Born Wrong (20 page)

“I'm not that good,” I tell her, wishing I believed that I was. Confidence. I need some more of it. Drumming is all I have. If I don't think I'm good at it, what point is there in chasing after the dream? I need to learn to believe in my own talent. “Ronnie's better.” That part's true. He is. But then he's also five years older than I am. I could catch up.

“How about Lola?” Sydney asks, her foot bouncing up and down, matching the beat of the song that's playing in the background. I wonder if she even knows it's one of ours. I smile at her, secretly enjoying watching her body move to my sound.

“Lola's good.”

“But you're better?” Sydney asks, and I laugh.

“I guess. Maybe. I don't know.”

“Oh, come on. Just say it.”

“Say what?” I ask with another laugh. I'm running my fingers through my hair and leaning back, putting my body on display without even realizing I'm doing it. Flirting. Why even bother to fight it? It's taking more energy to pretend I'm not interested than to roll with it. I don't have to take my pants off. Sydney brushes her bangs back and raises an eyebrow. “Okay, fine. I'm better.” She claps her hands.

“Good for you, Dax. Praising yourself doesn't have to be a bad thing. Don't be arrogant, but don't be afraid to say when you've done a good job.”

“What about you?” I ask her. I know she's a stripper. That's all anyone ever calls her, but there's more to Sydney Charell than a beautiful body. Anybody could see that. One look in her eyes and it's obvious she knows twice as much about the universe as the average person. I get this really itchy urge to have her face tattooed on my arm. There's one blank spot left, on the backside of my left bicep. I've been saving it for something special. But what a stupid idea that is. Look at Turner and Naomi … and those are just names they have on their bodies. What would happen to me if I etched this beauty permanently into my skin? I run my hands up and down my arms, watching Sydney's eyes as they follow them hungrily. She likes my arms. Fucking cool. I work hard for them, but sometimes, I think they get hidden in the grinning ghosts and the gravestones. Sydney doesn't let those bother her. She hasn't once called me an emo bitch, a freak, a faggot-y little Goth douche. It's kind of refreshing.

“I want to be someone better tomorrow than I am today,” she says, and I get chills down my spine. Without even thinking about what I'm doing, I put my hands on the box lid and lean forward. Our mouths touch, just barely. I wouldn't even call it a kiss, but it pulls the air from my lungs and leaves me struggling to stay clearheaded. I sit back down and we continue talking, a little breathier than before, a little more softly. “In less than two weeks, I have a photo shoot in L.A.” Sydney rolls up the sleeves of her shirt and touches her hands to her tattoos. We both have full sleeves, covered from wrist to shoulder in ink. “Tattoo Terror.” I raise both my brows and feel this rush of cold settle over me. “Hah,” she says, pointing at me. “I can see you're familiar with the magazine.”

“Of course I'm familiar with it,” I say, trying not to bite my lower lip. My voice is gruffer than I'd like it to be. “I grew up in the Midwest with the worst parental controls you've ever seen. My dad's version of site blocking was standing over me while I surfed the web. He didn't even need to use a program. His fist was enough of an incentive.”

“So what you're trying to say is, you cleaned the pipes with an old paper copy of Tattoo Terror?” I pull off a rubber wrist band and flick it at her, like we're old friends. Sydney catches it in one hand and stares at the lettering. “They stopped printing the magazine, but they have a digital copy. And a website. They're giving me a year's worth of tips for the one shoot.” I imagine her naked body plastered across the web and my stomachache turns into full on cramps. I don't like that. Not that I enjoyed entertaining thoughts of her stripping, but the Internet is so permanent. That shit never goes away. Sydney decides to keep the bracelet and puts it on. It's my
Dream Big, Die Loud
band. I'm going to miss it.

“Congratulations,” I say and watch as her eyes come up and find mine. “So you want to be a model or … ?” I'm not quite sure what sort of career path a naked photo shoot falls under. I don't judge her, but I do get this ugly spark of jealousy in my gut. There are hundreds, probably thousands of guys that have seen Sydney naked, and I haven't. After this shoot, it could easily be in the millions. I clench the bench seat with tight fingers.
Not fucking fair.

