Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  My kingdom fluttered with the chaos of minions rushing in and out of doorways in various states of undress. A waif of a girl gave me a snooty up-down as she passed. Without all of her typical paint, I hardly recognized top fashion model Gloria Smythe. She was cute but looked nothing like she did when dolled up and half-naked, enticing me to buy a product that faded into the background compared to the creamy skin she flaunted. Makeup really does seem to be magical, and it made me slightly concerned for what they were about to do to my lovely mug.

  The bird ushered me to meet with the photographer inside a room with a big, white screen and loads of blinding lights. "So, this is the flip side of glamour," I mused.

  A man, not much older than I, wearing a ratty old cotton shirt, frayed jeans, and the kind of sandals that made floppy noises as he walked, talked me through the plans for the shoot. Clearly the guy wasn't one of us—the ones with unlimited credit on Carnaby Street. The situation made me feel rather elite.

  Basically, I was to sit, keep my trap shut, and, of course, look good. I'd be instructed when to smile and when to look thoughtful. "There's an art to it," he told me. "You have to look like you're a little on the bored side, but if you look truly bored, the girlies will think you're not real."

  What did that mean? Nothing seemed real in that place where faces were hidden under layers of paint that made people resemble matching porcelain dolls.

  Next, the little bird ushered me off to the makeup room. Compared to the sterile studio and the hall lined with framed prints of fashion ads, the makeup room was inviting and homey. Sketches of people and places unknown to me were tacked about with care. They seemed to represent things incredibly significant to someone. When I saw exactly whom that someone was, my eyes transfixed on the lovely, straw-blonde crumpet with a makeup kit. I glanced away as she looked at me. It was an automatic reaction, and I'd no idea why I was shying from this gorgeous creature even though my body screamed for me to dive in.

  The little bird introduced me to the makeup girl as if she was a piece of furniture. "That's Jane MacFadden. She'll do your makeup."

  Irish? Damn. I could hear Mum nagging already.

  Jane's smile warmed me like I'd just downed a pot of freshly steeped tea. Still, I couldn't quite bring myself to fully look at her. I also couldn't figure out what it was about her that made me so shy. She invited me to sit in her chair, and the lights around the mirror turned blinding when she flicked on the switch. I groaned sharply. "Sorry," she said with a reserved, guilty smile. "I always forget to warn people."

  Jane turned to dig into her makeup kit, and I was able to face her backside without issue. It was a very lovely backside, leaving me to wonder how it looked without the pesky cover of a skirt.

  She approached with an armful of little containers of foundation in an array of English pasty white. She held each up to my cheek, set a few aside, and then meticulously returned the rest to the box. Her whispery voice that requested I look at her didn't have the slightest trace of an Irish accent nor was she a native Londoner.

  My face rotated in her direction, and I finally sank in a full, delicious view. She was absolutely gorgeous. Again my eyes hooded as I let her examine my mug. That girl was bringing out all kinds of odd emotions and twisting my insides to knots.

  She returned to her makeup box, and my eyes landed squarely on her body. Jane reminded me of a classic portrait done by one of those Italian painters you see in the fancy museums. I wanted to slide my hands up those curves and paint her with my fingers.

  Again I shied away at her glance, and then felt her gentle touch to my chin as she drew it towards her. My breath stilled as her orbs of blue sunlight captivated me. She hesitated. Was she just examining my face or was she experiencing the same magic I was?

  Jane stepped back, but our eyes remained locked. No longer were we subject and artist. A little spark had turned us into the quintessential man and woman. Danger of it flaring into a huge fire seemed to loom.

  I couldn't let this moment pass. Returning later to slip my number to the makeup girl would be a cocky rock star move. My flaring and ebbing pulse screamed she deserved better.

  She started applying the foundation, and my lips fumbled to find words. I wanted to make a nice impression and not sound like one of the other blokes who came in day after day and expected her to fall at his feet. The dolling up couldn't take long, so fast action was of the essence. "Do you like dogs?"

  Jane put down her makeup applicator. When she cocked her head the dazzle in her eyes turned my heart's rhythmic beat into a fluttering harp. "You know, Peter, all day long I chat with people in that chair, and they come up with the craziest small talk, but never have I been asked such an icebreaking question. Why do you ask?"

  "When I was little we had this old hound named Fred. The thing was absolutely huge." I chuckled at the memory as Jane resumed her work. "Seemed to take up the entire flat. Fred had been passed around through the family and wound up with us because we were the only ones who lived where he was allowed. He had belonged to my uncle who died during the war. Fred became kind of a badge of honor, or at least that's what Dad said publicly. Privately he grumbled about being stuck with the poor guy. Fred was my best friend. I cried for weeks after he passed."

  Jane brushed some rosy powder on me. Despite my moderate concern that I was being blushed up like a girl, I carried on. "With all that's going on in my life right now I have to wonder what else there is to get excited about. Two hot singles, an album racing up the charts, tours being planned, and now I'm on the cover of a magazine. What's left? Of all the things the future could possibly hold, the two things I want most are to make music and have a nice house in the country with another hound dog. So, I guess what I'm really asking is, Jane MacFadden, what do you want out of life?"

  Jane stared at her brush like it held a distant memory. When she took a seat on the makeup counter, the bright lights that made so many others look ugly unless they had stuff caked onto their face only enhanced her natural radiance.

  "Earnest died when I was seven. I was completely broken-hearted as well. My parents offered to get another, but I didn't want any dog other than him. Now I'm wishing I had. I'm never going to pass on the opportunity to have something special again, no matter what it is. I was afraid of gaining love and then losing it. What are you afraid of?"

  The question knocked my noggin and made me take pause. My mind saw my parents, struggling day after day with nothing to leave behind in the world but a son. "Fading away. I'm scared to death that someday I'll look at my life and find it amounted to nothing."

  A glow came about her that made my heart puddle out from inside my body and goo up on the floor. "I don't think you'll have that problem, Peter. Something tells me the time you have here will be one hell of a ride." The door opened and the girl from before came in to nab me.

  My eyes locked on Jane's. In the silence so much was said. Emotions rang like bells in my ears.

  "I want to be with you again."

  "I want to know everything about you."

  It was like we were each pleading to the other while standing in total silence. "May I take you to dinner tonight?" I asked.

  A glorious smile crossed her face. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

  "Will you be here when I'm done? I'll come back and we'll arrange it?"

  "Absolutely," she said, and my heart flew off into Heaven.

  Spill The Wine

  Mulligan's used to be a quaint, neighborhood bar with pool tables and a dartboard, until the area was redeveloped. Now the place resembles a gorgeous saloon from the end of the Victorian era, complete with faux-stained glass windows and tables of cherry wood. While I absolutely swoon over the decor, Mulligan's new management seems to be doing all it can to turn it into a pick-up spot. The new clientele makes me feel like I'm on an auction block. Sometimes I find myself hunched over my drink, barely peering up in fear that judges are strolling by with rulers while making sure one of my ears isn't a millimeter high
er than the other.

  Why is finding a decent guy so difficult? I have five basic requirements; a good heart, a respectable level of intelligence, is able to love me for who I am, has quirks of his own that he is happy with, and the ever-elusive "makes my heart light up". Ideally, he will also complement me musically because, well, I have a few hang-ups. Dad nicknamed me Rox, a twist on the term rock and roll, for a reason. You see, there is my Golden Rule: Guitars almost always need to be electric, and call me crazy, but singers have to be able to sing. Then there is my extremist side: Whoever invented the drum machine should be executed along with the creator of Auto-Tune.

  Now I know that sounds a bit harsh, but these are values that my dad tried to instill in me while I was in the womb; thus, a huge chunk of what I listen to existed before I did. All of this used to make me feel pathetic, but years of being teased has brought me to accept it takes courage to be quirky, much like the strength the peacock sitting across the table from me possesses.

