Real Ugly(17)

I don't care who graced it before me or who will stand here after; it's fucking mine.

“You're body's soft enough to break and your pussy's hot enough to melt.” I lift up my fingers and make an obscene ass fucking gesture that probably has Milo biting off his prissy, manicured little nails. “That breaking pretty is leaving me blue, baby.”

I spin in a circle and swing the mic around with me, tossing it up into the air, so I can catch it with my opposite hand. When my fingers wrap around it, the crowd starts to scream these blood curdling cries that make me hard as a rock and send chills down my spine.

“And when you're gone, I'll still be left in pieces, scattered across the face of this motherfucking, godforsaken earth.” The words are mine, right, because I fucking wrote 'em, but they're being stolen from me by Naomi friggin' Knox. I don't expect her to show up, but suddenly she's there and she's snarling onto Jesse's mic and eating up my lyrics.

Her blonde hair's stuck to her face and her lips are moist with sweat as she steps up beside me and tries to steal the friggin' show.

Fuck me.

I turn to face her, and I grin big, reaching out a hand for her waist. She pulls away and the people go nuts. A few even try to climb up the front of the stage in their frenzy and have to be picked up and hauled off by the bouncers in the black T-shirts. Nice to know they're useful for something.

“So put me back together, back to-fucking-gether, baby.” Naomi's voice is crawling all over mine and she's marking the shit out of the stage, tearing it up and shredding it to pieces. White hot rage boils up inside of me and my harmonies blend into growls and then all out screams as we try to sing over one another.

My heart is thumping like crazy in my chest and feels like it's going to explode along with my cock. She turns and looks straight at me as her full lips mouth the words and beads of moisture drip down her bare belly. When she moves towards me, I reach out my arm again and manage to sneak it around her waist, drawing our foreheads together, clashing our mics with a shrill shriek. Her hand finds my ass and draws the sunglasses out of my back pocket, hovering there way too fucking long to be played off as an accident. She's feeling me up onstage. I think I'm in love with this girl. Holy shit. Who the hell is she?

And then with our foreheads pressed together and our mouths nearly touching, I get this flash of memory that flickers like a bolt of lightning through my head and out the back of my skull. It's not there long enough that I can actually grasp it, but at least it's confirmation that I'm right. I know her. I do. I just don't know when or where or how.

Our bodies grind together, hips pressing close, denim against denim, and our free hands wander up and down, molten hot fingers pressing against bare skin, touching, hovering, absorbing. When Ronnie's solo rolls around, Naomi pulls the mic from my hands and slides my shirt up and off, tossing it to the wild-eyed monsters below.

They're circling and screaming, begging for blood, praying for us to fuck right then and there.

I see Milo at the edge of the stage, ready to move forward and put a stop to it all, and take my chance before it's too late, grabbing the mics back and literally tearing Naomi's shirt off her shoulders. Hell, it's ripped anyway, so it comes off easy and ends up sailing into the hands of a dude in the mosh pit.

She looks so fucking fierce standing there in a red lace bra, tattoos winking at me from her chest and her belly in her too tight jeans and her fucking sick ass boots. I want her so bad it hurts, but when I move forward, she snatches the microphone from my hand and eats up the last words to my song, throwing the lyrics down so hard that I almost lose it. She's stealing the stage from me, taking it hard and riding it.

I do my best to take it back, but it's too late. The song ends. Naomi drops the mic to the floor and kicks it hard. I grab her wrist in one hand, but I don't know what to do with it, so I just watch as she slides her shades back on and smiles at me.

“Did you send it?” she whispers over the screaming fans, clamoring at the walls like soldiers in the midst of a fierce as fuck battle.

“Send what?” I growl at her, gripping too hard, squeezing too tight. I want to shake her and hug her and scream at her and fuck her, all at the same time. Goddamn it, my head is freaking killing me. What is with this chick and who the hell does she think she is? Why doesn't she worship me like everybody else? I'm so torn up inside that I feel like I'm going to split in half.

“Good,” she says. “That's what I fucking thought.”

And then she walks off stage and leaves me trembling with rage and lust both.

She never shows up for drinks.





After every high comes a horrible fucking low.

I have mine on the bus the day after the San Diego show, lying on my side in the dark of my bunk with the curtain drawn and my iPod destroying my eardrums, playing Turner's music over and over and over again in my head. Somehow, I've got it in my mind that if I listen to it enough, the longing will go away.