“I don't know, Dax. I don't have anything in mind. I'm heading where the wind takes me. I think, if there was actually any money in it, that I'd dance for a living. Not topless, of course. Real dancing. If I could sing, I'd be after Broadway.” Sydney flashes me another smile and leans back. I feel like my future is uncertain most days, but hers isn't even etched in pencil. I wonder if it makes her nervous? I decide not to ask and we sit in companionable silence.

I think I doze off after awhile because the next time I open my eyes, the van is still and Sydney is missing.

“Sydney?” I ask, panic lacing my voice. I struggle to blink away the cobwebs, shaking my head to clear it. “Sydney?”

“She's inside,” a voice says from beside me. I turn and find one of the bodyguards with a Kindle in his hand. It's kind of a weird sight, especially when I see him purposely tilt the screen away from me. I wonder what's on the reading agenda for today?

“Inside?” I ask. My voice comes out sounding hollow. “With who?” The guard shrugs as I scramble to my feet, cursing as I slam my knees into mom's casket. “Sorry, sorry,” I tell her as I push open the back doors of the van and land on my feet. The sunshine is beaming down hard tonight, forcing me to put my arm up and shade my eyes.

Eighty acres stretch out around me, nice and flat, covered in brown-green grass and a series of half-finished fences, none of which keep anything in or out. The sad part is, they've been like that for as long as I can remember. Nothing around here's changed, at least not from the outside. The porch is still painted gray, and the single white chair still stands guard by the front door. Inside somewhere, is Sydney Charell. The thought terrifies me. I don't want to spend time with these people. The last thing I want is for Sydney to get drenched in their shit.

I walk across the gravel driveway as fast as I can without looking like a fucking idiot. When I hit the steps, I take them two at a time and don't bother knocking.

“Hello?” I ask, listening for the sound of voices. They filter out from the kitchen and echo in the nearly empty foyer. My dad still has that picture of my mom at her high school graduation hanging to the right of the door. On the left, there's one of them together on a beach in Australia. Other than a coat rack and a basket for umbrellas, the room is bare of decoration. I look at the security guard that's with me, trying to see if he's making any judgments about the house, but his face is as blank as these walls. The voices don't stop talking. Either they can't hear me or they're ignoring me. My bet would be on the latter. “Hello?” I move down the hallway, past the dining room and into the kitchen.

My dad is standing behind the island talking to an assorted arrangement of cousins fanned out on stools in front of him. He doesn't look up from his cup of coffee when I walk in.

“Hopefully we can get started on that tomorrow,” he says, taking a sip. His blue eyes are focused squarely on the white tiled countertops, not like he's purposely avoiding me, but like he just doesn't care that I'm standing here. Only one of my cousins even bothers to look back at me. I stand there under the archway resisting the urge to cover up my tattoos with my hands. I feel so out of place here it's not funny. Everything is white and beige, functional and necessary. And here I stand covered in black and purple and green tattoos, makeup on my face, gloves on my hand. I feel like a male doll, all dressed up with nowhere to go. I hate that fucking feeling. My nostrils flare as I struggle to catch my temper.

“Where's Sydney?” I ask, and then they all turn, acting like they've just noticed I've arrived. Nobody bothers to answer me though. “The blonde?” I continue, filling the silence. I can't stand it. I hate how quiet it is out here. The first time I visited New York City was the first night I got any real sleep in my life. I
loved
the noise, craved the sound of humanity writhing around me. Here, at night, it's as dead as the moon. Barren, blank, empty. I hate this house, this family. When I'm standing here, it's hard to remember that I'm a fucking rock star now. I feel like a high school kid again, rejected and unwanted.

“Right here, Dax,” she says, appearing at the top of the stairs. When I see her, my heartbeat slows a bit. She looks just as out of place as I do, like the other half of my equation. The female doll they sell on the next shelf. “Your father said he didn't mind if I checked out your old bedroom.” I wish there was a list of words I could ban Sydney from saying.
Bedroom
would be one of them. “And guess what I found?” She waves a copy of
Tattoo Terror
around in one hand. At my look of horror, she rolls it up and tucks it under her arm. I move closer to her as she comes down the steps, keeping my eyes above waist level.
Fucking nylons,
I think as she steps down next to me.

“Are you okay?” I ask her. I know how they can be. Judgments are their specialty. No matter how good you feel, how confident, if they don't like you, my family will find a way to bring you down. Sydney gives me a half-smile and leads the way into the kitchen. I follow after her and pause near the fridge.

