Real Ugly (Hard Rock Roots #1)

Chapter Eighteen: Turner Campbell

I'm so fucking pissed right now.

I get onstage and I scream my rage into the microphone; the crowd goes mad wild. Chicks throw their bras and panties at me; dudes start fighting in the mosh pit. Everything just goes crazy. My energy becomes their energy and soon the whole room is a roiling mess. When I'm done, I throw my mic to the floor and kick it offstage – the speakers screech and Milo intercepts me on my way out.

"Don't fuck with me," I tell him as I try to get ahold of my emotions, to understand them. I run my hand through my hair as sweat pours down my face, soaks my shirt, just fucking drenches me. I want to pace back and forth, like a tiger in a cage. Behind me, the crowd is yelling for an encore. Fuck them. I'm trembling with rage, and I'm pretty sure that the next words that come out of my mouth aren't going to be so pretty. Best I don't screw up my career over some chick.

Naomi.

That's how I've got to fucking think about her, how I always should've thought about her. I don't know when things turned different. Because I thought we were connected somehow? I don't friggin' know. Whatever it was, it was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment. I let that itch under my skin turn into a raging fire that's ripping me apart from the inside out.

"Turner, I don't want you doing anything you might regret," Milo says, and I spin around, more than willing to take my frustration out on my manager. His pale blue eyes stare calmly back at me, but his hands are shaking and his tie is loose and crooked. He's scared. I don't know if he thinks I'm going to hit him, or if I'm going to storm out of here and make an ass out of myself. Whatever the reason though, he has a right to be afraid. I'm this close to exploding right now.

"What do you know about any of this?" I ask, getting up in Milo's face. He's shorter than me, blonde and pale, wispy. Not very intimidating. "Just do your fucking job and play damage control, got it? I own you, remember? Want to keep your fucking job? Then clean up the shit I leave for you."

With that, I turn away and shove past Treyjan who's watching me with nervous eyes, out the doors, through the darkness.

One little secret has changed everything.

This is exactly why I hate them so much. Nothing good ever comes from keeping one. If Naomi had told me she was pregnant, I would've ... What, Turner? Married her? Swept her off her feet? I spit at the floor. Fuck. I probably would've told her to do exactly what it was that she'd done.

I wish my brain wasn't so scrambled, and in that moment, I know I'll do anything to feel like myself. Coke will help. I know it will. A few bumps and I'll be me again – strong, prepared, ready for fucking anything. I've worked too hard to let something like this bring me down, and hell, why should it? Why should I give a shit at all? Fuck Naomi Knox.

I hit the bus and fly up the steps, storming into the back where we keep the good shit, stuffed into a locked drawer, so our fucking roadies don't skim off of us. As I'm digging around, pulling out an obscene amount of cocaine, in walks the woman of the hour, Miss Naomi fucking Knox.

I turn around with an eight ball in hand expecting to see Jesse or Treyjan or Ronnie.

My heart starts to pump furiously at the sight of her and my cock gets rock hard. I squeeze the bag of cocaine so hard that I can feel the plastic bulging beneath my fingers, getting ready to burst open and spill white powder across the floor.

Naomi is standing there in her white button up and short skirt, eyes narrowed on me and hands shaking. We're no more than eight feet apart, and the air between us is red hot. My jeans feel tight, and my lower back is drenched with sweat. Fuck. Naomi is pretty, but I've been with lots of pretty girls. It's not just that, but I have no clue what the fuck it is. I take a tentative step forward.