Doll Face(60)
I push my body into Ronnie's with force, find his hands traveling over my ass, his forehead pressing against mine as we grind and sway with Cameron Koons and her puppet band. Ronnie's fingers slide along the waistband of my pants, warm my flesh with the slight brush of his, searing my skin as he teases me and smiles while he's doing it.
“You fucking asshole,” I growl at him, leaning in close so I can put my lips against his ear. “If you're going to tease, you better damn well deliver. One more dry spell and you'll really get to see what my dad and sister used to call the Crazy Banana Bender.” I pause and suddenly the situation doesn't seem quite so funny. My body slows and the burning flames I felt for Ronnie sputter out in an instant. Poppet. My chest tightens and I have to swallow three times to get past a lump in my throat.
“Oh, doll face,” Ronnie says, pulling me against him, sliding his hand over my hair and tucking me under his chin. “It'll be okay. We'll fight through this.” I close my eyes and let the strong bass beat reverberate in my bones. That's the thing about grief, I guess. It comes and goes and no matter how hard you try to fight it, eventually it'll getcha. Fuck. I sniffle and pull back a bit, just enough that I run my arm across my eyes and shake my head.
“I feel like a fucking tool,” I say, blinking suddenly and shaking my head. My booze-y brain swims as I sniffle again and glance back at the stage, watching Cameron as she basically fucks the stage, sliding across it in her ugly arse sparkly dress, licking her microphone like a shitty Turner Campbell wannabe. I switch my gaze back to Ronnie and close my eyes against a sudden surge of emotion when he cups my face in his hand. “I'm a coward, Ronnie. For days now, I've been avoiding calling my dad. I mean, I guess he probably already knows about Poppet, but I have to talk to him. Why am I here, drinking and dancing, when I should be doing that?”
“You can't punish yourself every second of everyday,” Ronnie whispers, pressing his lips against my forehead, my cheek, my lips. “I've been watching you do it for weeks now, ever since Stephen showed up at the hospital that day. You can relax, Lola. It's okay to have a good time, even if you're grieving. The point of living through the tragedy is to actually live. You're a brave woman, even if you don't know that.”
“Pig's arse!” I snort and Ronnie laughs, pulling me close, enveloping me in his arms and the warm, masculine scent of his body. He smells like lilies and soap, but I could just be imagining the first part, thinking of that tantalizing little tattoo under his shirt. I close my eyes for a second and let us loose ourselves in the middle of that massive crowd. I know, I know, a nightclub seems like a pretty fucked up place to have a moment like this, but that's life, babe. Uncontrollable, unpredictable, downright fucking bizarre. “I … ” I almost say the words I love you, but the song dies down and the crowd explodes with wild murmurs, drawing my attention up and over to the stage.
“Fuck.” Ronnie's already looking that way, his mouth slightly parted, silver fillings glinting with the change in lighting overhead. The room darkens and a second spotlight appears on the stage. Only it's not the rapper dude in the sunglasses that's now up there with Cameron Koons, it's Turner Campbell. Well, fuck me runnin', that little asshole.
“Yo, yo, yo, Los Angeles,” he slurs, slamming his boots across the stage and pausing not five feet from an absolutely thrilled Cameron. Her pink tinged lips curl into a grin and her eyes shimmer. Even from back here, I can tell she's ecstatic about the change in the program. Gazes flicker our way, and even in the throng of people, it's suddenly not so hard to spot Jesse, Sydney, Dax, Wren, Kash. Lovely. “I just want to give a shout-out to my fiancée.” Ronnie groans here and shakes his head. “Naomi Knox,” Turner raises his hand and the crowd starts to titter, like a bunch of bloody birds in a tree, a flock that's just spotted a worm, “I love you, baby. I just want you to know that.” Turner sniffles and looks over at Cameron.
“The lead singer of Indecency everyone.” She holds her hand out to indicate Turner's scowling face and then looks over her shoulder at her band, nodding her chin like this is something she expected. Interesting. “As you well know, their song One Woman just surpassed my single Belittle on the Billboard charts, so congratulations are in order.” She claps and the crowd follows suit, just as we hear the opening notes to said song.
Crap.
Only, this version of the song is like something you'd find in a cheap children's jewelry box. Open the top folks and listen to the cruddy little jingle within, stripped of soul and passion and heart. My teeth hurt as the guitarist's weak chords spring to life and Turner snarls into the microphone. All around us, California's elite start to exchange glances and the room goes still and silent for a split second, right before he says, “you want to see me fuck this stage up? So be it.”