“Dax,” Arnold says slowly, like he's trying the word out on his tongue. He named me. After all, he was the only one around to do it. But I don't think he really likes it. Arnold spends the majority of our brief conversations calling me
son.
I try not to let that go to my head; he calls all my cousins that, too. “Where's your mother?”

“In the van,” I say, my voice echoing around the high ceilings. My dad cringes and grits his teeth. “I'm sorry, but that was the only way for me to get her here.” I examine the extra lines in his face, his sun-reddened skin, the gray hair around his temples. He looks a hell of a lot older now than the last time I saw him. And that was only, what, months ago at the most? I wonder if anything's been happening around here, or if his disdainful view on life is just starting to catch up to him. “Do you want us to unload her?” I ask, adding more weirdness to the already awkward situation. My cousin, Tom, stands up and tucks his hands in his pockets, giving me that look, the one that says I'm just not getting it.

“The funeral home will be here in about a half an hour to pick her up. We're having another funeral service, nothing fancy. It's just going to be a quick blessing and some dinner at Grandma's place.”

Wow.

I can't think of a single fucking thing on this earth that sounds worse than that. My cousin, Tom, and I, we live in different worlds, man. I stick needles into my skin, just so I can carry around a pretty picture on my arm. I smoke dust. I play drums. I fall into insta-lust with beautiful blondes who shouldn't legally be able to wear shoes that high. I wipe my hand down my face. There's no way in hell I'm going, but this is going to be awkward.

“I don't know … that I can make it.”

“Make it?” my dad asks, his voice rough with irritation. His mustache twitches. “What do you mean make it? You're standing right here, aren't you? You're not too busy to dig up your mother's body, but now you're too much of a hot shot to attend her blessing?”

“I didn't dig her up,” I snap at him. I can't handle him thinking that. I might be weird, but I'm not fucked in the head. I'm a normal fucking person, probably more 'normal' than he is. I have friggin' feelings, and I don't shove all my misery down my throat. I used to, because that's what he taught me to do. But not anymore. I feel the urge to explode creeping through my veins again. “And she's just as dead now as she was twenty-three years ago.” A couple of my cousins rise to their feet to join Tom. I have a bad feeling I'm about to get an ass kicking. But this has to be said or I'm going to have a breakdown. “I'm sorry this happened, but I have other things to do here.”

“Don't you dare visit that girl,” my dad growls, giving me the chills down my spine.
No. Don't talk about it. Leave it alone.
I glance over at Sydney. “Nobody wants you visiting her. You think the family likes to see their daughter's murderer waltzing around town?”

“I didn't kill her,” I grind out through my teeth. I didn't. I almost did, but it was an accident. My secret might not be as big as Naomi's or Hayden's, but it still hurts, and it burns a little inside of me everyday. So I'm going to confront it before anybody else gets the chance to shove it in my face. And that includes my father. “And what happened was a mistake.”

“Did he tell you about Tara?” my father asks Sydney, running his hand down his chin and setting his coffee cup on the counter. There's a second mug there, with lipstick around the rim. It's the same shade as Sydney's. How long was she was in here before I woke up? It can't have been all that long. The trip was less than two hours, and the sun is still shining with the cheery brightness of morning. What did she talk about with him? And why would she even bother to try?

“I don't care about Tara,” Sydney says, matter-of-factly. “I'm sorry, but I don't. I don't need you to tell me Dax's past. I don't care what he did when he was twelve or thirteen or even twenty-one. All that really matters is who he is today.” She shrugs like her words don't matter, but they do. They matter to me. My chest gets so tight it's hard to breathe. “When I walked in here, you asked me who I was, and I told you. But you never asked your son that same question. Don't you think you owe him the courtesy?”

“Get out of my house,” Arnold says, narrowing his gaze on us both. My cousins move forward, like a fucking herd of wild dogs. They
want
to beat the shit out of me. Why? I have no fucking clue. Maybe they're dissatisfied with their own lives? Or maybe they're as crazy as Stephen friggin' Hammergren. Whatever the reason, for the first time in my life, I actually feel fucking sorry for them. “Both of you. Out. Get out. Boys, go get Hannah for me. Put her on the porch for now. She always did like it best out there.”