I smile.
“Don't bullshit me. If there's anything in life that makes me sick to my stomach, it's a lie. Don't fucking lie to me.”
“Did I lie?” I ask him, savoring the memory of my fists against Hayden's face. “I just asked you a question. What was what about?”
Turner rolls his eyes, keeping pace with me, dark hair hanging over his brow, falling just barely into his brown eyes. His lips are perfect bow ties, devilish when he scowls, angelic when parted. Right now, he's somewhere in between, working his jaw to keep the anger back. He doesn't want to piss me off. Good for him. He's finally figuring out how this shit works. I draw my gaze away from his face and keep my eyes searching for some kind of trail, something for us to follow other than the road.
“That … the hand thing, and the … ” Turner gestures up towards his face and then down at his crotch. Eloquent. So fucking eloquent. “Playing with your guitar when you knew I was watching. And last night, I still don't understand what I did to piss you off.” I can't answer any of his questions because I don't even have the answers to them. Hot and cold. That's me. This whole fucking thing isn't easy. And to tell you the truth, the whole murder mystery crap is the
easiest
part. Falling in love sucks. It's like being dragged into a black hole. Once you get caught in the orbit, that's it. There's no getting out. The gravity of the emotion crushes you down until you're nothing but that, just this bit of life floating around desperate for the touch of that other person, the feel of their hand, the kiss of their lips. Needless to say, this has never happened to me before. It's weird because my life right now is at its best and its worst, all at once.
“Don't push me right now, okay?” Silence. I look over at Turner who's not speaking, even though his whole face is squinched up tight, and he looks pissed as hell. I turn back forward and keep walking, spying a trail to our left. “I just want to walk. And you, you need to walk, too. So just keep moving.”
“I love that song.”
“Sure you do.”
“Fuck, Naomi. Can't I freaking compliment you without getting my nuts torn off? I love your music, all of it. Even if it's about me.” I don't answer him and dig around in my pockets for a cigarette. A lot of it is about him, that's true. But not all of it. I wonder if I should tell him what's what? The flame on my lighter burns bright, heating up my hand as I cup my fingers around it and ignite the end of my smoke. “When we finally get Hayden's ass kicked to the curb and you take over full time, there's not going to be any stopping Amatory Riot. You guys are good now. Without that anorexic snot bag, you'll be great.” Turner holds up a cigarette and I pass him my light.
“Question is, how do we get rid of her? How do we stop any of this? America might know more, might know a lot even, but that doesn't fix the problem.” I pause, glancing over my shoulder at the bodyguard. If he's not listening in on us, I'd be surprised. We keep it vague. “I've been thinking,” I start and nearly leap out of my skin when Turner grabs my hand again, clasping my wrist hard, holding me with unfamiliar fingers. I can't fight the surge in my gut that tells me they should be familiar, that I should know every whorl on his fingertips, the shape of his nails, the wrinkles in his knuckles, the map of colorful tattoos. It's like every bad romance novel I've ever read. I could probably count 'em all on one hand, but the plot's always the same, always like this. This overwhelming
something
that bites you in the ass and takes a fat chunk out of your cheeks. I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them slowly.
“Just hold my fucking hand,” Turner whispers against my ear, giving me goose bumps. “Just lace your fingers with mine and hold on like your life depends on it, like our pulse is dependent on this one, single connection.”
“Fuck you.” It's all I've got. Turner just smirks at me, but I don't let go.
He needs this,
I tell myself, thinking about Trey again. I don't let myself realize that maybe I might need it, too.
“So you were saying?” he prods as we continue along the trail, around a copse of taller trees and a rocky hill with a muddy rock slide bleeding down into the earth. We pick our way around the boulders, the bald dude traipsing along behind us.
“I think we should tell everyone.” I pause, nibbling at my lip, trying not to pay attention to Turner's or the silver rings through his flesh. “That we can trust, that is. Wren, Kash, Blair, Jesse.” I hesitate for a second. “Trey. If they're all targets, too, that means shit could be happening to them that we don't even know about. We have to coordinate this fucking crap or we're screwed six ways to Sunday.” I look at Turner, my body thrumming and singing and pulsing in response to his skin against mine. Mighty hard to remind myself
why
I'm so conflicted when we're standing like this, so close the warmth of his body is seeping into mine.