  "What will we drink to?" Darla asks. Her layered hair of greens and blues, complementing her deep green eyes and pale skin, sways as she tosses it aside to clear her view. Although Darla and I now work under the same roof, she, Jacqueline, and I have been buddies since high school.

  Jacqueline is the true definition of best friend forever. She's also my housemate. Two years ago, tragedy blinded me to the possibility of ever seeing good in the world again. Jacqueline saved my sanity by insisting that I move into the house her parents gave her as a college graduation present. Like me, she hates the single life. Guys fall all over her due to her trim figure, gorgeous crystal-blue eyes, and raven hair. However, when they realize she's worthy of respect, they flee to the security of a mindless bimbo. This, coupled with the fact that she works in a man's world as a marketing head for a sports TV network, explains a lot about Jacqueline.

  "To my devious plan of stealing the purple and pink floral go-go dress Rox is wearing!" Jacqueline says, seriously jealous before teasing, "Gran would have gone nuts over it."

  Okay, so my taste in music may not actually be my biggest obstacle with men. Truth be told, if I could jump into a time machine, my first stop would be Gran's closet, circa nineteen sixty-six. "You're just jealous that Darla and I are bold enough to show our true colors."

  "Damn right I am!" Jacqueline flashes her lovely smile while raising her glass. "I don't know how you two do it," she adds with sincerity.

  With the clink of our glasses my head flings back and the tequila burns a trail down my throat. The fire leads the way to my little quiver. Upon my head's forward return, my eyes land on a piece of art in a well-tailored, deep brown suit with a retro tie of pink, green, and yellow paisleys that would make a nineteen sixties mod jealous. His medium-length hair is slightly tossed about and gives him the air of being a fashion model who just got out of bed. However, his face looks determined. It screams he and his comrade are pawns playing a game of corporate chess.

  "And round two is in celebration of …" Darla's words draw me back into reality. Grabbing my second shot I raise it to meet those of my friends. "Okay, Rox, what's he look like?"

  "Huh?"

  "The guy you've been checking out," Jacqueline adds. "I see you drooling at whoever is over my shoulder."

  Busted.

  Warmth comes to my cheeks as Jacqueline subtly twists her head. Her eyes meet his, and he replies to her with a little nod and a smile. It's far more than I've gotten out of him. Typical Rosalyn luck strikes again.

  Darla is all too fast to let her eyes drink him in as well. She then darts her head back around and whips up her glass. "To the fact that tonight Rox is finally going to get assertive and give that guy her number!"

  A chorus of clanks and woos follow. What the hell. I've nothing to lose. Many would say I've already lost my dignity by the way I'm dressed. Maybe tonight I'll finally turn into a slut. At least then I might see him in the morning and maybe that will lead to another night. If I don't, certainly I'll be back at Mulligan's tomorrow, or worse, home alone playing with my, um, cat.

  Yeah … I don't own a cat. I also couldn't sleep with a guy I just met if my life depended on it.

  With the downing of my shot, my view flips back to the guy who sits across the room at the bar. Even though he doesn't look like an outdoorsman his skin is gently bronzed. He's a far cry from the pale rocker type I've spent the last few years drooling over. Long hair, tight pants, and a wicked smirk always get me, which is probably why I'm sitting in a singles bar.

  Mr. So Freaking Cute catches my peering and gives me a slip of a smile before returning his eyes to his associate. Now I'm slightly embarrassed, but the alcohol is kicking in, so I dare hold my ground until his eyes float back to me. He raises his glass, and I return his grin before shying away. Frankly, that's the farthest I've gotten with somebody in a long time. The glow that has blushed its way onto my cheeks is brought on more by embarrassment than alcohol.

  "Twirl your hair," Darla whispers.

  "What? Why are you whispering?"

  "Just do it," she says, continuing her hushed tone while slapping at my arm.

  Once again I catch his gaze, then twirl my hair only to shy away because I feel like an idiot. His expression of seriousness dissipates. The dark eyes of his business partner give me a cold glare. I must be infringing upon his sales pitch. My courage fades even more.

