“Why don't we all pile in the van for a little holiday?” he says, backing up a step or two. A moment later, Lola emerges from the bathroom, hair sopping wet and hanging in her face. She moves closer to the group and this time, she does let Ronnie touch her, folding into his arms and sagging there. Poor girl. “As I said, we can do details later. For now, let's get you all back to the hotel. I imagine you'd like a bit of rest before your interviews? Besides, it's just about time for us to catch a plane to L.A.”
I raise my brows, but don't say anything. L.A., huh? Why on earth would the boys be heading back to our hometown? Interesting. Very interesting. My photo shoot just happens to be in L.A. as well. But I mean, of course it is, right? That's the real Sin City right there. Sorry, Vegas. My dad always used to call it Los Diablos, but hey, from the mouth of a religious crack addict, that's just funny isn't it?
“I'm not fucking leaving here until I see Trey,” Turner demands, standing up tall and glaring at Brayden like he's personally responsible for the shit in the elevator. That's my boy. Make the world eat it. Even if it's not their fault. Usually, they deserve it.
“Don't be such a fag, man. I'm right here,” my brother says from behind us. It only takes Turner a half second to sprint across the room and slide to his knees on the floor by Trey's wheelchair. One of Brayden's guys is pushing it. Or at least I assume the man in the khakis is one of his guys. I mean, he's not currently snapping his neck or shooting him in the face, so I just assume it's chill. I smile as I watch Turner put a hand over Trey's and rest his forehead against the metal arm of the chair. Brothers in every way but blood. Whoever said it was thicker than water anyway? Fuck blood. This here's real family.
I have no clue what's going on, but as I watch the boys surround my brother, my poor brother, dressed in bandages and hooked to a butt load of machines that roll along beside him, I know that I'm going to find out. I'm starting to get the feeling here that maybe, just maybe the guys haven't done anything to deserve this shit. And nobody, and I mean nobody hurts my family and gets away with it.
I sit on the edge of my bed and try not to think too hard about what Hayden said to me. Or the fact that she said it on purpose, to get a rise out of me, to see what I'd do. That girl is so lost, and I'm starting to wonder if she's ever going to be able to find her way out of this. It isn't fucking fair. Hayden wasn't always this way. Once upon a time, she was better than this.
“This is fucking ridiculous, Dax,” Naomi growls, cigarette flapping between her lips as she stares down at me. I glance up at her, but I'm not sure what she wants me to say. I thought I was helping Hayden by keeping her secret, but I think – although it fucking pains me to admit it – that Turner's right. Secrets kill, and Hayden's are poisoning her from the inside out. I pretend like I don't feel betrayal swirling around in my gut. I'm betraying her confidence by telling Naomi, but maybe, just maybe I'm saving her life. “Think you could've mentioned this sooner?”
“I told Brayden Ryker, what else do you want from me?” I ask, glancing up. My muscles are throbbing, and I have a massive headache, but I can't lie down yet, not until I find out what happened at the hospital. Some small part of me hopes Turner is dead, but then, I don't want Naomi to suffer. That's not real love now, is it? Besides, who the fuck am I kidding? That cocky ass piece of shit is stronger than steel. After a nuclear blast, there'd be cockroaches, and there'd be Turner motherfucking Campbell. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. How much further I delve into Hayden's secrets is really up to me at this point. “And that's all she said, Mi. She didn't elaborate.”
Naomi closes her eyes, bottling up that rage she has for Hayden, that hatred that's driven too deep to ever go away. Things are not going to be as they were, never again. Even I know that. Hayden and Naomi are too far gone to continue having much of a relationship.
“You said there was more. Fucking spill it then. I'm tired of wading around in the dark. What else did the bitch tell you to try and garner some more sympathy?” Her eyes snap open and grab me around the throat, strangling the breath from my lungs. I can see it in the set of her jaw, the way her fingers curl at her sides; she's worried for Turner. I lick my lips, but my mouth is suddenly dry, and I can't find the strength to speak. Naomi rolls her eyes and turns away, moving towards the window and placing her fingers against the glass, just so. She's dressed in a loose Amatory Riot tee, and her hair is hanging softly down her back. The sight's getting me riled up in more ways than one. First, she looks fucking beautiful standing there, a rock goddess in sweatpants and bare feet, a girl who breaks hearts and destroys souls, just by walking through a crowd. And second, she's clean, and I'm not. I have this thing about showering after shows. Besides, my injuries from the tornado haven't just disappeared over night. I'm hurting, and when I hurt, I sweat. Not a good combination. But these sorts of truths can't wait for another shower. I sat here and mulled this over while Naomi was in the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure this is the only way to go.