It's A Marshmallow World: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  Oh wow.

  The significance hit deeper when Rox read her fortune, “ ‘A fantastic adventure waits.’ ”

  “I think you should have gotten that yesterday,” Jacqueline said.

  “Nope!” Rox stated with a bounce. “I told you, our world is about to change.”

  Boy was it ever, and someone was making sure I knew it.

  Suddenly Rox’s eyes went wide, and she gasped.

  “Oh no,” Jacqueline said with a tone of warning. “I know that look.”

  So did I. Rox was onto something. Although seeing the name of that cookie company had curiosity racing through my veins, I felt the urge to play along with Jacqueline. After all, it’s just what we do. “Yeah, this is either going to be totally brilliant, or by the end of the night we will be praying for a cliff to drive over.”

  My money was on brilliant.

  Rox pointed to my fortune. “Read this again, and then tell me what you see in front of you.”

  Jacqueline was fast to keep up the harassment. “A wack job in DayGlo who makes us need drinks.”

  “Exactly!” Rox thumbed to the window behind her. The clank of her bracelets reinforced her command for attention. “Look behind me. Where have we always said we would check out and never have?” All eyes landed on the bar across the street—the same bar we sit in now.

  That was years ago. In many ways, I feel like my butt has never left this stool. Back then, Mulligan’s hadn’t changed much since it opened in the fifties. Recently, the place was revamped to have a Victorian feel. The ornate, wood bar is stellar, but the stained glass windows are plastic. On the surface, Mulligan’s is cool, but once you start paying attention to the details, you find that some things are not quite right. Regardless, here we are again.

  Jacqueline raises her glass for a toast. “What shall we drink to?”

  Rox adds her glass to the mix. Her board-straight, brown locks sway to their own beat. “To peace, love, and happiness,” she says. Her toast is the perfect complement to her dress that is covered in yellow, white, and hot pink flowers. It would have had Twiggy crying with jealousy. People tell me I’m ballsy with my use of color. (Seriously, what is wrong with wearing bright, yellow shoes with an electric blue dress? As long as the saturation is right, it’s ascetically all good.) However, when it comes to style, Rox’s love of vintage fashion makes me look like a wallflower.

  After a clank of our glasses we raise them to our lips, only to stop as if cued. Our eyes shift at each other in suspicion. Mulligan’s has been refining its menu. We’ve opted to try the new specialty—Mexican Chocolate Martinis made with vanilla vodka, chocolate liquor, Irish Cream, and cinnamon. They sound great, but this is Mulligan’s. In this place, you never know what you are in for.

  Jacqueline shrugs, and we all dare to go in for a sip. The cold tribute to gods of old is filled with rich, chocolaty goodness that glides down my throat with ease. I pop up my head and scan the room. “Did we enter an alternate universe? This drink rules!”

  Jacqueline sets down her glass with lightning speed and drops her hands into her lap. “This is a bad sign. If the drinks are good, the clientele will change. If the clientele changes, Mulligan’s will become trendy, and then we will never get a table. Worse, trendy places eventually crash and burn. We need to start scouting for a new hangout.”

  I smack my hand on the table. It’s a little loud, even for me. Maybe it’s the wine we had with dinner talking, but I can’t help but blurt out my idea. “We should open our own bar! We can serve killer drinks, and we will make it part of the business plan to update the décor every few years so that we stay edgy. Finally, we can get out of our crappy jobs!”

  Jacqueline groans, but Rox’s eyes come alive. “That’s a great idea! You know how crazy Martinis are all the rage while classic drinks never go out of style? One side of the menu will be all hip with new stuff and the back can be all retro with classics.”

  “Hip?” Jacqueline asks. “You are using the word hip to describe something modern? I already see a flaw, Granny.”

  “Hey! I may have a throwback vocabulary, but that doesn’t mean my ideas are bad.”

  Jacqueline nods in agreement. “It is kind of interesting.”

  We may be onto something. Then again, we come up with new career ideas all the time. Once we start thinking them through, we find them to be crazy. However, I’m convinced that eventually one of us will come up with the right one. Right now though, I need another sip of chocolate perfection. Seriously, this stuff is …

  Oh, wow.

  Just above the rim of my glass, I catch a pair of eyes staring at me—electric-blue eyes attached to Heaven on legs. He’s not all that tall. Maybe like five foot ten. He’s got a slight tan, but then again, so does everyone here in Los Angeles. His medium-brown hair is combed over and fluffy on the top yet cleanly slicked on the sides—sort of like a James Dean-type, only without the overuse of hair gel.

  He’s also got that look—the one you expect to see accompanied by a wild amount of tattoos and a motorcycle helmet—yet judging by his pushed-up sleeves, all he has are the leather jacket, tattered jeans, and boots. The man who stands next to him is a more extreme version—tall, bulky, inked to the gills—the full biker persona. They look to be polar opposites, yet something about them screams peas in a pod. I’m intrigued.

  Rox catches my peering and looks at the guy. “Wow! He’s cute!”

  Cute, hot, in desperate need of my affection—he’s all of those. I can’t stand the in-your-face look, so his subtlety has me pining.

  We start playing the glance/get caught/turn game. It’s lame, like two mice playing cat and mouse. I hate games, but sometimes you need to play them while you figure out what to do, just like now. I’m not so sure I’m willing to buy. This guy has a look in his eyes that says he knows he is good looking; however, when I catch him staring, how he turns away implies modesty. Modesty revs my engines.

  Words are exchanged when his friend catches on to our game. His friend nudges his head in my direction like he is coaxing the guy to talk to me. Personally, I think that is a wonderful idea.

  After another swig of his beer, my dreamboat stands. Rox nudges me. “Look! Mr. Super Cute Hottie is on his way.”

  Jacqueline peers in his direction. “Wow! He is gorgeous. Let’s hope he doesn’t know it.”

  “Oh, he knows it!” Rox says. “How could he not?”

  Mid way to me, he sidesteps toward the bathroom. It is just as well. I’m not really crazy about forward men. Then again, how do you meet someone if you don’t say hello?

  He pauses, and then heads towards me again. The closer he gets, the more his back straightens, his head raises, and his jaw squares. The air of modesty he had while sitting with his friend disappears along with the tingle of my hormones. I love confidence, but I have too much self-respect to waste my time kissing up to someone with attitude. If a man wants to leave me begging for more, he doesn’t hang up without saying goodbye; he tells me he can’t wait to see me again.

  James Dean II is just a couple of feet away when he suddenly looks like he wants to scamper home. My hormones come rushing back, and “hello” blurts out of me before he can change his mind.

  His voice is soft and on the verge of cracking as he returns the greeting. Rox and I shift in our stools so he can stand between us. “Hi. I’m Chris,” he says to me.

  Wow! No cheesy pick up line? This is great. “Hi, I’m Darla.”

  He then introduces himself to the girls before turning back to me. We smile at each other like idiots.

  He came to me, so he should open the conversation, right? But I said hello first. Then again, I hate games, and who speaks first really doesn’t matter a hill of beans in the grand scheme of things. The better question is, who put the Mexican Jumping Beans in my stomach?

  Finally, he breaks the ice. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of something to say. I hate pick up lines. I don’t have a single decent one.” He scratches his head while
looking somewhat pained by the struggle for words. It’s awesome. “You come here often?”

  Jacqueline raises her glass. “Every Friday night for the last few years, no matter how hard we have tried not to.”

  Rox taps his arm. “Ask Darla if she wants to share an orange.”

  I groan. Jacqueline rolls her eyes. Chris’s brows scrunch. “What?” he asks. “That’s horrible. Somebody has actually used that on you before?”

  Is that a slip of an accent in his voice? Southern?

  Drool!

  Jacqueline raises her hand. “Yep. You’d be amazed by the things we’ve heard.”

  “Wow,” he says with raised brows.

  Jacqueline and Rox turn to each other. Rox winks and Jacqueline nods. That genuine look of surprise just earned Chris their seals of approval. It must be obvious that I am interested, because they scoot over a stool and invite him to join us.

