Born Wrong (13 page)

“Friends,” I say, but I don't intend on being that with him either. I'm going to get in here, fix my brother's shit, and get out. That's it. That. Is. It. Lola's words keep echoing around in my mind.

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

“Hey man,” Turner says, catching up to me in the hallway the next morning. Kash rolls his eyes and sticks his finger down his throat, but Turner doesn't even
see
him. I bet he doesn't even know Kash's name. I try not to look at him, but his presence is sort of … commanding. Even if I despise myself for admitting that.
He could be a cult leader or some shit. The man has scary charisma.

“Good morning, Turner,” I say as I pause in front of the elevator and hit the down button. He's wearing these black jeans that are ratty as shit, covered in holes, scuffed and totally ratchet. And unlike Hayden, I don't think he bought them that way. I consider a conversation that Wren, Kash, and I had once where we tried to figure out if he tucked his junk. I seriously don't see how he could fit it all in there if he didn't.
Unless he's really small,
I think with a private smirk. Turner doesn't pick up on anything.

“So. L.A. in three days. You excited?”

“Not as excited as you are,” I tell him as I step onto the elevator and try to scoot away. Turner follows close to me, standing with his arm practically touching mine. I have no idea what's going on, but I guess we're fucking buddies now? He isn't looking at me with that blatant hatred from yesterday. Somehow, fighting with Turner has endeared him to me. It's weird as shit. I wonder briefly if the hit of acid I dropped last night is still effecting me? Maybe I'm hallucinating. “Honestly, I'm a little terrified. If Stephen's going to make a big move on us, it's going to be there.”

“Yeah, well, fuck him,” Turner says, waving away weeks and weeks of torture with a simple flick of his inked up fingers. “I've got more important things to worry about.” I sip a cold mouthful of coffee from the styrofoam cup in my hand. More important than snipers and death threats. Interesting. “I'm proposing to Naomi.” I snort the coffee out through my nose and groan as I try desperately to wipe it off of my white T-shirt. Crap. Today's the TV interview. The
live
TV interview. Jesus Christ. Can I get a fucking break?

Kash whistles and turns away, putting his hands on the back of his head and facing towards the doors. As soon as they open, he's out of there and I'm stuck trying to figure out the point of this conversation.

“Propose?” I ask, and I try not to sound like a dick. But I really hate this man. It's not easy. I look at his face, at the thin rope of eyeliner around his eyes, his lip piercings. When he talks, his tongue ring catches a shaft of sunlight from the windows and throws it back in my face like an insult.
Bet he doesn't have three ten gauge barbells through his dick though.
I squeeze my fists at my sides. Tongue rings look flashy though. Pierced junk? Kind of have to wait until
after
you've wooed somebody to show that shit off. I try not to sigh. If I was Turner, I'd probably have my penis on my Facebook cover photo. Whatever.

“Yup. I'm going to put a ring on her finger and little Turner babies in her belly.” I feel physically ill at this point. Cock sucking son of a bitch. I look him straight in the face and try to figure out if he's playing a game here. But I don't think so. The one good thing about this guy is that he doesn't stir up that shit. If he's here, it's for a genuine reason. That makes things even worse for me.

Brayden Ryker smiles at us as we approach the front doors, but he doesn't look all that happy. I'm afraid to ask if anything's happened. Having him around is kind of making us all a bit lazy. Like, he'll just take care of our crap for us. Or rather America's crap. I blame all of this on her. I won't ever say that aloud, but it's true. If she'd dealt with this way back when, we wouldn't be in this situation. Instead of running from Stephen, she should've confronted him.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask him, crossing my arms over the coffee stains on my shirt. The styrofoam cup crumples in my hand. “To rub salt in my wounds?” Turner just shrugs and whips out a cigarette.

“I thought we were cool? You're into Sydney now, right?”

“I just met her.”

Another shrug.

“Yeah, but you guys have that
thing
, you know?” he says, getting bored with the conversation and taking a step back. Turner gestures around with his fingers. “Anyway, I wanted to ask for your help.”

“What thing?” I drill him, my eyes flicking back and forth from the elevator to Turner's face. The last thing I need right now is for Naomi or Sydney to stumble out and onto this conversation. He sighs like he's completely put out by having to answer the question. When he puts his hand on my shoulder, I bristle.

“Dude, you and Sydney are fucking hot for each other. Personally, I think it's fucking disgusting. The thought of you two rabbit humping makes me want to hurl, but I've decided it's cool. Trey, too. He says you're golden.”

“So I have your fucking permission?” I ask him, raising my eyebrow and trying to keep my body still. Last thing I need is to get into another fight. My body aches all over. Turner raises one brow and nods his
chin
at me, like I'm his bro or some fucking shit.

“Yep. Feel free to dock your ship in Sydney's port.”

“That's kind of her decision to make, don't you think?” I ask him, but he just laughs.
Fucking stuck up, arrogant, little bastard. I am so freaking sick of Turner Campbell. He's just … he makes me want to scream.
“Hers and mine. If I want to
fuck
Sydney Charell, then I don't need your permission to do it.”

“Probably not a conversation I was meant to overhear?” Sydney asks from behind and to the right of me. I was so busy looking at the elevator that I
forgot
about the stairs.
Jesus H.
I groan and turn away, tossing my cup into the trash can as I curl my fingers around the rim. “What do you think Naomi?” she continues, making my stomach hurt and my eyes clench shut.
Wonderful.

“Blame Turner,” she says, moving past me and stepping as close to the glass doors as the guards will let her. Smoke rings escape her lips and ricochet back from the window into her face. “However the conversation went, it probably got turned that way because of his fat mouth.”

