Born Wrong (12 page)

“Fuck her,” Lola groans. “Stupid scrag. She got herself into this mess; she can get herself out. I'm done with her. Done. Bitch always thought with her ham wallet instead of her brain anyway.” Lola sits up and she looks, at least for a second there, more
alive.
That's good. Really good. Because Ronnie needs her. Honestly, I thought he was a goner. We all did. So whether Lola is his future wife or just a fling, she's important. She's Ronnie's life vest in the ocean of shit he's been adrift in these past few years. “Did you know she married a
Frenchman
who makes flipping
cheese
? The bloke makes cheese for a living? Who does that? Who the fuck wants to do that? One Gouda's the same as the next anyway.”

“Gouda's a Dutch cheese,” I tell her, just because I'm a smart ass, and I'm full of useless facts. Lola tosses her arms up in the air and rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Brie then, is that better?”

“Much,” I say with a grin. She narrows her eyes on me for a moment.

“Why the fuck are you here anyway? Why aren't you at the interview? They kick you out?”

“I made out with Dax, caused a fistfight between him and Turner, and then I just panicked.” Lola's brows raise and her face relaxes a bit. I watch as she crosses her legs and tucks the vodka bottle between her knees.

“Dax? The drummer?” she asks, but I can already tell she knows exactly who he is. Sunlight streams through the window and cuts across the rumpled sheets, shining off the glass of the bottle and sending flickering lights across the walls. Isn't it amazing how a bit of sunshine can turn the ugly, pretty? “He seems like an okay bloke, I guess.”

“Anything special I should know about dating drummers?” I ask her, but only as a joke. I don't see this going anywhere. Why should it? Why am I even
thinking
about that? My God. And it's only been maybe a week since I last got laid, so it's not like I'm totally desperate, but wow. Just wow. The downstairs really wants Dax to move in and set up some furniture. Or at least just stop by for a visit. I cross my legs and pretend I don't see the slight smirk on Lola's lips.

“Be prepared for intensity,” she says, snatching a cigarette from the bedside table and lighting up. I like the way the cherry illuminates the apples of her cheeks. It'd make a nice photograph. Or so I think. My only real talent with pictures lies in picking the right filter on my phone. I lean back and wish for a martini. It just seems like an appropriate moment to have one.

“Is this coming from Lola, the drummer? Or from Lola, dating Ronnie, the drummer?” I ask as I push myself to my feet. I'm satisfied that at least for the moment, I've stopped Lola from descending into whatever black hole's been haunting her. She shrugs and holds her cigarette out to the side, clutched between two fingers.

“Does it matter?” she asks, but I can tell she knows it does. “If you're dippin' your feet into that lake, be prepared to take a swim.” She holds up her finger and waggles it at me. I know right then that we're going to be friends. It's sort of a given. “Remember though, drummers spend all day handling sticks, so they know how to use them. They bang and pound for a living, and they know their rhythm.” She swings her feet over the side of the bed, smashes her cigarette out in an ashtray and stands up. “That there's a bit of advice from Ronnie's … girlfriend.” She chokes the word out like it's poisonous and squinches up her face. “Don't ask Lola, the drummer. She'll tell you to steer clear of the fuckers. Nothin' but trouble to be found there.” I laugh as she slips on a pair of white shorts and a set of fuzzy orange stilettos.

“No worries there,” I tell her as she abandons the vodka bottle and joins me in the hallway. I'm not sure where she's going, but admittedly, even with the tangled hair and the lack of bra, she still looks pretty hot. See what I said about rocker chicks? It's universal. I, on the other hand, don't leave my fucking room without a push up bra and several layers of makeup. “I'm not looking for anything, not even a fling. Dax is cute, but I've got other things on my mind.”

Lola pulls a pair of shades from her pocket and slips them up her nose.

“Okay there, twatwaffles, you keep tellin' yourself that.”

