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  “That I can do,” he promises as we hold each other and I wonder frantically how this is all going to play out. Where do we go from here? Are Ronnie and I a couple? I mean, not really. We hardly know each other, right? Even if I think I'm in love with him, that doesn't seal our fate, doesn't bind us together permanently. Do I go back home and tell my dad in person that Poppet is dead? Unless he already knows. I have a feeling that our fuckups might be screwed up enough to cross the Pacific Ocean. Either Ronnie is psychic or he can tell from the stiffness of my shoulders and my sudden silence what I'm thinking. “Stay here with me, Lola,” he says, and I swallow hard. “In Los Angeles for a little while. We can rent a house or something, get our heads together, just hang out. I'll take you to Disney Land or some shit.” I snort as he slides his fingers across my jaw and makes my lashes flutter.

  “I hate Mickey Mouse,” I admit and Ronnie laughs. “Scares the crap out of me, won't lie about that.” But I like your offer, I think, knowing that Ronnie feels the same way I do. Question is, how do I get up the courage to really talk about? “Can we rent a house on the beach? I think we deserve a little sand and surf after all that fucking shit.”

  “Nobody's renting anything,” Turner grumbles and we both glance over at him, sitting slumped and lonely in the hospital chair. “I'm buying an Indecency crash pad, somethin' real, real nice.”

  “Turner,” Ronnie says, but his friend isn't listening. He's sliding his finger across the screen of a smartphone, brow furrowed and lips turned down at the corners.

  “A dozen bedrooms, some fancy ass kitchen stocked with energy drinks, and a pool I can spend most of the day naked in.” He's still mumbling, but his lips are twitching. That's a good sign, right? Ronnie sighs and looks back over at me with a shrug. “We might not be able to go back on tour anytime soon, but that doesn't mean life as we know it has to be over.” Turner doesn't exactly sound like he believes that, but I decide not to say anything. If I can get out of this hospital sooner rather than later, I'd live in an alley behind a fast food restaurant. A big house with Ronnie sounds like a dream, even if all his friends are living in it, too.

  “Whatever you want, man,” Ronnie says with another shrug as he leans down and puts his chin on my head, holding onto me like we're a proper couple and all that. Sure, we've been spending a lot of time together, but ever since I found out Poppet was willingly with Stephen, I've been in a funk. Drunk, fucked up, or sleeping. That's how I've spent most of the last week. Getting shot and waking up to find myself still breathing? Now if that doesn't give me a kick in the arse, I don't know what will. I think of Poppet again and my throat closes up.

  Before I can think up anything else to say, that uppity bitch, Nurse Dina, waltzes into the room and piddles around like she's got something important to do. I notice she says longer than her usual five minutes, eyes shifting to the side like a fucking croc searching for prey. I can just imagine this woman with water up to her eyeballs, scanning along the shore for an unsuspecting man to waltz on by. If I had to guess, I'd say her cunt's drier than the Great Victoria Desert.

  “Why don't you go do what you gotta do and then piss off?” I ask her when her attention gets a little too focused on Ronnie's chest. I'll admit, the man's cleaned up good in the last few weeks. When we first started the tour, he was a grubby little thing with bloodshot eyes and shaking hands. Sure, he still had a handsome face but it was hidden under all that sour. Now, he's dressed up nice, smells clean, expression clear. I can't take all or even any of the credit for that, but I would like to take a piss on him and let the world know that at least for now, he's mine.

  “I don't tolerate rudeness,” Nurse Dina sniffs, running her hands down the front of her scrubs. She's such a tightwad bitch, I think she'd look more at place in one of those old fashioned nurse's outfits, the pink ones with the short skirts they used to wear way back when. The woman can't be a day over thirty, but she acts like my dead grandma – only twice as stiff.

  “How's this for rudeness?” I ask when she jerks an IV needle from my arm with more force than I feel is necessary. “Why don't you pull your lip over your head and swallow? Then, when you take a shit you can get a real good look at how the world sees you?” Dina has no reaction, but Ronnie laughs, stroking my hair back while the nurse fiddles around and does whatever it is that she needs to do.