Stupid, cock sucking motherfucker. He's got charisma and charm like Hitler had charisma and charm. It's fucking evil. Seriously, evil.
“You sure that's a good idea? Look what happened to Trey after I announced that shit onstage.”
I give him a look, eyebrows raised.
“You don't seriously believe that was all you, right? How easy is it, you think, to hire a hit man? Or for that hit man to get setup just so in a nearby building? I don't think this was something spur of the moment, Turner. This guy – Tyler or Stephen or whoever – knew what he wanted to do long before it ever happened. We're just lucky Treyjan isn't dead already. Or anybody else for that matter.” I turn forward and notice that the trail swings around to the back of the house. The foliage here is so thick that it'd be impossible to see this pathway from any of the windows or even the back patio. But from here, looking up through bare branches tangled together like vines, the house is easy to spot.
Turner doesn't respond, but we keep moving, towards the fence and the fading paint that covers the wooden slats. Once upon a time, I bet this place was the shit. It has that look about it, like it used to be the jewel of the ball. Now it's just tired and worn down. Kind of sad if you think about it.
“So how do we broach the subject? One at a time or in a group?”
“One on one would probably be easier, don't you think?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
When we hit the gate in the back of the fence, Turner opens it and pulls me through, slamming it shut behind me before the bodyguard can follow us. He pushes my body up against the wood and presses his face in close. His breath smells like toothpaste and cigarettes and the bulge in his pants doesn't lie: he's feeling what I'm feeling right now. It's mutual. It's really fucking mutual.
“You won't last,” I tell him as he pushes up my skirt with his free hand. The other one remains wound around my fingers. Turner raises a dark brow at me as the bodyguard clears his throat on the other side of the fence.
“Hey, fuck off, fucker. We're busy here,” he snaps and focuses his attention right back on me, eyes warm and shining, uncovering things that I don't want uncovered. I look away, at a cluster of dried up shrubs nearby. “Last, baby? You don't think I'll last?” He smirks. “Watch me.” Turner reaches down and unbuttons his pants. I'm not sure that I want to have sex with him right now. All of those doubts are pushing up and through me, threatening to drown me in their clambering. Sex has always been nothing to me, a biological impulse, a game, a pastime. I had no idea it could strip you bare and leave you wanting. It almost makes me sick to my stomach.
“I mean you won't last with me, Turner.”
“And why's that?” he whispers, still not getting it, letting go of my hand to lift me up against the rough wood of the fence. My bare ass scrapes against it, sending a thrill through my blood.
“You're a fucking party boy piece of shit, Turner. You can't change. Maybe for awhile, but it won't last. And I'll never stop challenging you. It'll get old. You'll get sick of me.”
“Is that what's been bothering you?” he asks me, teasing my slick pussy with his cock. It feels too fucking good to say no. And why not? If I'm right, then this is just a bit of fun, isn't it? A brief slice of time for me to enjoy myself. That's how I've always done things, so why not keep on that same path? If I assume Turner's nothing, and he turns out to be something, yay for me. If I assume he's nothing, and he fucks me over royally, then I won't be the worse for wear. I love him, I do. I think I can accept that, but that doesn't mean it's going to be easy. I just can't let that love consume or control me. “You're afraid to take the plunge, not because you don't want to fall, but because you're afraid of what might happen when you hit the bottom?”
I stare at Turner hard, keep my face as mean and nasty as possible. Doesn't work. Kind of hard to stay pissy when your pussy's throbbing like a dirty heartbeat. Turner doesn't make it any easier, sliding his rock hard cock against my wetness, slicking up against me and grinding me into the creaking fence. Somewhere behind us, the bodyguard's waiting, maybe getting off on this, maybe not, I have no fucking clue. Better not be filming it though. I wrap my legs around Turner's torso and squeeze him tight, pulling him as close as possible. After all, it's cold as hell out here and I'm bare assed and getting ready to dance the dirty deed with Turner Campbell, sworn enemy. New friend. And he has been a good one throughout this shit. He really, really has.
