Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9) Read online

  “Clothing is genderless,” I say which gets me a weird look from Turner. “It's fabric cut into different shapes. Don't be such a sexist tool.”

  “You're such an emo hippie fag,” he says as he takes a drag on his cigarette and blows smoke in my face.

  I ignore him. It seems to be the only real way to deal with the guy.

  “A drag show, huh?” I say as the backstage melee swirls around us, back in full swing now that we've been on the road for a few days and nobody's died. Roadies exchange their favorite illegal substances, trade cash with the members of that opener Paulette hired—Torn and Toxic I think they're called—and people smoke, fuck, laugh and drink their way through the first set change.

  It's eerie as hell, okay. I won't lie about that.

  I've got mad déjà vu right now.

  I sweep a hand through my hair and force a smile.

  “At least we've got a different beat to look forward to,” I say as I slide a pack of smokes from my jeans and light up, offering one to Sydney. She takes it and we cherry fuck the ends of our cigs, staring into one another's eyes for God only knows how long.

  It's funny.

  I thought I was in love with Naomi, but really, I was just interested or infatuated or whatever you want to call it. This thing with Sydney is completely different. And it's not just because she's pretty or tattooed or has perfect round, full breasts … Fuck. Anyway, it's none of those things. It's because she can dispose of a dead body without blinking, because she wears clothes that went out of style in the eighties, because sometimes when she looks in the mirror she tells herself you're worth it, babe. All of those things and more.

  “Not just the same old, same old humping and grinding and puking bullshit bars or the even worse pretentious nightclubs with their bottle service and the scores of underage girls roaming the dance floors,” I say as I stand up straight and watch Indecency's manager, Milo Terrabotti, try to soothe some crying girl near the bathrooms. Paulette put some puppet manager in charge of us, but I can barely remember his face let alone his name half the time. Basically, Naomi's in charge of Amatory Riot right now. Hell, maybe she always has been?

  What will happen after this, I don't know because I can't really imagine an after anymore. It's been so much change, so much turmoil, so much crap for so long, what would a real life actually look like? Living in LA, chilling out with Sydney, working on a new album. It feels like a heaven that I'll never get to see, like I'm destined for hell.

  “Will you wear a skirt then?” Sydney asks coyly, her pink hair in a thick braid over one shoulder, her jeans so low slung I keep wondering if I'm going to see that other patch of pink hair from down below. “Since clothes are genderless and all that.”

  She bumps her hip against mine and laughs, that throaty porn star sound that I couldn't resist if I tried.

  “I look awful in skirts,” I tell her with a slow smile, “because of the, uh, hairy legs and such.”

  “Sure, sure,” she says as Naomi approaches us, her hands in her pockets, her shirt this torn and battered piece of fabric that hangs loose off of one shoulder and exposes the lavender bra underneath.

  “Hey Christian Grey, can I ask you something?” she says, completely deadpan as I roll my eyes at her and Sydney laughs, completely and utterly unashamed about our time in the alley.

  “Sure, what's up?” I ask, trying not to think about Naomi's hand stroking my cock the other night. Jesus. And I kissed Turner. Turner. Of all people in this world, Turner Campbell. I must've been a lot drunker than I'd thought.

  “Tonight at the club, will you two keep Turner distracted for me for a while so I can look around? Since I chased after that girl, he's been on me like white on rice.” I turn my head to follow her orange-brown gaze over to Turner where he's standing next to Trey, laughing and acting like everything is normal, everything is easy. I know even he's smarter than that, but it's a nice illusion.

  “If we do that, are you going to get yourself hurt or killed?” Sydney asks seriously as I glance back at the two women. Sydney looks genuinely concerned, but Naomi just smiles tightly.

  “Trust me—I've got this,” she says, but there's an ominous ring to those words that I don't like.

  “You guys are up,” our fake what's-his-fuck manager says as Sydney and I exchange looks.

  “We can try,” she finally says as I lean over and give her one last kiss before going onstage, breathing in the happy floral notes of her perfume, touching my cheek to hers before I stand back up and cup the side of her face. “Be careful out there,” she says. Not break a leg or good luck or have a nice show, but be careful.

