Hard Rock Roots Box Set by C. M. Stunich Page B

Insane. It has to be the person who sent the video, obviously, but that doesn't help me figure out a possible culprit. In fact, it makes it even harder for me to hazard a guess. I just want to ignore it and hope it goes away. I can only handle one detrimental, life altering secret at a time surfacing, and it seems like I'm about to drown in the Turner thing.
    Why is this so freaking hard for you, Naomi? Just walk up to the man and say, 'Hey, you helped me out once, but then you ruined me. I loved you, and you broke me.' I shiver. Yeah, I'm sure that would go over real, real well. I wash myself quickly and get out, stepping out of the bathroom in just a towel, and find myself face to face with Turner.
    His hands slam against the wall on either side of me and force me back a step, effectively pinning me in the tiny square of tiled spaced in front of the toilet.
    He's glaring at me, and his dark eyes are fierce, cutting through the air between us like swords, slicing up the silence and shedding its blood. His lips are pursed so tight that the piercings on either side are poking out at me like accusatory fingers. He's got on a black Amatory Riot shirt, and this time, I know he knows exactly who we are.
    “ Turning the Key on the Past? ” he asks me, stating the name of one of our most popular songs. “Is that supposed to be subtle, Knox?” My lip curls up in the corner, and I wonder where the fuck the rest of my band is, where America and Spencer are, and why they just let him walk in here like this.
    “I don't like people in my face, Turner, so back the fuck off. And don't call me Knox. This isn't the fucking military. The name's Naomi.” Turner slams his palm against the wall hard.
    “Who are you?” he screams at me, and I have to resist the urge to knee him in the nuts. I'm pretty fucking sure that the asshole would press charges, and with last month's fiasco combined with the bird murderer psychopath fuck, it's just too risky. “And what do you want from me?”
    “Want from you?” I ask with a bitter laugh. The towel slips and I just let it go, standing there proud and pissed and naked and fierce with hot moisture clinging to my skin and wet hair kissing my lips. Turner's eyes fuck me from head to toe and the leg of his pants bulges with the swelling of his cock. “Sort of seems like you're the one that wants something from me. You've been pursuing me, remember? You're the one that's following me around like a lost, little, puppy.”
    “Fuck you,” he spits, stepping closer to me, driving me back. His skin is covered in sweat and his hair is mussy. I'm doubting he got any fucking sleep last night. Good. He can suffer along with me. “You seem to know me a hell of a lot better than I know you. I want to know why. You a stalker or something?”
    I spit in his face and he reaches out suddenly and snatches my wrist, dragging me forward and pressing me against the length of his body. His cock grinds into my crotch and his lips graze mine. But I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of anyone or anything. My hand travels up the wall in the bathroom and slips into the tiny drawer on my left. The hunting knife appears in my hand.
    “You want the short answer or the long?”
    “Don't you think you owe me both?” Turner asks, and then I've got the blade up and forward, pressing into his throat, teasing blood, loosing his grip, pushing him back into the row of bunks. I don't look at the star tattoos near his hair or the sleeve of color that crawls up his muscular arm; I just look into the black devil heart of a man who doesn't care, who can't bother to care, who's too entitled to see what's right in front of him.
    “From the trailer park, a rising star,” I say as I quote a magazine article I read so long ago. I think I was sixteen then and Turner was twenty-one, the perfect idol. “I thought you were so amazing.” I laugh, harsh and dry. “God, I should've known better.” I drop the knife and step back. Turner lets me go,