Doll Face(55)

I paired the shoes with black skinny jeans and an Amatory Riot T-shirt in pale blue. Tore off the shoulders and cut the holes in my pants myself – it can be done, kids. Ronnie said I looked motherfucking fly, so I guess I did good. I even let him clean and patch my wounds up, loaded myself on painkillers, and stuck my very last plastic bottle of vodka in my pocket. I figure it's okay to drink, provided I'm doing it to have a good time and not just drown my worries. Bottoms up, bitches.

“This is serious shit right here,” he snaps at his friend, but Turner looks unfazed. He's smiling at his friend, at me, at the van pulling up the driveway, presumably with Kash and Wren inside of it. “I really wanted to get those test results back first,” Ronnie adds in a hushed whisper. I put a hand out and squeeze his arm while Turner rolls his eyes and runs his tongue over his silver lip piercings.

“Oh my God, dude, chill the fuck out. Your usual late night groupie consisted of virgins and squeaky clean coeds. I don't know how you did it, but you always picked the clean ones out. If anybody has room to worry, it's Jesse. I mean, fucking Rook Geary? That's frigging sick.”

“You are such an asshole, man,” Jesse says, appearing in a black tank and jeans, boots and a similar style of makeup to Ronnie and Turner. It's like the whole band has a look that they're going for. “You don't think I bagged it when I fucked Rook?”

“You mean when he fucked you, right?” Turner snorts as he gets out a cigarette and lights it before reaching a hand into his tight girly pants and adjusting his junk. “Sorry, Lola,” he says, wrinkling his nose up like he finds it amusing and not like he's actually sorry at all, “but sometimes when you tuck, shit gets stale up in there.”

“Christ,” Ronnie snorts, blowing smoke in his friend's face while Jesse shakes his head and scowls, running his hand through his short hair. Trey appears a moment later, following Sydney and Dax in his wheelchair and pausing at the top of the steps. He doesn't look particularly thrilled about our plans for a night out.

“Hope you guys enjoy yourselves while I rot away in here,” he calls out. Turner pulls his hand from his pants and flips his friend the bird before straightening his bright blue tee that says Untouchable on it. Fits the situation somehow.

“Go jack yourself off to the Tattoo Terror website your sister's supposed to star on again. You don't want to blow too fast when you actually find a girlfriend. Get that practice in there.” Jesse chuckles, but Trey just picks up a decorative vase near the front door and chucks it down the driveway at Turner. The white pieces scatter like seashells across the bricks while Turner laughs and slides nimbly out of the way. “That probably cost like five hundred bucks or some shit.” He points at his friend with a hand covered in paw prints and bats, spider webs. “It's coming out of your share of the royalties.” I glance back and catch Trey rolling his eyes before he wheels himself back inside and slams the door. Poor bloke. I know if I was stuck here in bed or in a chair, I'd be having some tantrums of my own.

“You're in a good mood,” Ronnie comments as he looks first at Turner and then over at me, letting his eyes slide to mine again. I know he wants to keep obsessing about the wild sperm that managed to break down our defenses, but I'm okay. Granted, I find out he gave me a disease and I'll kill 'im. For now, everything's going to be alright. I'll get some morning after pills tomorrow and we're golden.

“Yeah, well, I got a call from the hospital and they've agreed to have Naomi moved to the mansion.” Turner grins big as he says this, squinching his eyes up like a kid at Christmas.

“That's beaut, mate,” I say and Turner lifts up his hand for a high five. I slap him one and he does this stupid little jig in a circle, flinging his cigarette up in the air in celebration. “When they bringin' her over here?”

“Day after tomorrow. Provided, of course, that I can get a full-time nurse to look after her. Shouldn't be a problem though. I mean, who doesn't want to work for us, right?” I turn and glance at Sydney over my shoulder, watching as she approaches the van in her tight purple dress and black heels. Her blonde hair hangs over her shoulders in soft waves, and her makeup glitters in the glow of the white lights. If Dax doesn't go for her now, he's a fucking idiot. What's he got to lose? I keep watching as she smiles, reaching out a hand and letting somebody pull her inside ahead of Dax before poking her head back out and shouting at Turner.

“Campbell, we're following you guys, so don't get us lost, okay?”

“Got it, bitch,” he says, turning towards the already open door of our van with a smirk. Leather seats, champagne, security guards that have already promised to wait outside the club for us. Has to be a good night, right? I look at the dude nearest us. These guys are all money and professionalism, not like Brayden's people who'd flat out refuse to get the fuck out of wherever it was that you asked them to leave. Not a moment's peace with those people and what do we have to show for it? A dead sister. Friends in comas. A gunshot wound that still hurts when I twist the wrong way. Assholes.