Real Ugly (Hard Rock Roots #1)

Chapter Seven: Naomi Knox

After every high comes a horrible fucking low.

I have mine on the bus the day after the San Diego show, lying on my side in the dark of my bunk with the curtain drawn and my iPod destroying my eardrums, playing Turner's music over and over and over again in my head. Somehow, I've got it in my mind that if I listen to it enough, the longing will go away.

It doesn't.

Instead, tears stream down my face, and I find myself obsessing over the date I'd promised I'd never obsess about.

March 15th.

Oh, how I hate March 15th.

It's three days away, and I can't stop thinking about it. Six years. It's been six years, and the pain is still as fresh as ever. And it's all his fault. Him. Turner Campbell. Might as well change his name to Satan or Beelzebub or Lucifer or something.

I touch a hand to my belly and roll away from the wall, so I'm facing the black curtain. My fingers play across the stitches while my mind tries to convince me to get up and take ownership over what happened on that stage. I should be proud; everyone else is. Except maybe Hayden. I mean, she says she's glad that we got some hot press, but I think she's jealous that I stole the spotlight from her. Hayden really, really doesn't like to share. I wonder, maybe, if it has something to do with Turner Campbell, too. If maybe she remembers she slept with him, and if she's jealous about the kiss.

Fuck.

How am I going to look him in the eyes again? If I do, he'll see things there that I don't want anyone to see. I'm not a sixteen year old girl with idol fantasies; I'm a grown ass woman, and I need to let up on this Turner obsession that I've been nursing. Shit. But I know deep down that I'm on his radar now. My mistake. I should've never returned his jacket to him. I'm such a fucking idiot.

I sit up suddenly and tear my headphones off, tossing them to the foot of the bunk and climbing out and into the bright sunshine that's streaming through the windows. The door to the front is open, and I see the band sitting around and eating one of America's rare but admittedly delicious home cooked meals. Blows my fucking mind that the woman can whip up a five star dish on a bus. In-freaking-credible.

Everyone looks up as I walk in, and Spencer smiles at me in the rearview mirror. There's no doubt in my mind that they can see the tear streaks down my cheeks or the redness in my eyes. But fuck 'em. I don't care. Tears or no tears, I could still kick all their asses.

America assumes my expression has something to do with the video and gives me a sympathetic look. Good, but she has no idea how much worse this is. It's a scar that'll never heal, but one that I thought would at least scab over. Thanks a lot, Turner. You're ripping it off, piece by piece.

"I need to stop at a store," I say, and America's soft expression hardens.

"No problem, lemme just stop the caravan and tell all five bands and their staff to wait while you run in for some tampons." I flip her off and roll my eyes as I grab a plate and slap some food onto it. I'm not hungry and my stomach feels like it's full of lead, but I'm going to go through the motions, damn it.

"Fuck you," I tell her as I scoot in beside Hayden and try not to touch her skin. You never know where it's been. "You know what I meant. When we get to Phoenix, I need cigs. Jesus Christ, who put a stick up your ass this morning?"

"You did," Hayden says, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her cheek against her hands. She stares at me with her blue eyes and smiles an evil smile that makes my already aching belly feel like it's being pulled in two directions. God, I might throw up. "Turner's been calling all night and all day." Hayden nods her chin at the counter, and I look up to see my phone resting there next to America's. Oops. Guess I forgot to drag it in my cave with me.