  “Is there a doctor I can speak to about getting her discharged?” he asks, and Nurse Dina actually smiles for the first time since I've been here.

  “Nothing would please me more, Mr. McGuire,” she says, and I frown. The fact that she knows Ronnie's last name is just more proof that she's desperate for some Indecency dick. I cross my arms over my chest as Ronnie gives me another kiss on the top of my head and moves away with a promise to return.

  A moment later, Turner scoots over and stands next to me, flashing a multi-fucking-million dollar house in Beverly Hills on the smartphone's screen. When I glance up at him, there's a wicked gleam in his eye and a dangerous curl to his lip.

  “That's bloody outrageous,” I choke, shaking my head. I have no idea how much money Indecency's made, but a house that costs more than the national wealth of a small country? Hah. “That's a pipe dream if I've ever heard one.”

  “This is the house I'm going to buy,” Turner growls, pressing the phone against his chest and taking a deep breath. “From trailer park trash to fucking royalty. I'm making this happen.” He moves away and heads to the door, pushing it open and grumbling under his breath. I wish him the best of luck, but I know that's never going to happen. Not in a million years.

  “Are you sure you're alright?” Ronnie asks for the third time since I was loaded into this wheelchair. My stomach's still killing me, but the doctors have assured me that if I take it easy, I'll live. They tried to give me some medical mumbo jumbo, but I wasn't listening. I don't care what the bullet hit or didn't hit, only that it passed all the way through me and that I'm lucky as fuck to be alive. That's it.

  “Sure as shit, babe,” I tell him, smiling when he chuckles and shakes his head like I'm crazy. “Feeling pretty fucking perky right about now. Out of this hospital, away from that bitch nurse … ” I trail off as we exit the elevator and head to the lobby, meeting up with Ronnie's manager and his friend, Jesse Decker. It's decidedly peaceful in here right now, just a light trickle of traffic, a few heads turning our way, but no massive crowds, no paparazzi. Pretty incredible if I do say so myself. I start to wonder if the Indecency/Amatory Riot bubble has finally popped. Maybe this time, the drama went too far, and the world's had enough? Hah. I shake my head and touch my fingers to my forehead. I know better than that. This world is bloodthirsty, full of crazy ass people desperate for drama. It's just a matter of time until they find us and sink their teeth in.

  “What's our next step here, Milo?” Ronnie asks, pushing my wheelchair up next to the seating area and plopping onto a small sofa. “To be honest with you, I feel kind of … lost.” Milo nods his head and gestures for Jesse to take a seat in one of the cushy chairs. Swanky little hospital, ain't it? I wonder how much this stay is going to set me back?

  Milo unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a spot opposite Jesse. These boys are lucky to have a guy like that in their corner, somebody that's got his shit together, someone to guide them through the tough times. I'm almost jealous. I sigh and let my eyes close for a moment, thinking of Ice and Glass and our final performance. It was pretty good – I'll give you that – but our band is as good as dead now. Joel is … I killed him. My second murder this year and I'm not sitting behind bars. I'm not sure how I should feel about that. I swallow hard and open my eyes back up to look at Milo.

  “Obviously, the tour is over. It should've ended a long time ago,” he whispers, looking away, like this whole thing was his fault. But I know it wasn't. It was mine. And Stephen's. And America's. Milo clears his throat. “But that doesn't mean Indecency is over.” Milo takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his perfectly styled hair, straight and clean,
combed back over his head and gelled into place. He looks a lot more put together than he did this morning, like he somehow found time to shower and change. Good for him. You go, guy. Kick some ass. “I sent Josh home for awhile,” he says and I glance over at Ronnie, watching his face twitch. Some of us don't have any home to go back to. At least Milo seems to be aware of that. “Let's stay in Los Angeles for now, regroup and figure out where to go from here. We need to do a press conference at some point, address all the questions and the rumors. After that, I think it might be beneficial for us to lay low. Perhaps record a new album?”

  “I can't think of anything better.” We all look up to find Turner Campbell standing over us in his girly lady pants, a mask of self-confidence stamped across his face. I can see right through it, to the pain underneath, but I decide it's best to let sleeping dogs lie. Who am I to call him out on it when I've got enough issues of my own crammed down deep? No judgment here. “I called a realtor and we've got a showing to see the house.” He holds up the phone and wiggles it around enticingly, running his tongue across his lower lip and the pair of silver piercings.

  “Mr. Campbell,” Milo says as he rises to his feet and holds out a hand for the phone. “I understand you've not nowhere to go, but why not start at a hotel? Take some time to recuperate?”

  “Because Naomi can't come home to a hotel room.” He lifts his chin and crosses his arms over his chest. “The doctors said if she were to stabilize, and I had the right staff to take care of her, that I could take her home.”

  “Turner,” Milo says, in a much softer voice this time. “That would be a decision for her next of kin to make.” Turner levels a glare on his manager and lowers his voice to a growl.

  “She doesn't have any next of kin, Milo. But,” Turner pauses and glances around the room, leaning in close, “she did appoint a … uh … ” Turner looks up at the ceiling like he's trying to think and then snaps his fingers together. “A durable power of attorney for health care.” He leans back and tucks his fingers in the back pockets of his pants. Or at least he tries, the Goddamn things are so tight, I'm not quite sure how he manages. “And that happens to be me. I'm her power of attorney.” Turner sniffs and lifts his chin up like he's inviting argument. No, like he's desperate for it. Anything to take the mind off the pain, huh? “Not to mention her fiancé.”

  “Is this something Naomi's going to remember agreeing to when she wakes up?” Ronnie asks, in a very careful tone of voice. Instead of getting angry though, Turner's face shatters like it's made of glass. His brown eyes glaze over and he groans, squatting on the floor and putting his hands over his face.

  “She said if she survived the concert, she'd think about it,” he whispers. “If she survived.” Turner lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “If. I should've spirited her ass away, took off and moved to the Bahamas or something.” With a grunt, Turner drops to his ass on the linoleum and lifts his face up, letting his hands fall into his lap. “As far as the attorney thing … ” He trails off and then sighs again. “Brayden's people set that up, I think. I know sure as shit Naomi never had the time to do something like that. To be honest, I don't even really know what it means, but the doctor said I should've spoken up sooner and that now that I've faxed legal documentation in, I can finally see her. So I did. And I made decisions.” His voice cracks and he has to swallow three times before he can speak again. “I want to buy a house, so that I can have Naomi moved there as soon as possible. They've done all they can do with surgery, and now we're playing a waiting game to see if she'll wake up.” Turner shrugs his shoulders like he doesn't care, even though it's pretty fuckin' obvious that he does. How many flying fucks does Turner Campbell give about Naomi Knox? Give you a hint … it's probably somewhere in the range of infinity times infinity.

  “Trey woke up, Turner. You believed he would, and he did,” Ronnie says, standing up and moving over to his friend. “And when Naomi went missing and everyone else thought she was dead, you believed she wasn't. You've gotta stay in that head space, man, or the worry will kill you.” Ronnie's friend glances up at him and nods, pushing himself up to his feet with tight lips.

  “I know. I'm just so fucking tired.” Turner runs his hands over his face again and takes a deep breath. “Anyway, that's why I wanted to look at this house. I'm planning for the future.” Ronnie takes the phone from his friend and raises his eyebrows as he stares at the screen.

  “This is a big ass house, Turner. I thought you said we were all moving into suburbia together. Remember the speech? No beige, no picket fences, and no fucking golden retrievers. This is a really expensive place. I mean, this is a mansion, Turner.”

  “Yeah. It's a mansion that also happens to qualify as a house which means I only need to put twenty percent down and pass a fucking credit check. Milo, how much money have we made in the last few months?” Their manager coughs and squirms a little, mumbling something like it's complicated under his breath. “Exactly. The answer to that shit is a lot, Ronnie. More than we ever could've dreamed of back in the day.” Turner grabs the phone back and spins it in a circle. “That's not about to end anytime soon. Do you know how popular we are now?”

