Born Wrong (15 page)

“I don't know. Four, I think. Five? I can't think straight right now.” Dax gets out a cigarette and lights up.

“The father?” Naomi asks, voice strained and on the edge of breaking. Turner looks on from behind her, his eyes locked onto her back, fists tight at his sides. But he doesn't move. Good boy. At least he's learning. Dax whispers something that I can't hear and Naomi's eyes get huge, opening up her hard face for the briefest of moments. That's pure shock right there. “What?” she asks, but not because she needs clarification. Whatever Dax has just said is blowing her fucking mind. “What?”

“E. R. I. C.,” Dax snarls, gripping the arms of the chair and leaning his forehead in towards hers. “Eric. Eric. Eric. Your foster brother, the one you never told any of us about. That guy. I don't know anything else about it except for this. You want to know where Cassie is right now? Do you have any idea?” Naomi sits back hard, falling from her squat to her ass, right there on the floor, legs splayed out in front of her, blonde hair escaping from behind her ears and falling to obscure her face.

“Stephen.”

“That's right, fucking Stephen. So yeah, Hayden is fucked and she's a stupid bitch, and she makes bad choices. But her hands are tied, Mi. She has a daughter to think about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go drive my mother's corpse back to Tulsa.” Dax pauses to glance up at Brayden Ryker, taking in the man's floral tattoos, his moss green eyes, the tightness around his lips, with a frown. “Provided I even can?”

“You mean if it's physically possible? That's questionable. I'd have to make a choice between you, and the rest of the group. I don't particularly like doing that.” Brayden's frowning, touching a hand to his chin as he considers the circumstances. “Legally, it's walking that thin line, but as long as your father hasn't reported the missing body, we can probably get away with it.”

“It's not happening,” America says, turning back around and marching her heels across the floor until she's standing on the single rug. “We have a live interview scheduled for today. There's no such thing as another reschedule. And I don't care if your family lives two hours from here or five minutes. Makes no difference. We can get somebody else to do it.”

Dax looks stricken, but he doesn't say anything. I think he's still in shock. I know I would be, even though I didn't know my mother either. I don't know how his passed away, but mine died in the line of duty. That's right. My mother was a fuckin' cop. Interesting how the apples can fall so far from the tree, huh? I guess Dad's genes run strong in us. I take a deep breath and I move forward, too, pausing next to America. I like the way Dax's eyes catch on me, even though they shouldn't, even though this is probably
the
most inappropriate time to be thinking about something like that.

“It should be his choice,” I say and everybody turns to look at me. Everybody except for Naomi. Pretty sure she's still processing the information. “It's his mother, his life, his decision.”

“I don't mean to be rude, Miss Charell, but don't you have a pole to climb? Why are you still here?” Wow. What a mega bitch. I'm glad she's not my brother's manager. I can't imagine we could coexist in the same room for more than five minutes. And I highly doubt she'd have sent me flowers or called in just to chat. Milo's the superior choice, obviously.

“Well, you are rude, and I don't take shit from bourgeois bitches, so back the fuck off.” The words escape my mouth in a rush. And here I was, trying to be politically correct and whatnot. Normally, I'm good at holding my tongue, but there's just something about this whole story that really bothers me. So Ronnie says America and Travis were a thing? I can't in my wildest dreams imagine the two of them together. Travis was the kind of guy who'd spend a whole afternoon wallpapering his apartment with old CD jackets. He'd take French cooking classes on the sly and then surprise everyone by cooking something totally lame like escargot. That was Travis. Travis didn't hang around with white collar bitches. I can see why everyone blames this woman for the current situation. Actually, I blame her, too. If she really was with Travis, then she let him down by putting his best friends in danger, over seven years after his death.

The room goes silent, quite literally. I don't even hear a single intake of breath.

