Born Wrong (16 page)

“You sure you're alright in there?” she asks me, but I'm too busy heaving into the bowl to answer.
Ugh.
Maybe seeing my mother's bones is bothering me more than I thought? Or it could be the thought of going back home. That's more than likely the real reason. “Can I get you anything?” she asks me, voice still loaded with questions. I'm sure Naomi wants to ask me about the snuff film. Just thinking about that ends with me spilling my guts again, gasping for breath as I stare at the dirty water and pray for this day to be over.

I don't want to do this. Please don't make me do this.

I think about Hayden's face, the way the camera caught all the right angles and made her look even younger than she really was. Naomi still thinks this is just my running theory. Fuck, I wish that it was. I wish that I was just grasping at straws. But no. No, I've seen Hayden Lee on the big screen.

“I'm okay,” I lie, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and patting at my face. Doesn't help. A whole bottle of mouthwash wouldn't even help. This rotten taste isn't just in my mouth; it's in my soul. “Naomi,” I begin when I think she's getting ready to leave the room. “Thanks for sharing your secret with me.” She pauses for just a moment.

“You're welcome.” And then her footsteps move back the way they came, leaving me in a bubble of silence. Outside the walls, I can hear the buzz of the employees, the chatter, the excitement. God, if they only knew what it looked like from the inside looking out, they wouldn't idolize us so much. I lean back on my knees, putting my hands on the legs of my black slacks. I get to wear a suit today, of my own choosing. I paired the jacket and red button up with matching pants, and the rattiest fucking boots I own. I like the contrast between the two.

“Wish I could tell you mine,” I whisper. I'm going to be in Tulsa, so I may as well visit her. My secret that is. I almost gag. Definitely going to need a little help through this. I reach down for the baggy, trying to convince myself that I don't feel like a high school student sneaking a joint. I sit back and slump against the door, lighting up and breathing in the sweet scent of delirium.
I just want to get wrecked right now. Absolutely wrecked.
That might make it a little easier to see my cousins or my grandmother. Hopefully I can get in there and get out with as little social interaction as possible.

As I'm sitting there trying to gauge how long I have before someone comes looking for me, the door opens again and in walks another set of footsteps. They're different this time though, less heavy. That's a weird thing to notice, footsteps. But I do. I'm just like that, I guess. I notice little things. They're not always as useless as they first seem.

“Good place to catch a quiet smoke?” Sydney asks, and I have to close my eyes against the sound of her voice. She's got this purr to her words that gives me chills. I take another drag and put the cig out on the wall, slipping the remainder of it back in the bag and into my pocket. A small amount of PCP, dust, whatever you want to call it, feels like strong pot. Add a bit more, and it not only makes you numb, but you see shit that isn't there. Smoke too much and you get psychosis, comas, death. Fun stuff. I hate myself for even touching the shit. I want to blame the tour and the roadies and Wren, anyone really, for my habit. But this is a uniquely Dax sort of a thing.

I stand up and turn around, unlocking the door and pushing it gently out of the way. It swings open and reveals Sydney to me. I fucking love her face. I don't know what it is, but the slant of her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips, her sharp jaw line. I squeeze my hands to relieve some tension. I even like her hair. It's cut so sharply, like it could slice if she ran it over my skin.
Fuck.
I glance down at my crotch. Apparently, I was wrong. I
am
still capable of getting it up today.

I move up next to her and strip off my fingerless gloves, tucking them in the pocket of my suit jacket, and then I pretend to wash my hands, running ice cold water over my skin. Doesn't help much, but at least it's uncomfortable. My dick doesn't really care either way. It's just happy to see Sydney.

“Sorry,” I choke out, but I don't know that she's even aware of what I'm talking about.
God, I hope not.
She turns to face me, wrapping one arm across her midsection. The motion lifts her breasts up even further, raises her shirt an inch or two. I keep my gaze focused down on the sink, using the foamy soap to scrub at my fingernails. They're painted black, so it's not like you can tell if they're dirty or not, but I pretend to care.

“For what?” she asks me, glancing up at the ceiling and then back down at me. “This is a coed bathroom.”

