“Goddamn it, Lee,” I growl at her as I drag her boney ass across the floor and kick open the doors to the sleeper section of the bus. Hayden is still covered in puke, so I force her to stumble into the shower and let her slump the floor. I turn the water on cold.
“Shit!” she shouts, her voice trailing off into a moan. Hayden's head slams into the tile wall and she starts to sob. “What are you doing to me?” she cries as I step back and run a hand through my hair. Blair is glancing at me from her position on the floor of the second bathroom, a sponge in one hand and a bucket in the other. Looks like most of the vomit is gone.
“Thanks,” I say, but she's already shaking her head, tossing the sponge into the bucket and sitting up. The knees of her jeans are soaked through and her white tee is stained with something questionable. She looks pissed.
“Don't thank me, Naomi,” she says as she stands up and leans against the door frame, popping a cig in her mouth as she relaxes against the wood. “This is Hayden's oversight, Hayden's tequila, Hayden's mess.” Blair takes a drag and throws the cigarette into the bucket. “Stop taking responsibility for her shit.” I don't respond because Blair doesn't know what happened between Hayden and me. If she did, she'd understand. I don't like her thinking I'm Hayden's lapdog, but what can I do about it? The bitch has shit on me for days. God, I am so super fucked. I shrug and turn around, ignoring the grunts of irritation from the bunk on my right.
“Fuck you, Wren,” I snarl as I move past him and take note of the other bunk. Looks like Kash is in tonight. What a surprise. Kash is having some kind of fucked up affair with two chicks – the driver for Indecency and the bassist from Terre Haute. He almost never spends the night on our bus.
I pause in the doorway and stare down at Turner Campbell and his flaccid dick.
“Get up, Turner,” I bark at him, moving forward and poking his leg with my toes. “And get the fuck out. Go.” He moans, but he doesn't move. I think he's even drooling on his shoulder. Pathetic. If your groupies could only see you now. “Turner. Get the hell off of my bus.”
“What is your problem?” he whispers, sharp lips barely moving with the words. He sounds lucid enough, but he looks like shit. I put my hands on my hips and try to make a judgment call. It isn't easy with my head swimming like the Northern Pacific. I could go and grab one of Turner's band members, see if they'd come and get him, but I dread going on that bus in the middle of the night. That is, if their stupid ass bodyguard will even let me pass. Besides, the odds of finding anybody in that band that isn't trashed at this hour are pretty slim.
“Stand up,” I command as I watch his hand travel between his legs, snap the empty condom off and toss it onto our carpet. My lips curl into a sneer, and I end up grabbing his arm and dragging him up off the floor. His skin is hot to the touch and sweaty as hell. Please don't OD on my bus, you stupid fuck, I think as I struggle to pull the world's biggest asshole to his feet. I don't like the man, by any means, but if he dies then I'm guessing they'll probably cancel the rest of the tour, and that would be a big ass, fucking drag for me and my band. Guess the least I can do is prevent him from drowning in his own vomit tonight. If keeping him on his back and wiping dribble from his chin will keep my dream afloat then the rest of the world be damned, I'll fucking do it. I can always take pictures as backup and sell them to the tabloids if everything goes to hell.
“Shit, Naomi,” he growls, and I drop his arm like it's poisoned. Turner falls to his knees in front of me and leans against the wall, head hanging down between my legs and hands flat on the floor. “Just leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone.”
I stare down at the back of his neck, at the inky paw prints that climb his spine and disappear into his dark hair.
“What did you just say?”
Turner groans and lets himself slump fully against the cabinet before he opens his mouth and vomits right past that beautiful, little tongue ring of his. What a friggin' douche, I think, and then before I can stop it, my brain adds, that remembers your name. Hearing the three syllables of my earthly monicker pass through his lips was nothing short of a shot to the back of the head. I didn't even think that he knew the name of my band, let alone mine personally.
“Ah, shit,” Blair says from behind me, making me jump as she sidles around me and stares down at the growing stain on the carpet. “This is great. Just great. Now we get to drive all the way to San Diego with the smell of Turner Campbell's puke.” She smiles at me with tight lips. “But hey, what's new, right? I feel like we're eternally in this fucker's shadow.” She kicks Turner with the pointed toe of her red heel. “Still think he looks like an angel?”