by Dish Tillman
But of course, Pernita didn’t care. She caught sight of him as he entered and happily waved him over to where she was seated, at a tall table near the bar. As he made his way through the club toward her, he knew she wouldn’t even mention his being late. Possibly she didn’t even realize it. More likely, though, she saw his lateness for what it was: a pathetic little stab at resistance to her power over him, a small piece of childish acting out. She’d ignore it, as it deserved to be ignored.
He felt his face redden with shame. He really was pathetic. He’d sold himself to this woman and her father. He knew it, they knew it, and whatever sulky little fits he occasionally threw against them were as ridiculous to them as they were to him.
“Hey, sugar,” Pernita said when he reached her. Since he didn’t lean down to her, she craned her neck up to him and smacked him on the lips. “Do you know Rachael BlessingInnes?” she asked, gesturing to the imposing-looking young woman seated next to her, whose hair was pulled back into a tight chignon and whose black skirt and jacket looked like sheet metal.
“I don’t believe I do,” Shay said, and he shook the amazon’s hand. Her grip, surprisingly, was very loose. Maybe she just didn’t think he was worth impressing.
“Rachael and I were at school together,” Pernita said. And this was the problem with her: he could never punish her by making her wait for him, because for her, waiting was never a chore. There was always someone there for her to talk to, someone she’d gone to school with, or flown to Brazil with, or went skiing in Gstaad with, or started a colony on Jupiter with, or who the hell even knew.
Shay couldn’t think of anything to say to this, and Rachael had chosen the moment to take another sip of her murky green cocktail. Was she drinking absinthe? If anyone had friends who drank absinthe, it would be Pernita.
For a few moments there was an awkward silence. Then Rachael put down her drink and said, “Oh, there’s my party. Got to run. Such a scream to see you again, angel lady.” She got up from her stool—and kept on going. Shay was astonished. She easily cleared six feet.
“We’ve really got to stay in touch this time,” said Pernita, air-kissing her, and since she was about seven inches shorter, there was plenty of air to kiss.
“I’ve got all your contact info,” Rachael said, grabbing her clutch. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it. Ciao, darling.”
Shay shimmied around Pernita, making his way to the stool Rachael had just vacated. He paused long enough to scope out the party Rachael had gone to meet. Yep, it was just as he’d figured: a group of three other people, one man, one woman, one who might have been either but in a way Shay could only call gladiatorial, and all of them were hung with couture, boasting cheekbones that could shelter small cars from the rain.
Shay slipped onto the stool and deliberately avoided making eye contact with Pernita. Instead he scanned the room for someone who could give him another drink. It was a bit early-ish to get hammered, but he was with Pernita, so he’d need it.
“Hel-lo,” Pernita said. “Why yes, I’m fine, thank you, sugar-pie. And you?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Just want to grab a server so I can order a bev.” At just that moment he locked eyes with a pert young blonde carrying a tray and signaled her over.
“You won’t need to do that,” said Pernita, who noticed the blonde as well and made a small countermanding gesture to her. The blonde nodded and turned away.
Shay felt his face blister with anger. He put up with a lot of this presumed ownership crap, but this was too goddamn far. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake, and if he wanted to have a drink, he was going to have a goddamn drink. He extended his arm to its full length and tried to wave the server back.
“Excuse me,” he said tersely as he flailed in vain, “but I’ll be the judge of what I need and when I need it.” It was as surly a tone as he’d ever allowed himself to take with her.
She actually laughed at him. Laughed, and her eyes twinkled as if his rebellion just amused and delighted her like it was the ferocious growling of an adorable puppy. She placed her hand on his arm and forced it down. “Just relax,” she said, a smile in her voice. “It’s all taken care of.”
“It is not taken care of,” he said, still angry but being careful not to get any angrier. “I came in thirsty, I remain thirsty, and,” he added, gesturing at the empty place on the table before him, “there is nothing here to quench my thirst. So, no. Very much not taken care of.”
He was just tearing off the last syllables of this blistering complaint when the blonde reappeared, carrying a champagne bucket, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and two crystal flutes. “Ah,” said Pernita happily. “Here it is. I’ve had her keep it on ice while I waited for you.”
If there was a little hint of a spike in that “while I waited for you”—and Shay thought there was—there was no way he could address it. He was too busy feeling abashed by the sudden appearance of this extravagant bottle, whose cork the server had now freed from its wire cage and was laboriously pulling from the bottleneck.
“I don’t understand,” Shay said, as the cork came free with a pop.
Pernita clapped her hands and told the server, “Well done!” Then she turned back to Shay and said, “Just a moment.”
