Real Ugly(48)

And suddenly, the lights are flickering back to life, highlighting our faces with brightness and shadow both, making me see him, his expression, the desperation there that he doesn't even know he has. That passion he's carrying around, that intensity that he hides behind the arrogance and the fucking and the drugs, is showing and it's starting to stick to me. It was only a matter of time, really. I think I'm just hitting him at the right place, right time. But you know that isn't entirely true. That first night, you two had a connection. You knew it; he knew it. He might've been fucked out of his mind, but he didn't get that tattoo because he was drunk. He got it because he liked you then, just like he does now. Turner doesn't want someone who'll roll over and take it. He wants someone who fights. He wants you.

I call bullshit on my brain as Turner reaches up and grabs my glasses, throwing them so hard that they smash into the wall behind me and shatter into a million pieces. I grab his chin with my nails, pressing so tightly that little dots of red show up, highlighting his pale skin, the stubble on his jaw, that cocky smile.

“You're wet,” he says, and I kiss him, just so he'll shut up. Doesn't close his eyes though. The bastard leaves those wide open and stares straight at me, does the one thing I don't want him to do and crawls inside, figuratively that is. My hips start to slow, pausing that ridiculous grinding motion I've been swinging, and Turner goes nuts.

With a growl, he grabs me and presses me down so hard it hurts, lets his head fall back, so I can bite and kiss the tattoos on his throat. I think of him onstage, how he can switch from his angel persona to his devil one, just like that, and my body squeezes tight, drags an orgasm screaming from his mouth at the same moment it pulls one from mine. Like some fucking fairytale couple, we come together, and my heart stops and time stops, and then I'm up and stumbling away, grabbing my skirt, his T-shirt.

I throw the two pieces on, panting, sobbing even though I don't know why. When I grab the door handle and tear out of there, Turner is too slow to stop me.



I stumble back to the bus and climb on, shoving past Dax and Hayden, disappearing into my bunk and clamping my headphones around my ears, cutting out the world. I turn the music up so loud it hurts, makes my head spin in wild circles.

I can't.

I don't.

You cannot love someone you don't know, I remind myself, thinking back to our first time. I know of Turner. I've read articles about him, watched him onstage, listened to his music. That doesn't mean I know a damn thing about the real guy hidden underneath – other than that he's a complete and total asshole. A whore. A drug addict. There's just nothing to like basically.

Still, I keep my headphones on and I rock back and forth to the music with the curtain closed and my eyes squeezed shut so tight that they hurt. I don't expect Turner to come after me since that was the deal we made, but somehow, I hope that he does. And I don't. And I do. I'm such a fucked up mess that I actually forget about Katie and Eric and the double homicide I committed. Pretty intense, huh?

Even Hayden leaves me alone for the rest of the night, and nobody complains about how loud the music is, even though I play it non-stop until we leave the next morning, pulling out of the parking lot and starting down the highway like nothing's different.

Everything is.

When I climb out of bed, I go straight for the shower and wash my skin so hard it hurts and turns a pale shade of red. I dress myself in Turner's tee (don't ask me why) and a pair of skinny jeans. I don't bother with undergarments, but I do slip on a nice, thick pair of boots, keeping that tattoo on my ankle as closed in as possible. I can't believe that I actually cut it. Now, it hurts so bad that I have no choice but to think about it. Constantly. Fucking Christ.

“What happened to you last night?” Hayden asks, staring straight back at me, all blue eyed and bushy tailed. I want to punch her. Instead, I sit down and force myself to eat the pancakes that America just whipped up. As she starts in on her usual morning bitch session, I take a look around the table. At least I'm not the only one that looks miserable. Dax looks like he wants to shoot himself between the eyes; Kash is green in the face; Blair has a permanent frown sewn to her lips, and Wren is so hung over, he can barely sit up.

Hayden scoots closer to me and scoops some hair behind my ear, leaning over to breathe hot against my skin.

“I need to talk to you in private,” she tells me, licking the side of my jaw. Blair watches her do this and makes a What the fuck face? which I have no choice but to look away from. If I don't let Hayden get away with little teases like this, I can't fight her on the big ones. Like the Turner thing. At the thought of his name, my pussy goes into overdrive and my whole body feels sick. I'm both horny and absolutely repulsed at the same time. With a groan, I bury my face in my hands and then stand up.