  “I will,” I say as I head out with what's left of my band and pass by Lola Saints, her hair up in a high ponytail, sweat dripping down the back of her neck. She looks nervous as hell so I make myself smile at her as I pass by, imagining Blair in her white feather eyelashes standing there and grinning big at the swollen mass of the crowd. “You've got this,” I tell Lola as I head to the raised dais in the back and climb the steps, the sound of my boots against the floor drowned out by the roar of the audience.

  “Amatory,” Naomi starts, and I can hear her licking her lips even through the microphone, “is an adjective. It means expressing or having to do with sexual love. Riot. An upheaval. That's what our name means. Amatory Riot. A violent disturbance of sexual peace: love and lust lost in chaos.”

  The crowd is still cheering, loud enough that her raspy rockstar voice is almost drowned out. The stage is still dark, so she's speaking into blackness, her words disembodied and dripping with disdain. I close my eyes and lean my head back for a moment, wondering what the hell Naomi Knox thinks she can do with one knife against two families of maniacal billionaires.

  “Anyway, I just figured you all were too stupid to get the reference so I decided to explain it.” Her deadpan delivery stirs the voices in the audience up as she strums the white and black Wolfgang in her hands and the lights flick on, temporarily blinding me.

  God, I hate theatrics.

  For a good four or so seconds, it's just Naomi and Wren starting up a conversation with their guitars. I step in after that with Kash, but we're pure background music as Naomi grinds her crotch into her instrument and takes over the stage completely. Fuck, I'm glad she's on my side.

  When she starts in on the lyrics, it's not really singing that's coming out of the mic but growling. Naomi Knox performs the songs she wrote in a completely different way than Hayden Lee ever did. The way it sounds now, it's like it was always meant to be this way.

  I spin my sticks in my hands and do my best to keep up, waiting for the wailing cry of the keyboard, the synth. This particular song is heavy with it, lending this eerie gothic melody to Naomi's screaming strings and Kash's thumping bass, the whimper of Wren's instrument, and the deep and steady chatter of my own.

  When I finally redirect some of my attention to the crowd, the first and only thing I see in the mass of humans is Sydney, a splotch of color in a sea of darkness.

  Yep.

  I'm going to have to marry that girl, aren't I?

  Sweat slides down my spine, each little drop tracing a trail along my vertebrae that makes me think of blood, that hot sticky way of it that almost seems to mock, to chastise. You are nothing but liquid red, oozing, pouring, pumping beneath the skin. I touch a hand to the still achy spot on my chest that's pink and puckered and angry looking. I'll never be able to forget lifting that gun and blowing America's head off, not when I change my clothes or shower or feel Turner's hand accidentally brush that spot.

  There's a show happening right now, a parade of drag queens in bright, colorful outfits lip-synching songs that frankly make my insides hurt and my soul weep for humanity. Pop music is a blight that I wouldn't mind seeing wiped off the earth completely. Inside the knee-high boots I'm wearing, there's a knife. I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to do with it once I find tonight's stalker, but it might be something bad. If I have to listen to another goddamn Katy P
erry song, somebody is going to die.

  “You're not drinking tonight?” Turner asks, a pair of glasses in his tattooed hands. The sight of his inked fingers curled around the frosty red drinks makes me want to kiss his knuckles off. I look away and then tug a five dollar bill from my pocket, waving it around and getting the performer onstage to come over and bend low, shaking his fake titties at me. I stuff the money between them and try not to think that his makeup is better than mine. Asshole.

  “I'm not drinking,” I tell him, keeping my arms crossed over my chest, still dressed in the sweaty outfit I wore onstage. God, I think I might finally be letting this nightmare get to me. I feel edgy and crazy and weird. But let me tell you something—every night we've gone out, I've seen somebody watching me. Sometimes it's a man, sometimes a woman, an employee, a club goer, a bouncer, a teenager, a gentleman with graying hair. But they're always there.

  I don't like to be watched.