“I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable,” I tell her, forcing a smile on my face. I'm getting nervous, so I'm starting to get goofy. At least the drugs are in my system now. Hopefully, I can relax here soon. At three hits, it'll probably take me ten minutes or so to feel anything. Sydney laughs and the sound echoes pleasantly around the white tiled room.

“You mean because your heat seeking love missile has detected
prey
?” She grits her teeth a little when she says the last word. As ridiculous as that statement is, it doesn't help with the disarmament, if you know what I mean. I actually laugh though, probably the first time in days. Sydney waves her hand dismissively and the silver bracelets on her arm jingle. “Happens all the time. I take off my clothes for a living, remember? I'm used to it.”

“Well, that doesn't make me feel like the world's biggest asshole,” I say, but we're both smiling. Sydney flips some blonde hair over her shoulder and shakes her head.

“Nope. That title would belong to Turner. Or Trey. My brother's a bit of a Turner clone. It's hard to say a bad thing about one of them without implicating the other. Trust me, you're in a whole different league. They'd be more likely to try and sword fight a beautiful girl with their dick than they would be to apologize for it.”

“And they'd still get her into bed,” I add, standing up straight and grabbing a handful of paper towels. If I dry my hands a bit lower than normal, Sydney doesn't say anything about it. But her blue eyes do take me in, swallow me whole. I'm pretty sure she's checking me out. At least in this case, I know for a fact that the feeling is mutual. She told me herself. It's kind of nice. I stare at her eyes, searching for a word to describe the color. They remind me of this painting my father kept over his bed. My mother painted it (of course she did, right?). My dad never failed to come up with new ways to remind me of his loss – and that it was my fault. One time I told him that it was really his fault for sticking his dick in her. He beat me so hard, he had to call me into school for the week. I could barely stand. Apparently, I was suffering from 'pneumonia' at the time.

“What are you thinking about?” Sydney asks me randomly, reaching up to play with the silver hoop earrings she's wearing. They're about chin level with me, that's how short she is – and that's with the heels on. Treyjan's the same way. In the few encounters we've had during the tour, all I can really remember is how his head barely came up to my neck. “Your eyes look so far away. Where are you going up in there?” Sydney leans forward and gently brushes the hair from my forehead. “And wherever it is, can you take me with you?” Her voice comes out in a whisper and brushes across my skin. I swear to god, I can feel every fucking syllable.

With a groan, I stumble back and melt into the sink, curling my fingers around the edge.

“This is going to sound really fucking stupid, Sydney, and I'm sorry. I'm honestly not normally like this, but … could you please not touch me?” She blinks at me a couple of times and then claps her hands together, laughter bursting from her throat like a flock of birds. Her energy is infectious. I don't understand it to be honest with you. I tend to be a low energy sort of a guy. I hold up my hands, palms out. “I realize how ridiculous that sounds. It sounds stupid even to me.”

“Maybe you just need to get laid more often?” Sydney says, and hearing her say the word
laid
does all sorts of things for me. She moves forward, like maybe she's considering touching me, when the door opens again and America appears with an angry look hovering over the perfect mask she's plastered on for all the TV execs. She's been our manager long enough now that I know how to see it.

“Dax, I can't stress how important this is, so whatever it is that you're up to in here, I suggest you wrap it up quickly and get your butt out here.” She throws a death glare Sydney's way and then disappears again, leaving me in a very awkward situation. But I guess Sydney Charell just doesn't do awkward.

“I can't wait to see your interview,” she tells me, moving past with a wink.
I knew it. She
did
wink at me earlier. What the hell is going on here?
“Let me know if you need another kiss.” Sydney's shoulder brushes mine, and I spin around, like she's magnetic, pulling me towards her. I'm a moon in orbit.

“I thought we weren't acting on this?” I blurt, making a complete ass out of myself. Sydney pauses with her hand splayed out on the door and glances back at me. Her smile is freaking priceless.

“I didn't think that we were,” she says, shrugging gently and moving out into the narrow hallway. I have to cross my arms over my chest and dig my fingernails into my skin to keep from following after her. I think I even draw a bit of blood.
Fuckin' A.
This is so not cool. I don't need this right now. I don't need to be stumbling around pissing on trees and trying to impress a woman. She might be hot, but that's not everything. That's not my fucking life. That's Turner or Trey or Kash. Not me. I splash some cool water on my face and let the PCP sink in. It takes a concentrated effort for me not to stumble when I walk out that door and head back down the hallway.

