exchange a look.
“Oh, come the fuck on,” I say, slapping my palms flat on the table and standing up. “I didn't ask you to join me in holy matrimony; let's just play some shit together.” I move away from the table and pause when my phone starts to buzz on the counter, shaking like an epileptic in a fit. I pick it up, glance at the number and then move over to the sink.
“Turner?” Blair guesses, and I nod as I turn on the water and drop the phone into the drain on the left – the one with the garbage disposal. A second later, I flick the switch and a horrible grinding, screeching sound emanates from down below. It's like an alley cat got in a fight with a semi-truck – and won.
The noise is enough to bring America sprinting from the back, iPhone still pressed to one ear, perfectly polished and shimmering in a nude suit and black pumps. She looks like she's on her way to a luncheon at the country club, not a rock concert.
“What in the God's name of fuck was that?” she snarls, and I smile, happy to see that our language is really rubbing off on her. I turn off the disposal and the water and step back, spinning to face her with a nasty grin.
“Just taking out the trash is all.”
The jam session with Blair and Dax goes so fucking well that I almost forget about Turner and the half-secret I shared with him. The one that I'm going to have to finish sometime in the near future. After all, if I learned one thing from trying out my new song, it was that it wasn't finished. The story that it's based on doesn't have an ending, so how can I expect the tune that's based off it to?
Anyway, I'm smoking a cigarette and watching the roadies unload our shit when he saunters up behind me and blows smoke in my ear. I'm so not worried about running into him that I don't even bother to turn around. I've got my music high right now and there is nothing in this fucking world that can beat that. Even crackhead Wren agrees with that one.
“Why are we playing Tucson when we skipped LA? Seems kind of fucked up, huh?”
I don't answer the question because I'm actually kind of shocked to hear his voice. For a few blissful, perfect hours there, he did not even fucking exist. I don't answer the question and instead keep my gaze focused on Spencer's back. She has these bright, butterfly wings tattooed on her shoulder blades, the perfect compliment to the creamy mocha color of her skin. I admit, I'm kinda jealous. My skin is so pale that all my tats look like stickers, like they've just been stamped there and aren't really a part of me. Pisses me the fuck off.
“I think I was pretty clear when I told you to stay the hell away from me, Turner.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and watch as he steps up next to me and puts it out. My gaze remains focused straight ahead. I start to hum the melody to the second new song I started today, the one about dead birds. Yep, even stalkers can be inspirational. My mind wanders back to that issue for a moment and quickly dismisses it. One thing at a time. That's about all I can handle right now.
“Yeah, but, uh, Knox, finding out that you and I procreated ties us together just a bit more than your typical set of strangers, huh?”
I shiver and pull out another cigarette. The lights of the venue are casting strange shadows around us, making the air look like it's full of ghosts. I wonder briefly if one of them is our kid and then shake off the guilt with a violent snap of my head, giving Turner my best narrow-eyed death glare.
“Really? You're going to pull that bull now? Why? Because you have daddy issues and need to soothe your tortured soul? Give me a break, Turner, and get the fuck over yourself.” He's staring straight back at me, and his face is changing from soft and understanding to pissed off. Apparently, I said something I shouldn't have. Oh well. What's new?
“You don't know shit about me,” he growls, clenching his fists so hard at his sides that his tattoos look like
“Oh, come the fuck on,” I say, slapping my palms flat on the table and standing up. “I didn't ask you to join me in holy matrimony; let's just play some shit together.” I move away from the table and pause when my phone starts to buzz on the counter, shaking like an epileptic in a fit. I pick it up, glance at the number and then move over to the sink.
“Turner?” Blair guesses, and I nod as I turn on the water and drop the phone into the drain on the left – the one with the garbage disposal. A second later, I flick the switch and a horrible grinding, screeching sound emanates from down below. It's like an alley cat got in a fight with a semi-truck – and won.
The noise is enough to bring America sprinting from the back, iPhone still pressed to one ear, perfectly polished and shimmering in a nude suit and black pumps. She looks like she's on her way to a luncheon at the country club, not a rock concert.
“What in the God's name of fuck was that?” she snarls, and I smile, happy to see that our language is really rubbing off on her. I turn off the disposal and the water and step back, spinning to face her with a nasty grin.
“Just taking out the trash is all.”
The jam session with Blair and Dax goes so fucking well that I almost forget about Turner and the half-secret I shared with him. The one that I'm going to have to finish sometime in the near future. After all, if I learned one thing from trying out my new song, it was that it wasn't finished. The story that it's based on doesn't have an ending, so how can I expect the tune that's based off it to?
Anyway, I'm smoking a cigarette and watching the roadies unload our shit when he saunters up behind me and blows smoke in my ear. I'm so not worried about running into him that I don't even bother to turn around. I've got my music high right now and there is nothing in this fucking world that can beat that. Even crackhead Wren agrees with that one.
“Why are we playing Tucson when we skipped LA? Seems kind of fucked up, huh?”
I don't answer the question because I'm actually kind of shocked to hear his voice. For a few blissful, perfect hours there, he did not even fucking exist. I don't answer the question and instead keep my gaze focused on Spencer's back. She has these bright, butterfly wings tattooed on her shoulder blades, the perfect compliment to the creamy mocha color of her skin. I admit, I'm kinda jealous. My skin is so pale that all my tats look like stickers, like they've just been stamped there and aren't really a part of me. Pisses me the fuck off.
“I think I was pretty clear when I told you to stay the hell away from me, Turner.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and watch as he steps up next to me and puts it out. My gaze remains focused straight ahead. I start to hum the melody to the second new song I started today, the one about dead birds. Yep, even stalkers can be inspirational. My mind wanders back to that issue for a moment and quickly dismisses it. One thing at a time. That's about all I can handle right now.
“Yeah, but, uh, Knox, finding out that you and I procreated ties us together just a bit more than your typical set of strangers, huh?”
I shiver and pull out another cigarette. The lights of the venue are casting strange shadows around us, making the air look like it's full of ghosts. I wonder briefly if one of them is our kid and then shake off the guilt with a violent snap of my head, giving Turner my best narrow-eyed death glare.
“Really? You're going to pull that bull now? Why? Because you have daddy issues and need to soothe your tortured soul? Give me a break, Turner, and get the fuck over yourself.” He's staring straight back at me, and his face is changing from soft and understanding to pissed off. Apparently, I said something I shouldn't have. Oh well. What's new?
“You don't know shit about me,” he growls, clenching his fists so hard at his sides that his tattoos look like
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