Born Wrong(17)

I close my eyes and beat the shit out of my drums, forgetting briefly that I'm sitting alone in a hotel room, that I almost died last week, that in a few days, I'll be in Los Angeles, just one man in a choir of devils, just one fallen angel in a group of demons. My arms are still sore, but I push past the pain, my head moving with the beat, rocking with the gurgling pulse of real music. My electronic plaything becomes a monster kit in my mind, and my sticks become swords, slicing through the throat of the beast, grinding the pounding dance of song into my head. Slowly but surely, I work the sound until its mine and not the other way around. I own it.

My arm muscles swell as I work them to within an inch of their life, drenched in wetness, the dark eyes of ghosts peering back at me from my twisted mass of tattoos. What did you think of me onstage, Arnold? I wonder, imagining my father's frowning face, the color of stubble across his jaw, the way his eyes never saw me but through me, to what he could've have. If my mother had survived, would he have loved me? I guess I'll never really know. Fuck you, Dad, I say with my music. Fuck you and all the rest. I tried to be what you wanted me to be, and it didn't work. And then I tried the opposite and that only made things worse. If Stephen Hammergren wants to come after you, good luck.

I finish the song with a scream and the snapping of sticks, tossing them hard against the opposite wall where they crack and fall to the floor in a heap. The table goes over next, my kit along with it. I'm breathing so hard and heavy that I don't hear the person behind me at first. It's only when I turn around, red faced and raging that I see her.

Her. Holy shit. Her.

I rip the headphones off my ears and try to swallow, but my pulse is in my throat and I can't breathe. The room suddenly seems smaller around me, closing in tight and making me very aware that my shirt is stuck to my skin and my cock is hard and pulsing like a drum beat. I can feel every contraction in my chest, can feel the blood rushing down and making heated demands I can't meet. After all, I don't have any fucking clue who this is.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words will come. My first thought is that I must be seeing Naomi, or a very close relative of, because the woman before me is giving me a physical reaction I've never had before. The closest thing I've ever felt to this was when I kissed Naomi at the safe house. But even then, that was just a flick of the fingers, not on a full on fist to the face.

My brain struggles to put together the pieces of the puzzle while my eyes wander up and down and sweat obscures my vision, making the leggy blonde come in and out of focus.

“The fuck is going on in here?” Turner asks, pushing past the new girl and strutting into my room like he owns it. Naomi's close behind him, cheeks gently colored, breath slower and more focused than it was before. She's happy to see him, even if she is scowling at his back. For the moment though, I could give a shit less. Mystery Girl is staring right back at me with blue, blue eyes and gently parted lips. Her blonde bangs hang in her face, obscuring her raised brows as she moves to the side and lets Ronnie and Lola pass by her. “And why the fuck do you have a rager, dude? You like to put your little drummer sticks up your ass or something?”

“Hey, fuck you, Turner,” I snarl, feeling this rush of passion and heat that quickly cools into an icy storm. My fingers curl at my sides, digging my nails into my palms as I struggle to steady myself, to stop the heady flow of hormones and adrenaline that push through my veins and threaten to send me into an animalistic frenzy. Holy crap, I need to sit down. So I do. I stumble back and find the couch before my legs give out. Or give in. Fuck. I am this close to moving across the room and sliding my hand along the back of this girl's neck, pulling her to me, and putting my fucking tongue down her throat. And that's not me. That's just not me. That's, like, a friggin' Turner thing to do. Shit.

“Are you okay, Dax?” Naomi asks in a weird voice, coming closer to me. I grind my nails into the fabric of the couch cushions and run my tongue over my sweaty lower lip. New Girl mimics the motion, and I groan deep in my throat. I get that everybody's exchanging glances around me, but I don't care. She is still looking at me, and that's all that matters. My eyes slide down her body and she shivers like she's cold.

This girl, no this woman is curvy in all the right places. She's got a narrow waist and full breasts, rounded hips and legs that go on forever, straight down into a pair of red stilettos. Her arms are covered in bright tattoos, the complete opposite of mine. Where my biceps are drowning in darkness and rotting zombies, howling demons, and the lost souls of screaming ghosts, hers are filled with life. Blue waves and yellow fish, a green starfish, a killer whale. They're easy to see, too, considering she's wearing a halter top that barely qualifies as clothing. It hangs loose from her breasts, giving me the perfect view of a taut belly and the soft lines of abdominal muscles. This girl, whoever she is, isn't skinny like Hayden, she's fit. Hard muscles coil underneath soft flesh, and I can't fucking stop myself from launching into a full on daydream about what she could do in bed.