was some billionaire's vendetta gone wrong. What? These people don't have enough money to pay off the government?”

  “Aye,” Brayden says, stepping forward, getting in my face. I refuse to budge. “They do. So we need something big, something public to catch everyone's attention. There are still honest people in this world, Naomi Knox, and some of them are trying to do right by everyone else. But I won't risk my daughter's life for you or anyone else. If the Washingtons or the Hammergrens make the right move, then so will I. For now, just do what I've asked and leave the rest to me.”

  “You know what? Fuck you, Brayden,” I say as I take a few steps back and look him over. His face is tight and angry, but there's this … pall hanging around him. He's tired; we're tired. This whole thing is tired—and I am done waiting. Next time I see somebody like that girl hanging around, I'm going to get to her first—and make her talk.

  And then we'll see who's got this nightmare by the balls.

  Naomi throws herself into drinking and partying like it really is her goddamn job. I don't much mind because the drunker she gets, the more affectionate she seems to get. The entire van ride back to the venue is basically a full-on make out session with tongues and hands
and a warm body straddling the thick hardness of my cock.

  I'm drunk, too, but not all fucked-up which is a weird sensation, to be high on alcohol alone.

  Ronnie takes Lola to our bus, but I end up stumbling back onto Amatory Riot's ride with my hot little blonde fiancée all the fuck over me. She tears my shirt over my head, splitting our mouths for just a few painful, aching seconds, coming at me like she can't bear to be separated.

  Dax and Sydney aren't far behind us as we collapse onto the sofa, that very same sofa where I first saw Naomi sleeping that night I woke up with a pounding head and an aching stomach, stumbling into this living room fucked out of my mind.

  Our mouths clash like two guitars battling it out for a hot as fuck solo, fingers strumming each other's bodies as we fight for control of the encounter. Shit if I ever thought I'd want to settle down with a girl who fights to be on top. I'm slightly less drunk than she is—although basically plastered as hell—so I end up shoving her wrists down and landing exactly where I want to be, smirking down at her.

  “Well hello there, Knox,” I growl as I lean down and nip at her lower lip. “You sure are feisty tonight.” I pause at the sound of groaning coming from the breakfast nook and glance up to see Dax and Sydney tangled together on the bench, his hands on her bare breasts, their mouths locked.

  I look back down at Knox and see her eyes craned up and toward the Little Drummer Boy and his new girlfriend.

  “Do you think it's fair?” she asks as I stare down at her, mesmerized by a drop of sweat sliding across that pale neck of hers to pool on the blackness of the leather beneath.

  “What's fair?” I ask as I release her wrists and she slides her palms up my naked midsection. I let my head drop back as she pauses to play with my nipples. I put my hands over hers and tangle our fingers together. I've always liked the idea of fucking completely naked, all of that skin on skin, but there haven't been any girls that I've ever wanted to do that with—except for this one. And that's gotta be a sign right there, don't you think?