“Just shut the fuck up and screw me.” He moves forward to kiss me, and I put a hand on his chest, holding him back. “With a condom.” Stupid fucking asshole, his smile never falters. Turner leans in, pressing his mouth against my collarbone, flicking his tongue ring over my clavicle. When he speaks, his voice cuts into my flesh, bleeding me all over his chest, opening me up with simple vibrations, manipulating the very air molecules surrounding us. How he does it, I'm not sure I'll ever know.
“I'll put it on one-handed, like a fucking boss.” He grins, scraping my skin with his lip rings. Despite the icy crispness of the air, the metal's warm, almost scalding. I want to roll my eyes and cuss him out, but it feels so damn good that I end up just weaving my fingers through his dark hair, squeezing it tight. I like the feeling of control that gives me over him, even though I know that it's false, that controlling Turner is a pipe dream – kind of like controlling me. We can match each other blow for blow. You have no idea how rare that is.
“Yeah, yeah. Like a fucking boss. Just cover your stump before you hump, bitch.”
Turner gives me a smirk that makes me want to smash his face in. And kiss him. Fucking Christ.
“You know how I know I love you?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks heating again. Blush. I'm fucking blushing. How the fuck? How the friggin' fuck? That's not my Goddamn style. Sanguine cheeks are better left for virgin brides and high school prom dates.
“If you spew anymore perfervid prose, I might puke. Cut the crap and let's screw.” The fingers of my free hand trail down the tattoos on his neck, brushing down over the cotton of his band tee. Underneath there, my name is carved in ink, permanently stamped into his flesh for all the world to see. I try to drum up some of that hurt from before, reminding myself how he didn't even know my name was there. Six years of wearing my brand on his flesh and he had no idea. I get it, it's on his back, and he has a fuck ton of tattoos, but really? Really?
“Because you're the only fucking person on this planet I let talk to me like that, the only damn one. Anybody else would be curb stomped and covered in blood by now.” I keep my eyes focused on his, doing my best to pretend there aren't a dozen windows looking down on us right now. Anybody could be watching.
Let 'em watch and see,
I think before I can stop myself.
Let 'em look and know that Turner isn't interested in them, that he's only interested in me.
I pull his hair tighter and he grunts, fumbling around down below, knuckles knocking against me as he puts the condom on. One-handed.
“Whore's trick,” I whisper, but he just smiles. I'm starting to wonder if there's anything I can do to turn him off. Every day it seems his resolve grows, morphs and twists and turns inside of him until he's built up this reserve of patience for me. It's scaring the fucking crap out of me.
“Useful,” he whispers back, and then he's sliding deep, pushing inside and thrusting all my doubts and fears out the Goddamn window. It's what every girl – every person – dreams of in a lover. And I've found it. And I have no clue what to do with it. And it is scary as
fuck.
“I love you.” Words whispered in my ear, blocking out the sounds of our bodies melding, hot and incandescent like flames. I should be able to say it again, no problem, right? But even the pleasure he's raking with every thrust of his cock can't get me to open up and say it. I guess I'm afraid, but I don't really know. Certainly stubborn. I can't deny that.
I close my eyes, so I can't see the look on his face, the complete abandonment, the possessive smirk. Turner knows what he wants; it's just me that's having the problem. The sex between us has always been explosive, un-fucking-real, but I'm messing it up with emotion and introspection. In my head, I imagine that Turner and I have just met up sweaty, backstage after a show, just ran into each other. He does't remember he has my name tattooed on his back, but I know. And when he smirks and approaches me, I open my arms and take him in for one last taste, just a lick of salt, something to burn my mouth and make me remember why I shouldn't care.
Why I shouldn't, but I do.
Even in my own fantasies, I can't lie to myself. But it helps. It does help.
The moan bursts from my throat like it's been fighting to escape for a long time, like this sound is one I've been carrying around in my heart for years and have only just now gotten up the courage to let out. I scramble at Turner's hair, biting my lip, crushing him between my thighs as he moves inside of me like he was born to do it. I hate to say it, but the whore has skill. There are
some
benefits to fucking a guy who's been everywhere and seen it all. He knows how to use it and isn't afraid to show off.