Dead Serious (18 page)

“I don't know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe. Maybe not. Are we going to do it anyway?”

Naomi adjusts the three black belts she has wrapped loosely around her waist. They're not even stuck through the loops on her pants, just draped there like more jewelry. All of them black, leather, studded. God, I love her style.

She squints her eyes for a moment and then moves over to a pair of black high heels with rictus grins spread across the front of the toes.

“You know what,” Naomi says as she steps up into them. I try not to drool when she lifts her left leg up and reaches back to adjust her shoe. She stares up at me from behind a curtain of gorgeous blonde hair. “Fuck it. Let's get trashed. If this really is our last night on earth, I'm going out with a bang.”

“I'm going out,” Naomi tells America, standing in the downstairs bar of the hotel with her eyes glistening.
Wet.
They're still wet, a desert in the throes of a monsoon. Coming back to life, blossoming, morphing, healing. I grin and bite my lower lip, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my pants. I was planning on ditching our security detail
before
we left the hotel, but this works even better, I think. Fuckers. They'll be
lucky
if they see us again before morning. Our phones are getting dropped in a trash can first chance we get. If Brayden really is tracking us, he can follow the signals to one of L.A.'s worst neighborhoods and dig that crap out of the refuse.
Enjoy the used needles and vomit, asshole.

America takes another sip of her scotch and glances over her shoulder like she could give a shit less. She's changed out of the ugly ass suit she was wearing earlier, but I'd still peg her as a power bitch in that black blouse and gray slacks. Her mouth is slathered with a lipstick pale enough to match her skin. I wonder when she last got laid. Can't be often with that sour fucking expression she has stretched across her face.

“Hmm.” That's all she says before turning back and finishing her drink, slamming the glass down on the polished wood of the bar top. “If I didn't smell a scheme brewing, Naomi, I wouldn't have a problem with it. As things stand, you've been less than cooperative.”

“And you've been a royal cunt and a Goddamn liar. What did you want me to glean from visiting Katie? That her and Eric had a child together, that Stephen legally adopted the baby. Why did you set that visit up, America? Did you know Katie was planning on killing herself?”

“How the fuck would I have known that?!” America screams, throwing her glass at the back of the bar. Bottles shatter and glass and alcohol spills to the floor in a gleaming amber waterfall. The bartender stares at the scene like she can't quite believe what she's seeing, before giving in and dropping to her knees to start cleaning up the mess. Somebody's been paid to keep our group happy at all costs.

Naomi's manager – Travis's supposed lover – turns around on her stool and crosses her legs at the knee. Her pants are so sharply creased that they give the illusion that her legs are seamed right down the middle. America folds her hands over her knees and stares with a banal expression at odds with her rigid posture.
Travis, come on. Give me something here. This woman is a bitch, and she deserves a good cunt punt for threatening Naomi, but if you loved her, I'll make sure she sees it out of this mess okay. I really will, brother. Just for you. But you gotta help me out here.

“What is it exactly that you suspect me of?”

Naomi sighs and rubs at the bridge of her nose in frustration. Her eye makeup catches my attention, the silver sparkles in the smoky black. It's like looking at a fucking galaxy. I'd like to dock my spaceship there and get lost forever.

“I am sick to death of this fuckin' shit. America,” Naomi looks up at her manager, “You basically admitted to siccing the press on me and Turner.” I look between the two of them and then over at Brayden who's now apparently glued to America's side. What the fuck is his story? Acting all jovial, cracking jokes, and then waving his gun around like he's fucking Clint Eastwood or some shit.

“You fail to realize the severity of the situation, Naomi. You either listen to me or you die. And don't get into a fuss about our little discussion the other day. Brayden knows that if you run, it's shoot to maim, not murder.”

Naomi purses her lips and America waves her hand dismissively.

“It was a joke, Naomi.”

“Not laughing here, America.” Naomi takes a step forward and my eyes flick to Brayden, but he doesn't look like he's going to intervene. When he sees me staring at him, he smiles with his pale lips and the skin at the corners of his green eyes crinkles.
What a crock.
“You're doing your best to give me the illusion of freedom while at the same time keeping me prisoner here. Why? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to sing, Naomi. I want you to perform. I want you to be a success.” America rises to her feet like the discussion is over. It's far from done. I can tell by the set of Naomi's mouth that our plans have taken a slight detour. This isn't just about getting out of the hotel anymore. This right here is an interrogation.

“Don't walk away from me!” Naomi screams, her jaw clenching tight, her back going ramrod straight with frustration. “Why? That's all I want to know. You tell me that and tomorrow, I will get up on that stage and I will sing the fuck out of that concert.” Naomi points her finger at America. “But if I die, if Stephen or Tyler or whatever the fuck that asshole's name is, if he manages to kill me, I'll haunt your fucking soul for the rest of eternity. You won't be able to be reborn without seeing my face. You won't even get to suffer in hell without listening to my laugh. That's a promise. Do you understand me?”

America rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. Naomi mimics the post, propping up her breasts and emphasizing the bright color of the broken heart tattoo on her chest. Somewhere under those jeans, she's got my name branded in ink. That thought keeps me centered, keeps my fat ass mouth shut when I'd rather be cracking sarcastic comments. If I'm going to be with this girl forever, I've got to figure out how to step aside from that leading role a good fifty percent of the time. I know she'll expect nothing less and neither will I. Equals. We're fucking equals. I take a step forward, too, standing next to Naomi and hoping to fuck that my presence helps her in some way.

