“Who the fuck are you and what the hell do you want?”
“Wow. Your foster parents never taught you any manners?” My heart catches in my chest.
“Who the fuck is this?” I repeat, my pulse racing in my veins. America's pried her eyes from her iPhone and is staring at me with a frown on her face. She can tell something's wrong. Luckily, everybody else in my band is a fucking idiot and doesn't notice the sweat on my forehead or the quiver in my voice. The other person on the line has to be the one that sent me that video. Who else would call and answer with such a cryptic message?
There's a long span of silence and then a deep exhalation of breath, like whoever's on the other end of this line is pissed off.
“This is Turner Campbell.”
Oh.
I frown, but at least my heart can stop trying to explode from my chest. America stands up and moves over to me, holding out her hand for the phone, but I shake my head. I got this, I mouth at her.
“How the hell did you get my number?” I snarl at him, feeling horribly violated. I want nothing to do with this man, haven't wanted anything to do with him since he left me after taking my virginity. And the worst part of it all? He doesn't even remember doing it. I feel sick. What's that old saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? I used to worship Indecency, Turner in particular, and now … even the sound of his voice gives me chills.
“The Internet is a beautiful, beautiful thing,” he responds, and I can hear the smile taking over his voice. This man flips moods like a picture book. One page, a smiley face, the next, a frown. That's dangerous fucking behavior. Besides, the deeper he digs, the more likely he is to hit things long buried. I want my secrets kept six feet under, thank you very much.
“Leave me the fuck alone, you psycho stalker,” I say and draw the attention of everyone on the bus. Hayden swoops in close and tries to listen while Blair gives me a sympathetic smile from across the room. I hear Turner scoff and then the call ends abruptly. A few seconds later, it rings again, and I answer with a, “What, you didn't get it the first time? I said to fuck off.” I swear to God, I can hear his jaw clenching, can practically see veins bulging out of his throat. I bet he's all red-faced and pissed, just like he was the night that he saved my life and fucked me both at the same time.
“I want to talk to you about something.”
“That's what I have a manager for. Call her. Milo's got her number.” I get ready to hang up again, but pause when Turner laughs. It's too cruel, and it makes my toes curl and my body heat up from below. I am so screwed if that little sound can get my pussy pulsing and thrumming like a good bass line. I should be immune to this shit by now.
“Oh, this isn't about music. This is personal. Come out for drinks with me after the show tonight.” I frown and my body goes from hot to cold in a New York minute. I don't like the way he's talking to me. He's not asking; he's telling. I hate being told what to fucking do … I get enough of that from Hayden. But then, is he the one that sent the video? I mean, I can't outright go and ask him, but it would make sense based on the timing, especially if he knows more than he's letting on about what happened between him and me.
“Give me one good reason why I should go out for drinks at two in the fucking morning with some asswad who cares more about his eyeliner than he does about the women he sleeps with?” The phone goes dead silent, and the only sound is Kash's laugher ringing out from behind the pocket door to the bunk beds. I bet he's just eating this shit up.
“You really are a frigid bitch, aren't you?” he asks me which just makes me want to go all buck friggin' wild and take his head off with my guitar. They don't call 'em axes for nothing. “Come out with me tonight.” He pauses. “Or don't. Your choice. Hope you make the right one.”
And then he hangs up on me and doesn't call back.
That son of a bitch.
I set my phone down with a trembling hand and try to puzzle out what's going. Either Turner's just being an asshole or he knows. Do I take a chance on that?
“Who was that?” Hayden asks, tossing her hair over one shoulder with a flick of her red fingernails. She smiles down at me with a wicked look that makes me stomach twist uncomfortably. No matter if Turner knows or not, Hayden does for sure, and I can never, ever forget that.
I stand on the right side of the stage and watch Terre Haute finishing up their set. They're good, but not good enough. I bet they won't last out the year. I pull my cigarette from my mouth and toss it into a nearby trash can. Not normally a good idea, but I'm not the only who's done it, so I figure it's alright.
My eyes dart around, searching for Turner with each flick across the room. I've been expecting him to come after me this entire time, but he hasn't set foot off that ostentatious fucking bus of his. I wonder what he's doing there, if he even cares that we're about to play in front of a few thousand people. Maybe that's small fucking beans to him now; I don't know, but what I do know is that if I see him before I go onstage, that I'm going to be wrecked. And I don't want to be. I don't like to get trashed until after I've played.