Amped

by Teagan Kade

“I heard you were back in town, Mat.”

  It’s our family lawyer, Andrew. He’s a solid guy, always with the best interests of the family at heart. Hell, after Dad died he went above and beyond to make sure I had everything I needed. He even organized Mom’s care after her breakdown. The call is unexpected, but it’s a welcome change of pace from my introspection this morning aided by one Mr. Jim Beam.

  “Yeah. I’m back at the White House,” I reply. “Though it’s not exactly looking fit for a President these days”.

  A sigh. “About that, Mat. I had to let the staff go, cancel the maintenance.”

  Mystery solved. “Why’s that? I thought the trust fund covered everything?”

  Another intake of breath down the line. “The trust fund has almost dried up, Mat. Between your mother’s treatment, the maintenance on the White House, and the ongoing legal costs from your Dad’s…” He’s careful to phrase it right. “Accident… There’s maybe a week tops before it’s gone.”

  Gone—It rings around inside my head, distant. There were millions in that trust fund.

  I stand out back looking into an empty pool. The irony is not lost on me.

  Andrews continues. “I’m sorry to say it, Mat, but come next week there won’t be anything left in the fund to keep paying you an allowance.”

  “But the house? Dad’s assets?”

  “All to be liquidated for victim compensation, legal costs… I didn’t see it coming. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s heaps of stuff here. What’s to stop me selling off his records, his cars?”

  “It’s all been inventoried. You sell anything, and you might be up on charges. How did you even get in?”

  “I still had a key.”

  “Right.”

  This is just fucking perfect. “And Mom?” I question.

  “She won’t be able to stay in Palm Springs, but there’s a state-run…”

  “No,” I state firmly.

  “What’s it costing to keep her at Palm Springs, per week?”

  “Um, I don’t know. Her accommodation is paid up until the end of the year, but additional expenses run a couple of hundred a week.”

  “Additional expenses?”

  “Meals, medication—That sort of thing.”

  My resolve firms. “Then I’ll find a job, gigs, anything.” There’s no fucking way I’m going to see Mom into the system, even if she doesn’t recognize me.”

  “And what about yourself, Mat?”

  “I can find somewhere to crash.”

  How about Sel’s place?

  Yeah, Rick, Sel, and I—The three of us in bed. That’d be a party…

  “Mat? Are you listening to me?”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Three weeks is as long as I can keep the wolves from the door. You have to be out of the White House by then. If you need any help with—”

  “No, Drew. I’m fine. I can handle myself.”

  “I know you can, son. You’re a Barton. Call me if you need anything, anything at all. I’m sorry, again. I wish I could do more.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “I will.” I should rage like a real rock star, hang up, and crush this cell under my boot, but I can’t even summon that energy, not after last night’s rejection.

  “Speak to you soon, Mat.” And the line goes dead.

  I stare into the grounds lost, jungle-like as they are, nothing really sinking in completely. The world’s finally crashing down around me, but I refuse to be buried alive.

  “So fucking be it.”

  *

  I reach across the bar and shake the owner’s hand. “I really appreciate this, man. Thank you.”

  Seth, the owner, nods. He looks like he’s come direct from an Alice Cooper convention. “Anything for the son of Mason Barton, but you’ve got to work hard. I don’t care who you are. It’s a one-strike policy around here.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  Outside, the strip is looking its usual unglamorous self under the midday mallet of sun.

  So this bar isn’t the Viper Pit, but wages should be enough to cover Mom’s expenses and an album release if I can call in some favors. Once the album’s out, the rest should follow and the Barton name will finally be back in the limelight—in the right way.

  *

  I’m in the den back home when my cell rings. It’s Sel.

  I hold the phone for a moment wondering whether I should answer or not. Finally, I hit accept. “Sel, about last night—”

  “Where the fuck are you, Mat? Everyone’s waiting.”

  Waiting? What the fuck is she talking about? Then it dawns on me. We were supposed to be in the studio today. Fucking hell.