  You might not know it considering the number of sex tapes I have out there in the world, but it's true.

  “You sure you're not pregnant?” Turner jokes as I turn my head slowly to stare at him again.

  I reach out and take one of the drinks, sucking down half of it through the straw and smiling wickedly, wondering where the hell Dax and Sydney are. They're supposed to distract this asshole for me. He's smarter than he looks, and hell if he won't leave me alone, following me around like it's his job to protect me.

  “Damn it, Knox,” Turner says with a sigh, falling into place against the wall next to me, shoulder to shoulder. The only place in the world I want to be is with him, but if I die, then the only place we're going to see each other is in hell. “I've got this sick fucking feeling in my gut, like that night in LA. You had that gun Lola gave you and you didn't even frigging tell me about it.” There's a long pause there where I won't look at him, focusing on the next performer to take the stage and his well, his near lack of clothing. If I hadn't seen Turner tuck his dick back to fit into those tight jeans, I'd wonder where the hell it all went. “You know how I feel about secrets, Naomi. Don't do this to me. Haven't we learned our lesson already?”

  “I hate when you talk like a normal person,” I lie as I swirl the blue straw around the frosty red fruity whatever-the-fuck it is. Turner actually seems to like mixed drinks which I find hilarious. I'd rather drink my shit straight. “It confuses me when you use logic that makes sense.”

  “Yeah, well, the dumbass whore routine only gets me so far with you.”

  When I look over at him, his face is as serious as I've ever seen it. Blue-black hair falling across his forehead, eyes ringed in a thin line of black, tattoos covering his arms, an unbuttoned black dress shirt and tie barely covering his muscular chest and shoulders. This time, he borrowed the outfit from Trey. People recognize him for sure tonight, but I think the fact that nobody expects to see him here is helping. The violent rioting mobs we've been dealing with are wrapped around the venue instead of following us around town.

  “I asked Sydney and Dax to distract you so I could follow whoever it is that's watching us tonight.”

  “Oh?” he asks, sucking back his drink and then getting out and lighting up a cigarette with one hand. I always found that stupidly impressive and kind of sexy. “And how were they gonna do that? By kissing me or jacking me off?”

  “Hilarious,” I say as I turn and pull the shirt off Turner's shoulder, putting my mouth against his bare skin. I close my eyes for a moment and try not to let the fluttering of emotion in my chest distract me from my mission tonight. I've been waiting and watching, but I've finally made up my mind. I need to do this. “How about if I make you a deal?”

  “I don't make deals, Knox,” he says, parking his smoke between his lips and lifting my chin with careful fingers. “I'm not letting you put yourself in danger,” he tells me around his smoke.

  I pull away and shake my head with a small laugh, raking my fingers through my blonde hair.

  “Danger? Turner, I'm going to die if I don't figure out my own solution. Do you really trust Brayden Ryker after all the things he's done? He pulled a gun on me. He let Trey and Blair get shot, let Hayden and Katie die. He's stood by and watched this whole thing unfold and hasn't lifted a damn finger to stop it. If he really is with the FBI or whatever, then bureaucracy is probably getting in the way. Nobody really cares whether I live or die except for us,” I say, not bothering to lower my voice. It's too loud, too crowded in here for anyone but Turner to hear me.

  “Then let me do it,” he says, trying not to scowl in frustration. He's been doing an admirable job trying to control his temper around me. I've been doing a shitty one controlling mine around him. I feel almost bad about it. “Give me the knife and I'll—”

  “Sorry, we're late,” Sydney says, sliding up next to us, her cheeks brushed with glitter. She grins and lifts her and Dax's clasped hands to shiny pink lips for a kiss. “Dax is a serious dude magnet.”

  “Guess you set off a lot of peoples' gay-dars, huh?” Turner asks with a grin.

  “Maybe they saw you melting against my kiss in that video and thought, hey, why not me? Clearly that guy was desperate for it.”

  “Oooh, good one,” Turner says, punching Dax in the shoulder as I scan the crowd and catch sight of a man in a brown leather jacket. I noticed him earlier and took note, but he was just one of a number of random people I've caught staring at us through the night. He's the only one still there.