“Hi, Dax,” I say, startling him as he moves out of the bright sunshine and into the gray dimness of the foyer. People shuffle past him, crew members, security guards, Turner who actually has the audacity to flip me off. I ignore him and push off the wall, keeping my hands tucked into the pockets on the front of my dress.

“Hi, Sydney,” he responds, slowing down and then pausing in front of me. Brayden Ryker flashes me a wink as he saunters pass, leaving one of his plain clothes guys behind to hang out with us. We've got our own private entrance into the hotel, one that's usually reserved for visiting dignitaries and movie stars, but that doesn't mean it's completely safe. Nowhere is safe at this point. I've been doing my research this afternoon. I followed Lola up to the rooftop restaurant and managed to snag that martini I was craving. Our little chat proved to be quite interesting. I've finally got some meat to sink my teeth into. But first, I want to deal with this.

“I wanted to catch you before you headed up to your room,” I tell him, trying my best to keep my gaze from landing on his lips. Something about the way the bottom one is shaped, the way it sticks out just
this
much more than the top. It's mesmerizing. I don't tell Dax that the main reason I wanted to see him before he got upstairs was because I was afraid to be near a bed when I approached him. It's that bad. Pussy McLips is so in control right now. I make sure to keep a safe distance between us. “I just wanted to apologize for what I did earlier. Jumping into your arms with that reporter sitting right there. It wasn't what I intended, and I didn't mean to take it so far. I just couldn't stand the look on her face or the way she was talking to you.” I shrug, search around my pockets for a cigarette and come up empty-handed. I smoked them all chatting upstairs with Lola. I wonder if I'm allowed to head out and grab some more or if I'm a part of this whole circus act now? Would I have to take a bodyguard? Trey or Turner would probably try and make me.

“And I'm sorry, too,” Dax says, and I shiver at the cool brush of his voice. It's like it's clinging to the shadows around me, wrapping my body and touching places he's never even seen. “I didn't mean for any of that to happen either. When she asked me who my crush was, I fucking panicked. Like a high school kid or something. I should've had the balls to just say it.”

“Say what?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. Dax glances over his shoulder, but everyone's come in already and hit the elevators. It's just me, him, and our four bodyguards. How quaint. I meet Dax's gray eyes and find myself instantly tongue-tied. I feel like I could walk right in there and find myself in another place or another time. Gray eyes. Who the hell really has gray eyes? There must be a hint of blue in there somewhere. I lean forward to get a better look, perfectly aware that his chest is rising and falling as quickly as mine.

“That I'm in love with Naomi.”
Aha. I knew it.
I lean back away from him, examining the bloody shirt that's stuck to his abs. Somebody fixed his hair but nobody bothered to change his clothes. More dramatic, I guess? My gaze moves down the stubble on his jaw, over his neck, his wide chest. I let myself roam and then come back up to his face.

“That's unfortunate,” I tell him because, well, I know Turner. Turner wants Naomi, and he won't stop until he's sure she's his forever. Dax doesn't stand a chance. That boy was born to love one woman. Sleep with a thousand maybe, but love one. Ronnie might be getting a second chance with Lola, but there are no second chances for Turner Campbell. He's just that unstable. “And I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” he says with a small laugh, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants. We're mimicking each other's poses; I like it. I check out the reflection of his ass in the mirror. Just because I've sworn not to touch him doesn't mean I can't admire, right? “I'm the one that's sorry. You're going to get some cheesy, bullshit article written about you now. By
Pearl
.” I like the way he says her name, like he's biting off the syllable with sharp teeth. “The ultra cool chick who shares a name with my grandmother. Seriously. On my dad's side.” We both smile at that and some of the pressure goes out of the room. The tension is still there, of course. I don't know if that will ever go away, but maybe we can be civil for the next week or two. Because that's my time limit. I'll help these guys out as best I can and then I'm off for my photo shoot. That day will mark the beginning of my new life, and I won't let anything compromise that.