  “As opposed to what?” Ronnie asks, but he looks a little pale.

  “As opposed to two days ago.” Turner moves past Ronnie and starts off towards the entrance, pausing near the front doors as if to say what the fuck are you waiting for. Ronnie looks down at me, and I shrug. He takes the wheelchair and points it towards Turner, dragging Milo and Jesse along behind us.

  Everything looks okay through the glass doors. I see sun drenched pavement and a small garden area with four rounded hedges and a smattering of flowers. No crowds. We follow Turner out the front and pause at the edge of the sidewalk while he slips his fingers back in his pockets and chuckles under his breath.

  Holy shit.

  There are police everywhere doing crowd control, keeping back a mass of people and signs, candles and flowers, away from the entrance of the hospital. They stretch out to either side of us and down the block. Across several lanes of traffic, peering at us through the glittering mechanical river of vehicles that flows in an unending stream, there's even more of them.

  “You have got to be motherfucking shitting on me,” Ronnie whispers as the gentle murmur of voices comes to a screeching halt. It's like the crowd's a collective whole, a single entity – just like it is during a concert – and those beady little eyes have just landed on us.

  Within five seconds, the peaceful mass of people turns into a shouting, screaming wave of human desperation and driving hunger. Their voices rise up and consume us, spearing straight through my skull and out the other side.

  “This,” Turner says, the sound of his voice hardly audible over the screeching hordes, like an army of demons with twisted souls and gaping maws, white-white teeth, and a path to hell paved with good intentions. “This is what immortality looks like.”

  Turner Campbell, God bless your heart, I think as the real estate agent grins at us with huge, white teeth. She's wearing a suit that costs more than the rental car we just drove here in, and sweat is pouring down the sides of her face like water. I'm going to take a wild guess here and say it's not just the weather that's got her panties in a bunch.

  “I am a huge fan,” she whispers¸ voice cracking a bit as Turner lifts his shades and frowns at the multi-million dollar piece of property in front of us like it's not at all impressive. I can't even believe I'm standing here. I run my tongue over my lip and try to pay attention to the real estate agent and her two assistants. I think her name's Camby or something like that, but I didn't catch the names of the men behind her. “And let me just say, that I am so sorry for what happened to Naomi.” Turner cringes, but he manages to keep that acidic tongue of his in check.

  Almost.

  “Yeah, well, better help us buy a house and quick. I'm not leaving her at that hospital a day longer than necessary.” Turner starts off towards the front doors, forcing Camby to scramble a
fter him. I start to push Lola's wheelchair after them, but she waves her hand dismissively.

  “Go,” she says, tilting her head back to look up at me. Her beautiful blue eyes put the California Coast to shame. “The view is to fucking die for, and I'd rather you kept Turner from making a complete ass out of himself than spent your time wheeling my handicapped ass around.”

  “Thank you, babe,” I whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to her head. I spare a quick glance for our new security guards. Milo says that this time, he's the one that picked them out, but in this private slice of luxury, I'm sure Lola's safe whether these guys are good or not. We had to drive through two private gates to get in here and the entire property is surrounded by a stone fence and lush foliage that hides the house from the world. Welcome to Beverly Hills, bitches.

  “If I want to move in, like, tomorrow, can that happen?” Turner asks as the real estate agent's assistant holds open one of the two massive front doors for him. He saunters in like he already owns the place, sniffing in approval as his eyes take in the chandelier hanging over our heads. I'm much more cautious, watching as Jesse stumbles in behind Turner and whistles under his breath.

  “Oh my God, dude! This is like a castle or some shit,” he whispers as Turner's lips twitch into a smile and he glances over his shoulder. The two of them share a fist pump, and I drop my head into my hand with a sigh that Milo mimics.

  “From the park to the palace, my friend,” Turner growls as the two of them traipse right across the mosaic marble flooring from Italy in their combat boots and Converse. The real estate agent scrambles after as I pause next to a grand piano and take a deep breath. Actually, my parents own a house just a few miles away in Benedict Canyon, a one and a half million dollar piece of property that would cost half that in most other parts of the country.