“Tame is all you get until you've healed up a bit. There's no way in fuck I'm flipping your ass over a counter for at least another two weeks.” I make a pouty face, but it quickly morphs into a yawn as I lay back and let my eyes close. The TV's still on, flickering brightly. I can hear people screaming at each other, probably about some worthless drama that won't mean shit in a week or two. If they only knew the half of what we'd been through, they'd stop their whinin' and carrying on about who screwed who or who stole whose half-eaten sandwich out of the fridge. God, I love reality TV.
I feel an orgasm laden smile flicker across my lips as Ronnie's fingers slide through my hair and his lips brush against mine. There's no tongue, just a gentle brushing of his flesh against mine. I sigh again, a strange feeling of joy bubbling in my chest. Sure, my sister's dead and my life's gone to shit, but this could be good right here, real good, something to take away the pain without a needle or a bottle of vodka. This whole love thing could work out really well for me.
Provided, of course, that I don't get shot again. Think I've had enough of that, thank you very much.
I snap to with a start, expecting shit to rain down from the sky at any moment. My breath is heaving and my body's cursing my ass for letting the painkillers wear off. With a groan, I drop a hand to my belly and glance up to find Ronnie standing next to the food cart, looking back at me with concern in his brown eyes. He sets a silver lid down on a steaming pile of pancakes and moves over to me, kneeling down next to the bed and brushing some hair away from my face.
“You alright, doll face?” he asks me and I nod, swallowing hard and forcing myself past the wave of dread and pain that rolls over me. Yeah, getting shot sucked. So did losing me sister. Oh, and don't forget the fact that I have no band now, no career, no place to call my own. But it's over. It's over and that is a good thing. I swallow again and suck in a deep breath, trying to find my words. For weeks now, I've woken up everyday with my stomach in knots and a thick, heavy layer of melancholia slathered across my soul. Today is … different. Still painful but different. That's a good thing.
“Spectacular,” I grind out as he helps me sit up and I lean into the headboard with a sigh. “I could use a few pills and a durry though.” Ronnie raises an eyebrow and I lean over to press a kiss to his lips. “A fag. A cigarette. A smoke.”
“Gotcha,” he says, returning the kiss and rising to his feet. Unfortunately, the asshole's found time to not only get up and order us breakfast, but also to put on a shirt. Damn. I was really enjoying the view. Ronnie grabs my pills and a cup of ice water from the tray, peeling off a layer of plastic that's stuck to the top of the cup – fucking weird ass room service shit – and then brings them both over to me. After he hands them off and I swallow several more of the little white pills than I probably should, Ronnie fishes a pack of cigs from his pocket and lights one up for me, taking a drag before passing it over. “Milo already called twice to remind me that this is a non-smoking hotel,” he says with a smile as I put the white stick between my lips and wink up at him. “But I'll just remind him all the shit you've been through if he complains. If we can afford a multi-million dollar mansion, I guess we can pay the two hundred dollar cleaning deposit.”
“You sure this is okay?” I ask, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke fuck my lungs with happy tobacco kisses before I sigh and gesture randomly with the cigarette. “I mean, me living with you assholes and all. I don't want to cramp anyone's style.”
“Lola, baby, you are my style,” Ronnie says as he grabs a silver tray and sets it down on my lap. “If anything, I'm the one who's going to be putting a damper on all the fun.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and turns away from me, voice dropping a notch. There's something there, threaded through his words, a strangeness I'm not used to hearing. Is that … fear that I'm sensing? What the fuck could Ronnie be afraid about in regards to yours truly? If I look at it anyway but sideways, it seems I'm the one who should be grateful to him. “I … didn't know when or how I was going to bring this up, but I guess now's as good a time as any.” Ronnie clears his throat and turns back to me, running his hands down the front of his white T-shirt. It has a wolf engulfed in flames, snarling at me from the black and orange print. I try to focus on that as I take another drag of the cigarette.
“Whatever this confession is, Ronnie, it's not going to gut me, is it?” I flick my gaze up to his and find it pleading. Crap. He's like a Goddamn puppy dog, only one that's big and brutish but still cute. Like a pit bull or something. I feel my mouth twitch.