“We were just having a man to man talk, right, Dax?” he asks me as I raise my head up and glance over at Naomi. She's not looking at me, but out the window at a group of men clustered around a delivery truck. Brayden's still in here, doing something on his cellphone, so I figure it's nothing to worry about.

“I hope you don't mind if I tag along again?” Sydney asks, drawing my attention back to her. I wish I hadn't looked. Her tattoos pop against her pale skin and white tee, stretched tight across her full breasts. A hint of belly peeks out at me from underneath, flashing me those perfect fucking abs again. Her legs are encased in a pair of acid washed jeans so tight, they might as well be Turner's. And the shoes? Something about those tall, red beauties makes me want to cry. “Lola's coming, too, and she asked if I might keep her company.” Sydney gets out a cigarette and keeps the cycle of smoke going in the foyer. Naomi always used to joke that the band that smokes together, stays together. So far, it looks like she's been right.

“That's fine,” I say, fumbling over my words in a way Turner never would. I hate that I keep comparing myself to him, but it's difficult not to when he's standing right fucking there. “I want you to come.”

“I'll bet you do, bro,” Turner says, and I have to let my head fall back to keep my cool.

“Dax?” Brayden's Irish accent draws my chin back down. Right away, I'm worried. Having him address me personally can't be good, can it? I swallow hard and focus on his red hair instead of the glint in his eyes. “Can I speak to you in private for a moment?”

“You can speak to him
with
me, Brayden. That's the deal,” America quips, stomping off the elevator in a black suit with a blue tie and a pair of perfectly polished pumps. There's a single blonde hair out of place, twirling up and over her right ear. It's only noticeable because the rest of her hair is slicked back into a severe bun. Not good. Not good at all. I look back over at my shoulder at Naomi who's still studying that delivery truck, the one surrounded by guys in jeans and T-shirts. Probably Brayden's men, right? Fuck.

“Just say it,” I whisper, feeling my whole body break out in goose bumps. “What is it?” I think of my dad, and I feel suddenly sick.
Is he dead? He can't be dead. As much as I say I hate the man, I don't want him to go without knowing how I really feel, without finding out how he really feels about me. I think he hates me, truly hates me, but what if I'm wrong? Please don't let it be him.
My mind starts to recycle footage from Ronnie's experience with Stephen. I don't want to see blood. I might have tattooed blood splatters on my left arm, but that doesn't mean I want to make that a reality.

A second later, the phone in my pocket starts to buzz. Nobody ever really calls me. After all, my family hates me, and my friends are all on tour with me. So who would? The only time anyone ever calls is if my dad is mad at me. I might be twenty-three, but I still dread the disappointment in his voice. Sure enough, when I pull it from my pocket, it's him.

“You may want to wait to answer that,” Brayden says, and I really don't like the tone in his voice. My eyes slide past America's bitchy face and over to Sydney. She looks concerned for me, her blue eyes like two pools of calm in this rapidly shrinking room. All of a sudden I get this desperate urge to just
be
with someone, to have somebody to run to when I have problems, to hold at night. It's such a slap in the face, that I almost back pedal. Even more reason for me to stay away from that girl. The last thing I need to do right now is turn a lusty fling into a relationship just for the sake of having one.

“Fine,” I say as I steel myself for something bad.
I can get through this. I was birthed in blood, born into murder and hate. This is cake. This is frosted fucking cake.
“What's the damage?”

“Come with me, please,” Brayden says, waving his hand for his guys to open the glass doors. I slide past Naomi's questioning gaze and out onto the hot pavement. I have this eerie feeling that this area's getting ready for another storm.
I can't wait to get out of Oklahoma.
“And please try to understand that this is simply a scare tactic.” Brayden pauses at the bumper of the delivery truck and his men move back without a word, all of their gazes trained on me. All of their gazes full of
sympathy.
“Stephen likes to put on productions. He
wants
to see a reaction from you. That's the whole point of this. If he simply wanted you all dead, you probably would be.”

America has this twisted scowl on her face that quickly fades when she sees that I'm staring at her. But she doesn't apologize or make excuses. If she did, she wouldn't be America Harding.

“Just remember, he
wants
you to freak out. Try and stay calm here and we'll get through this together.” Brayden grabs the handle on the left side of the truck and hauls himself up and into the cool, dark space. There are boxes of tomatoes on one side and cans of coke on the other. In the middle of all the food, there's a long, wooden crate with the top off. I can smell the dirt from here. Right away, I know that this is going to be worse than I thought. I take a step back and swallow hard. Brayden watches me from inside the truck, waiting patiently for me to join him. I wish I could just have him tell me what's in there, but I know I'll never forgive myself if I don't look.

Moving forward, I push this aura of calm down over my shoulders, locking away my emotions in a sheet of ice. My hand curls around the metal, and I pull myself up. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, to get past the clutter around me. The scent of overly ripe melons hangs cloyingly in the air, thick and heavy like rotten flesh. I blink a few times and look down into the box.

My heart stops beating and my phone keeps buzzing. My breath starts to come in small hiccups and the world around me spins.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, trying my best not to fall over. If I do, if I topple forward and touch … touch that … touch
her
, I'll never recover. Never.
Never.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.”

“Don't take it personally,” Brayden whispers, keeping one hand on a metal shelf full of produce. My gaze snaps up from the box to his face and then back again. Personally? Personally? How can I not take this personally? A moment later, I hear the hotel doors opening behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, I see Hayden Lee staring right at me. Her face is sorrowful, but her look is clear.
I gave you a chance and you blew it. You're either with me or against me.
I turn back to the box. To the skeleton inside. I turn back and look straight into the empty eye sockets of my
mother.