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to wait for the server to dramatically fill the two flutes—first pouring a little, then letting the foam subside, then pouring a little more, and so on. Why was it always this way with Pernita? Did she actually like making a fool of him? He ought to be enjoying this moment, anticipating what she was about to tell him, because it was almost certainly good news. And yet there was something about the way she did it, the way she insisted on always keeping him partly in the dark, always just a little bit off-balance—like she got some kind of charge out of prompting him to react one way, then turning things upside down to make him regret it.
Well, he wasn’t playing along anymore. He’d just sit tight and not say a word till Pernita finally revealed whatever it was she had up her sleeve.
Eventually the flutes were filled. The server plunged the bottle into the ice bucket and departed. Pernita handed him one flute, while taking the other herself.
“Here’s to fashion,” she said, and she held her flute aloft.
Shay raised his as well, but there was no way he was uttering a syllable until he knew what the hell this was about.
“And to fashion photography,” she added teasingly.
Shay just stared at her.
“And,” she continued, “to the upcoming photo spread in Details featuring the hottest men’s winter fashions as worn by rock music’s hottest front men. Including,” and here she chinked her flute against his, “a certain Shay Dayton.”
His jaw dropped. “What?” he asked, forgetting to drink to the toast, though Pernita was now happily enjoying her first sip. “What—what are you even—what did you—”
“Daddy’s friends with someone on the editorial board,” she said, clearly giddy at how gobsmacked she’d made him. “He called in a favor. Not that it took much calling. You do have quite a look, you know.”
“But…,” he said, setting the drink on the table. He didn’t trust himself not to drop it, he was that shaken up. “But, that’s a national rag! And I’m just a local boy. Nobody’s even heard of me.”
She slid his flute closer to him, gently pressuring him to pick it back up and drink with her. “You’re a nobody now,” she said. “But by the time the issue comes out in November, you’ll have played a bunch of East Coast dates. You won’t be a local boy anymore.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but…I mean, I still won’t be anybody. We’re just the opening act for Strafer Nation.”
“Which,” she reminded him, “is an amazing way to bring yourself to the world’s attention. Strafer has legions of fans, and you now get a shot at them. Details will support that. Hell, it may even be a better way of fixing you in the national eye.”
His shoulders slumped. “I’m…speechless. Jesus.”
She lifted her glass. “Shall we toast Daddy?”
He shook his head in disbelief, then took his glass and raised it. “Yes. Of course. To Daddy. Sweet creeping Christ.”
“And to me,” she said, as she drew the flute to her lips. “It was my idea, you know.”
He stared at her, as though never having seen her before.
She laughed at him. “What, don’t you remember? I’m an integral part of your team supreme.” She gave him a teasing look. “Don’t tell me you didn’t believe me.”
He took a deep breath, held it a moment before releasing it, and then chugged half the glass of champagne. When he set it back on the table, he couldn’t suppress a belch.
“There’ll be none of that in Manhattan’s finest establishments,” she mock-scolded him.
“What?” he asked, suddenly wary again.
“Manhattan. You know, New York City.” He stared at her blankly, so she continued. “That’s where the photo shoot is.” He opened his eyes wide, and she added the kicker, “We leave tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” He almost fell off the stool. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”
She shrugged. “Why is that a big deal? You’ve played your farewell gig, you don’t have anything on the docket till the tour starts. Unless there’s something holding you here you haven’t told me about.”
She gave him a steely look, almost a challenge, and Shay realized at once that she was talking about Loni. Somehow, she’d recognized that there was a real danger in her and had moved to take Shay out of her path. He was almost certain that if Loni had never entered the picture, Pernita wouldn’t have lifted a finger to get him this photo shoot.
And the crazy thing was, she was right. Shay didn’t want to leave town until he’d squared things with Loni, at least enough so that there was an opening for them somehow, somewhere, to pick up where they’d left off.
But he couldn’t do that from New York. He’d have to do it face-to-face. He’d have to do it here. He couldn’t leave. But he also couldn’t tell Pernita that. He hemmed and hawed for a bit, then he said, “My parents. You’re asking me to just pack up and leave town for six months without even saying good-bye to them.” Even he could hear the phoniness of the outrage in his voice.
Pernita just grinned at him over the rim of her champagne flute. After she’d taken a sip, she said, “You can say good-bye to them over the phone. And when you tell them why you’re leaving early, what do you think they’re going to say? You think their feelings will be hurt? Honey, they’ll be over the moon. Their little boy is on his way to becoming a superstar.”
He shook his head. “They don’t care about that kind of thing. They just want me to be happy.”
She laughed. “First of all, they do care about that kind of thing. Everybody cares about that kind of thing. And second, how will this not make you happy? Do you know who else is in this spread? Just three other singers.”
Shay examined his fingernails, trying to feign a lack of interest but sensing he wasn’t doing a very good job.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to ask,” she continued, “because I’m going to tell you. Piers Brandy of Mission Misters. