I slip out the front door and narrowly manage to miss an argument between the boys. Could be about politics, religion, or whose cock is the biggest. I don't fucking give a shit. All I know is that it's the last thing I want to get in the middle of. I'm in a bad friggin' mood today. I knew this tour was a bad idea. Only two weeks on the road and you're already losing it. You thought keeping your distance would keep you safe? Hah. You were wrong, Naomi. Dead wrong.
I pound down the steps and let my eyes sift through the crowd carefully. The parking lot's finally coming alive, drawing partiers out of the woodwork just in time for them to remember that they actually have jobs to do.
“Naomi.” It's America. Good. Found without a search. I turn to face her and notice that her smart phone isn't glued to her face like usual. Immediately, I suspect that something's wrong and narrow my eyes.
“What?”
America pauses a few feet away from me and draws a tablet from her purse, sliding her fingernails across the screen without taking her gaze from mine.
“I've got some good news and some bad.”
“Bad first,” I spit, letting my eyelashes flutter closed for a moment. A cigarette makes it out of my pocket and into my mouth, crackling nice and pretty with hot, orange light. America watches it with unveiled disgust, but doesn't lose her white-toothed smile. I stare at her, tearing her apart with my eyes, trying to figure out what would convince a Harvard grad to take up managing a rock band. I mean, it's not like the woman went all buck wild and dyed her blonde hair black, painted her nails with tiny skulls, and started sporting plaid minis. She still wears dark slacks and cream colored blouses, slicks her hair back into severe buns, and uses only neutral eye shadows. She looks and acts the part of a stuck up lawyer, but she isn't one. I mean, yeah, she passed the bar exam and all, but other than a brief internship, she's never practiced.
She stares right back at me and never flinches; the locks remain tight and the chains wrapped. Whatever secrets America is hiding will remain in the dark. Unlike mine, apparently.
“I got a little home movie sent to me last night. I was going to show you then, but when I got back to the bus, I found you in a bit of a sticky situation.”
I blow smoke out and huff at her.
“Sticky situation? The only thing that was sticky was the cum Blair and I had to scrub off of the carpet. The shit that was going down wasn't mine.” America blinks at me, but remains stoic. Her white, white skin glows with well placed spots of blush and the best moisturizer money can buy.
“Really? How odd then that I'd receive this the very same night that Turner Campbell made his debut on our bus.”
The tablet is handed over to me, and I watch as I reach out and grab it with sure fingers. Whatever this is, I can handle it. I can handle anything.
I spin the screen around and watch the video.
Seconds later, I'm around the back of the bus throwing up.
I can handle anything. Anything except this.
My secret.
Well, one of them anyway.
“What are you thinking?” I ask America as we sit on the bus and sip coffee. We're over two hours behind schedule, but nobody can find Turner Campbell and much as I hate the stupid fuck, the circus can't leave without its ring leader. I'm kidding myself if I don't acknowledge that at least half of the fans that show up to our gigs are there not just for Indecency, but for the lead singer himself. He practically fucks them with his voice, splits their souls in half and enslaves him. I hate him, yes, but I cannot, cannot, cannot deny that.
“What you really mean is, does this change anything?” America holds her mug in two hands and sips carefully, letting the Brazilian blend sit on the back of her tongue before she swallows. Her knuckles are bare except for a silver wedding band. America is single. I don't want to know what that means. “And no. It doesn't.” She sets her cup down and drums her fingertips on the tabletop. “Not unless you want it to. This changes nothing for me.”
“But you're a lawyer.” Her lip curls, and I can tell that I've said something I shouldn't. Oh fucking well. What's new? “Shouldn't you be … I don't know. Calling the cops or something?”
America laughs, and it's dry as hell. As arid as the fucking desert we're getting ready to travel through. She clacks her pretty pearly whites together and scowls at me. It's the first time I've ever seen an expression like that on her face, and it throws me off.
“I can forgive a lot, Naomi. A lot. But don't act like you know me.” America slams her palms on the table and stands up. Before I can even get a grip on the situation, she has her phone at her ear and is screaming something into it. I set my coffee down and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest.