by Amo Jones
“Bari, it’s Rox. Can you clarify your email for me?”
“What clarification do you need? I’m certain the assignment details were clear.” I hear the squeak of his worn leather desk chair in the background, and can almost envision him reclining back in it, imagining that he’s the king of the fucking world and not a prematurely balding dude caught in the hamster wheel of a mid-life crisis. Don’t get me wrong; Bari is a decent boss. He tries to throw me a bone here and there. But he doesn’t hear much outside of his own voice and his own self-indulgent bullshit.
“You know I don’t do these types of pieces. Wouldn’t this be a better fit for one of the Lifestyle writers? Or even Celeb Gossip?”
“Aren’t you our resident music expert?”
“Well…yes, but—”
“And is he not a musician?”
“He is, Bari, but he’s not the type of musician I usually cover.”
He snorts in that condescending prick-ish way that’s always followed by something snide. “What? Grammy award winning artists are beneath you now?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Look, Rox. You asked for a shot. I’m giving you one. An incredible one at that. This is a huge deal for The Seattle Tea, so take it or leave it. But I promise you—a chance like this won’t arise again. Most writers would be willing to suck their own dick at this opportunity so you should be grateful I’m even trusting you with a piece of this magnitude.”
I heave out a frustrated breath. I’m not going to win this one. I could fight this until I’m as bald as Bari, but when it comes down to it, he’s earned that raggedy ass desk chair in his corner office at The Seattle Tea. I’m still scrounging for stories, covering local bands and basement-dwelling artists that I’d hope the public would deem noteworthy. But truth is, the Seattle urban music scene hasn’t been hot since Macklemore. And that’s saying something.
However, beggars can’t be choosers and my broke ass has been begging for a shot at a featured piece for the past year.
But why does it have to be him?
Of all people. Of all musicians. Why do I have to cover him? He’s not even considered a local artist. Not since he ran off and sold out. But now after a stunt six months ago on one of those trashy reality shows on VH1 that damn near killed him and his career, the prodigal son wants to come home?
Please.
“So what am I supposed to do? Interview him?”
Bari chuckles. He’s fucking with me. He knows how I feel about this assignment and the subject in question.
“Not quite. I want you to fully immerse yourself in his world. He’s moved here to reinvent himself—to reclaim his sound. I want the scoop on his creative process, his goals for this next album, what he does to get inspired. Find out who he’s listening to, what he’s watching on Netflix, who he’s banging. Shit, I want to know what his favorite breakfast cereal is and if he likes it with whole or skim milk.”
I bite my tongue. Because I know he loves Captain Crunch but always picks out the green Crunchberries because he claims there is no such thing as a green berry. And he’s strictly a 2% kinda dude.
As for who he’s banging? I’m not touching that. No way. No how.
Out of habit, I bring my fingers to my chest, imagining the phantom coolness of metal against my skin. I’d worked too damn hard and for too damn long to bury that ghost. I wasn’t about to resurrect him. But this was the real world and I had a real job that paid me just enough to pay my very real bills. I had to be an adult about this, haunted memories be damned.
“Anything else?” I ask, cosigning my own demise.
“That should be it for now. First meeting is tomorrow. I’ll text you the address.”
“Fine,” I huff before hitting End. I don’t even bother with the social nuances of a goodbye. That’s reserved for people who aren’t currently planning how to fake their own death just to get out of an assignment.
Car accident? Nah. Too public. And one would actually need a car for that.
Gruesome home invasion-turned-murder? Hazel would kill me if I got blood on the furniture.
Mysterious disappearance? My parents would have my ass on every milk carton in the country if I don’t call at least three times a week.
Dammit. Even my fake death can’t get its shit together.
I’m still staring at the screen when Hazel comes bustling in, arms overflowing with fabric samples in an array of colors and prints. She chucks her purse and keys onto our tiny kitchen island and tosses the swatches on our already cluttered dining table.
“How do we feel about his and hers matching dresses for spring?” she asks by way of greeting.