  Chris removes his jacket before sitting. His short-sleeved T-shirt confirms that unlike his tatted friend, the only thing decorating his arms is a watch. Interesting. Clearly he does not mind tattoos on others, which is a good thing since my skin has not been pristine in years.

  “I have to tell you,” he says, “you are the most intriguing women I’ve ever seen.” He looks to Jacqueline, who wears a fully buttoned blouse and a knee-length skirt. “I love your classic sense of style.” Then he turns to Rox in her Go-Go dress and mod eyeliner. “Please tell me you dress like that all the time, because it absolutely suits you.” Rox beams so much that I think I hear her squealing inside. Chris then looks to me yet can’t quite make eye contact. “Your hair is stunning. The vibrant colors remind me of a peacock in its full glory.” Finally his eyes meet mine. His mouth drops open to speak but then closes.

  Are his cheeks flushing?

  My heart flutters so much that I can’t even pull myself together enough to thank him for the compliment.

  Jacqueline comes to our rescue. “You have an interesting accent,” she says to Chris. “Where are you from?”

  “Alabama. Is it obvious? I’m really trying to lose it and fit in around here.”

  Jacqueline chuckles. “Trust me. Fitting in is overrated, especially in Los Angeles.”

  Rox is quick to agree. “I’ve never had any idea how it feels to fit in.”

  I’m with them. “The last time I tried was in grade school, just before I met you two. I am never making that mistake again!”

  Chris looks at each of us in disbelief. “Wow, you have all known each other that long? That’s some friendship.”

  The guy Chris was talking to earlier approaches our table. My eyes lock on his ink that covers the skin on the back of his hand and continues all the way up his arms. More color peeks out from under his T-shirt collar and climbs up his neck, stopping just shy of what would be his hairline. His art is a great big contrast to itself. The tattoo coming up the back of his neck appears to be part of a large piece done by a true artist. However, his arms are a different story. Those tattoos are much smaller and appear to be spattered about like whims or possibly tales of adventure and survival. I’m betting this man has a lot of great stories.

  Jacqueline scoots her stool over so he can join us. He puts a hand up, smiles, and shakes his head. “No, thank you. Hey, Chris, come on, man, we’ve got to go. The guys are here.” My racing hormones stop and frown.

  “Sorry,” Chris says to me.

  We stare at each other, both trying to conceal how awkward we feel. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rox buying me time by popping up from her seat to check out some of the color creeping out from under the guy’s sleeve. “Hey! Is that an Aerosmith logo?”

  His eyes brighten. “Yeah, sort of. It’s a hybrid between that and Skynyrd. Chris came up with it.”

  “Wow! How is that even possible?”

  So Chris is a tattoo artist without obvious tattoos? The mystery around him grows. “Hey,” he says, “I know this is short notice, but with next weekend being Thanksgiving, tomorrow is the only Saturday night I have free for the next few weeks. Are you available?”

  Volumes have been written on the subject of dating. I’m pretty sure every authoritarian would tell me to stick with the cat and mouse game, but I really hate nonsense. “What did you have in mind?”

  A group of biker-types calls for the attention of Chris and his friend. “How about I meet you here at six and we go from there?”

  “Sounds great.”

  His eyes seem to twinkle. You’d think with all these other guys around he’d try to hide it. “It’s a date,” he says.

  Maybe it is the excitement of the upcoming holidays that provides the magic I feel seeping through the air, but it sure would be nice to have it caused by something else. The holidays have always held joy for me in so many ways. Dare I hope this one will bring magic of a different kind?

  Thunder storms from outside, announcing that wheels are about to roll. My adrenaline rushes at the sound.

  Jacqueline fans herself. Her eyes beam with sparks of mischief. “He is so not your type. I think you’d better leave him in my hands.”

  “He is so cute and perfect for you!” Rox adds.

  I raise my glass in a silent toast to myself, but I don’t keep all of my thoughts secret. “Yeah, isn’t it awesome!”

  Santa Claus Wants Some Lovin'

  I feel lame.

  A grown, reasonably attractive woman, sitting in a bar, waiting, alone, on a Saturday night—it just shouldn’t happen.