  I pull at my hair. “Shit. Sel, wait—”

  She’s distraught. “Look, Mat. You might not be serious about this, but I am. If you don’t even have the balls to show up—”

  “Sel.”

  “Don’t call me again.”

  “Sel.” I’m begging now. I kick the wall. Damn thing’s harder than it looks. “I am serious, but I had a call from Andrew Adams.”

  This piques her interest. “Your family lawyer? The guy who we used to tease about his two first names?”

  “He called to say the trust fund’s drying up.”

  Sel’s all concern now. “What do you mean ‘drying up’?”

  I exhale. “I mean no more free rides, Sel. Thanks to this legal stuff with Dad and Mom’s bills, there ain’t going to be a penny left soon. I can’t sell anything either. It’s all been accounted for, to be liquidated or some shit.”

  A change of tone. “Mat, if you’re looking for a handout…”

  “No.” I dial the tone of my voice down. “No fucking way. You know me, Sel. That’s not how I do things. In fact, I got a job.”

  Someone’s calling Sel in the background, but she ignores them. “You’re serious?”

  “Like a heart attack. I’m bar-tending at a place on the strip. It should be enough to pay for Mom’s expenses, keep her in care.”

  Gone is the anger. “Shit, Mat. I’m sorry, but that’s good. I mean, you getting a job and all. I mean, if you want something in the industry I can talk to Rick on your behalf, try to—”

  But the last thing I want is having to owe Rick. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m trying to help you out here, Mat.”

  “And I’m telling you I don’t need it.” I’m coming across more standoffish than intended. It’s starting to get to me, gnawing away at my self-control. Yeah, ‘self-control.’ “That’s not the type of life I want to lead, taking shortcuts and handouts to make my way.”

  “You know what, Mat?” And… the anger’s back. “This is your whole problem.”

  “Do tell.”

  “You want to get ahead, but you’re not willing to let people help you up. I mean, you’re the son of Mason freakin’ Barton. Why don’t you use that more?”

  “Because I’m not that guy.”

  “Well, you should be. How the hell else do you think you’re going to succeed?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know. Talent? Passion?”

  “We both know they don’t mean anything in this industry. It’s all about—”

  “Connections,” I finish. “Fuck. You sound just like one of them, like him, you know that?”

  She ignores the dig at Rick. “Your father was a great man.”

  “Yeah?” I’m almost shouting now, temples beating. “And look how he ended up? Look at the pain he caused in the end.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No, you’re fucking right. Nothing’s fair.” I don’t know why I’m so angry. I’m sure it’s misplaced, stemming from some other external influence, but right now I’m too invested in my own disgust to see clearly. “Why don’t you go back to your high-end studio with your high-end executives and fancy fucking kale. I’ll be living the real rock-and-roll lifestyle.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, you do that.”
And she hangs up.

  I throw the cell at the wall. It hits a framed platinum record, glass cascading to the floor. I hunt through it for my cell. The screen’s busted, but the it’s still showing Selena’s name with a big, fat ‘disconnected’ below it.

  Yeah, that about sums it up.

  I fall back onto the sofa and shake my head. I’d like to say it’s because of my situation, but I’m mostly angry at myself, for losing my temper, for saying those stupid fucking things. I have an urge to call her back, to drive down to the studio, but I know none of it would do any good right now.

  Maybe she’s upset about the almost-kiss.

  Figures. Just when things were looking up it all comes crashing down in true Barton form. That’s what we’re best at in the end—fucking things up.

  I check the KISS clock on the wall. I’ve got my first shift at the bar in an hour. It’s probably for the best, take my mind off things.

  I stand and exhale once more.

  Forget about the money.

  Forget about Sel.

  Get the fuck back to work.

  *

  Matte black on the outer and not much brighter inside, the Bellhopper is a Viper Room wannabe in every way right down to the stage layout and drink selection. I somehow manage to slip right in behind the bar. Dad had me making drinks for guests at home before I’d turned ten. All kinds of people used to show up at the White House—Aerosmith, Motley, even Kurt fucking Cobain one leisurely Saturday afternoon. He wore a fur coat. I was a cocktail expert by twelve.

