Free Get Bent by C. M. Stunich

also stops them? I suppose that if … no, no, no … when I get out of here, I'll have to ask him.
    So I lie there in forced silence, desperate to keep my mind away from all the horrible what-ifs it wants to play in my head, images of me broken and bleeding, close to death but denied the peace. I shiver and sniffle, trying to think of a moment in my life where I was actually happy. They are few and far between for sure, but there is one that keeps coming to mind over and over and over again.
    The night I met Turner Campbell for the first time.
    It should be my darkest nightmare, but it's not. Somehow, when I think of that night, I smile.
    God, I must really be desperate.

I finger that key while I sit at the table and listen to Milo go on and on about publicity and the police and blah blah blah. I don't really give a shit. All I care about is the rumble of engines. Ronnie and I keep exchanging glances, and he keeps shaking his head. Feels like those fuckers have been gone forever.
    “When do they get back?” I ask, interrupting Milo and drawing everyone's eyes to mine. My manager runs a hand through his blonde hair and adjusts his red tie. He always wears one, even in this humid hell hole. It's like he's impervious to weather, a walking, talking symbol of civil obedience and corporate upstanding. Gotta love Milo Terrabotti, right?
    “Who, Turner?” he asks me, sounding frustrated. He often sounds like that when he talks to me. I spin my new phone around on the table and stare at the image on the background. Naomi. I'm not a fucking creeper or nothing. I got the damn thing off Amatory Riot's website. It's a group photo, but she's the only face I see. I touch a finger to her lips.
    “The RVs, the ones the staff use.” Milo checks his watch with a perplexed frown. He doesn't understand my request, but at least he'll answer the question, if only to prove that he knows. “I thought they were just refueling. What the fuck is taking so long?”
    “They're not just refueling, Turner. If that were the case, they could do it on the road. They have to shop for things, you know. Food, pleasantries, items that you requested.” Milo gives me a look. “They'll be back before sunrise. That's when we're leaving.” My manager looks up from his watch and stares straight at and through me. “Why?”
    “Need to know basis,” I tell him, squeezing the key tight. He sighs and shakes his head, rubbing at the crinkle of skin between his eyebrows.
    “Okay, Turner. Fine.” Milo takes a breath and tucks his small hands into the pockets on the front of his slacks. He doesn't like anybody to know, but he has to take them up because he's so damn short. I keep my gaze on the bottom of his pants and try to pick out the hand stitching while my mind wanders.
    Why would any of the staff want to kidnap Naomi? It this a crazed fan thing? Did Marta and America get in their way? And if so, how did we all miss them taking her back there?
    I squeeze the key even harder, grinding it into my palm while I try to imagine how big this is and how far it goes. There's the video of Naomi, Travis' hat. I mean, how deep is this thing? How many people are involved?
    “We have some renewed interest in the album. It seems this whole tragedy, as horrible as it is, has gotten the attention of some very important people.” Milo clears his through and gets ready to launch into his Professionalism, Practice, Progress speech. We can always tell when he's about to get into it because he snorts like a damn pig and shuffles his feet.
    Fortunately, he gets interrupted by a knock at the door.
    Glances are exchanged and then Milo goes to open it, revealing Hayden Lee standing in front of our bodyguard, hair dripping around her freshly washed face. She smiles at us all and then focuses her gaze on me.
    “Oh God, please come in,” Milo says, ushering her through the door. In the distance, I can see some of her band members hovering under umbrellas and watching carefully.