  Driven by both frustration and boredom, I send Bailey a text. “He’s late.”

  Why did I put myself in a spin to get here on time? Aren’t women the ones who are supposed to make men wait? Maybe I should have done that.

  No, I hate being late just as much as I hate dating games. I also believe in making a good first impression.

  My phone chimes with a return message from Bailey, “And yet men always complain about us.”

  Shoot, even if I was late, I might have been sitting here alone. It is nearly ten after six. He did say six tonight, didn’t he?

  “How long is it polite to wait for someone you don’t know?” I text back. “At what point do you become a chump?”

  Finally, I am hit with a wave of relief that I no longer need to badger myself with questions. Chris heads straight to the table were we met last night, even though it is dirty, and looks for a waitress to clear it. It would probably seem odd to most that he didn’t just grab another table, but to me, it’s sweet. My dad is sentimental like that. If I could score someone who is half the man he is, I’d be set.

  My phone chimes with another text from Bailey. “I think you know how to take care of yourself better than anyone else ever could.”

  “He’s here,” I reply before tossing the phone into my purse.

  I clear my throat, twice, and chuckle before it catches his attention. Chris smiles to the waitress, thanks her anyway, and heads to my booth. His walk reminds me of that of his friend last night—board-straight, confident, and with a bit of swagger. I can’t help but notice that his hair is unkempt like he just got out of bed.

  “Hey,” he says. He sits across from me and places his cell phone on the table, taking care to make sure it is straight and aligned with the wood grain. I then notice that for as casual as he looks, everything about him is pristine. His ripped jeans seem pressed, his T-shirt is bright white and practically fresh out of the wrapper, and his boots and leather jacket have been polished. A woody scent, accented with a hint of mint and lemon, wafts across the table. It makes me want to snuggle into his shoulder. When I die, this is how I expect Heaven to smell.

  Chris raises his hand to get the attention of the waitress. The smile he gives her would make the Devil envious of its power. She blushes to the point where she has to force herself to look at me and ask for my order. I don’t blame her. He really is handsome, and that disheveled, yet perfectly clean, look could rev any woman’s engines.

  I don’t want to drink anything too strong
, so—

  “A Cosmo for the lady. Whisky for me. Neat.”

  The waitress tucks her hair behind her ear as she turns to Chris. “Anything else?”

  Did he just order me a Sex and the City drink without asking? I want to be polite, but I really dislike Cosmos.

  I stop the waitress before she leaves. “Make mine an Old Fashion, please.” Chris’s expression goes blank. He is probably nervous and was trying to be nice by ordering for me. I stomped on it by ordering something that an eighty-year-old man would get. His unintentionally being rude doesn’t justify me doing it to him. “Sorry, I’m not very fond of cranberries.” I’m not exactly crazy about Old Fashions either, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I must be just as nervous.

  Chris leans onto the table and speaks softly. “So, you are a multi-faceted woman who does not want to be around cranberries. Tell me what else I get to learn about you.”

  Dear God, those eyes—so clear, so blue, so enrapturing.

  Aw. I like the sweet way he said that. Yeah, we are both just nervous. It’s understandable. “My job title says that I am Head of Reception Relations for Endeara Candies. What that really means is that instead of wearing professional office attire, I should dress like a traffic cop. I’m the first one who gets called in a crisis, be it an accident in the warehouse or one of the executives losing a paperclip.”

  His tone of voice strengthens. “Professional attire? With that hair?” He scoffs.

  It has got to be nerves. Nerves will doom you. They are sure doing a number on me. I tuck my hands into my lap, suddenly very aware that they exist. “Yeah,” I tell him, “I really don’t get the place I work at. No one does. We all have to wear business suits and warehouse uniforms, yet individuality is stressed.”

  “Sounds interesting,” he says, blandly.

  Funny, how he is eyeing the room tells me nothing around here seems interesting to him. Maybe I am rambling. Lord knows my thoughts are. I don’t quite feel like I am really here. “Yeah, there are always plenty of ridiculous antics going on. Rox works there too, so she helps keep me sane.”