inside tents. I make an easy beeline to the customer parking lot and stand stone still, eyes scanning the dripping vehicles.
The key's nondescript. The only reason I know it goes to a vehicle is because it has that black rubber bit on the end. Otherwise, I'd have never even known. I hold it so tight that the metal cuts into my palms and bleeds my red blood into the puddle below my feet. The task in front of me seems downright fucking impossible, but I can't talk myself out of it. So in the dark, in the rain, I move forward and I start testing vehicles. I try doors and trunks, moving from one end of the row to the other, then onto the next. I figure if anybody catches me, I'm Turner Goddamn Campbell. They'll back off. If not, there's always money. Last I checked I had a whole shit ton of it.
Each failure pisses me off, making me grit my teeth and bite at my tongue ring, tasting blood on my mouth, feeling like I want to beat the shit out of someone. No. Not someone. Him. Whoever the fuck is that took Naomi. God, when I find him, he better run because if I get my hands around his throat, it is lights fucking out.
“Turner!” A sharp voice cuts through the rain and draws my gaze up and over to a figure jogging through the drizzle towards me. As he gets closer, I can see that it's Ronnie. His face is pale and his hands are shaky, but he looks lucid enough. I stick the key in the next lock and turn. Nothing. “What the hell are you doing out here?” he asks, watching as I move to the trunk of a silver Miata. I pause for a moment, trying to figure out how the hell to answer that question.
“Looking for my woman,” I say simply because well, that's all there is to it. Ronnie should understand better than anybody. I move onto the next vehicle, and he follows, hair sticking to his pale forehead and sunken cheeks. Ronnie used to be a good looking guy. Not so much anymore. He better chill on the damn drugs or he's going to rot from the inside out. Even I fucking get that.
“Trey is not happy with you,” he says, but he doesn't mention Milo, so I figure everything's alright. With Hayden's sudden reappearance, the crowd will get over it. They got to see me sing, a ghost rose from the grave, and I crowd surfed the shit out of their asses. They'll remember this concert for a long time coming.
“I figured as much,” I say as I keep at it, inserting the metal, twisting it, feeling that surge of disappointment. From behind me, I can hear the sounds of the crowd filtering out of the building. I'm not going to be able to keep this up for much longer. “But that doesn't mean shit compared to this.” Ronnie doesn't question me, just holds his hand out for key and examines it carefully. Being the God of Gossip has honed his skills and refined his knowledge of useless shit, so when Ronnie looks at the key and squints hard, I know he's come up with something for me.
“This isn't a car key, Turner,” he tells me as he nods once and hands it back. His shirt is sticking to his body, showing me how skinny he's gotten. It makes me feel like a shitty fucking friend. How did I miss this downward spiral? Where the shit have I been?
“Then what is it?” I ask as the masses disperse and start moving towards their respective vehicles. Probably a good time for us to leave. But I won't. Not until I get an answer from Ronnie. He licks his lips and glances around like he expects somebody to be listening in on our conversation. When he looks back at me, I can see the curiosity and the fear in his eyes. He doesn't know exactly what's going on, but he can guess, and he doesn't like it. I don't blame him.
“If my instincts are right, and they usually are, I'd have to say that this key … goes to one of the tour buses.”
Ronnie and I leave the parking lot running, pausing only when the big burly bouncer out front looks like he's about to blow our friggin' brains out. I don't flash him any ID, just swipe the hair from my forehead and look
The key's nondescript. The only reason I know it goes to a vehicle is because it has that black rubber bit on the end. Otherwise, I'd have never even known. I hold it so tight that the metal cuts into my palms and bleeds my red blood into the puddle below my feet. The task in front of me seems downright fucking impossible, but I can't talk myself out of it. So in the dark, in the rain, I move forward and I start testing vehicles. I try doors and trunks, moving from one end of the row to the other, then onto the next. I figure if anybody catches me, I'm Turner Goddamn Campbell. They'll back off. If not, there's always money. Last I checked I had a whole shit ton of it.
Each failure pisses me off, making me grit my teeth and bite at my tongue ring, tasting blood on my mouth, feeling like I want to beat the shit out of someone. No. Not someone. Him. Whoever the fuck is that took Naomi. God, when I find him, he better run because if I get my hands around his throat, it is lights fucking out.
“Turner!” A sharp voice cuts through the rain and draws my gaze up and over to a figure jogging through the drizzle towards me. As he gets closer, I can see that it's Ronnie. His face is pale and his hands are shaky, but he looks lucid enough. I stick the key in the next lock and turn. Nothing. “What the hell are you doing out here?” he asks, watching as I move to the trunk of a silver Miata. I pause for a moment, trying to figure out how the hell to answer that question.
“Looking for my woman,” I say simply because well, that's all there is to it. Ronnie should understand better than anybody. I move onto the next vehicle, and he follows, hair sticking to his pale forehead and sunken cheeks. Ronnie used to be a good looking guy. Not so much anymore. He better chill on the damn drugs or he's going to rot from the inside out. Even I fucking get that.
“Trey is not happy with you,” he says, but he doesn't mention Milo, so I figure everything's alright. With Hayden's sudden reappearance, the crowd will get over it. They got to see me sing, a ghost rose from the grave, and I crowd surfed the shit out of their asses. They'll remember this concert for a long time coming.
“I figured as much,” I say as I keep at it, inserting the metal, twisting it, feeling that surge of disappointment. From behind me, I can hear the sounds of the crowd filtering out of the building. I'm not going to be able to keep this up for much longer. “But that doesn't mean shit compared to this.” Ronnie doesn't question me, just holds his hand out for key and examines it carefully. Being the God of Gossip has honed his skills and refined his knowledge of useless shit, so when Ronnie looks at the key and squints hard, I know he's come up with something for me.
“This isn't a car key, Turner,” he tells me as he nods once and hands it back. His shirt is sticking to his body, showing me how skinny he's gotten. It makes me feel like a shitty fucking friend. How did I miss this downward spiral? Where the shit have I been?
“Then what is it?” I ask as the masses disperse and start moving towards their respective vehicles. Probably a good time for us to leave. But I won't. Not until I get an answer from Ronnie. He licks his lips and glances around like he expects somebody to be listening in on our conversation. When he looks back at me, I can see the curiosity and the fear in his eyes. He doesn't know exactly what's going on, but he can guess, and he doesn't like it. I don't blame him.
“If my instincts are right, and they usually are, I'd have to say that this key … goes to one of the tour buses.”
Ronnie and I leave the parking lot running, pausing only when the big burly bouncer out front looks like he's about to blow our friggin' brains out. I don't flash him any ID, just swipe the hair from my forehead and look
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