Get Bent by C. M. Stunich Read Free Book Online

bigger in Texas.” I pause. Grin. “If that's true, then I guess I'm right at home here.”
    I swing the guitar around, not as epically as Naomi, but it works. Screams fill the auditorium as I slam the strings so hard it feels like my fingers are going to get sliced off at the tips, garroted by raging riffs and epic melodies.
    “ Who the hell are you? ” I scream at the top of my lungs, missing that high shrieking pitch that Skinny Bitch managed to hit. Crowd seems okay with it though, jumping up and down, pounding the floor and tasting the bass through their feet. “ Eating me, bleeding me, fucking me. ” I eat those words, change 'em up a little with a silent apology to Knox. “ He's not me, that fucking dick with the perfect kicks. I saw his reflection in a mirror, smashed it to pieces. Eating me, bleeding me, fucking me. Make a picture perfect, unbend his soul. Where were you the day I turned myself invisible? ”
    With a small amount of guilty relief, I pull my hands from the strings and grab the mic, snarling into it with animalistic intent while Wren rocks a solo meant for Naomi. He's good at it, enough to get everybody excited, pump their blood up to their brains and blind them with passion and rage, but he's no Knox. Not by a long shot. If she were here, this crowd would be laid out flat, killed by it.
    I spin in circles and slam the soles of my boots against the old wood, wondering what this place was originally built for. Certainly not this, this shedding of blood and sweating of souls. Oh God, I bet there are ghosts fucking weeping in here, spinning in their graves and crying foul.
    I pause and tap my foot, waiting while Wren winds down and the Little Drummer Boy starts up, slamming his cymbals, pounding away. The other guy, What's-His-Name, smashes the bass to his crotch and screws the crap out of it. I'm impressed.
    “ I'm calling you out. Calling out to the guy within, the person buried deep that's eating me, bleeding me, fucking me. I'm picking up the pieces and the edges don't look good. Sharp points of pain are tasting me, slicing me, dicing me, and I can't … I won't … I will NOT let you go, let you get lost deep down inside of me. ”
    The crowd is pumping their fists, swaying like barley in a Goddamn summer breeze. Some eyes are closed, diving deep, others are open, spreading out. It's like a damn orgy in here – bodies mixing, sweaty hands sliding over hips, up backs, across tight asses and throbbing cocks. I would not be surprised if this whole thing just spiraled to shit.
    I get ready for the harmony that's coming up, for Blair to jump in and soften the edges of my voice.
    Instead, I get something else altogether.
    “ Eating me, ” whispers out of the speakers, soft and feminine, familiar but not familiar enough. “ Bleeding me. ” I pause and the crowd goes silent, just like that, like a candle snuffed out. The absence of noise is almost painful to my throbbing ears, like a punch to the gut, sudden and unexpected. “ Fucking me. ”
    It's like a murder mystery play here now, but the joke's not just on the audience, it's on the players, too. I stand frozen in place, guitar hanging loosely around my neck while a woman enters from stage left, crying out the words to this painful song like she's sung 'em before.
    And she has.
    Fucking Christ.
    Wet and dirty, covered in cuts and dried blood, there she is. Hayden Lee.
    Amatory Riot's missing leading lady is back.

I hear my music again, booming loud, like some sort of fucked up call from Heaven. It pours down around me and infuses my soul with rage. That's when I really start to fight, when I scream against my bindings and strain my muscles to breaking, push until blood seeps from my wounds and sweat sluices between my lips.
    An angel is singing my music from a devil's lips, and I know who it is, even in this state. It's Turner Campbell, the man I loved, that didn't love me back when I needed him most, who says he loves me now. Why is he