Doll Face(43)
“What I want to know is who did what exactly. Everything that happened – Ronnie's kids being dumped with their mothers' bodies, Dax's mom being shipped in the back of a van to the hotel, the sniper that got Trey – how much of that was Stephen and how much was America?” Sydney looks over at me, her eyes like the waters that drown The Great Barrier Reef. Bright, open, honest. Fuck those fuckers at Tattoo Terror; they're missing out. “I mean, how much do you know exactly?” she asks, and I cringe.
“Not a whole lot to be honest with you. Everybody in Ice and Glass had their targets and that was that. I was supposed to make Ronnie fall in love with me or some stupid shit like that, traumatize the poor fuck and take him down so deep he'd never climb out. There were bets in the band on whether I could get him to commit suicide or not.” I feel my heart twist in my chest. When Stephen lured us in, it was with vague hints that we'd have to pay a price for his patronage, that he'd make us stars, that our music would be immortalized. When he started giving us tasks, I thought they were weird, but manageable. Send a doll head to Naomi Knox, a baseball cap to Indecency's bus. Sneak this guy, this Eric Rhineback, behind the scenes. I could do all that. When things first started to take a turn for the worse, I didn't know what to do and neither did anybody else. When it came time to put on those masks, storm that bus … we just did as we were told. My stomach flip flops and I cover my mouth with my hand.
“Sorry,” Sydney says as she pauses outside of a hospital room door. Instead of a police officer, there's one of Brayden's guards standing outside the room, just like at Naomi's. I didn't even bother to ask the guy what his fucking deal was. What's the point? Obviously Brayden's not quite done with us yet. I guess he's got to stick around and make sure Naomi and Blair get their stories straight. “I didn't mean to bring it up.” Sydney takes a deep breath and gives me a tight-lipped smile before knocking on the door. The guard pays us no attention.
A moment later, the door opens and Dax appears, face full of stubble, dark hair greasy and unwashed, lips downturned at the corners. When he sees us standing there, he sighs like he's relieved and leans against the door like he can barely carry his own body weight.
“Hey,” he whispers and I watch as Sydney visibly holds herself back. She wants to touch him, to put her arms around his neck and tell him that everything's going to be okay. Instead, she twists her hands together, the full sleeves of her tattoos a colorful swirl of nervousness.
“How is she?” Sydney asks, peering around Dax's shoulder at the comatose form on the bed. He takes a step back and ushers us inside before closing the door behind us. There's a chair sitting next to the bed, covered with a rumpled blanket and a white pillow. On the table next to it, there's a vase of flowers and a tray of untouched food. The entire room reeks of despair and misery. Poor fucker.
“Not much better,” he grumbles, sinking into the chair and straightening the wrinkled purple T-shirt he's wearing. “She was shot twice in the chest.” Dax makes a gun with his hand and points it at his pecs, pretending to pull the trigger. “Each bullet managed to find a lung, so Blair was basically suffocating while we waited for an ambulance.” He stares at his friend for a long moment and then looks away. Sydney and I both take a step closer to the bed and look down at the keyboardist's expression. I know she's a beautiful girl, but right now, she's got a face like a dropped pie. It's all squinched up and pale, her lips bloodless, her hair tangled and ratty.
Sydney doesn't say anything, just exchanges a glance with me over her body and then starts to comb the black and blonde hair into place. This could be a sign that Naomi might come out of her coma soon. If she looks that good and poor Blair here looks that bad … I glance up at Dax as he continues to talk.
“Her mom told me the doctor said there's a good chance she'll have permanent brain damage.” He swallows and tucks his legs up on the chair, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on his knees. Dax McCann is not in a good place right now. “Her family's been staying here ever since they flew in, but I made 'em take a break. They went back to the hotel to rest for a little while.” He sighs and lets his gray eyes close enough that I can read the words on the back of the lids. Born Wrong.
“I'm so sorry,” I say, but he doesn't open his eyes or look at me. Maybe he blames me for this, maybe not, but that room suddenly feels so small and stifling that I feel like I've got to get out of there. The walls start to close in and my breath comes in shallow bursts. As if it can sense my anxiety, my bullet wound begins to throb. “I'm going to … take an early mark,” I say and get a funny look from Sydney. Whether that's because of my slang or because I'm acting like a cracked out lunatic, I'm not sure. I can feel little beads of sweat dripping down my forehead as I back away and turn towards the door. “I'll be in the hallway if you need me.” I step out and close it behind me, still panting, drawing a strange look from the guard to my right. Fuck him.