  I’m four hours into my shift and there’s barely been a handful of patrons through, though Seth assured me the place fills up when the band gets going.

  I look over the empty tables. The poor place would be better off as a strip joint.

  I slide across a Harvey Wallbanger to a twenty-something tourist fresh from some Eurotrash republic. She’s attractive, but the make-up’s too much, her peroxide-blonde extensions over the top. She’d be better suited to a wax museum than trying to ‘grime’ it up here on the Strip.

  She runs a ruby red nail around the rim of the glass and leans across the bar to me, burgeoning cleavage on full display. “You look like a bit of a wallbanger yourself.”

  I laugh and pick up a glass to clean. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

  Her eyes drop to the hard lines of my chest under my shirt. “I can only imagine.”

  She takes out a fifty and slides it across, winking. “Why don’t you take a break and meet me out back? I heard LA is the perfect place to try—” she licks her lips, looking down to my crotch, “—new experiences.”

  I slide the fifty back. Normally I’d jump at any hint of action, but ever since coming home and seeing Sel, I can’t seem to lock myself back into man-slut mode. Sel’s all I can think about, day and night—her body, her smile, her… I let the thought drift.

  “Sorry, hon,” I tell Lady Gaga. I look up to the stage and jerk my head towards the guitarist setting up. “What about Eddie Van Halen up there? He looks like he could do with a ‘new experience.’”

  She takes the fifty back and takes her Wallbanger. “Suit yourself.”

  That blowjob was in the bag. What the fuck’s going on?

  What, or ‘who’ more precisely.

  I make my way down to the end of the bar where the Seth’s in a heated conversation, hand pressed up against the wall, the other gripping the bar telephone tight.

  “And what the fuck am I supposed to do, huh? Stick my thumb up my ass and wait for a genie to pop out?” he says.

  I do not envy the sucker on the end of that line.

  “Look here, you fucking shit, you skip this and I’m going to—”

  He doesn’t get to finish. He holds the phone away from his face, staring at it like an alien artifact. He looks to me, face red. “The motherfucker hung up on me. Can you fucking believe it?”

  I nod my head knowingly and continue to clean the glass. “Oh, I can believe it.”

  Seth slams the phone back into its holder on the wall and looks at the stage where the guitarist, bassist, and drummer are setting up. Something’s missing and I’m starting to piece it together.

  Seth shakes his head. “What the fuck am I going to do?”

  “You down a singer?” I query.

  He’s nodding. “The fucker failed to show up last time too. I had to call in some hack from across the road.”

  Make it casual. “I can fill in if you want.”

  His eyes narrow, the promise of a quick solution beckoning. “Well, I know you can sing, but I’m not offering megabucks here.”

  “I just want to sing.”

  He thinks it over, but I know this is already a done deal. I’m too good to pass up.

  “Straight rock covers, no Stairway to Heaven, original material at the end only if you clear it with the band first.”

  “What does it pay?” I’ve been screwed over before. As Dad used to say, always negotiate up front. Negotiate up front, but do it last. It’s harder to refuse that way.

  “A hundred flat.”

  “Who’s going to look after the bar?”

  He swipes the towel from the shoulder. “Do you see a buxom maiden waiting? Who the fuck do you think?”

  I introduce myself to the band. One of them makes the connection and from then on it’s like we’re best friends. Dad might have fucked up at the end there, but his music is untouchable. Everyone agrees to play two of my originals at the end of the set. I grab a spare guitar and quickly run them through the changes. It’s easy enough, and these guys are seasoned Strip rats. I’m talking session calluses you could sand wood with.

  At the start of the night, we’re playing to five, six people max, but an hour in, the place starts to fill up as word gets around and the sun slips away for good. By the end of the night it’s in full swing. I’m in my element, deep in the pocket with the band, my originals going down well with the crowd, who holler and catcall as we wrap up.

