Real Ugly(30)
“Do I?” I ask him, forcing my steps to slow, so he has a chance to explain himself. Right now, I'm heading straight toward Dax and Kash. Once I get there, Dax will chase Turner off. Or he'll try anyway, and I really, really don't want to deal with that shit. So hurry up then, my logical mind tells me. I ignore it, much to my detriment, I'm sure.
“I just meant that it wasn't personal, Naomi. I didn't mean for this to happen to you, and I … ” Turner trails off, and I have no choice but to turn and look at him. The sound of his voice was … strange, like he was embarrassed about something. I can't even imagine the man having that emotion, so it's a pretty big deal to me.
I stop walking, and Turner does the same.
“What?”
He looks at me like I'm crazy and steps back, running his fingers through his blue-black hair. The star tattoos on the edges of his hairline flash at me, highlighted by the bright lights on the sign at my back, the one that has both our bands' names plastered across it in two foot tall letters.
“I've never forgotten to use a condom before. Not with anyone. Not even once.” I laugh so hard that tears come to my eyes, and I have to bend over to take a breath. Blonde hair falls over my shoulder like a curtain and obscures my face.
“Really? Is that the best line you've got, Turner? Jesus, I thought you were better than that.”
“It's true,” he snaps, voice so rough that I have to look up at him. His eyes are narrowed on me, and his full lips are flat and straight. He looks like a different person when he's pissed. The Turner Campbell I'm used to seeing is always smirking and is so cocky and arrogant, that anger doesn't even seem to be an option. After all, to be angry about something, it has to bother you, and Turner likes to give off this impression that he's immune to the world. Or above it. Probably both.
“And I'm supposed to believe that shit?” I say as I stand up and reach my hands into my bra, adjusting the girls for maximum cleavage exposure. Turner watches with hungry eyes, and starts pitchin' a tent, if you catch my drift. Glad to see that I'm not the only one with a sweaty back and a pulsing crotch. So we have sexual chemistry, how is that surprising? You're both young, relatively good looking, it happens. Just remember what happened last time you gave into it.
I take a step back.
“If you can't even remember us fucking, how do you know that's true? How many girls have you fucked that have escaped your recent memory, hmm? There could be a dozen Campbell bastards running around by now.”
“No.”
That one word is strong as steel.
Turner and I stand there staring at one another with this sort of burn in the air between us, like we're both about to catch on fire.
“I know what happens to kids who grow up without dads.”
“They turn into rock stars?” I say, and immediately regret it. I don't know why. The guy plucked my cherry from the tree, ate it, and ran off before I woke up after. He didn't use a condom (maybe half my fault, but shit, I was the inexperienced one in the situation) and left me pregnant, homeless, and confused. The idol I'd looked up to had been relegated to devil, and I had a person growing inside of me who needed things, things that I couldn't give or didn't know how to give. Food, shelter, clothing. Love. Most especially that. And stability. You can't give something you've never had. Check the laws of science; it's impossible.
“I know that you're the only one. Don't ask how, but I just know.” Turner shrugs and then sighs, dropping his anger into the hot desert air before reaching for a joint he's got hidden in his front right pocket. He offers it to me, but I decline, and he lights up. “I also know that you hate me, and that you're pissed at me, and I get it. Believe it or not, but I do.” Turner puffs on his joint for a moment. I watch him and wonder why my knees are starting to feel weak and why my thighs are shaking like they can't hold the weight of my life anymore. I hate that feeling. Makes me sick to my stomach. I wait for it to pass. “But I want my kid, Naomi. No matter how you feel about me, how little you think I deserve him or her, I have a right to know everything. Bringing a person into this fucked up, shitty existence is something I don't take lightly. Wherever they are, I'll find them.”
My throat is dry now, and I'm having trouble breathing. I swear to god that I'm about to pass out. I want to blame it on the heat, but I can't. It's Turner. It's always been Turner.
“What if you had to quit?” I ask him, voice breathy. Turner hears it, too, and takes a step forward, wetting his lips, holding his hands out, so that his fingers brush the thin hairs on my arms. I hate him, and yet I want him so bad it hurts inside. But after what he did to me, can I ever forgive him? Do I want to? Why am I even asking myself these stupid fucking questions? Even if I did admit to myself that in some fucked up, Stockholm syndrome type of way that I liked him still, he'll never change. He's always be an arrogant, cocky whore, and there's nothing I can do about that. “What if you had to quit the fucking and the drugs and the booze and the … ” My words trail off and my breath catches in my throat as Turner leans in so close that I can see the beads of sweat on his upper lip, hear the thumping of his heart. “And the music? Would you do it?”