  Darla turns to me. "Don't let that stuffy guy stop you! The cute one is totally checking you out. Go for it!"

  It's funny how encouragement can come out as assertiveness. Just a few weeks ago, on the night Darla met her new boyfriend, she was as sheepish as I am. "How?"

  "Use one of the cheesy lines they use on us."

  "No!" Jacqueline's hand smacks the table. We really should get some food to go with this alcohol. "Women can't complain about men then do the same things they do. You need to get creative."

  "And how do you propose I do that?"

  Darla downs the rest of her drink and laughs. "If she knew, she'd have gotten all kinds of creative on the scary guy over there in the flannel shirt. Come on, Jacs, we all know you wanna be his baby mama."

  Jacqueline gives Darla the "I'm gonna kick your ass" look as she yells, "Don't call me that!" but midway through she breaks into a laugh and a brief giggle fest ensues before they stop and stare at me, totally deadpanned. In unison they nod to the hottie. It's kind of creepy.

  Out of desperation I try a strategy that I thought of long ago but never felt compelled to actually implement. I make a show of faking my phone is dead, and then tell the girls, "Shake your heads like I've asked you a question." They play along as I shoot the device a look of disgust while making sure I have the attention of Mr. Sexy Tie. Looking completely disgruntled, and feeling like a dork, I go on the prowl. I'm sure to moisten and part my lips, soften my eyes, and sway my hips gently while slightly pushing out my chest. I'm surprised I can actually walk this way. "Excuse me. My phone died. May I borrow yours? I just need to make a quick call."

  He hands it to me with a smile. His friend seems aghast. Please, buddy, Marilyn Monroe and I nearly share measurements—but you guys only think that's what you want. When it's standing right in front of you, you miss it entirely.

  Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I'm wearing dayglo. I stand by that self-conscious, alcohol and stress-induced statement though.

  My number gets entered, and then I put his phone to my ear just long enough for mine to vibrate in my purse before handing his back. "Thanks."

  "That was fast. Didn't your call go through?"

  "I got what I needed." With a little wave and curve of my lips I return to my friends. I'm wide-eyed, giggling, and slowly wiggling. I must be the world's biggest doofuss. Self-doubt again gets shoved into the wind as we all huddle around my phone. My fingers are so jittery I mistype the message three times before finally hitting send.

  Hello, my name is Rosalyn. Would you like to share a smile?

  Darla is all a flutter. "Oh, my, God! I can't beli
eve you're doing this. It is so unlike you."

  Jacqueline squeezes my hand, thus endorsing my courage. Our heads all turn to the hottie as he reads the text. His head ticks and a little grin blooms. Yay! Interest! Sucking it up and putting myself out there may have—

  He then pops the phone back into his pocket and ignores me like I don't exist.

  Sympathetic pouts come from across the table and help soothe my crushed heart. What can I do but raise my glass and shrug? The girls do exactly as female friends should; they call him a jerk who doesn't know what he's missing. It's pathetic, but my gaze returns to the man. I hope to find something that will ease the rejection, but with the exception of chatting up the waitress while his buddy is in the john, he's back to being all business.

  Maybe I'm the jerk. After all, I did interrupt his meeting.

  Yeah, and he could have bothered to look at me. No more excuses for his behavior.

  I nudge my chair a little to the right so that we are out of each other's line-of-sight, and the night forges on. Groups burst out in laughter around us. One drunken guy bumps into another and drinks fly behind my back. They lament over their spilt whisky before heading to the bar for more. Us girls gossip about nothing of merit because we just want a good time. Out of nowhere, a round of Blueberry Lemon Drops arrives at our table—a gift from someone who wants to remain anonymous.

  Jacqueline peers over her shoulder. "Maybe Mr. Holier-Than-Thou is slipping in an apology for the brush off."

  Darla is less than helpful. "Or maybe they are from the scary guy in the corner who's been drooling over Jacqueline all night."