Born Wrong(10)
“You killed Travis.” These words come from Ronnie's lips, pushed out into the air, heavy as a ton of bricks. They float to the floor and sit there, teasing us all with the implications. Tyler's the one that hit Travis? I wonder, thinking back to the hit and run accident. How could Ronnie possibly know that? Who the fuck is America, and how the hell does this all tie together? I imagine someone owes me an explanation as soon as we get out of this situation. I am not afraid to grab either Turner or Ronnie by the ear and force them to dish the dirt.
Tyler laughs at this which actually bothers the freaking shit out of me. Like, really, dude? You're going to laugh at the death of a good guy? A guy who was always there for me and my brother, treated us like family. Travis' death was a frigging travesty, and here this fucker is laughing at him. Makes me sick.
“Lola,” Tyler says as the doors open onto the next floor. The gun is promptly removed from my skull and hidden back into the folds of his jacket. “Take Mr. McGuire down the other elevator. Go all the way to the basement and meet with Honesty there. She'll let you know what you need to do. Go on now.”
I look at Lola at the same moment Ronnie does. Their eyes meet, and even I can see that they're on the same side. This weirdo behind me, he seems crazy but competent. He knows they are, too. If she leaves with Ronnie, bad things are bound to happen. I lick my lips and take a second to steady myself, talk myself into doing what I already know I need to do. When the villains are in control, the situation never turns out well. I mean, think about it. He's got the gun, the leverage, so what choice do we have except to make his wildest dreams come true? I look back at that Cohen guy again and know I'm probably his wettest dream at the moment. Shivers travel up and down my spine as I slide my foot back. I'm wearing five inch stilettos in a hospital. It might not seem like a logical choice to you, but these bitches have come in handy more than a time or two.
“Yes sir, Mr. Rutledge,” Lola grinds out in her pretty, little accent. She nods her chin at Ronnie, a pall of melancholy sliding over her features as he grudgingly steps out of the elevator.
“You mean Mr. Hammergren,” Ronnie says which only makes the Tyler guy laugh. Glad he finds that funny because he isn't going to like this. And people think strippers are all brainless bimbos?
From across the elevator, Milo catches my gaze. He's perceptive, that guy. I give him a slight smile, and then slam the heel of my shoe into Tyler's instep. If you think that's a pussy move, then you've never been stabbed with a stiletto. To his credit, the man hardly makes a sound. Instead, he sucks in a massive breath, and I can feel violence coiling behind me. For a second there though, the gun moves away from my flesh, and I dive forward, straight past Turner, rolling onto the hospital floor and coming to my feet just in time to pass a wink on to two elderly ladies with canes. There are positives to being a stripper, you know. I mean, I never thought I'd be using my gymnastic training to give guys blue balls, but at least I can still pull off a pretty mean cartwheel.
Turner doesn't wait around for breakfast, if you know what I mean. He shoves his other friends off the elevator and stumbles along after them, spinning around just in time to catch Mr. Milo there using his can of mace to spray the two men in the face. The Cohen guy screeches like a little bitch, but that other dude, the mega freak, he just squinches up his features and glares straight through our souls. Holy fuck, this man is insane, like clinically.
The doors scrape closed behind Milo as he sidesteps onto the linoleum floor and brushes at the arm of his suit jacket with a sigh, glancing back at our two little friends inside, scrubbing at their eyes with a slurry of curses. Well, Cohen's cursing anyway. Tyler is just standing there with tears running down his face, eyes still open. I wave goodbye to them as the metal cuts off my view, praying to God the doors don't open right back up and leave me with a bullet in the breast.
“Who the hell knew that fucking man purse would come in handy, huh?” Turner says, backing away from the doors and casting a glance at Ronnie.
“What the fuck was that about?” Blonde Kid, Jake or Joe or Josh or whatever his name is, snarls, getting up close to Turner's face. “What have you done now?” When Turner doesn't answer him, he just spins away, grabbing at his hair. “I knew this opportunity was too good to be true. I just knew it. Fuck this band. Fuck it.”
“Quiet, Mr. Drake,” Milo snaps, taking control of the situation with an admirable amount of self-control. His face is stoic, and he doesn't seem overly fazed. My guess? My boys have put him through worse shit than this. A guy with a gun? No big deal. An angry father or a pissed off fan girl? Now that's a clusterfuck-fuckity-fuck. “They could return to this floor at any moment.” Milo pauses and glances up at a security camera near the elevator doors. “Or perhaps, the authorities could become involved.” He turns to look at Turner, hands on his hips, mouth twisted in a scowl, and Ronnie who's got his arm around Lola's waist, squeezing her tight. Her gun has mysteriously disappeared. And she's wearing a halter and some tight as fuck jean shorts. Need to beg this chick for some life skills. I've been trying to figure out how to hide a gun onstage for like, ever. “Let's find Treyjan and while we have the opportunity, you two can fill me in on this … situation. If you don't, I'll be forced to get the police on the phone. If there's a real reason why I shouldn't, let me know now.”