Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (19 page)

“Hello?” My mother sighs like she's tired, and I realize with a start that it's fucking three o'clock in the morning here. That makes it one her time.
Shit.
First mistake. I should've waited until morning.

“Mom, it's Ronnie.”

Silence. It's been years. How many, I'm not sure. To their credit, my parents tried to keep in touch with me. They tried to guide me through Asuka's death and get me out the other side in one piece. It was my fuck up, not theirs. I think back to the last thing I can remember my father saying to me.
If you want to lay down and die, Ronnie, then that's your choice. But I won't help you dig that hole.

“Why are you calling in the middle of the night?” she asks, and I think I hear tears in her voice. “Four years without a
single
phone call from you. The only reason I know you're even alive is because your manager calls us on Christmas.” She sniffles, and I have to fight back the tears. This is hard enough. The last thing I need is one of my bandmates coming out here and seeing me cry like an ugly bitch. Maybe later, I'll take some time for myself in the bathroom. Right now, I keep my face stoic and my voice calm. I don't want to startle Lydia either.

“Mom … how are you?” I can't dive into this subject. It's too much. Too, too much. What I'm going to be asking of them is
huge.
I can't raise my daughter until I figure out if we're still in danger, until I find out why Naomi was kidnapped, who the masked pieces of shit that stormed the bus were, why Hayden Lee walks around here with a wicked smile on her face. There are still too many unanswered questions. If I jump ship and bail now, I'll be an even worse man than the drug addict I was just a few weeks ago. Lydia doesn't need half a father; she deserves a whole one.

“Ronnie, what is this about?” I sniffle and take a deep breath.

“Dad okay?”

“You're father's fine,” she says, lowering her voice. “He's asleep now. We both were. Now can you please tell me what this is all about? I won't lie to you, son. I'm upset and angry with you. Of course I'm glad you called, but I can't pretend there's nothing wrong. We have a lot to talk about.” She pauses and I can hear her rustling around, probably playing with the pearls around her neck. My mom's a little old fashioned, wears her pearls rain or shine, day or night. She's a real high class fuckin' lady, and I say that with all due seriousness.

“Mom, I need your help,” I tell her, looking up at the sky, praying for a miracle. What if Lola's right and she does say no? Then what? I can't even think about it. Lydia needs to be safe. I wait, but she doesn't respond, waiting patiently on the other end of the line. “Lydia,” I begin because I'm sure my mom knows I have children. She admitted to me once that she searched for me online a lot. At first, to see if I'd end up in a morgue somewhere so she could claim my body. Later, because she followed tabloid articles and gossip columns.

“She's okay?” my mother asks, her voice high and frantic. “God, please tell me she's alright.”

“She's safe, Mom. Sleeping in my arms at the moment.” I smile, and it doesn't feel forced. Even the withdrawals haven't been so bad. Do I feel like a million bucks? No. But I'm not lying on a dirty couch screaming and trying to claw my eyes out. Things have been worse. “Have you been watching the news lately?”

“Your father and I just got back from our anniversary trip,” she says, voice low. I'm really freaking her out right now. I assumed she'd have heard something, but now that I know where she's been, I doubt it. “We were in Africa for a week, Ronnie. What is it?” My mom and dad don't believe in cell phones or laptops on their trips.
It's about life, not technology, Ronnie.
Told ya, old fashioned. Guess Indecency's not quite an international sensation yet.
But we could be. We
will
be.

“Lydia's mother, Chelsea Stark … ” I begin, wondering how much she knows exactly about my life and my kids.

“What about her?” my mother asks, sounding panicked. “I hope you're deciding to finally act like a man and take responsibility. I hope this isn't something horrible, Ronald.” I cringe at the sound of my full name.
Ugh.
I guess I don't really have room to complain. I'm not the one with any moral high ground here. “You know, we reached out to that girl after we found out she was having your baby. Every summer since she was born, Lydia's been coming here to stay so her mother could focus on taking classes at the community college.”

