I listen to the sound of the kids leaving in their shitty clunkers, shouting at one another because their ears are too fucked up from the bass to hear anything otherwise. They're sporting our tees and slapping our band stickers on their bumpers, and they think we're just so fucking cool and amazing and carefree, and they have no idea how much shit all of us are in. Being a 'rock star' really just means someone that makes music that fucks up a lot. It's true. Check it in the dictionary.
“I don't.” My words are calm, emotionless. I want to slip the shades back on, but I'm starting to think I'm using them as a way to hide. And I don't hide. I might fight or I might run because at least with those two options, I'm making a conscious choice. But hiding? It's like waiting around for someone else to make a decision for you. I don't like that. The secrets are bad enough. I try not to look at Turner during this exchange. I was just about to tell him the rest of the secret, just about to clear up this last, little thing and finally be able to wipe this shit from my mental board of things to do. How come bad stuff always seems to happen all at once?
“Oh.” Dax pinches at the front of his green and black striped shirt and looks confused. “But they said they were looking for an – ”
“Eric Rhineback?” I ask, and then I take out a cigarette and start walking. Both boys follow me like lost, little puppy dogs. Well, Dax is kind of like a puppy dog; Turner is more like a tramp in heat, searching for a nice, warm bitch. My lip curls. “He was the son of the last foster parents that I had.” I shrug and continue on, rounding the end of the bus and heading straight towards the pair of people in blue uniforms. “Though I'd hardly call him a brother.”
“Why would they come here looking for him?” Dax asks, making me wonder that very same thing. Why indeed. I don't answer that question, because I can't and instead pick up the pace, so I can get this over with and switch back to Turner and our little problem.
“Naomi Knox?” one of the police asks as I step up close and flash my ID. I don't even answer the question verbally, just flick my cigarette at them. The male officer, this big, fat dude with a mustache, tries to smile at me, while his female partner glares at me from behind her blonde dike cut. Overcompensating much?
“What?” I snap because, well, the best way to make yourself look innocent is to act like you could give a rat's ass less about what's going on. I tap the ash of my cigarette onto the guy's shoe. Behind me, I hear Turner and Dax settling in to watch. Obviously, I'm not going to be getting rid of either of them yet. The male officer squints at me like he doesn't quite understand my behavior. I don't smile or apologize.
“Miss Knox, we're here looking to find out if you've had any contact with Eric Rhineback.” Already, I'm shaking my head. I drop my cig to the ground and put it out with the steel toe of my boot. All around us, people are scurrying to avoid the eyes of the cops, putting halts on their drug deals and switching out joints for cigarettes.
“I haven't talked to Eric since the investigation,” I tell them, trying to forget what is probably the worst memory I've got next to the whole Turner-baby thing. The angst, the anxiety, the stomach aches. Ugh. If I had to go back to that again, I'd kill myself. When the whole stabbing incident occurred, I almost did. Being scrutinized and torn apart by law enforcement sucks. I mean, I get that they're trying to do their jobs, but shit, the pressure sucks. “Why would he be here? I'm on tour. We barely stay in one place for a day.”
The male cop nods like he was expecting me to say this, but the female cop is glaring at me and stepping forward like she really, really wants to find some excuse to nail me right now. I stretch my arms above my head and lock my hands together.
“He's wanted for the murder of Chuck and McKenzie Rhineback.”
I stare at them both and try not to betray my feelings with my face. I used to be real good at that, but Turner keeps sniffing me out, so I don't know, maybe I'm starting to lose it.
“Oh?” I ask, trying to sound surprised. “I thought he'd been cleared as a suspect?” Okay, yeah, I'm fishing for information, but who wouldn't in this scenario. The female cop smiles but avoids my question.
“Well, if you think of anything, you give us a call. His car was spotted on the interstate day before yesterday by one of our patrols. We looked up friends and family that might be in the area, and you're the only possibility that popped up.”
I scowl.
“Yeah, well, I'm no friend of Eric Rhineback's.” I shrug and try to ignore the questioning eyes that are burning into my back and front. America is staring at me like I'm about to get a big, fat spanking and get sent to my room without dessert; Turner and Dax are burning me up with questions, and I can't even see them. Jesus. Now, I just want to go to bed. I'd been planning on dropping some acid, but the last thing I need right now is to end up running down the street buck naked thinking the devil's about to stab me with a pitchfork. The LSD will do that to you, you know. Sensing that my answer wasn't enough, I add, “But I'll call you if he shows up.” I think of my phone. “I no longer have a mobile device, so if you're wanting my cell records … ”