Born Wrong (23 page)

“I appreciate the offer,” he whispers, his voice so rough it sounds like it's going to break us both in half. “But it's not Naomi I want to be with right now; it's you.” I let out a groan, a sigh of relief, a broken pang of pleasure that travels up my spine, makes my hands curl against the mirror.
I don't know how I feel about that. I don't.
And Dax doesn't sound drunk when he says that.
So much for trying to protect myself,
I think as he picks up his rhythm, proving Lola so right it's wrong. Drummers really do know their shit.

I splay my hands out, lean into him and tell my mind to fuck off. The body wants to feel what it wants to feel, without the mind always getting in the way. So I let Dax take me, pummeling me with his cock, bruising me with his hands, destroying me, crushing me inside. Eyes wide open, he groans my name into the hot air, muscles tightening behind me, comes so hard he drags me with him, whimpering and moaning into a well-deserved climax.

Tara Bae.

I met her in junior high school. We used to sneak cigarettes together under the bleachers. She used to make fun of me because I wore safety pins through the piercings in my ears; I used to tease her because she wore rainbow petticoats under her black skirts. I tell all of this and more to Sydney while we smoke a pair of cigs out in front of the strip club. I was right: our bodyguards aren't happy at all. The second we walked out of that room, they were waiting for us with America on the other end of a phone call. I refused to speak with her. Why should I? It's her fault we're in this mess in the first place. If I want to have some fun, it should be my choice.

And Sydney is definitely fun.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the smoke kiss my face and try to decide if I've sobered up enough to go see Tara. I don't really
want
to go see her, but I need to. I open my eyes again and look over at Sydney.
Holy
mother of friggin' Mary. That was a fuck. That was sex, real sex, primal sex.
Obviously, I've had good sex in the past. I've tried a whole variety of weird shit, but this, this was
perfect.
I wrinkle my nose and take a drag. I feel like I've just marked my territory. How disgusting is that?

“I should probably be neutered,” I tell Sydney, putting out my smoke in an ashtray and looking down at her. She's sitting on the dirty cement, short skirt pushed up dangerously close to her ass, one knee up, the other resting flat against the ground. She holds her cigarette out to the side, clutched between two fingers. It reminds me with an aching fierceness of the condom she held in her hand no more than an hour ago. I shiver and watch as she adjusts the sunglasses on her face. They're actually mine, but when she fished them from my pocket and put them on, I didn't bother to take them back. Why would I? Sydney looks fucking electric in them. That, and I keep telling myself that she's mine. That's not true, of course, but I want it to be. One fuck does not a relationship make. Still …

She pouts at me, pushing out her gorgeous lips along with a tendril of slow moving smoke.

“That's a silly thing to say. I haven't meet your balls personally yet, but we're acquainted. Thus far, I see no reason to get rid of the little fuckers.” Sydney grins at me and my whole body goes stiff. My
whole
body. I sit down hard in the chair behind me and pretend neither of us notices. Having sex with her might have eased the tension a little, but it didn't break it. I'm still day dreaming about those nylons. If I didn't have the thing with my dad, this desperation to break my secret with Tara, I'd be taking Sydney by the hand and heading back to the hotel.
What is everyone going to think when they see us?
I purse my lips. Seems like they already knew we were into each other anyway. Fucking Turner piece of shit.

I don't talk to Sydney about what this is, if this is the quickie fling we were talking about before. Or something else. My heart starts to pound when I imagine her leaving, heading off to L.A. for her photo shoot. I bite my tongue to keep myself from saying something ridiculous.

“You still haven't told me what's up with Tara,” Sydney prompts. “So you dated her in high school? What happened?” Her voice softens. “I won't judge, Dax. I
don't
judge.”

“You know how everyone always calls me emo?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. I don't really want to go into this sitting in front of a strip club, but when else am I going to get the chance? The security guards aren't going to let us slip away. I guess I could
demand
they leave us alone, but then what? Am I going to get shot in the head by a sniper rifle? Kidnapped and dragged to a trailer? I have to make peace with the fact that they're coming with us. Fine.

I scoot over to Sydney, letting a group of drunken assholes exit the building first before crossing the bit of sidewalk that separates us, and sit down next to her. She switches her cigarette to her other hand and wraps her fingers around mine. I can't believe we just fucked. Seriously. It's too good to be friggin' true. That, and I feel like I've known her forever. I imagine she makes a lot of people feel that way. Sydney is open, outgoing, gregarious. All the things that I'm not. My father's voice threatens to break through my thoughts, but I shove it back. I don't even have the mental capability to process that information right now.
Even though you know it makes sense. His blatant hatred for you. Did Mom cheat on him? Is that my heritage, my birthright? Born wrong and screwed. That's what my tattoo should say.

“Those drums you saved,” I begin with a crooked smile, keeping my gaze focused on my boots and not out at the parking lot, the sea of cars, the laughter of loser dudes with nothing fucking better to do with their time than stare at chicks they'll never have. I squeeze Sydney's hand a little too hard and force myself to relax. “Those are from Tara. She's the one that really encouraged what my dad had only previously referred to as my 'useless hobby'. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be doing what I'm doing today. I'd have never been good enough for Amatory Riot.”
I never would've met you.
I keep that shit to myself. That really does sound douche-y as hell. At least at this point in our relationship. What are we on here, day four? Fucking A.

