Okay, Naomi, let's get the facts straight. America saw something that should have her turning your ass in, and instead, she's mad because you called her out for what she is. Or what she should be, I guess is the right way of phrasing it. Um, what the fuck?
“Why are we still here?” Hayden asks, sliding back the pocket door that separates the bunks from the kitchen. “Shouldn't we be on the way to San Francisco already?” I lean back and kick my boots up on the table.
“San Diego, sweetie. We're already in San Francisco.” Hayden narrows her eyes at me and watches as I light another cigarette and put it in my mouth. It's the least horrible vice I have, so I embrace it. Two packs a day keeps the shrinks away. “Remember? We played The Pound last night.”
“Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, Naomi,” she says, tucking some of her brown hair behind her ear and blinking at me through gobs of dark eyeliner. She's smeared so much across her blue eyes that she looks like a robber. In a lot of ways, she really is, so it suits her I decide.
“Why not? That's what you are, isn't it? Only seems fitting.” I give her a tight-lipped smile and stand up, moving to the window to flick back the curtain. If Turner doesn't come back soon, I'm going to go after him myself, and God help me, he'll wish his return had been voluntary.
A hand sweeps my hair back and lips kiss my ear with poisoned words.
“You're getting awfully arrogant these days, Naomi. Think you're good enough to play for God now?” I continue to smoke my cigarette and I don't pay Hayden any never mind. I know how far I can push the bitch, and I'm not there yet.
“Did you send it?” I ask her casually, curling my fingers around the counter. If she did, I'll know, no matter how she responds. A quick glance over my shoulder shows me Hayden pouting her lips in the reflection of the oven. She isn't even listening anymore.
Good.
Then it wasn't her.
Fucking question is then, who was it? Nobody knows but us, just me and the bitch herself. And America. And whoever sent it.
Fuck.
“We made it up, and we played it through, and our lives were never. The same. Again.” Hayden sings the lyrics to our most popular song and, like with Turner, I almost forget for a moment why I hate her. Then I turn around and see her shaking her ass and grinding her crotch up and down the fridge door while she searches for a drink, and I remember nice and quick. God, I wish you would just fucking disappear, I think as America returns from wherever it was that she went.
She looks at Hayden for a moment and the corner of her mouth twitches just so.
“Turner's back,” she says with her toothy smile stuck back across her lips. “With his majesty's blessing, we can now get this show on the road. Oh, and Naomi?”
I put my cigarette out in a glass ash tray and look her right in the face.
“Yeah?”
“Earlier, I forgot to tell you the good news.” America fetches a pair of sunglasses from her front pocket and slides them up her perfectly straight nose. “The charges against you have been dropped. Looks like you're going to get away with murder.”
Naomi Isabelle Knox. Lead guitarist for Amatory Riot. Twenty-three years old. Hot as hell. Mean as sin.
I ask around; I get answers. What can I say? I have a face that's hard to resist. I spend the majority of the drive stalking her online, scoping out pictures on her band's website, raiding their Facebook page, scanning their blog. Naomi herself doesn't have an online presence for shit. All the info I've got on her is generic and unhelpful. I know that we've met before, and I'm determined to find out where. Don't know why I'm so obsessed with it. Maybe I'm losing it one fucking binge at a time, but that's okay. Live fast and die young, right? I want to leave a beautiful corpse.
I stuff my phone into the pocket of my jeans and stand up, slipping out from behind the table and making my way to the back where there's a small sofa and not much else. Hey, it's nice, but it's still a fucking bus. Might be a long way from the yellow piece of shit I used to ride to school, but that doesn't mean it's a friggin' mansion.
Ronnie is laying on his back, shirtless, sleeping away a hangover that makes my migraine look easy. He's been really into dropping acid lately, so I figure that's probably it.
“Hey bitch.” I poke him with my boot. Ain't no way I'm touching that motherfucker. Let's just say that Ronnie isn't as discerning as little old me. Turner Campbell never forgets to bring balloons to the party, if you catch my drift. Ronnie … well, let's just say that half his fucking check goes to child support. The asshole has like, four kids or some shit.
He groans and turns away from me, burying his face in the red leather cushions, probably drooling all fucking over them, too.