Real Ugly(12)
“A little?” I ask, leaning forward a bit. I feel like a kid sitting around a fucking campfire, waiting for a ghost story or some shit. I get pissed off all over again and lean back with a scowl. Ronnie smirks at me.
“Damn, Turner. You really are all wrapped up in this, huh? Something happen that I should know about it?”
“Do you know something or not?” I snap at him, feeling these little lines of fire open up in my veins. My blood gets hot, and I have to squeeze my fists tight to keep from getting angry again. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I get, and the last thing I need to be doing right now is starting some kind of shit with another band.
“Cool your jets, Turner. I said I know a little.” He pauses and smokes for a minute before continuing. “I'm guessing you already know the basics, so I'll skip right to the good stuff.” Ronnie smiles. “Naomi Knox is your typical disgruntled foster kid. She doesn't have any family, blood or otherwise living, and she started playing guitar when was thirteen. She's a big fan of Monster energy drinks, and she won't fuck anybody on tour – not a manager, a roadie, or even a fellow musician.” Ronnie pauses and pulls the joint from his mouth with one hand while he tugs on a black plug in his ear with the other. “That's not to say she's a vestal virgin or anything like that. I've seen her bring people back to her bus.” Ronnie pauses again and a grin splits his face. “Not like you though, Turner,” he amends. “Nobody's as a big a fucking whore as you.”
“Hey, thanks for nothing,” I tell him, flicking some cigarette ash at his face before I start back towards the front and bump into Milo. He looks me up and down, and I raise my brows at him. Guess he decides that I look okay and doesn't start any shit, scooting back, so I can slide past him.
Well, fuck. I feel like I know even less than I did when I started. I wanted a full history on this girl, and I got a smattering of useless fucking facts. Fine. That's fine.
A smile breaks my lips as I glance out the window and see the welcome sign for San Diego. Time for me to do a little digging. When I'm done with this girl, she won't even know what hit her.
I pull out my phone and dial a number.
As we roll into San Diego, I get a phone call.
I grab a quick glance at the screen and see that the number's blocked. Not a good sign. I reject the call and slip it back into my pocket.
A notebook lies open in front of me, filled with scribbled, black drawings of wings and crying faces, swaying trees, and grinning demons. Whenever I can't write, I draw. Someday, maybe when I finally escape from Hayden's shadow, I'd like to draw our own cover art. I look up at the bitch in question and send her a silent fuck you. She's got on another of her Hot Topic outfits today – a black corset with buckles and a pair of designer jeans that came pre-ripped. I want to tear her red stilettos off her feet and stab her in one of her too blue eyes.
“Got anything yet?” she asks me, like I'm some sort of lyrical machine. Hayden likes to play front woman and bask in the glory of masturbating boys and jealous women, but she doesn't do shit for this band. I mean, I'm sure her time is so much better spent taking topless photos for Tin Dolls Magazine, but it would be nice if she actually contributed something other than her tits and her voice.
“No.” I don't justify her actions by saying anything aloud. Seems like Hayden will go out of her way to piss me off. Whenever I've voiced my displeasure, she seems to get worse, so I've learned to keep (most) of my thoughts to myself. I drum my fingers on the table and pull my phone out when I get another call from the mystery number. Reject, again. I slam the screen down on my notebook and slide my hands over my face.
“Are we there yet?” Dax asks, appearing in the kitchen dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts and a sheen of droplets from the shower. Hayden watches him like a hungry lioness and licks her lip, but he ignore her.
“Thirty-two minutes and counting,” America says without ever pausing in her frenzied texting spree. “Get dressed and be ready to go. Thanks to Mr. Campbell, we're running horribly late. We'll be lucky if the venue even lets us play our set.”
I sigh and pick up my pen, brushing ink across the blue-lined pages. Pen and paper are so much more inspirational than electronics. I find it unbelievable that anybody gets anything creative done on a computer. I like to cross words out and draw arrows and kiss the page; I like to feel the words under my fingertips, pressed so hard into the paper that they've let deep grooves. I think the day handwriting disappears for good is the day humanity is really and truly fucked.
Another call comes through from the mystery number, and I answer it.