Doll Face(14)
Oh well.
Even though it feels like it's all over – the tour, the music, the drama – I'm not upset. There are no paparazzi here, no roadies trying to bum smack off me, it's almost … peaceful.
Too bad we all know that shit ain't gonna last.
Hospitals are weird. I decide after a couple of days that I don't much care for 'em. How can a place be both lonely and crowded at the same time? There are sour faced nurses everywhere and doctors who act like they've got better things to do, scowling at you when they think you're not looking and saying derogatory crap under their breath. Without even trying to get to know me, everyone here's assumed that because I'm involved in what's sure to be considered one of the most infamous tours in human history, that I must be a cunt. Or at the very least, a slutty little asshole as Nurse Dina refers to me.
I lay on my back in the hospital bed, one hand thrown over my eyes as I pray away the sun and wish for rain. It would fit my mood better. Sitting in this sterile little room with no flowers and no company? It might as well be a jail cell. At least if I was in the big house though, I'd probably get better food. And maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to roll over onto my side.
The door opens and I groan, expecting Nurse Dina again. That bitch is punctual. But I'm not ready for her yet. Next time she comes 'round, I'm gonna take a nice, long hot piss in the bedpan, so she has something to clean up.
“Can't I have a moment of fucking peace?” I ask, pulling my arm away from my eyes and freezing as I catch sight of the person standing at the foot of my bed.
My heart starts to pound and my head gets real dizzy, like I'm half-cut and already slamming my next drink. I have to swallow three times before I can speak.
“Ronnie?” My head is pounding now, or maybe that's just my heart, echoing around inside my chest and ricocheting up to my skull. I promised I wasn't going to cry again, but the stupid tears start to fall anyway, and I suddenly can't think of anything but my sister and how her dead body must look, all stiff and splattered in blood. How am I supposed to tell my dad that his little girl is gone? Why the fuck didn't she stay in France making Camembert cheese for fuck's sake?
“Don't cry, doll face,” he tells me and my heart flips, like a teenager girl getting a smile from the boy she likes. Such a small gesture can make a big difference when your life's as fucked as mine. I purse my lips together and let the tears fall as Ronnie makes his way around the end of the hospital bed and gathers me against his chest. I grunt at the pain in my side, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except for this. My fingers curl in Ronnie's T-shirt while the down under bits of me swear up and down that a little gunshot ain't enough to stop this train. I push back a completely inappropriate wash of hormones and bury my head in his chest, taking deep breaths to hold back the sobs. Ronnie tangles his hand in my hair, brushing the stray strands back from my forehead with his inked up fingers, the four purple hearts dancing dangerously across his skin. “I'm sorry about Poppet,” he whispers, and I nod, sniffling and trying to put on a brave face.
“Me, too,” I reply, leaning back and trying to smile up his face. He's shaved for me, cleaned up real nice. There's a dash of eyeliner around his eyes and the faintest hint of dark circles, but Ronnie looks sober and oh so happy to see me. The gleam in his brown eyes warms as he bends down and presses his lips to my forehead, giving me the chills. The last boyfriend I had was Cohen Rose and he sure as shit didn't give me chaste kisses on my forehead. I was willing to die for this motherfucker right here, that's a big deal. I look away and try to wrap my emotions tighter around myself, before Ronnie can pick up on them. He's good at that crap, you know? I slide my eyes back to his, trying to keep my expression neutral. “But she made her choice, and I made mine.”
We stare into one another's eyes for a moment before the door opens again and Turner Campbell stumbles in, slumping into the baby puke pink chair in the corner. His face is bare and empty, but not devastated. There's a big difference, like a concert venue that's been evacuated instead of burned down. Get the picture?
“Naomi's still alive,” he whispers, his voice quivering like my hands as they sit idle in my lap. I force them to stay still and watch Ronnie's friend sink deeper into himself. “But she's not awake yet. They're not even sure if she is going to wake up. And they won't let me see her because I'm not fucking family,” Turner growls with a frustrated snarl, leaning over his knees and staring at the while linoleum floor beneath his boots. “Same situation as with Trey. Why don't people understand that fucking family isn't relegated to two parents and their kids. I hate this Goddamn shit.” He kicks out his leg and hits the little two seater table that's sitting empty in the middle of the room. It screeches across the floor and slams into the wall before coming to a stop.