“Back to the emo thing,” she encourages, forcing me back to the story. I'd do anything to get out of telling it right now. In the light of day, it seems so fucking lame, but at the time, my heart was breaking and the weight of the world was too, too much. I know now that I can get through a lot worse, that life isn't all bad all the time. But back then, I had nobody but Tara and she was suffering just as much as I was. We were too weak to rely on each other for support. Instead, we dragged one another down. I will never forgive myself for not being stronger. That's why I'm trying to change things now, why I want to help Hayden, why I even give a shit what happens to Lola. I guess I'm a sucker for the downtrodden. I've been there, done that. “You don't seem overly emotional to me. Honestly, Trey has more mood swings than you do.”

I stare down at the pavement, start to count the pebbles.
This fucking sucks.
I work so hard to get people to look past the way I dress, the makeup I wear, the music I like. And then there's this little nugget to bite down on.

“Tara and I … we didn't really want to, uh, to suffer anymore. I was dealing with my family, getting trashed at school, struggling to find something in myself worth loving when nobody in my life loved me. She was transitioning from living with her two sisters and her dad in California to living with her mom here in Tulsa.” I touch my fingers to the bridge of my nose. I hate this fucking story. “They died in a house fire that Tara blamed herself for.” I struggle to suck in another breath. “Anyway, we sort of toyed around with thoughts of suicide.” I close my eyes again and wait for the jokes to come. Sydney stays silent, rubbing her thumb along the side of my hand. Even this crappy nightmare down memory lane isn't enough to keep my body from registering her touch. “So I found some guy to buy pills off of. I didn't know what kind they were and I didn't do my research.” I lick my lips. “The wrong combination of drugs can leave you paralyzed, in a coma, mentally retarded or even dead.” I'm sure Sydney knows that, but I have to go through the whole process. I have to talk about everything. “I portioned out what we were going to take, and one day, we just fucking did it.”

“Dax,” Sydney says, scooting closer to me. She puts her cigarette up to my mouth, and I take a drag. “It's okay. It's alright.”

“They pumped my stomach, and I survived. Good for me. Tara … she didn't die, but then she never really woke up either.” Sydney watches me with those wide open eyes, two pools of blue I could drown in and die happy. The analogy chills my spine and I look away. “She's alive, but she's not the same. Her brain went without oxygen for too long, so … She's still alive, but she's not really Tara anymore. She can't feed herself, can't eat, can't walk. She sits in a miserable fucking nursing home all day every day. Because of me. That was my gift to her.” I look down at my lap. “I almost wish she'd died. I made her soul a prisoner of the body, a girl locked in a home until the day she dies.” I sigh again. “And her family never visits her. But I do. From time to time.” I look back at Sydney. I don't know how she feels about this, if she thinks I'm the scum of the earth or even that I'm making too big a deal out of this. I don't know. But I'm glad I told her. “Come with me and meet her?” I ask and she nods, a slight smile on her face. A smile that somehow, even through all the shit I've been through, manages to make me smile right back.

Brayden's guys don't want to take us to the nursing home, so we walk and they follow. It works better this way anyhow, I decide. I don't trust the fuckers not to lock the doors and forcibly drag us back to Oklahoma City. The sun is warm today, toasting my back and causing Sydney's hair to glisten like spun gold. I want to brush it back from her face, touch her jaw, kiss her mouth. But I don't. I can't even touch her or my body freaks the fuck out, and I want to be fully focused on the task ahead of me. The alcohol is pretty much gone from my system. I can actually hold my booze, believe it or not. I've drunk Kash, Wren, Hayden, and Blair all under the table. Naomi's the only one who ever clings to consciousness with me. I smile as I think about some of the good times we've shared. But when I was with Sydney? I could give a fuck less about Naomi. And that's a good thing, isn't it?

“They'll let you in there?” Sydney asks me, and I nod. It's kind of sad, but the people who work with Tara could give a shit less who goes in there. Besides, her family never comes. I've asked the staff. It's just me. Only me.

I look up, searching the cluster of buildings on the next block. The facility's easy to spot. It has this peeling blue-gray paint that seems like it's frozen in time. No matter how many years pass, it stays in the same state of deshabille. It never gets repainted, but it doesn't seem to deteriorate either. Frozen in time. Like Tara.

I pause at the sidewalk and wait with bated breath for the light to turn red, to cross, to walk down those halls and introduce Sydney to Tara. The only people who know what happened are her family and my family and none of them have ever come here with me before. My palms start to sweat.
Just push a little harder, Dax. Once you do this, reveal this, Stephen won't have anything to throw at you.
As soon as I get back, I'm going to tell everyone in Amatory Riot
and
Indecency the story. If Turner cracks an emo joke though, I might have to smash his face in. I rub at the bruises on my arms, and thank the Gods of Rock for the first time ever that I lived through that tornado. If I hadn't, I would've died with secrets in my veins and unrequited love in my heart. This thing with Sydney, whatever it is, is much better. Much, much better.

“Ready?” she asks, and I nod again, breathing out my trepidation in the late evening air. We finish the walk to the building and move inside. There's nobody at the counter, but that's not unusual. I sign us in and we mill around the waiting room for awhile. I'm too nervous to speak, so I don't. Sydney fills the silence for me, examining the patients' paintings on the walls. There are none from Tara.