Doll Face(13)

“That's … disturbing, to say the least,” I tell Turner, but I'm only trying to cheer him up again. It's not a role I'm used to, but it feels like a role I was born for. Come to think of it, I guess in bits and pieces, I've been doing this all along. Only, when I was lecturing or encouraging before, it was to keep people from ending up where I was, trying to stay lonely in my pit of misery and hell. Now, it's to elevate them up to where I've climbed. Big fucking difference. “Anyway, you're right. America and Travis really did have a child together apparently.” I purse my lips, thinking of the poor kid. After what he just went through, he's got to be traumatized beyond belief. And now both his parents are dead. Who gets custody? “I wish we could raise him,” I say absently, but I know that's a pipe dream if I've ever heard one. The courts would never grant custody of a child to any of us – and that includes me. If either Lydia or Phoebe's families challenge me in court, I will lose the legal custody I now have over them. Of that, I'm sure. I need to make nice with them and soon, before the fact that my name is printed on the birth certificates becomes less than enough for me to keep my daughters.

I grit my teeth.

Ever hear the phrase full plate? Well, my plate isn't just full but overflowing. It's like fucking Thanksgiving up in here.

“Would you like a ride to the hospital?” one of the guards asks. I've been desperately trying to tell them apart, but they're all average height, average build, brunette, nothing remarkable to take note of. I'm sure Brayden didn't arrange his team like that by accident.

“Nah,” Turner says, holding up his hands and spinning away from the guards. He backs out of the elevator, shaking his head. “I think you've done enough,” he whispers roughly, and then he's turning and tearing down the hall towards Milo, holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers. “Cell phone, now.”

“Mr. Campbell,” Milo says, his voice beyond exhausted. The bags under his eyes now extend all the way down his cheeks, sagging across his face like bruises, and his blonde hair is wild and unkempt, not at all like I'm used to seeing. I think our manager might need a raise. He lifts his blue eyes away from Turner and focuses them on me with a slight ghost of a smile. “Mr. McGuire.”

“Cell phone,” Turner repeats, his eyes closed, hand trembling. “Give it to me.” Milo sighs and basically tosses his phone at Turner, who's so obsessed with getting online and looking for news about Naomi that he doesn't even complain.

“This feels weird,” I admit to Milo and he nods, running a hand down his face. His ivory colored tie is stained, and the white shirt underneath it drenched in sweat. His gray suit jacket is crooked and hanging loosely off one shoulder, giving him a lopsided appearance that makes me queasy. “Are you okay?” Our manager takes a deep breath, like he's really doing some soul searching in that split second of time we spend milling in the dirty hallway. I lick my lips and offer up a solution that I know is only fair, but which hurts nonetheless. “If you want to quit and walk away now, you can.” Milo snaps his gaze to mine and his pale blue eyes go wide. I keep talking before he gets a chance to protest. “You can have half of whatever I've made on this godforsaken tour. We've put you through too much.”

Milo purses his lips.

“I'm content with the contract we put in place at the start of this journey together and I'm determined to see it through.” Milo shakes his head and grabs onto the back of Trey's wheelchair. The groupies are gone, the entourage has dissipated, and it's just the five of us alone in a grubby hallway with nowhere to go, just like the olden days.

“Milo,” I begin, but he's not done, his harsh voice snapping Trey out of his nap.

“I have no family, Ronnie.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “I'm forty-five years old, and I have nobody and nothing. This is my life now, and as horrible and stressful as it might be, I enjoy it. You boys give me a purpose above and beyond a job description. If I leave, God only knows what'll happen to you. Stop offering to let me go as a favor. It would simply be a curse.” Milo sniffs and starts pushing the wheelchair towards the doors and out into the sunshine. It smells so fucking bad out here that I just know we're still in L.A.

I pause on the pavement and stare at the white van sitting in front of the entrance. It's one of three cars in the parking lot. Considering the other two are missing their wheels and have no windows, my guess is that this beautiful baby belongs to Brayden's people.

“Let me guess,” I say as I squeeze my fingers tight on my bag and let my gaze wander the mostly empty street. Across from us, there's an abandoned warehouse covered in graffiti. A block to my right, three guys with their pants hanging around their asses and cigarettes clutched between their fingers. They pass plastic baggies of goodies around while I try not to salivate. I need a hit so bad. So, so bad. “You are going to give us a courtesy lift to the hospital whether we like it or not?” I turn and glance over my shoulder at Brayden's men. The one on the right shrugs and I sigh.