  “I’m Mathew fucking Barton,” I shout into the mic, stalling on an A chord, holding it. “Good night.”

  I thank the band one by one before heading down to the bar. Seth’s waiting. He’s shaking his head. “Mathew fucking Barton alright. You looked just like him up there. Magic.”

  I shake the sweat out of my hair, draw it back over my ears. “Thanks.”

  He bites his lip. “Look, kid. As I said, I’m not running a charity shop here. I’m a big fan of your Dad’s music, but I can’t do you any favors. It’s not how I roll. I don’t know what kind of shit you’re in and why the fuck you even need this job, but you’re not going to get a free pass because your daddy was famous, hear?”

  I nod, appreciating his honesty. It’s sorely lacking in this town. “I understand.”

  “Look,” he says. “You were pretty fucking good up there. Much better than the usual jerk wad. What do you say about a permanent gig? Fuck it, I’ll even let you play your own material, as much as you want.”

  I try not to look too excited. “Sounds great, man.”

  “You’re still going to have to work the bar after each show, got it? But any tips are yours. That’s the best can do.”

  I shake his hand. “I appreciate it.”

  Seth laughs again. “A fucking Barton, singing in my bar. Who next? Freddie fucking Mercury?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SELENA

  Rick pulls me aside when I come out of the booth. “What’s going on, Sel? We both know that wasn’t your best.”

  It was far from it, my vocals were weak and pitchy, but I can’t stop thinking the argument I had with Mat. I feel sick to my stomach about it.

  Rick takes me by the arms and draws closer. “I only want to see you succeed, Sel. You’re so talented… God. You know that, right?”

  I nod, looking down at my feet.

  “So let me help. Whatever it is, let’s sort it so we can get you back on track and performing at your best, yeah?”

  I look up and try not
to think about Mat. “Okay. You’re just annoyed because this session time is costing us so much.”

  Rick shakes his head. “I don’t care if it takes a year, baby.” He kisses me, but I don’t return it in full. Guilt swells immediately. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  Rick smiles, a rarity of late, and walks back to the desk, talking with one of the engineers about the mix.

  I watch him, thinking on his words. Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. Yes, he’s been working overtime, but it’s all for my benefit at the end of the day. He’s being honest. All he wants is the best for me. Why can’t I see that? Have I been blinded by my feelings for Mat?

  The almost-kiss burns into my head until I push it away. No, I’m with Rick and maybe, just maybe, it’s time he was rewarded for his hard work.

  I head into the courtyard and try to call Alice to talk it over, but she doesn’t pick up. Mat’s name is the next down in the call log, but he’s the last person I want to call right now. No, the idea of teaming up with him was a mistake. He has issues, but he’ll have to deal with them alone. I need to concentrate on my own career for now, on Rick and me.

  A playful idea pops into my head.

  I swing back inside and find Rick. “I’m just not feeling it today, sorry.”

  He nods, understanding. “Okay, babe. We’ll wrap up, hit it again tomorrow. I’ve got some work to do at the office anyhow.”

  Perfect. “You’ll be home late?”

  His eyebrows jump. “No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

  I wink. “I’ll see you later then.”

  I call Alice on the way out to the car, but again her phone’s off. It’s weird, but I’ve got to remind myself other people do have their own lives.

  And Mat? Working at a bar? That was unexpected, but if what he said about the great Barton fortune drying up was true, he’ll have to pour a hell of a lot of drinks to keep Mrs. Barton up in that Palm Springs palace.

  Stop thinking about him. Concentrate on Rick.

  So, for the first time in a long time, I do.

  *

  The shop assistant at La Perla starts to fold the lingerie into a gift box. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  For a moment I consider telling her I’m a lesbian, but I have a feeling she knows who I am. “My boyfriend,” I reply, finding the actual title a little foreign in my mouth. Truth is, I don’t know what Rick is, but he is about to get me—all of me.