  “Fuck,” I say as the man notices me looking his way and abandons his table and the full drink sitting on top of it. I start shoving my way through the crowd.

  “Naomi?” Turner asks, right behind me, dragging our friends along in the wake.

  But I don't want any of them getting hurt or getting involved anymore than they already are.

  I duck down suddenly and slip between a girl's legs, like literally right through them.

  “Holy shit!” she shouts as I move low and fast and hear Turner cursing from behind me, that legendary voice of his cutting through the crappy pop music and the cheering and the laughter.

  Jacket Man isn't easy to spot in the crowd, but I just keep moving as fast as I can through the mass of people until I find him again. He doesn't bother to head for the exit, just moves through a pair of black swinging doors in the back.

  I chase after him, finding myself in a smaller room with a fairly low ceiling and several sofas occupied by couples making out and fondling each other. It takes me a second to realize that this isn't actually like that room Turner and I ended up fucking in, the one with all the gay dudes. It's actually just a sitting room for the bathrooms. Wow. I have such a dirty mind.

  I head straight for the restroom and shove my way inside.

  There are several men using the urinals, but no Jacket Guy.

  “You see a guy in a brown leather jacket?” I whisper, flashing a hundred and grabbing the shoulder of a man on his way out. He looks at the money, takes it hesitantly and stares at me like I'm a crazy person.

  “Finally found out your man's gay, huh?” he says sympathetically and I smile.

  “Major fag. I'm going to kick his ass. Where he is?”

  “Last stall on the end,” he tells me with a slight whistle and a shake of his head.

  I grin wickedly and then take off, not bothering to pause or check the stall first before I duck down and crawl underneath the door. If this is the wrong one, I'll apologize. If not … I stand up before the man even realizes I'm there. He's actually taking a piss, his dick in his hand, so it's easy for me to whip the knife out and put it to his throat.

  “Hey there, handsome,” I say, trying not to let my rage take over completely. Anger isn't going to help me right now. “Want to tell me why you've been staring at me all night?”

  “I wasn't staring at you,” he whispers, like he's actually scared of me. “I was staring at your friend. He's hot. I was just wondering if he was—”

  I shove the blade against the man's throat and he lets go
of his dick, lifting his hands up in surrender, pissing all over the toilet and the wall and the floor.

  “Hammergrens, Hardings or Washingtons?” I ask and the man makes this stupid choking sound, quivering like he's about to shit his pants. But then suddenly, he's sending his elbow back at my midsection and grabbing hold of the knife, his fingers slicing themselves on the sharp end of the blade as he protects his neck.

  I stumble back into the door, but I don't let go of my weapon, not even when the hot slickness of his blood coats my hand. The man swings for my face, but I duck down and his wet red knuckles hit the dirty door behind me. I throw my weight into his midsection and he falls back into the toilet, pulling a gun as he slips on the drops of blood and the wet shimmer of his own piss.

  When he raises the weapon up toward me, I lift my boot and slam it down on his still bare cock, sending a scream echoing throughout the bathroom that stops the excited chatter, the gossip, and the moans coming from the stall next door.

  “Why didn't you just tell me that you were gay?!” I ask dramatically as I snatch the gun from his hand and shove it in the back of my jeans. I know my eyes are hard and cold as I look down at the man sitting on the toilet, putting just enough pressure on my boot to keep him still but not enough to send him into an agonized frenzy. “You asshole.”

  “God, you're a crazy bitch,” the man chokes out, his skin pale and white as he stares at my boot on his junk. Guess I really have this guy by the balls, huh? He reaches for his pocket and I lean forward, putting more pressure on his sensitive bits. “I have something to give you,” he says and I raise my eyebrows.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I trade the knife for the man's gun and release the safety, pointing it at his face.

  “Let's see it then,” I tell him as he digs around in the leather and comes up with a black envelope. “Open it.” Jacket Guy sighs and slips a handwritten letter from inside, flashing me the words written across it.