Real Ugly(63)
“I'm going to ask you one more time: where is Hayden?”
“She's not coming,” I spit, turning away, looking around at the rest of the band. They don't look nervous though, just confused. “I'll be filling in for her.”
“Oh? Will you?” America asks, laughing like a hyena on the fucking plains. She sounds like she's ready for blood. “She have somewhere better to be?”
“Apparently,” I respond, refusing to look at Turner's face. My lungs are full of him now though, and I swear that even with all the noise around me, I can still hear him breathing.
America doesn't respond, but the skin on her cheeks and forehead is so tight it looks like she just got a face-lift or something. I look away from her and out at the bit of the crowd I can see from here, buzzing and murmuring, waiting for Turner probably. That's why most of them are here, to see him before Indecency's new record deal goes through and they become untouchable, playing venues so big that a football stadium looks small.
Without another word, I step forward and leave the drama behind, moving with stiff confidence over to my guitar. I slide the strap over my head and step up to the center mic. Okay, so I won't be able to put on the sexed up show they're looking for, but I can blow their mind with music. That's what I have to do right now, for them and for me. I glance over to my left as the rest of the band files out behind me and catch Turner's eye.
He's mad, yeah, but determined. Getting away from him is going to be damn near impossible.
I turn back to face the crowd and take a deep breath, doing my best to pull that inner me out, so she can take over. I can't slide into myself right now or this whole night's going to be for shit. A bad show on top of a bad day will only make things worse. I have to rule this. I'm a fucking rock star, after all, aren't I?
“Hey there.” I pause for a moment and try to remember where the fuck it is we're at. “Colorado.” Some cheers go up but not enough. I see people glancing at one another, disappointed, and once that happens, I start to pick the crowd apart, take the image of these people in my head from a single entity to thousands of tiny dots with frowns and sneers and laughter. I let my eyes shutter briefly for a moment. Get ahold of yourself. You're a strong woman. You going to let a little stage fright fuck you up? I open my eyes and sweep the dark mass below me. It stretches out and back, spreading out on either side and tapering off at roped entry points beyond which tables sit, covered in drinks, surrounded by even more people. My throat goes dry, and I find myself having trouble speaking. I open my mouth again and nothing will come out. I blame Turner. This is his fault. I could've handled this. After all, it's not like it's my first time onstage. He just tightened that noose around my neck, and I feel like I'm being choked. Do you know how hard it is to be offered the one thing you always wanted just after you've convinced yourself that you don't anymore? Just when you've accepted that you'll never have it? It's cruel. Worse than never being offered it at all.
“How's it fucking going, Denver?”
Turner's got Wren's mic in his hand and is strolling towards me with a smirk on his face, one that betrays the glint of anger and hope that's warring in his eyes.
“You know Naomi Knox, right?” he asks, and he holds his hand over my head, starting the crowd up like a revving engine, just a slight purr that you know will become a rumble before long. “You're going to have to forgive her. Her leading lady, Miss Anorexia herself … ” A murmur of laughter ripples through the group. “Is MIA at the moment, so tonight, you're going to get the extreme pleasure,” he purrs as he drops his hand and rubs his belly, purposing exposing the taut flesh above his jeans. “Of listening to her sing. I just announced my undying love for her, so she's a little flustered at the moment. I'm sure once she realizes she feels the same way, she'll calm down.” More laughter, a little nervous this time but quite a bit louder, bursts from the group, and then the crowd starts a chant. Duet. Duet. Duet. They want Turner and I to sing together. Of course they do. They've all seen that video of us on YouTube.
I purse my lips tight and glance at him from the corner of my eye. God, he looks like an angel again, highlighted under the bright lights, blue-black hair gleaming, tattoos vibrant and popping. I don't want to do this with him, but I don't know how to get rid of him either. A rock and a hard place. Guess I just have to figure out how to make that hard rock and we're good to go.
Turner turns to face me, still smirking, still looking arrogant as fuck in the mouth but dangerously unstable in the eyes. What a volatile place to be. I swallow hard and strike a chord. We start up Turning the Key on the Past, totally fucking up our setlist for the night. Oh well. Fuck it. I need to play this song. Turner needs to hear it. He was right; it's about him anyway.