Doll Face(15)

“It sucks, Turner, I know, but Naomi is going to make it. Then you two can get married, and next time one of you gets shot at a concert, you'll have hospital privileges.” Ronnie tries to smile, but Turner's not having any of it, frowning and turning his attention to the empty wall.

Ronnie looks back at me, and I stare into his face, wondering how we ended up here. It was a weird set of circumstances, I'll give you that.

“You look beautiful,” he tells me and I snort.

“What do you think this is, bush week?” I ask, and he gives me a weird look. Aw, nobody understands poor Lola Saints and her crazy arse little mouth. I'll admit, I've been known to make up a word or two in my day, but that shit right there is legit. “Never mind,” I say and Ronnie chuckles. “Let me translate for you: you're not fooling anyone with that shit. I look like roadkill, and I know it. These bitches won't let me do anything, not even get out of bed. They're making me piss in a bedpan. Yesterday, they tried to give me a sponge bath, but I spit in Nurse Dina's face. Now she won't even get me a cuppa and I'm jonesing for some caffeine.” I take Ronnie's hand in mine and give him a pleading look. “Get me a cup of coffee, will ya? Something that doesn't suck. No doubt you'll have to leave the hospital to get a hold of it. Everything in here is poison, I tell you. Poison.” Ronnie pulls me to his chest again and my body shivers. It's a lot easier to joke around than it is to stay serious.

“That I can do,” he promises as we hold each other and I wonder frantically how this is all going to play out. Where do we go from here? Are Ronnie and I a couple? I mean, not really. We hardly know each other, right? Even if I think I'm in love with him, that doesn't seal our fate, doesn't bind us together permanently. Do I go back home and tell my dad in person that Poppet is dead? Unless he already knows. I have a feeling that our fuckups might be screwed up enough to cross the Pacific Ocean. Either Ronnie is psychic or he can tell from the stiffness of my shoulders and my sudden silence what I'm thinking. “Stay here with me, Lola,” he says, and I swallow hard. “In Los Angeles for a little while. We can rent a house or something, get our heads together, just hang out. I'll take you to Disney Land or some shit.” I snort as he slides his fingers across my jaw and makes my lashes flutter.

“I hate Mickey Mouse,” I admit and Ronnie laughs. “Scares the crap out of me, won't lie about that.” But I like your offer, I think, knowing that Ronnie feels the same way I do. Question is, how do I get up the courage to really talk about? “Can we rent a house on the beach? I think we deserve a little sand and surf after all that fucking shit.”

“Nobody's renting anything,” Turner grumbles and we both glance over at him, sitting slumped and lonely in the hospital chair. “I'm buying an Indecency crash pad, somethin' real, real nice.”

“Turner,” Ronnie says, but his friend isn't listening. He's sliding his finger across the screen of a smartphone, brow furrowed and lips turned down at the corners.

“A dozen bedrooms, some fancy ass kitchen stocked with energy drinks, and a pool I can spend most of the day naked in.” He's still mumbling, but his lips are twitching. That's a good sign, right? Ronnie sighs and looks back over at me with a shrug. “We might not be able to go back on tour anytime soon, but that doesn't mean life as we know it has to be over.” Turner doesn't exactly sound like he believes that, but I decide not to say anything. If I can get out of this hospital sooner rather than later, I'd live in an alley behind a fast food restaurant. A big house with Ronnie sounds like a dream, even if all his friends are living in it, too.

“Whatever you want, man,” Ronnie says with another shrug as he leans down and puts his chin on my head, holding onto me like we're a proper couple and all that. Sure, we've been spending a lot of time together, but ever since I found out Poppet was willingly with Stephen, I've been in a funk. Drunk, fucked up, or sleeping. That's how I've spent most of the last week. Getting shot and waking up to find myself still breathing? Now if that doesn't give me a kick in the arse, I don't know what will. I think of Poppet again and my throat closes up.

Before I can think up anything else to say, that uppity bitch, Nurse Dina, waltzes into the room and piddles around like she's got something important to do. I notice she says longer than her usual five minutes, eyes shifting to the side like a fucking croc searching for prey. I can just imagine this woman with water up to her eyeballs, scanning along the shore for an unsuspecting man to waltz on by. If I had to guess, I'd say her cunt's drier than the Great Victoria Desert.