Turner Campbell is an asshole.
I f*cking hate him.
But I can't get enough either.
He sings like an angel and f*cks like a devil.
If I could, I'd run away and never look back because to tell you the truth, I think this man might be the death of me.
Naomi Knox is a bitch.
I can't f*cking stand her.
But I can't stop thinking about her either.
She looks like an angel and plays like a devil.
If I could, I'd f*ck her good and forget all about her, but to tell you the truth, I think this woman might be my last saving grace.
Through my sunglasses, I see a face just offstage, hiding in the shadows with a smirk.
Turner. Turner fucking Campbell is watching me screw this crowd with my axe, and I can't breathe. For a moment, I'm afraid my fingers are going to slip, and I'm going to blow this whole gig, but the inner me, the one I dragged out, turns up the notch on my smirk and slides my tongue across my lips. Oh my god! What the hell am I doing? I flick it out and suck it back in, melding into Wren, sliding against him like we're screwing back to back. And I don't even like the guy. I don't like either of these guys, but I can't stop myself. The music's taken over me, and will do what she fucking pleases.
I watch Turner watching me, and see that his brown eyes are glittering dark, like a night sky filled with stars. It's so off-kilter with his personality that it really throws me for a loop. Once again, I find myself having trouble hating him. Seem to be having a lot of trouble with my loathing abilities as of late. Guess when I get onstage, I am just fucked.
Our duet ends and Wren pulls away leaving me cold. And in the middle of an impromptu solo. Shit.
Luckily, Amatory Riot has functioned as a unit long enough for the others to follow me, modifying our song right then and there. The crowd goes fucking wild, and the air escapes my lungs. The lights overhead shift and I find myself bathed in color. My eyes shift to search for Turner again, and I'm glad I'm wearing these shades. If he knew I was looking for him, I'd never live it down.
A gasp goes up on my right and Turner appears out of nowhere, snatching my mic from its stand and grabbing Hayden around the waist. He makes a little come on gesture at me and then leans forward and grabs my lips with his.
I don't stop playing; I can't. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't stop the burst of fucking power that's just taken hold of me. I'm both a victim and a master to it as it draws my hands along the neck and plucks strings with a violent fervor that both scares and amazes me. Hot wet heat takes over my mouth and pulls the rest of the inner me out, and then I'm kissing Turner back hard and fast and furious while the world's most intense riffs are just pulled straight through me, cutting me up and bleeding me over the stage.
When he pulls away, our eyes lock tight, and I know he can see right through my shades, through my head, and straight down into me. It's a trick; it's gotta be. I want to remember the way he spoke to me on the phone, the way he left that poor girl half-naked over the PA speaker, but I can't seem to grab any memories that haven't been made right here, on this stage. What else is there? my soul asks me as Turner uses the cord of the mic to spin it in a circle and snatch it back in one tattooed hand.
My solo comes to a natural end, and I fall right back where I left off, taking the band with me, opening my ears up to Turner's voice as it slides into the microphone. It's unbelievable – my words from his lips. I step back and Hayden moves up beside him, doing her best to out sex her colleague.
It doesn't work.
I don't think it's even possible to out sex Turner Campbell.
He grabs the hem of his shirt and slides it up, flashing his taut belly and a sea of tattoos against pale, sweaty flesh. His fingers rub the dark hair above his jeans and then drop the fabric back into place, much to the dismay of the crowd.
“Tearing me up, shredding me inside; my walls are coming down in flames.” Hayden's voice slides in alongside Turner's and for a split second there, I'm jealous. Of what and who and why, I have no idea, because I fucking hate them both, and they deserve each other, but … I brush the feeling aside and slam my axe to bits with my pick. “If you break me, baby, be prepared to pick up the pieces.”
Three. Two. One. And the song is over, and my pick is flying out across the crowd and landing in greedy hands. Sweat pours down my face in sheets and my body is wracked with violent trembles. Turner spins around and grins at me as the crowd explodes into a riotous fervor that makes the bouncers nervous.
Naomi Knox is hardcore. She has to be. Growing up without parents will do that to a person, especially when you're subjected to the horrors only a special type of foster family can provide … But she can play a mean guitar and she'll write music that'll make Beethoven weep in his grave. Just don't ask about her dirty, little secrets. Well, I suppose little isn't exactly the right word. Huge. Monstrous. Looming. Maybe those are better choices?
Turner is a special kind of guy. He grew up without respect, so he demands it, even if it makes him come across as a bit of an asshole. He's got piercings and tats for days, and a mouth with no filter. If you're expecting wise words woven into his insults, you're looking in the wrong place. Turner Campbell's searching; he just doesn't know what it is that he's searching for. But he does have tattoos on his… well, you know. Yep. All over down there. Bats and spider webs. Kinda cool, right?
C.M. Stunich was raised under a cover of fog in the area known simply as Eureka, CA. A mysterious place, this strange, arboreal land nursed Caitlin's (yes, that's her name!) desire to write strange fiction novels about wicked monsters, magical trains, and Nemean Lions (Google it!). She currently enjoys drag queens, having too many cats, and tribal bellydance.
Always a fan of the indie scene and 'sticking it to the man,' Ms. Stunich decided to take the road less traveled and forgo the traditional publishing route. You can be assured though that she received several rejections as to ensure her proper place in the world of writers before taking up a friend's offer to start a publishing company. Sarian Royal was born, and Ms. Stunich's books slowly transformed from mere baking chocolate to full blown tortes with hand sculpted fondant flowers.
C.M. is a writer obsessed with delivering the very best and scours her mind on a regular basis to select the most unusual stories for the outside world.
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