I feel my whole face fall, dropping straight into the cavernous fucking pit that's my stomach. Fuck. Fuck. And fuck. Why couldn't Chelsea be a deadbeat bitch like Turner's mom? I imagine her sitting at a table in some library somewhere studying, thinking about her daughter and how much she misses her. I get the urge to throw up but push it back. What's done is done. Chelsea is gone. I can't bring her back. But I can save the others. If they're really in danger and I'm right about all this, I have to stop it before it goes too far.

“Chelsea's dead, Mom.”

Silence.

“She was murdered in her apartment, and then her body was found … ” There really is no delicate way to put this. “In my manager's hotel room. With Lydia.”

“Oh God!” A wail and a stifled sob.

“Mom, Lydia's alright.”
Physically anyway,
I think, but I don't say that aloud. How can I tell my mother her granddaughter was found covered in her mother's blood? The granddaughter I didn't know she knew, that she's spent more time with than I have. “But I can't have her stay here with me.” A gentle sobbing breaks through the line, taking hold of my soul in a crushing grip. Chelsea was obviously well loved by my mother, and I treated her like a throwaway. I don't even remember the night – or day – that Lydia was conceived. Just one fuck in a string of screws, just another face, another body. “I don't want to freak you out, but there's something going on here. The cops … the
FBI
… whoever are looking into it. But it's all one big clusterfuck. Something's not right, and I won't feel okay if I keep Lydia here.”

“Come home.” My mom's words, just a slight whisper, so low I can barely hear them over my daughter's breathing. “Bring her and come home, Ronnie. It's not too late to build a relationship, not with her or me or your father.”

“Mom, I love you,” I tell her, and my chest gets tight again. There's that heart attack feeling, sleeping beneath my ribcage, ready to kill me, punish me for the shit life I've led. Maybe it's because I haven't used my heart at all in the past few years? Could just be too much for the poor fucker. “And dad, tell him I love him, too. But I can't come back. I'm a target in all this. I don't have many details to give you, but I can ask this. Take Lydia for me? Not forever, just for now. Just until I figure this out.”

“Ronnie, I try to pretend it doesn't bother me, but I cry everyday. I don't want to lose you. This is a chance for a fresh start.” She sniffles, and I can see her in my head, running her hand through her blonde hair, looking up at the ceiling for answers from God. “Oh, Chelsea. Poor Chelsea.” I understand that my mom's probably in shock. I don't blame her. It's not everyday you get a call like this.

“I have to stay. After the tour, we'll all come home for awhile and figure this out together. For now, I need to be here.” I clear my throat and get ready to launch into a speech, to tell my mother all the changes I'm going through.

“I'd fly out tonight for that little girl, Ronnie. Don't make up excuses just to get rid of her.”

I stand up suddenly, trying to control the anger that's building up inside of me. It's not my mom's fault. The things she's thinking about me are all justified. I've more than earned them. Shit, rewind back to a few weeks ago, before Turner started being obsessed with Naomi, before she went missing, before I found a purpose in life, and I really would've just tried to dump Lydia at my parents' so I could get high again. Today, that's not the case. That's not what's happening here.

“Mom, that's not what this is about!” I try not to shout, but I can't help it. She's hurt and angry, and she has every right to be. Look at what a fucking failure I am. Turner will never admit it, but he'd have given
anything
to have parents like I had. His mom beat him and his step-daddies joined in. He started third grade without any teeth, and the only thing he ever did to the bitch was write a song about her. I had it all, and I threw it away. I lost the most precious thing in the world to me, so I trashed the second and third and fourth. I slap the screen of the phone against my forehead and struggle to catch my breath. Lydia's starting to stir now, grumbling and sniffling.

“I love this fucking kid, and I just want to do right by her!” I'm shaking now, hands trembling, the word
LOVE
scrawled across my knuckles not as a curse or a reminder of what was lost, but a promise of what could be. “I just want to make things right. With you, with my kids, with my blackened, bloody fucking soul.” I kick a rock and watch as it ricochets off a metal pole and bounces back at me. “Jesus.” I swipe the back of my wrist against my forehead. For whatever reason, I'm soaked in sweat again.

My mom stays silent as I turn back to the hotel. Milo's standing patiently by the van, using his iPad to manage his PR work, a pro as always. Behind him, the glass doors of the building open and out comes a figure, sprinting across the lot. When she gets a little closer and passes under one of the parking lot lights, I see that it's Naomi.

“Okay, Ronnie. Okay. Here's what I'll do. Your father and I will book a flight in the morning.” She pauses. I can hear my dad's voice rising hysterically as the phone rustles, probably her waving him away. “Where are you right now?”

“Oklahoma … City,” I whisper as Naomi gets closer and I see the blood on her chest and stomach, her hands. She's running full out, aiming straight towards me, blonde hair flapping in the wind as she runs, high-heeled boots stomping across the pavement.

Fear chills me to the very core of my damaged soul.

“Fuck,” I whisper, paralyzed in place by the look of panic of Naomi's face.

“Ronnie? Is everything okay?” Lydia starts to cry, softly at first but escalating in volume as Naomi pounds closer, whisking right past Milo and the bodyguard. Like a boss, that fucker reaches out and snatches Knox by the shoulders. “Ronnie?”

“Let me go, you stupid fucking piece of shit!” When the man recognizes who it is that's flailing in his arms, he lets her go with a start, staring at the blood on his hands with wide eyes and a crooked grimace.

“Mom, I'll have to call you back.”

“Ronnie, wait!”

I stick the phone back in my pocket, not sure if I managed to actually hang up or not. Naomi and I move towards each other, pausing underneath a flickering streetlight. By this point, Lydia's howling like the little demon child she is. Okay, maybe half demon. I can't speak for her mother, but the father's a friggin' cockwad.

“The boys?” I ask, assuming the worst, assuming one of my bandmates is lying dead. Naomi shakes her head, her blonde hair loose and soft, like it's just been freshly washed. Her shredded Terre Haute tee is wet with crimson, leaking red lines down her exposed belly and across her
Real Ugly
tattoo.

“Fine,” she says, orange-brown eyes cutting into me. Her mouth moves, but it takes a minute to process the words.

“What?” I ask, not sure that I've heard her clearly. You know, when something horrible happens, something tragic as fuck, you don't expect to go through it again. That's the only good part of tragedy – the expectation that you've just been served yours and don't have to eat another helping.

What. The. Fuck.

“A girl … with a baby,” Naomi pants, chest rising and falling while she struggles to catch her breath. In the distance, I hear sirens. “Turner says it's … Shannon? Phoebe?”

I gape at her while Milo rushes up to us, trying to push his way in and demand an explanation.

“What … how?” I whisper, eyes wide, my child screaming in my arms, kicking me, hitting me, slapping my face.

“Mommy, no!” she's screaming. “Mommy, help!” She flings her body around and spots Naomi, round green eyes taking in the woman, the blood. A wail escapes her throat, piercing through the darkness of the sky. “NO!” she shrieks. “NO! Daddy, help!”

“What is going on here?” Milo demands, panic clearly evident in his voice. Naomi stands there staring at me for a moment, gauging my reaction to the news. Then she turns and looks Milo square in the face.

“Upstairs, in Turner's room … there's another body.”

I'm sobbing so hard, I can barely see the needle as it slips into my arm.
Oh, God. Why? Why am I here? Why is this happening?
Ronnie. Fuck. I can't see Ronnie. All I saw was Naomi, covered in blood, tearing down the hallway towards the elevator. I heard the shouting; now I hear the sirens.

Shannon. They found Shannon. And underneath it all, buried in the commotion and the screaming, is the sound of a crying infant.
Phoebe.

I slump back against the wall and fall to the floor, coughing hard as the ice slithers into my veins, numbing me from the pain, from the tragedy. I yank the syringe out hard, not caring how much it hurts, and I toss it against the wall where it bounces back and hits me in the face.