“So Naomi, huh?” I ask as we both make the unspoken decision to hit the elevator. I can feel him as we walk, the breeze from his swaying arm cooling mine as I keep pace. I find myself glancing over at Dax several times, picturing the anger and the icy fury he had when he was playing his practice drums. I can't believe I've never seen this guy in concert. It's a must for me now.

“Not by choice.”

“Love isn't always a choice. It can be, but sometimes, it just happens.” We step inside the elevator and lean against opposite walls, our backs mirrored back and forth for eternity between the two pieces of glass behind us. “You've given up though?” He shrugs, but I can tell he's not completely ready to let her go. A weird thought flits through the back of my mind.
If I danced for him, he'd forget all about Naomi Knox.
I shiver violently and wrap my arms over my chest.
That was odd,
I think as I try to keep smiling at Dax. I clear my throat and try to change the subject. “So why me?” I ask him as I pretend the bodyguard in the corner isn't standing there, lording over us. I've gotten quite good at that over the years. And anyway, they don't really bother me too much as it is. In a downtown strip club, the security guards are
not
the enemies; the clients are. And the bosses.

I watch Dax bite down on his lower lip and find myself wanting to touch my hair, run my hand down my arm, adjust my dress. All flirtatious moves that would send the wrong message. I force my body to be still, but I can't stop my nipples. They're hard as rocks. Good thing I know which bras to buy. Nobody would ever know.

“I'm attracted to you, Sydney. I won't lie about that.” He swallows; I swallow.
Shit.
The elevator suddenly seems really small, and then I do start to hate that bodyguard. I stare at the logo on Dax's shirt instead of his face. It's not a big help, really, since he has a nice chest. His pecs are defined enough that I can make out a hint of them through the black fabric. They make me want to do a happy dance, for whatever strange, odd reason. And also, I'm suddenly getting this desperate desire to go fuck in a graveyard, my back pressed into the cold earth, Dax's body crushing mine, his beautiful mouth suffocating mine …
Fuck!

“I'm attracted to you, too,” I say, like we're talking about a business proposition. The bodyguard clears his throat as the floors ding by and we end up at number thirty-two. “Strangely so,” I continue, trying to gauge his reaction. Dax's body sags, and he sighs in relief.

“I'm so glad you feel that way. I thought I was going crazy.” He straightens up and smiles at me as we move onto the burgundy carpeting and pause next to a painting of a woman in a fur coat. It looks like one I used to borrow from Noreen for
Classy Night.
Yes, Classy Night. The night where a dozen plus girls throw on furs and pearls over their thongs and shake their titties in
that.
I think it's just about the least classy thing I've ever seen in my life. That's the night when all the weirdos show up anyway. “We must just, you know, have some sort of compatible … thing.” Dax scrunches up his nose, and I get this other weird ass thought.
Cute.
Cute? Since when I have thought a guy was fuck candy
and
cute at the same time? Not since high school. “Like pheromones or whatever?”

“Or whatever,” I say with a laugh, and Dax shakes his head, slamming his back into the wall and digging around in his pockets.

“Just pretend I didn't say that, okay?”

I chuckle.

“Deal. As long as you pretend this thing between us … ” I gesture at the air in front of me and then shrug. “I can't get caught in any sort of fling or drama or anything like that. Kissing you just proved that acting on this would be a mistake.”

“A huge one,” Dax agrees, eyes falling to the line of cleavage at my neckline. Unconsciously, I raise my hand and brush my multi-colored fingernails across my skin. I force my arm down by my side and try to act like I would with any other guy. I let 'em look, long as they don't touch. I mean, there's a reason I got the breast implants, right? And modesty is so not my thing. I'm going to be posing
naked
in a magazine this month. So why do I feel all hot and bothered when Dax's eyes get caught on my bare skin? “Friends, then?” he asks me, and reaches out a hand for me to shake. Neither of us comments when I don't take it. Yes, it's that bad. I don't even want to
touch
the guy.
This is totally fucking insane. Ugh.