pregnant. It happens.” Turner pauses, and I think I hear him mumble something like, just not to me. His callous attitude about the whole thing makes me want to rip off his balls, but then I remind myself that I'm not supposed to care. Slicing off some of his prized man bits would show too much emotion, so I grab the rage that's boiling inside, and I put a lid on it, clamp it down and keep it hidden. Later, tonight, when I get a hold of my guitar, I'm going to take a note from this dickhole and play it so hard it bleeds.
“Glad to know that that night meant so much to you.” I smile and start to walk away. Being around Turner is not a good idea. I knew that when I was offered this gig; I should've walked away then. Now the noose he threw around my neck so long ago is starting to choke me. And I thought I'd chucked it? Pathetic. Even now, even as I'm standing here hating him with every ounce of my being, something about him is drawing me forward. Could be the fire in his brown eyes, the color that burns there so bright it blinds. Despite his callous attitude and his all be damned bullshit, Turner has enough passion to light the sky on fire. He does it with his music, but for some reason, it doesn't seem like he's capable of translating the good in him to real life.
I can't be around someone like this.
I have a hard enough time with my own issues. I need to be around people who know what they want and how to take it, who understand their strengths and play them hard, who fight to overcome their weaknesses. That is, if there are any people like that who actually exist.
Turner paces alongside me, all tight, twitching muscles and clenched teeth. He brushes the hair off his sweaty forehead with an angry hand, and I know he wishes he could just hit me. Glad to see he isn't sexist, that he'll attack any threat head on. But if he touches me, he's going down. I am a lot stronger than I look. I've been fighting off men twice my size since I turned ten.
“You know what I meant,” he grounds out, tucking his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans. They kiss his skin so tight that I can practically hear the smacking of lips. That denim is freaking painted on Turner's legs. Doubt there's room for underwear in there.
“Do I?” I ask him, forcing my steps to slow, so he has a chance to explain himself. Right now, I'm heading straight toward Dax and Kash. Once I get there, Dax will chase Turner off. Or he'll try anyway, and I really, really don't want to deal with that shit. So hurry up then, my logical mind tells me. I ignore it, much to my detriment, I'm sure.
“I just meant that it wasn't personal, Naomi. I didn't mean for this to happen to you, and I … ” Turner trails off, and I have no choice but to turn and look at him. The sound of his voice was … strange, like he was embarrassed about something. I can't even imagine the man having that emotion, so it's a pretty big deal to me.
I stop walking, and Turner does the same.
“What?”
He looks at me like I'm crazy and steps back, running his fingers through his blue-black hair. The star tattoos on the edges of his hairline flash at me, highlighted by the bright lights on the sign at my back, the one that has both our bands' names plastered across it in two foot tall letters.
“I've never forgotten to use a condom before. Not with anyone. Not even once.” I laugh so hard that tears come to my eyes, and I have to bend over to take a breath. Blonde hair falls over my shoulder like a curtain and obscures my face.
“Really? Is that the best line you've got, Turner? Jesus, I thought you were better than that.”
“It's true,” he snaps, voice so rough that I have to look up at him. His eyes are narrowed on me, and his full lips are flat and straight. He looks like a different person when he's pissed. The Turner Campbell I'm used to seeing is always smirking and is so cocky and arrogant, that anger doesn't even seem to be an option. After all, to be angry
“Glad to know that that night meant so much to you.” I smile and start to walk away. Being around Turner is not a good idea. I knew that when I was offered this gig; I should've walked away then. Now the noose he threw around my neck so long ago is starting to choke me. And I thought I'd chucked it? Pathetic. Even now, even as I'm standing here hating him with every ounce of my being, something about him is drawing me forward. Could be the fire in his brown eyes, the color that burns there so bright it blinds. Despite his callous attitude and his all be damned bullshit, Turner has enough passion to light the sky on fire. He does it with his music, but for some reason, it doesn't seem like he's capable of translating the good in him to real life.
I can't be around someone like this.
I have a hard enough time with my own issues. I need to be around people who know what they want and how to take it, who understand their strengths and play them hard, who fight to overcome their weaknesses. That is, if there are any people like that who actually exist.
Turner paces alongside me, all tight, twitching muscles and clenched teeth. He brushes the hair off his sweaty forehead with an angry hand, and I know he wishes he could just hit me. Glad to see he isn't sexist, that he'll attack any threat head on. But if he touches me, he's going down. I am a lot stronger than I look. I've been fighting off men twice my size since I turned ten.
“You know what I meant,” he grounds out, tucking his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans. They kiss his skin so tight that I can practically hear the smacking of lips. That denim is freaking painted on Turner's legs. Doubt there's room for underwear in there.
“Do I?” I ask him, forcing my steps to slow, so he has a chance to explain himself. Right now, I'm heading straight toward Dax and Kash. Once I get there, Dax will chase Turner off. Or he'll try anyway, and I really, really don't want to deal with that shit. So hurry up then, my logical mind tells me. I ignore it, much to my detriment, I'm sure.
“I just meant that it wasn't personal, Naomi. I didn't mean for this to happen to you, and I … ” Turner trails off, and I have no choice but to turn and look at him. The sound of his voice was … strange, like he was embarrassed about something. I can't even imagine the man having that emotion, so it's a pretty big deal to me.
I stop walking, and Turner does the same.
“What?”
He looks at me like I'm crazy and steps back, running his fingers through his blue-black hair. The star tattoos on the edges of his hairline flash at me, highlighted by the bright lights on the sign at my back, the one that has both our bands' names plastered across it in two foot tall letters.
“I've never forgotten to use a condom before. Not with anyone. Not even once.” I laugh so hard that tears come to my eyes, and I have to bend over to take a breath. Blonde hair falls over my shoulder like a curtain and obscures my face.
“Really? Is that the best line you've got, Turner? Jesus, I thought you were better than that.”
“It's true,” he snaps, voice so rough that I have to look up at him. His eyes are narrowed on me, and his full lips are flat and straight. He looks like a different person when he's pissed. The Turner Campbell I'm used to seeing is always smirking and is so cocky and arrogant, that anger doesn't even seem to be an option. After all, to be angry
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