“There he is!” America sing-songs when I come around the corner. Her skin is stretched tight across her face, and she isn't happy. “Everyone else is out of hair and makeup already,
Dax.
And we're up first.” She leans in close to my ear and snaps her white-white teeth at me. “Get out there and stay quiet. You don't have to stand out, but you better not fuck up.”

I move around her and follow a chattering woman with a clipboard out of the hallway and into the studio. The rest of Amatory Riot is already there, milling around our instruments in a sea of strained silence. Hayden Lee stands at the front, hands on her hips, chin lifted. She has her million dollar smile on her face and a red dress that leaves little to the imagination. To anyone else, she looks like the lead singer of a successful rock band. To me, she looks sad. Pathetic even. Hayden isn't going to make it out of this. I have a bad feeling about it.

I move over to the drums and touch my hand to the kit, running my fingers along the smooth surfaces, letting the potential rhythms flow through me. When I sit down, my head starts to spin, and I smile. The drugs are my weakness, but the music is my strength. Sometimes, I forget that. Thank God I only took a few hits. I didn't realize we were playing today. We had a schedule all laid out for this shit, but when Trey woke up, everything got scrambled. I can hardly remember which interview is for which venue, who the photo shoot we did the other day was for. It's all a mystery. I guess I should've paid more attention to America on the van ride over. Unfortunately, the only thing I was thinking about was driving to Tulsa. And now, that's been replaced with Sydney Charell. She's so flirty. I don't get it. We agreed not to sleep together, but how am I supposed to resist when she's brushing my hair back, winking at me, flashing me that perfect smile?

“Okay, everyone.” The clipboard lady moves aside for a woman in a black suit. She has the same no-nonsense look that America does. Her dark hair is slicked back just the same, and to put it simply, she kind of just smells like a bitch. Maybe I'm biased from working with America, but I still tell myself to be careful. This is the kind of person you work really hard
not
to piss off. I glance over my shoulder and wonder where Turner is. It'll be interesting to see how his set goes. “My name is Rain Colbert, and I'm the executive producer for LMTV's hottest show, Live Work.” When the woman talks, her white teeth reflect back the lights surrounding the stage like a mirror. They're almost blinding. She sounds like an infomercial and she gestures a lot with her hands. It's disconcerting, turning my high into a small headache. “If you're not familiar with the program, we start off with a live set. No frills, just music. When you're through, you're going to be immediately greeted by our host, Miley Culbrath. There's no wardrobe change, no hair and make up. This is about being real, people.” She claps her hands like it should all be perfectly clear now. Wren and Kash exchange glances and shrug. But they do pick up their instruments. Interviews? Eh. But music, we can do music. “Any questions?” She sends her blinding smile around the group like a politician and then nods her chin. “Great. I'll be giving you a countdown. When you see me hit one, you start playing. I'd say,” Rain checks her expensive looking watch with a squint of her brown eyes. “About two minutes. Think up a good song for us.” Her expression sparkles mischievously as she turns away, and I get the bad feeling that we're being played by her. I bet she's counting on drama. How could she not? The whole world saw our set the other day. Hayden and Naomi are a disaster waiting to happen.

“
Bloom?
” Hayden asks, suggesting her favorite song. It's from our first album, so it's not as polished as the newer stuff, but she likes it because the chorus is pervy as hell. I always wondered where Naomi was coming from when she wrote that one. Nobody responds to her inquiry, so Hayden shrugs her shoulders loosely. “Okay then,
Bloom
it is.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” Naomi responds, adjusting her Wolfgang with fond hands. She's got on a pair of skinny jeans, a loose pink tank and a bright red bra that peeks out as she moves around, fondling her instrument and bringing my attention back to my crotch. My hard-on, it's gone. I look back up at Naomi, her perfect body, her curvy hips, the shades that cover her eyes, the smirk on her lips.
Goddamn it.
You'd think I'd be happy about this, but I'm not. What the fuck is this crap? Am I switching my attention from Naomi to Sydney, so I can feel better about myself? Love can't just be turned off, yet the burn I've been feeling for Naomi for the last year, it's not scalding so painfully.