I shrug half-heartedly. “If Jaden Smith can wear a dress, I don’t think it’s too far off. Although I think matching couple ‘fits in general are tacky enough, but what do I know?”
“Agreed.” She flops down onto the couch and kicks off her Hunter boots, still speckled with rain, before snatching off her beanie. Loose, dark curls tumble down around her shoulders. “Apparently, being boo’d up excuses fashion faux pas. I don’t care how good the D is, if I catch my man rummaging through my closet for something to wear, his ass will be ghost. He’s not about to be stretching out my hard-earned couture with his hairy man-thighs!”
She cackles to herself for a good twenty seconds before realizing that I haven’t budged, still too hypnotized by the words—or better yet, the name—staring back at me from the computer.
“Girl, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I have,” I deadpan, meaning it. I sigh. “I got a job today.”
“Aw, shit! That’s great, Rox! We should go out and celebrate. I just got a dress so tight that it requires Crisco to get into.” She busts into a shoulder shimmy reminiscent of the Bankhead Bounce circa 1995. Which takes me right back to my current dilemma.
“Yeah. Great.”
“Then why do you look like you’re mentally preparing for anal with a cactus?”
Unable to vocalize my disdain and overall frustration, I merely nod at the screen, prompting Hazel to climb to her feet and sashay her way over to my Ikea work desk. It only takes a quick glance to catch his name amongst the jumble of useless assignment details, as if it’s outlined in bold, blaring neon yellow instead of flat, black Helvetica, size 12 font.
Riot Blu.
Top 40 fuckboi. Paparazzi player. Trashy reality TV trainwreck.
And heart-crushing life ruiner.
Ruiner of my life, to be more specific.
“Holy shit, Rox.” Hazel takes a step back and brings her fingers to touch her lips to conceal a gasp.
“I know.”
“Did Frost know about how he—”
“No. He only knows I don’t care for his music, which is true.”
“But he doesn’t know that you—”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“Fuuuuuck.”
We both take a beat to reread the name that feels like a shank to my gut with every syllable.
“Well, we can still go out…” my roommate comments quietly.
“Do you not get what this means, Haze? Riot-fucking-Blu. I’m freaking out!” I snap with more venom than I intend.
“I know. I know. But you see…this dress. I was really hoping to get penetrated tonight. And we don’t have to celebrate. It can be a last-night-before-the-end-of-the-world type of occasion, with booze and carbs abundant. My treat?” She bats her fake lashes and smiles in that way that looks like she’s trying to feign innocence and hold in a fart at the same time.
She’s going to get her way. That’s how it’s always been. Everyone gives into Haze one way or another.
Plus carbs and booze sound pretty damn good now that she’s paying.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Whatever. But I swear to G-o-d, Haze: No Scrubs. You are not sticking me with the broke, ugly friend to entertain while you get those cobwebs knocked outta your coochie.”
“C
obwebs?” she scoffs. “Girl, bye. My shit is made of unicorn glitter and rainbow sprinkles.”
I make a face and gag. “Sounds like a yeast infection to me.”
The mood temporarily lightened, I heave out a breath and push away from my laptop. I can stew about Riot Blu later, after I’m properly sauced and am happily slipping into a carb-induced coma.
We shower. Dress. Pre-game.
And hours later, we’re breezing into our favorite nighttime haunt in the heart of Pioneer Square. The upside of rolling with Haze? Always knowing where the party is. The downside? The party is most likely her.
As a fashion blogger and former self-proclaimed hoe (her words, not mine), Haze knows everyone who is anyone in Seattle. And if she doesn’t know them, she isn’t shy about forced friendship. Which is precisely how she foiled me into becoming her best friend of almost two decades.
I was the quiet girl with braces and Coca-Cola bottle glasses that would much rather spend her lunch period with a Walkman and a cassette mixtape. And Haze, all tanned legs and brazen attitude even back then, was the new kid, meaning she was a magnet for attention, the very thing I was hoping to avoid. Apparently, headphones were no deterrent for the California native, because she insisted on talking.
And talking.
And talking.
Until I finally got tired of pretending to read her pouty, pink-glossed lips and pulled off my headphones.
