Real Ugly (Hard Rock Roots #1)

Chapter Five: Naomi Knox

As we roll into San Diego, I get a phone call.

I grab a quick glance at the screen and see that the number's blocked. Not a good sign. I reject the call and slip it back into my pocket.

A notebook lies open in front of me, filled with scribbled, black drawings of wings and crying faces, swaying trees, and grinning demons. Whenever I can't write, I draw. Someday, maybe when I finally escape from Hayden's shadow, I'd like to draw our own cover art. I look up at the bitch in question and send her a silent fuck you. She's got on another of her Hot Topic outfits today – a black corset with buckles and a pair of designer jeans that came pre-ripped. I want to tear her red stilettos off her feet and stab her in one of her too blue eyes.

"Got anything yet?" she asks me, like I'm some sort of lyrical machine. Hayden likes to play front woman and bask in the glory of masturbating boys and jealous women, but she doesn't do shit for this band. I mean, I'm sure her time is so much better spent taking topless photos for Tin Dolls Magazine, but it would be nice if she actually contributed something other than her tits and her voice.

"No." I don't justify her actions by saying anything aloud. Seems like Hayden will go out of her way to piss me off. Whenever I've voiced my displeasure, she seems to get worse, so I've learned to keep (most) of my thoughts to myself. I drum my fingers on the table and pull my phone out when I get another call from the mystery number. Reject, again. I slam the screen down on my notebook and slide my hands over my face.

"Are we there yet?" Dax asks, appearing in the kitchen dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts and a sheen of droplets from the shower. Hayden watches him like a hungry lioness and licks her lip, but he ignore her.

"Thirty-two minutes and counting," America says without ever pausing in her frenzied texting spree. "Get dressed and be ready to go. Thanks to Mr. Campbell, we're running horribly late. We'll be lucky if the venue even lets us play our set."

I sigh and pick up my pen, brushing ink across the blue-lined pages. Pen and paper are so much more inspirational than electronics. I find it unbelievable that anybody gets anything creative done on a computer. I like to cross words out and draw arrows and kiss the page; I like to feel the words under my fingertips, pressed so hard into the paper that they've left deep grooves. I think the day handwriting disappears for good is the day humanity is really and truly fucked.

Another call comes through from the mystery number, and I answer it.

"Who the fuck are you and what the hell do you want?"

"Wow. Your foster parents never taught you any manners?" My heart catches in my chest.

"Who the fuck is this?" I repeat, my pulse racing in my veins. America's pried her eyes from her iPhone and is staring at me with a frown on her face. She can tell something's wrong. Luckily, everybody else in my band is a fucking idiot and doesn't notice the sweat on my forehead or the quiver in my voice. The other person on the line has to be the one that sent me that video. Who else would call and answer with such a cryptic message?

There's a long span of silence and then a deep exhalation of breath, like whoever's on the other end of this line is pissed off.

"This is Turner Campbell."

Oh.

I frown, but at least my heart can stop trying to explode from my chest. America stands up and moves over to me, holding out her hand for the phone, but I shake my head. I got this, I mouth at her.

"How the hell did you get my number?" I snarl at him, feeling horribly violated. I want nothing to do with this man, haven't wanted anything to do with him since he left me after taking my virginity. And the worst part of it all? He doesn't even remember doing it. I feel sick. What's that old saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? I used to worship Indecency, Turner in particular, and now ... even the sound of his voice gives me chills.