Doll Face(42)
Sydney takes a step back and slaps the wooden brush against the palm of her hand. She's switched out her pink bikini for a black tank and some skinny jeans, a pair of red suede boots and an armful of those rubber bracelets everyone's always picking up at the concerts. Most of my shit's missing – all I've got right now is a single duffel bag, one that I took to the concert with me. It had exactly two of my comfiest dresses in it, a pair of jeans, a few pairs of panties, and a bra. Ronnie asked Milo about the clothing situation and some chick, some 'personal shopper' or whatever the fuck you want to call 'er, brought back a couple of bags of stuff for me. Surprisingly, the clothes were dead on with my style, but they still don't feel right. Oh, you know, like I've got a fucking bullet wound on my belly, so my usual look doesn't really work right now. I settled for wearing a new leather jacket and one of the many, many band T-shirts that float around us like clouds. Swear to Christ, I could reach around blind in anybody's bag with my eyes closed and come up with another of the bloody things. Today's tee is navy blue with Terre Haute's logo on the front.
“If Naomi never wakes up … I imagine Turner will transform into some fucked up clone of Ronnie.” Sydney cringes and glances quickly over her shoulder at me. I focus on her orange octopus tattoo instead of her eyes. I know the pain Ronnie went through, or at least a fraction of it. I can feel Poppet's loss like a knife through the heart, twisting in my chest with every breath. I just force myself not to think about it. My fingers twitch and unconsciously, I find myself reaching for my jacket pocket, digging in and feeling a wash of disappointment when I don't come in contact with one of the little plastic vodka bottles I'm so used to carrying around. “I mean, old Ronnie, of course. You have no idea the change you've made in him.”
Sydney turns back to Naomi and lays a hand across her forehead.
“But she'll wake up. I know she will. I can feel it.”
I nod, but I don't say anything. Sydney told me on the way over here, in the back of one of those swanky security vans, that she felt like an outsider. Only, she's not the real outsider here. I am. Sydney's known these boys all their lives; I've only just met them. I'm hanging onto this group by a thin thread, wrapped around Ronnie's pinky finger and liable to snap at any moment. Don't think about the marriage thing, I tell myself. And then of course, I do. Shit. Ronnie didn't drop to his knees or anything, but he definitely suggested it. The thought's one part terrifying, two parts exhilarating. I'm not sure what to think about that.
“Ready to pay Blair a visit?” she asks and I shrug. I don't know the girl, but if there's a chance Dax could be there, I should go for Sydney's sake. Hey, who wouldn't jump at another chance to have guilt rammed down their throat like a dry dildo? Here's to the show of hands. Sydney slides her fingers across Naomi's forehead and turns toward the door, moving past the security guard with us like he's not even there. She insisted we didn't need one, but I'm starting to learn that when Milo Terrabotti wants something, he can be fairly convincing.
“When's your photo shoot?” I ask, thinking of Tattoo Terror, the website Cohen used to beat off to. He'd leer at me whenever I walked in on him, dick in hand, and flash me the screen. I have to use these bitches to get off because you're not good enough. I shiver and cut off that train of thought. Last thing I need today is a trip down memory lane, one that only leads to an impossible puzzle where I try to figure out how Cohen changed from a sweetheart to an asshole in an instant.
“It was going to be in a few days,” Sydney whispers, her voice cracking as we move down the hall, fluorescent lighting cutting into my eyeballs and giving me a migraine. She seems to know where she's going, so I keep pace and ignore the stretching and tugging of the skin around my wound. It seems to be healing up nicely, but I can feel it with every step I take. “But, after all the publicity surrounding the concert and whatnot, I got a call that the shoot's been temporarily canceled.” I wrinkle my brows.
“Canceled? Bloody fuck. What the hell does that mean?” Sydney keeps her gaze straight ahead and doesn't look at me.
“I don't know. You'd think me being the sister of Indecency's lead guitarist would help with their subscribers, boost advertising revenue, I don't know, something. But my guess? They just don't want any of that poison around their magazine.” Sydney sighs and runs a hand through her perfect blonde hair. Her bangs are cut so sharp, framing her eyes with a perfectly straight line of white blonde. It gives her an edgy look that I'm sure would bring douche bags like Cohen swarming to the company's website.
“Well, I'll be stuffed,” I snort, shaking my head. “The rotten reaching arm of this shit extends to all facets of life, doesn't it? I wonder if America and Stephen knew that would happen when they started their war, or if they even cared.”