She never stopped talking, and I admittedly found myself listening. And soon enough, I was conversing with the super cool new girl at school whose parents let her wear eyeliner and baby tees that exposed the tease of her navel.
Not much changed from then. I got a little bolder, she got a lot louder, but the dynamic pretty much stayed the same. I was the Kelly to her Beyonce. The JoJo to her K-Ci.
Until Riot. Then…everything went to shit.
We sidle up to the bar, bypassing the pub tables and high-back chairs that are quickly filling up with patrons. It’s Ladies Night, meaning two-for-one specials and plenty of men banking on cheap well liquor.
“So what are we drinking?”
I don’t even know why she asks. Since before we were even old enough to drink, our spirit of choice has always been vodka. Tito’s, to be exact. I only have to give her a pointed glance before she turns towards the bartender to flag him down.
“Hey, you!” she coos, batting her falsies and painting on a saccharin-laced, flirtatious grin. “I didn’t know you were working tonight. I haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“What’s up, Haze? Where you been hiding?” Manbun, beard, flannel. Typical PNW kinda guy. The bartender is easy on the eyes, with his emerald-hued irises and fit build, but he is so not Haze’s type.
“Oh, you know. On my grind, always. It’s so funny though…I was just thinking about you.”
I bite down on a laugh and roll my eyes stealthily. Haze wasn’t thinking about this dude. She can’t even remember his name. Hey, you is code for, Shit, who are you again? And I feel bad. I always feel bad for the unsuspecting men that fall for Haze’s charms. Her presence is magnetic and alluringly dangerous. It’s like looking into the endless obscurity of an eclipse, knowing it’ll scorch your eyes. And time after time, guy after guy, she renders them all blind.
She finesses us a couple double tall vodka sodas with lime before we claim a sofa and table set-up nestled on the other side of the lounge. It’s dark enough that we have a veil of privacy yet gives us a view of the whole space. We’re not ready to be seen yet—at least I’m not. But by our second round, the place is packed and the DJ on the ones and twos has the whole crowd vibing to the latest club bangers. Although I usually abhor anything on heavy rotation on the radio, I don’t even recoil when Haze grabs my hand and tugs me towards the dancefloor.
There’s something to be said about that moment when the rhythm slips inside you and sinks its hooks into your soul. Hands in the air, eyes closed, hips swaying and dipping to the groove, I am merely a marionette to the music. A slave to the rifts and melodies that flow through my veins like the liquor sloshing in my cup. This feeling…it’s like a drug to me. I am weightless, boundless. A speck of glitter floating amidst a humid, smoke-veiled universe where each star is a dazzling note that ignites my soul with brilliant beams of rainbow light.
I’m so wrapped up in the moment that I don’t even notice when our little party of two becomes a party of four. However, Haze is already welcoming the intruders—erm—newcomers back to our table. She turns to introduce me to her new friends just as I finish off what’s left in my glass and attempt to flag down a cocktail waitress for a refill.
“Rox, this is Dane and Kaz. Guys, this is my girl, my ace, my bottom bitch, Rox Lee.”
I flash a nervous grin and extend a palm, anxious to get the awkward intros over with and return to the carefree oblivion of booming basslines. But Haze gives me that look…that look that tells me that her dress has lived up to its promise of getting dickmatized tonight, so being anything but hyperaware is out of the question. I should have known the moment I spotted them. Dane is right up her alley. Tall, dark, and tatted up, with enough labels on his body to give Haze a fashion boner. He has skin the color of sunbaked sand and his eyes appear to be clear blue, almost gray under the strobe lights. He reminds me of Jeremy Meeks, the Fine Felon whose mug shot went viral after he was arrested. He’s pretty, that’s for damn sure. A little too pretty for my taste but judging by the way he’s sizing up my roommate, he’s already spoken for.
