Born Wrong(3)
“Why don't you fuck off and leave him alone, Naomi?” Hayden growls, coming up behind me and rubbing her body along my back. I don't need her to fight my battles for me, but I don't have the energy to say anything. I knew this was coming, really. I did. But, man, Naomi's timing fucking sucks.
“Why don't you let him speak for himself, you stupid, anorexic bitch?” Naomi snarls, and then there's a sudden draft of air behind me as she yanks Hayden away from me and shoves her into a roadie with an armful of sweaty towels. A fight breaks out as I turn around and try to step between them, but America is already there, yanking Naomi back by the waistband and using her sling as a barrier between the two girls.
“Self-control, please. I realize it's a difficult thing for you ladies, but keep in mind that there are more important things to worry about than fighting over Mr. McCann here.” America gives Naomi a pressing look and drops her hands by her sides.
I purse my lips and push the surge of anger back, squeezing my fists so tight that it feels like the bones in my fingers are going to break. This is such crap. Fuck. Want me to be emo? Shit, man, I fucking hate my life right now. I look at Hayden, panting, eyes wide, gold shirt sparkling weakly in the dim light, and then I glance over at Naomi, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear and scowling. Two women, two completely different personalities, wants, needs, fears. They're both fighting over me yet neither of them really wants me. Depressing.
“Let it go,” I whisper, staring between them, catching the stares of the staff from the corner of my eye. These aren't our usual people. Most of the folks back here belong to the magazine, LMTV, or that rocker website, the one that's famous for comparing every album they review to a recreational drug. And some of them are writing things down, not at all discreetly. Whatever we do back here is going to become public. This isn't our tour, taking place behind locked gates and in the backs of buses with tinted windows. Our dirty laundry's out in the open now. I sigh. As long as they don't ask us to do a reality show. Dear God, please don't let that happen. If somebody offered, America would jump on that faster than Turner Campbell on a hot, young roadie. “Just remember,” I say as Naomi rolls her eyes and Hayden lifts her chin defiantly. “Everything you do is being watched.” I whisper this last part and move away towards the curtains, peeping out to check on the progress onstage. It's dark as hell out there, but in the dim lighting I can just barely make out the lines of my kit. It's almost time. We are this close to the biggest day of our lives.
And here I am praying that nobody I know sees it.
How did I even get to this point? I close my eyes and slump sideways against the wall. My mind keeps recycling Naomi's words over and over again, no matter how hard I try to block them out. Even through the nerves and the anxiety, it hurts like hell. I want fire, Dax. I sway on my feet and listen to the ache of my body, the throbbing soreness of my bones. That tornado really fucked me hard, left me lying on my back on the pavement wondering what the hell my purpose in life was. I was there dying for a woman who barely sees me, a friend I wish could be more but never will be.
I wish love was like a faucet, something you could turn on and off at will. I'd switch my flow away from Naomi, from my father. I touch my fingers to my face, wishing I was wearing gloves on my hands. They feel naked without them, raw, like everything I touch is twice as rough as it should be. I press against the bruise on my cheek gently and decide that the pain level has dropped from hurts like a motherfucking bitch from hell to simply hurts like a bitch. A definite upgrade.
“Are you alright?” Blair asks, coming up close and whispering so nobody else can hear. We've been friends since elementary school, so I know she knows me just as well as I know her. No point in bullshitting.
“I'm lonely,” I whisper back because I know Blair understands how that feels. But at least she has a family that loves her, that cares. They might be a thousand miles away from here, but they're there and they don't hate her guts. But then, that's not the kind of lonely Blair is. She's desperate to find that other half, the one person out there in the universe that understands her. I get it.
“It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely,” Blair quotes and then grins. “Einstein,” she says, and I smile. “Don't be so down in the dirt, Dax. Things'll get better, they will.” She pats my arm gently and then reaches down to adjust the waistband of her designer jeans. They don't look right on her, not at all. Whoever styled Blair today either completely misread her or wanted to rebrand her in a different light. Blair Ashton likes to wear clothing fished from the bottom of clearance bins, torn up and sewn back together, mixed with fabric scraps she's up-cycled from God knows where. “Naomi's in a hard place right now. Things are … complicated.”