Anyway, I'm smoking a cigarette and watching the roadies unload our shit when he saunters up behind me and blows smoke in my ear. I'm so not worried about running into him that I don't even bother to turn around. I've got my music high right now and there is nothing in this fucking world that can beat that. Even crackhead Wren agrees with that one.
“Why are we playing Tucson when we skipped LA? Seems kind of fucked up, huh?”
I don't answer the question because I'm actually kind of shocked to hear his voice. For a few blissful, perfect hours there, he did not even fucking exist. I don't answer the question and instead keep my gaze focused on Spencer's back. She has these bright, butterfly wings tattooed on her shoulder blades, the perfect compliment to the creamy mocha color of her skin. I admit, I'm kinda jealous. My skin is so pale that all my tats look like stickers, like they've just been stamped there and aren't really a part of me. Pisses me the fuck off.
“I think I was pretty clear when I told you to stay the hell away from me, Turner.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and watch as he steps up next to me and puts it out. My gaze remains focused straight ahead. I start to hum the melody to the second new song I started today, the one about dead birds. Yep, even stalkers can be inspirational. My mind wanders back to that issue for a moment and quickly dismisses it. One thing at a time. That's about all I can handle right now.
“Yeah, but, uh, Knox, finding out that you and I procreated ties us together just a bit more than your typical set of strangers, huh?”
I shiver and pull out another cigarette. The lights of the venue are casting strange shadows around us, making the air look like it's full of ghosts. I wonder briefly if one of them is our kid and then shake off the guilt with a violent snap of my head, giving Turner my best narrow-eyed death glare.
“Really? You're going to pull that bull now? Why? Because you have daddy issues and need to soothe your tortured soul? Give me a break, Turner, and get the fuck over yourself.” He's staring straight back at me, and his face is changing from soft and understanding to pissed off. Apparently, I said something I shouldn't have. Oh well. What's new?
“You don't know shit about me,” he growls, clenching his fists so hard at his sides that his tattoos look like they're about to pop off and take flight, join the ghost-shadows flitting in the air. “So stop feeling sorry for yourself. I didn't purposefully try to fuck with your life. We screwed, and I left. It wasn't you; it's just what I do. Girls proposition me; I fuck them. It's life. It's nature, whatever. We had a good time, and you got pregnant. It happens.” Turner pauses, and I think I hear him mumble something like, just not to me. His callous attitude about the whole thing makes me want to rip off his balls, but then I remind myself that I'm not supposed to care. Slicing off some of his prized man bits would show too much emotion, so I grab the rage that's boiling inside, and I put a lid on it, clamp it down and keep it hidden. Later, tonight, when I get a hold of my guitar, I'm going to take a note from this dickhole and play it so hard it bleeds.
“Glad to know that that night meant so much to you.” I smile and start to walk away. Being around Turner is not a good idea. I knew that when I was offered this gig; I should've walked away then. Now the noose he threw around my neck so long ago is starting to choke me. And I thought I'd chucked it? Pathetic. Even now, even as I'm standing here hating him with every ounce of my being, something about him is drawing me forward. Could be the fire in his brown eyes, the color that burns there so bright it blinds. Despite his callous attitude and his all be damned bullshit, Turner has enough passion to light the sky on fire. He does it with his music, but for some reason, it doesn't seem like he's capable of translating the good in him to real life.
I can't be around someone like this.
I have a hard enough time with my own issues. I need to be around people who know what they want and how to take it, who understand their strengths and play them hard, who fight to overcome their weaknesses. That is, if there are any people like that who actually exist.
Turner paces alongside me, all tight, twitching muscles and clenched teeth. He brushes the hair off his sweaty forehead with an angry hand, and I know he wishes he could just hit me. Glad to see he isn't sexist, that he'll attack any threat head on. But if he touches me, he's going down. I am a lot stronger than I look. I've been fighting off men twice my size since I turned ten.
“You know what I meant,” he grounds out, tucking his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans. They kiss his skin so tight that I can practically hear the smacking of lips. That denim is freaking painted on Turner's legs. Doubt there's room for underwear in there.