“What are you drinking?” the other guy, Kaz, asks. He’s as tall as his friend, a little less muscular, and is much more conservative in denim and a black Henley with the sleeves rolled up to showcase tan, chiseled forearms. He’s got a baby face, clean-shaven, and his golden brown hair is messily styled, but probably cost few bills to achieve its perfect waywardness. I’ll never understand the notion of paying good money to look like you didn’t do a damn thing roll out of bed and rake a hand through your hair, but I have to admit, it looks good on him.
While Kaz is admittedly neither broke nor ugly, I should have specified that I wasn’t down with playing babysitter to any friend, scrub or otherwise. I have no doubt in my mind that Haze knew that these guys would be here tonight. She looks way too cozy with Dane while tucked under his arm, close enough to his lips that she could probably taste what he had for lunch.
I hold up my empty glass and shake it, the sharp tinkling of the melting ice cubes cutting into the mellow groove the DJ throws on next. “Nothing now. But…vodka.”
“We’ll have to do something about that.”
Kaz signals the female server, who hurriedly comes over donning a wide grin paired with what I can only describe as a starry-eyed gaze. Her interest is obvious, but Kaz is all business when he orders a bottle of top-shelf vodka and all the appropriate mixers. The cocktail waitress nods and smiles in response, then in a much too obvious way that verges on desperate, straightens her back to make her perky tits even more noticeable in her low cut, midriff-baring tee. However, Kaz politely thanks her and turns his attention back to me. Nice of him, but not necessary.
“So, Rox Lee, what brings you out tonight?”
“My funeral.” He lifts a brow, perplexed as expected, so I tack on, “I got the job of a lifetime, which is ironic, considering it’ll kill me.”
“Sooo…I’m guessing you’re a lion tamer? Snake charmer?”
I shake my head and sigh. “Writer.”
“Huh. Didn’t know words could be hazardous to your health.”
“Yeah, definitely. Ever get a papercut? Tragic.”
“Oh, the horror. And I bet carpal tunnel is a bitch.”
He laughs, and I notice that he has a gorgeous smile, complete with dazzling white, straight teeth and sensual, full lips. Ok, definitely not the broke, ugly friend.
The waitress brings over our bottle of booze and fresh glasses, and before I can go in for a refill, Kaz begins to fill two glasses. He hands me one and holds his own towards
me for a toast.
“To a beautiful funeral for a beautiful woman.”
I nearly choke on a laugh.
“What?” Kaz asks, an alluring smirk gracing his lips.
I shake my head. “Dude, that was…lame as hell.”
“Too much?”
“Hell yes.” I pretend to flag down the waitress and call out, “Excuse me, can we get some wine with all this damn cheese?”
Kaz laughs again, and I find myself just as tickled and feeling less awkward about being obligated to entertain a complete stranger so Haze can get her mack on. And after a few more drinks, I find that I’m really enjoying Kaz’s company and am not at all thinking about the fate that looms just beyond the dawn.
That is, until the DJ cuts the music to make a special announcement. Consider it my eulogy.
“Aw, shit!” he hollers into the mic. “We gotta special guest in the building! Ya boy has returned home! Riot Bluuuuuu!”
On that cue, the DJ puts on Riot’s biggest club hit from his last album, Shades of Blu, but it’s completely drowned out by the raucous cheers and screams from fans storming the dancefloor.
I can’t do this. I can’t. I knew I would have to face him, but I thought I had one more night before it all came crashing down…one more night to prepare myself to confront the person I had vowed to never speak to again. He’s already stolen so much from me already, yet I can’t escape him. He’s on my television, on the radio, in every fucking magazine that I flip open. I can’t even have one last night before Riot Blu intrudes on my life, only to leave it in ruins once more?
This is bullshit.
“Huh? What was that?”
I don’t even realize I’ve said that last thought aloud, so I shake my head. “Nothing. I gotta go.”
Kaz looks confused and turns towards the stage, and I imagine he spies the person that’s currently invoking my overwhelming urge to crawl out of my skin. I’m not certain because I refuse to even look in that direction.
“Rox!” I don’t even notice that Haze has mustered the strength to tear herself away from her new boo. She grasps my shoulders and all but pulls me into her bosom. “I swear, I didn’t know. You ok?”
