Free Born Wrong by C. M. Stunich

a zombie with blood pouring down its face tatted right on his bicep. At the same time, when I walked in and saw him pounding away on his drums, something just broke inside of me. A dam was lifted and a flood of hormones poured out and consumed me. My whole body feels slick, and not just down below. I feel like I've been dipped in a vat of warm oil, and it's soothing as shit. I rub at my arm and take a deep breath, accidentally pulling in a mouthful of his scent. Hot, warm, sweaty man. Lust. Desperation. Anger. I swallow hard and stomp my foot on the floor. Yeah, my whole sensation thing is going crazy right now. Pretty sure there's some god out there that desperately wants me to fuck the crap out of this guy. “And yeah, I do find him attractive. He's … obviously hot. On the outside anyway. Inside, he's like ice.”
    Naomi snaps her fingers at me.
    “Right?” she asks, sounding perplexed. “Glad I'm not the only one that thinks that.” I look up at her in her sweatpants and her loose shirt. How fucking cool. Just proves that it's not the clothes that make the rocker chick. 'S the other way around. Naomi couldn't look more like a Rocker Chick Bitch than she does right now, damp hair and all. I've been listening to her music for a few years, on and off. I'd have listened more if that Hayden chick hadn't been the singer. Something about her voice just makes me feel skanky.
    “Were you guys a thing once?” I ask, and I really, really don't like the slight inflection in my voice. I sound like a cougar getting ready to fight over a mate. Wow. I look back at Dax, at the very slight shadow on his jaw, his bow-tie lips, the slight pinch to the bridge of his nose. Mistake, big time future mistake, my brain screams. This strong of a reaction can only get an equally strong reaction. I walked in that door and saw him fucking his drums, his muscles bulging beneath his skin, his wide back, his – I cut myself off that train of thought and blink to clear away the cobwebs.
    “No.” That's all Naomi says, doesn't elaborate. Meanwhile, Turner grits his teeth hard. Not good. There's another story here. I don't like stories; I like endings. Endings tell you what happen, sum up the drama, finish the pain. Stories, well, stories just keep on keepin' on. I don't want a chapter in a partially written book.
    “She fucked Trey though,” Turner says, and I face palm. I just walked into the Den of No Fucking Return. This is a cave of weirdness that I'd rather leave far, far behind. But I can't now. Not after today. There's some weird shit, some dangerous shit, going down that I don't like. I have to stay and fight. What kind of girl would I be if I didn't?
    “Maybe that's not particularly relevant right now?” Ronnie asks Turner in his best no-nonsense voice. He filled me in on the way over. I'm sure I haven't got the full story yet, but I will. It's easier to understand the rules of the game once you're playing it, right? “Why don't we try and keep focused on our little problem here?” Lola's looking at Ronnie, but her eyes are tired and her hands are shaking, not like mine though. Mine are full of estrogen, desperate to cool their heat with a little bit of Dax's ice, if you catch my drift. Hers are twisting in her shirt, rubbing against her shorts, searching for an outlet. She doesn't know what to do next, where to go from here. Isn't it amazing what you can tell about someone from a little body language?
    “What's there to talk about, man? Brayden will take care of that shit. All we have to do is fuck up these interviews, blow up L.A., and become legends. Period. That's fuckin' it, dude.” Turner leans back against the wall, his shirt riding up his abs and flashing a pair of lovely V shaped lines on his hips. Naomi looks purposely away. “After that, we buy some digs in town, raise your babies, and write more albums.” He takes a drag on his cigarette and turns it around, staring into the cherry thoughtfully. Turner Campbell