“So, this man, this Stephen, he's simply in this to punish your manager for leaving him?” I ask Naomi. I'm still not quite getting it. I mean, I've seen some people handle rejection badly, but a decade old feud involving a half dozen murders? I just … hmm. My hand accidentally brushes Dax's arm as I adjust myself, and my skin tightens across my muscles. The tips of my fingers are tingling and my mouth parts gently, like I'm waiting for the taste of his tongue. It takes physical effort on my part to stand up and move away from the bed.
“Surely he's sociopathic or psychopathic or whatever the hell you want to call it,” Lola says absently, her voice drifting on the air like fog. “Let's just get whacked out and forget it. No matter what we do, it doesn't mean shit. Just look at today. Look at it. I'm knackered as a dime store whore on payday.”
“Brayden said he could get a message to your sister,” Ronnie says softly, putting a hand on her knee, wrapping his longer fingers around her leg. “You were in voluntarily, too. It's all based on manipulation, Lola.”
“I know that better than anyone, Ronnie. I also know how hard it is to get out. You know what they threatened me with. This last week has been the worst one of my fuckin' life. I can't even take a shit without KK dropping in on me and reminding me that I will never truly be free. Never. I killed a girl,” she growls, turning pointedly to me, pointing at her chest. “I murdered someone. I might as well start getting used to small spaces because I'm either spending the rest of my life in the slammer or six feet under.”
I raise my eyebrows, but I don't comment. It's hard to really respond to something like that. Ronnie gives me a wide-eyed look that I meet with a small nod. I'll keep my mouth shut. Only people on high can judge us down below, and let's face it, that podium's pretty empty up there. I try to imagine Lola, this petite little thing with big eyes and a pretty face, actually killing someone. It's not easy. I wonder about the circumstances. See, I told you. I don't have the full story.
“And I obviously can't go back. What do I do now? I'm jobless, band-less, homeless, hopeless.” Lola stands up and starts to pace, heels whispering across the carpet. After a moment, she bends down and reaches up her shorts, coming out with that gun I was so curious about earlier. She tosses it on the counter and then digs a small, plastic vodka bottle out of her pocket. “Cheers,” she says sarcastically and tosses it back.
“We'll figure this out, Lola. Ice and Glass might be done with, but that doesn't mean you can't start over again. We all get second chances.”
“Hah.” She finishes her drink and tosses it in the trash can. “Right-o, mate. Second chances. How do you know that?”
“Because,” Ronnie says, standing up and moving towards the door. His dark hair obscures his face for a moment before he brushes it back. I watch as he slips a pair of shades on his face and opens the door. “You're my second chance.” And then he disappears into the hallway. After a moment of silence, Lola follows after him.
“Fuck, man,” Turner says with a sigh. “This whole thing blows shit.” He stabs his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray and stands up, pushing away from the wall and glancing over at Naomi. “Emo boy here looks like he's going to be out for a bit. I'm gonna go check in on Trey. Wanna come?”
“If you're going to booty call me, you can fuck off,” Naomi says which makes me grin maniacally. I like seeing sexy chicks whoop the cocky off guys like Turner.
“I think I'm in love,” I say to her around my cigarette, inhaling and drawing my eyes back to Dax. Dax. Dax McCann. Hmm. Just one fuck shouldn't be the end of the world, right? I could risk that. I look away again and pray he doesn't wake up until after I leave. His eyes are so different. I've never seen a gray like that on another human being. They remind me of the lake in the morning, just before the sun comes up, and there's that soft mist drifting across the water.
“With me?” Naomi asks with another smile. I think we're going to be good friends, me and this chick. “Good luck. I hear I'm hard to get.” Turner rolls his eyes and stomps towards the door. I don't know if I've ever really seen him just walk. When he's in a good mood, he swaggers. When he's pissed, he slams his feet against the floor like it owes him money.
“Don't you bother my brother, ass weed,” I tell him as he starts into the hallway. “He just woke up from a near death experience. The morphine makes him think he's okay, but he's not. Remember that.”
“Uh, yes, Mommy Dearest, I fuckin' got it.” And then he leaves, slamming the door behind him. The sound startles Dax out of his sleep, sending him straight up in bed, chest pounding, eyes darting every which way. Until they find me. My own breath gets caught in my throat and threatens to strangle me. I want to be buried in those depths in an unmarked grave. I want to get lost in the gray fog of his gaze and never find my way home. I seriously almost fucking swoon. And how often does that happen? Yeah, never.