Real Ugly (Hard Rock Roots #1)

Chapter Twenty-One: Naomi Knox

I'll admit, I'm the first to think that Hayden's request is bizarre. Despite my heckling, she won't tell me what she's planning on doing, but I figure that I've got the rest of the day to keep prying.

The picture she gave me is folded up, burning a hole in my back pocket. Even the idea that it's there is making me sick, but I leave it, knowing that despite the random 180 she's just pulled, she can't be trusted. This photo, as fucked as it is, gives me complete freedom from her. I keep reminding myself of that as I struggle to forget about Turner. It's hard, especially since I've been listening to Indecency's albums on repeat for the last few hours. His voice is just ... out of this fucking world. Every time he growls, I get flooded with heat and can't keep the memory of his groaning out of my head.

Fuck.

I wander back to the front of the bus and watch out the front window as we pull into another parking lot. Jesus, but I'm tired of sleeping on this damn thing. I want a real bed. And Kash snores. And now, Dax won't stop staring at me. Not even for a second. If he knows that Turner and I slept together, he doesn't let on, but he does keep dropping hints about the damn baby head, asking where it came from and whatnot.

I can't wait until this tour is over.

The parking brake hasn't even been set when Turner comes storming onto the bus and up the stairs. His face is red and his eyes are wide. He looks like shit.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I snarl at him, but he's already grabbing my wrist and dragging me down the steps. His grip is rock solid and his intent is clear – to get me out of earshot. But why? As Turner yanks me across the cement and towards some shrubs at the edge of the lot, I see a champagne colored car idling near the exit. I don't know for sure, but I'm willing to hazard a guess that Eric's the one inside. Hmm.

Turner stops only when we're cloaked in shadows, hidden from the lights of the venue by a windowless stone wall. His fingers relax, and then his phone's in my face.

"Naomi," he says as I snatch it away from him, examining his wide eyes and sallow skin. I don't know what he's been doing all night, but sleeping certainly isn't it. And he's wearing the same pants he had on yesterday. Different shirt though. Probably since I ended up stealing his. I tap my fingers on the side of the phone and wonder what happened to my underwear. If they end up on eBay, I swear to God, I'll kill him.

"What is your fucking problem?" I ask him, switching my gaze to the screen and the picture that's already pulled up and ready for my viewing pleasure. My heart starts to pump and dizziness sweeps over me, making me stumble. Turner catches me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Dax watching us. I keep the phone tucked tight against my chest. "Where did you get this?" I sound breathless, desperate. Afraid. And I don't like to sound that way. It isn't in my nature.

I look down again, examine the picture.

There I am with the scissors in my hand, pale fingers clenched tight around the metal. In this particular still, the pointed blades are half buried in Mrs. Rhineback's miserable throat. Blood is just starting to spill from her neck to join her husband's. Oh, how fun.

"A video followed shortly thereafter," Turner says, lighting up a joint. I steal it from him before he has a chance to smoke it and purse my lips around it. Wow. Just wow. Thanks a lot, Katie. I look up and let my eyes scan the darkness around us. She could be anywhere and that scares the shit out of me. She was never dangerous before, but people change. I have no idea what she's capable of. I mean, that baby head thing? That was just cruel.

My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps and my chest feels so tight that I'm afraid my ribs might just open up and let out my heart. As I drop Turner's phone to the ground, I notice that the lower half of his shirt is covered in blood. His swollen lip and nose explain the source but not the cause. I smash the heel of my boot into the screen and pull the joint from my mouth with one hand, gesturing casually, as if Turner didn't just discover the fact that I'm a murderer – one who got away with it.