This leaves … a lot to be desired in my opinion. A lot of people were hurt, several people died, Naomi was seen leveling her gun at America and pulling the trigger. None of the media stations talk about this part of the equation. I can't get online, so I have no idea what the social media shit storm looks like, but I can't imagine it's any good.
I groan and let my arm flop over my eyes.
Really makes me miss the early days of driving from gig to gig in our van, begging free overnight stays at the houses of fans, peddling our crappy ass demo to anyone that would listen. Back then, Asuka was with us, so was Travis. I thought I hated it then, but I know now that that was fucking heaven.
“Turner, please,” I beg because I can't take it anymore. His negative energy is creating this vortex of emotion that's pulling my soul into the center of the room, ripping it straight from my body, limb by limb. I feel sick to my stomach. “I can't watch you do this to yourself. I don't know how long we're going to be stuck in here, so can we please make the best of it?”
“They can't keep us in here, cut off from the fucking world like this,” he growls, but he has yet to test the assholes and see if they really will just let us walk out. If it's bothering Turner that much, we can go, but I feel like if we're going to get even an iota of truth out of the situation, we have to stay. If it means sitting here on this mustard yellow bedspread and staring at a TV set from 1992, I'll do it. And I'll do it with a fucking smile on my face. For Lola.
I turn the TV off and sit up, watching Turner pause just long enough to glare at me before he gets his shit together and shakes his hands out with a grumbling sigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, and he scowls at me.
“No, Ronnie, I don't want to frigging talk about it. I really, really don't, okay? Stop being such a fucking girl and act like a man. Clam up and refuse to show any emotion except anger.” I laugh, but Turner doesn't even smile. Guess he wasn't trying to be funny. “Nice that you can find humor in the situation,” he snarls, moving towards the edge of the bed and leveling his glare on me. Turner's brown eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his hands are shaking like he's on a freaking comedown.
“I'm not trying to make fun of you, man. I'm not poking fun at your pain, you know that.” I touch a hand to my chest and sit up as Turner slumps down to the edge of the bed and drags his hand down his face.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I just … ” Turner sighs and drops his hand to his lap, looking over at me with a sad-sack expression I'm more used to seeing in the mirror. Shit. “I'm no good at sitting idle. I'm nobody's fucking prisoner.”
I push myself to my feet with a groan. I am now officially, one hundred percent clean and sober, and it sucks. I would kill for some dope right about now. Shit, I can practically feel it in my blood, stirring up the dopamine in my brain, tellin' me that hell yeah, I'm happier than a fucking crocodile in a room full of sheep. But it's not real, and it won't change anything in the long run. Trust me, I know. For ten years I've self-medicated and fucked around and for ten, long ass years, I've been living under a cloud. Lola's like the sunlight that burns away the fog. Turner might call me a douche for saying that, but in his heart, he'd know it was true.
“Do you trust these fuckers?” Turner asks, shoving his sweatpants down his hips and flashing me some white and red plaid boxers and an old bandage wrapped around his thigh. Turner yanks the gauze back and stares at the bullet wound, poking at the shiny pink edges with his fingernail. It looks like it's on its way to being healed, but he still cringes when he touches it.
“Not really, no. But if there's a chance, even just a slim one, that Naomi could get through this without having to stand trial for murder, wouldn't you take it? Brayden obviously has connections and even though I personally think he blows dick at security detail, I believe he has the ability to help clean up this mess. Why he's even bothering with America gone is beyond me, but can we give it two more days?” My friend grunts but keeps his attention focused on the wound in his leg. Maybe, like me, he's comparing that wound to whatever happened to those girls, magnifying the pain in his head, trying to imagine what it'd be like to take one through the torso.
“Fine. Two days, and then I am fucking out of here. Even another forty-eight hours jammed in here with you sounds like hell.” Turner scowls at me, swiping a tattooed hand through his hair before standing up and fixing his pants. “Nothing to fucking do in here except jack off and watch sitcom reruns.”
“What fresh hell is this?” I ask him with a slight smile as he moves away and tries to look out the window. It's so grimy and the bars on the outside so thick that there's really nothing to see. As far as I know, we might not even be in L.A. anymore. On the ride over here, we were both so out of it that I don't think either of us even remembers leaving the van and tromping into the elevator.