“Are you in charge here?” America asks me, like she's not at all put off by my words, like she's unflappable, practiced perfection. I don't buy it for even a second. The fingers on her left hand are twitchy and her right eyebrow is a little thinner than her left. Small difference, almost unnoticeable, but on somebody like this, somebody who preaches perfection, it's a dead giveaway. America is
this
close to cracking. “Are you a national security expert?” She gestures absently at Brayden. “Or a musician?” She keeps staring at me, and I stare right back. “No? What are you then? A leech. A girl desperate for fame, for attention, money. A stripper with no past and no future.”

“America,” Turner warns, but I don't need his help. I never have.

“At least I'm not lonely, broken and bitter,” I whisper, my words clinging to the silence like spider webs. I regret it almost as soon as I say it, but there's no taking it back. America doesn't react, but I know she's heard me. And she knows I'm right. It doesn't even really matter that I said it because it's true. That's the part that hurts more than anything else. I am not making a very good impression on this group, am I?

“The interview stands. Afterwards, I could give a fuck less about what he does. As long as he's still alive, his arms remain unbroken, and he's on the plane to L.A.” America moves away quickly, brushing past me and out the front doors. I look down at Dax, looking up at me, and my throat goes dry and my stomach starts to hurt. I guess he probably could've stood up for himself, but I couldn't help it. There's just something about him that I like, something that I feel this desperate need to protect. I couldn't tell you what it was. And it's not just because I'm attracted to his hockey stick. Not just because his kiss froze my spirit in place, made me wish I was statue so I never had to move from that position. It's not just because I masturbated to thoughts of him last night. Definitely not that.

“She'll never let that go, you know?” Dax tells me, but at least he attempts a smile. The muscles in my stomach tighten. He's so … innocent. But in a good way. Not naïve, just innocent, like he still believes there's good in the world. That's addictive. And very, very dangerous. “She can hold a grudge forever.”

“Well, it was worth it if it helps you do what you need to do,” I tell him, and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking if I can go with him. Why I'd want to do that anyway is beyond me. Maybe I'm already tired of being cooped up in this hotel? It is a little stifling, I'll admit. It's not like I enjoy taking my clothes off for pervy men, but it's like a party every night at the club. Drinking, dancing, hormones. It's just so much quieter here. I imagine that it wasn't always like this. Indecency is infamous for their parties and like everyone else, I've read the tour gossip. I know what used to go on: wild sex, drugs, booze. I guess their spirits have just been crushed. Based on this Stephen guy's track record, I'm starting to guess that was the point all along. There is no endgame here; it's all about the journey, baby.

“Thanks,” Dax says finally, holding my gaze with his strange gray eyes, keeping us locked in an exchange that lasts longer than is really appropriate. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, but instead of feeling warm, it just feels like someone dropped an ice cube down my back. It should be an uncomfortable feeling, but it's not. It's soothing, comfortable. I take a step back and break the tension. Dax immediately shifts his attention to Naomi, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. My lady parts don't like that he likes her. I'm attracted to him, and the baser part of me only wants him to be attracted right back. It's so stupid that I give myself an eye roll.
So glad I decided not to take advantage of Mr. Dark and Dangerous.
I look at Naomi, pause and throw Dax a wink that I hope he doesn't see.
Grr, bitch, grr.

I make my hairdresser stop what she's doing, so I can run to the bathroom and throw up. There's nothing in there but coffee and water, so it's pretty fucking unpleasant. My stomach muscles clench and release with nothing to give up, twisting around one another, trying to force me to expel something that won't go away.
Shame, frustration, anger.
I can't believe I have to sit here, three chairs down from Hayden Lee and act like there's nothing wrong. I have to go on camera and smile and pretend, the whole time knowing that my mother's body is sitting in the back of a van.

I just want this all to go away. I want to get back in the studio, or back on tour, and I want to forget any of this ever happened. But how and when and
if
that could happen is a mystery to me. I imagine that the only thing capable of bringing us peace is Stephen Hammergren's death. I clench the toilet seat with angry fingers and curse everyone who was in that elevator with him, especially Lola. She had a
gun
, a fucking gun. Why couldn't she have shot him, right then and there? We could be free of this shit. Or mostly free anyway. There are the others to think about: Hayden, Cohen, the rest of Ice and Glass. But what good is an army without a general, right?

I turn around and slump back, wiping my arm across my mouth.

Maybe the real enemy here isn't just Stephen Hammergren, right? Maybe it's the secrets we all have buried inside our hearts, like poisoned thorns, piercing our soul to the core. If those weren't there, it wouldn't have gone this far.
Naomi killed her parents; Lola killed Marta; I killed my mother.
Not that that's really a secret anymore. I bet Naomi's already told Turner about it. And my family's always known. I guess it's just my shame at being born into tragedy.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a plastic baggy. Inside is a cigarette, but not just any cigarette. A sherm. A dippy. A wet one. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. It's dipped in angel dust. Most people smoke it with mint leaves, but why not go for two highs at once? A little tobacco works, too. It's kind of my drug of choice, but I try not to go for it unless things get really and truly fucked. Kind of like they are today. It makes me hallucinate, makes me feel like I'm disconnected from my body. It numbs the pain with falsifications and half-truths. I always pretend I don't have secrets, but when the darkness starts rolling over and the light fades, I can see them grinning at me from the shadows.

I unzip the bag and pull out the cig, patting down my pockets for a lighter when I hear footsteps echoing across the bathroom floor.

“Dax?” The voice belongs to Naomi Knox, seriously one of the last people I want to see right now. I think the only person that would be worse would be Hayden. I sigh and put my boot against the inside of the door, focusing my eyes on the red laces threaded through the eyelets. I put my cig back in the bag and set it on the floor.

“What?” I ask. I try not to get snippy with her. She hasn't really done anything wrong. Falling in love with Turner isn't a sin, but hey, bitterness coats the tongue, right? I try to breathe past it.

“I'm sorry I freaked on you. I just … I can't believe this shit keeps on getting worse. I keep convincing myself that we've hit rock bottom, that there's nowhere else to go from here but up. Apparently, we've got plenty of room left to sink.” Naomi pauses as I slide my boot to the floor and focus on her blue and black heels. There are comic book characters etched all over them in white, screaming women and drooling zombies. I try to remember if she was wearing them this morning or if the stylist picked them out. “And I'm sorry about your mom, Dax. I really am.” I remember the story Naomi told me about her birth mom, and I try to imagine how that would feel, knowing the woman who created me despised me. At least I get the fantasy of pretending my mother loved me, that if she'd lived, things would've been different.

“It's fine. I didn't even know her.”
Born Wrong.
I touch my fingertips to my eyelids and try not to imagine how she felt in the hospital. Did she know I was killing her? Did she care? Did she want to trade her life for mine?

“I know, but I also know that doesn't matter. I'm sorry just the same. And Hayden … Fuck. I can't say I totally agree with everything you've done, but at least I understand it. I didn't know she had a kid, Dax. I had no fucking clue. And with Eric?” Naomi pauses, and I can just imagine her running her tongue over her lips. This time, though, I don't get a hard-on. I don't think I could if I tried. I'm pretty sure my dick's retreated right back up inside of my body. Maybe Pearl would like to hear that? I'm clinically a lady for the day. I'm just so repulsed by everything right now; sex is the last thing on my mind. “Was it consensual?” she asks. I sigh, but it's a legitimate question, so I answer honestly.

“She said that it was, but Naomi, I don't know if Hayden can tell what direction is up. I don't think she even realizes when she's lying and when she's telling the truth.” I think about Eric's sister, Katie, locked up forever for taking vengeance where it was rightfully deserved. I don't feel sorry for Eric at all. In fact, I'm glad that the fucker is dead. Some people just need to die. Hate me for saying that if you want, but it's true. If the death of one person can ensure the safety and happiness of a thousand others, isn't it worth it? I mean, Eric raped his fucking little sister. Bile rises in my throat and I have to spin around and grab onto the toilet for dear life again.