“I don't know what Stephen's planning for tomorrow, Naomi. If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here drowning my common sense with cheap liquor.” America glances over at Brayden, but he doesn't move, doesn't say a damn thing. His shirt's pissing me the fuck off. Just looking at it bothers me.
When Irish Eyes are Smiling, they're Usually up to Something.
I scowl at the message on the shirt and look back at America. “Here's what I can tell you. Stephen murdered Travis. I loved Travis. I'm on
your
side. That's all that matters.”

“You've got a fucked up way of showing your loyalty, bitch.” The words escape my mouth before I can bite them back. “If you were really on our side, on Travis' side, then you'd know he wouldn't want this for any of us.”

“Travis is dead. I accept that. I also accept the fact that I'm in a war and in war, there are sacrifices that have to be made.” America pauses. “Hayden for example. She did what had to be done, just like Katie.” America's eyes flash with some emotion that is way beyond me.
This chick is fucking nuts.
“When something you care about is in jeopardy, you take the erroneous inconsistencies in your life and you eliminate them.”

My fingers curl into fists, and my body temperature heats up with a righteous anger echoed in the trembling of Naomi's shoulders.
Did America just admit to setting up those suicides? How the fuck?

“I found you by accident, Naomi. I found
Amatory Riot
by accident, but it worked out, as all things should. If Stephen hadn't adopted that little girl, I wouldn't have tracked Hayden down and discovered this … this opportunity that was so crucial to getting back what I had lost. I'm honoring Travis here. I'm doing the best I can to protect both bands, Indecency and Amatory Riot. Travis' legacy and my legacy. I'm sorry that the past is getting embroiled in the future, but it doesn't matter. It
won't
matter. I have Stephen's company by the balls, I have a man by my side that knows the price of failure, and we have the music.”

America steps forward, moving so close to Naomi that they could fucking tongue each other if they wanted. I'd like to wrap my hands around her throat, but I'm not going to. I'm going to stand here and listen to this shit and take it in, and then I'm going to drag Naomi away and we're going to forget all of it. Just for a night. Just until tomorrow. Tomorrow. Fuck.

“Stephen will show up at that concert tomorrow because he likes theatrics and he wants to see me fail. He wants to punish me for falling in love with a man who didn't love me back.” America's breath comes faster and heavier, like she's struggling to pull air into her lungs. “Travis and I … Right before he died, he left me. He didn't want me.” America's teeth clench tight and the veins in her forehead stand at stark attention. “But he wanted our son.”

“Your … son?” Oh shit. Mind fuck. Serious mind fuck. I think my brain's going to have a sore morning ahead of him.
Bend over for fucking fate, baby.

“Our son, Tyler Rutledge Gaborone. Cute, right, for Stephen to use his name as a pseudonym to feed to his cronies? He has him and I'm going to get him back. Tomorrow. I thought if I took his company away from him, that'd be enough, but it's not. It won't ever be enough. Not until all the loose ends are taken care of, the bloody stumps of broken pasts wrapped up and thrown away, not until I succeed where he never could.”

America leans in and breathes against Naomi's hair, stirring it against her cheek. Her lips brush Naomi's earlobe.

“I'm not just satisfied with winning anymore, not after what he's put me through. I'm going to take his power, his money, I'm going to show him that Spin Fast Music Group doesn't own the world, and I'm going to kill him. Him, and his entire fucking family. Just the way he did mine. See, everything works out in the end. I leak your sex tape, you get more popular, I get closer to my goal. I get rid of Hayden and Katie for you, there's nobody left to torture you with. You're my perfect, little rock star Barbie doll, Naomi. I'll put you where I put you, and you'll do what I say. You cooperate and we all win. We all fucking win.”

And then it all comes crashing into place. Things start to click, to make sense even in their absurdity. All I can do is stand there and think about my friend and his stupid fucking baseball caps and the way he took care of everyone around him the best way he knew how. Even in death, he's listening to my prayers.

Bingo, Travis.

“Hey,” Turner says, leaning his shoulder into me as we walk down the sidewalk with two of Brayden's men at our backs and two more blending in with the dirty gloom up ahead of us. That female guard's up there somewhere, arm in arm with a man several inches shorter than I am, pretending to be a couple or some shit. Our protection for the night. Our jail keepers. “At least your plan worked, right? She let us go.”

“She knows we'll come back.” My voice is harsh, grating, almost as rough as the filthy concrete beneath my high heels. I keep my words low, just loud enough for Turner to hear. It's not that I really give a shit if anyone else hears us, it's just that I'm well aware of the fact that if I speak any louder, those words will turn into a scream of defiant rage.
You're my perfect, little rock star Barbie doll, Naomi.
I bite my lower lip so hard it bleeds.

My manager essentially just admitted to setting Hayden and Katie off. I don't know how she did it, but if anyone's capable of that kind of manipulation, it'd be her. I see their blood as being on her hands, and I won't forget it. Not even for a
second.

I'm tempted to pull away from Turner, take some of my frustration out on him, but I don't. I force myself to try a different technique¸ one that's never been available to me before. I'm going to ask for help to get through this. I'm going to let him take some of this strain, and we're going to share it together. Hopefully. Or that's the plan anyway. In the back of my mind, I consider that maybe this really is my last night on this earth. I don't know why. I guess I just have a really bad fucking feeling about what's going to happen at that concert. My legs start to itch and I have to fight the urge to take off running and never look back.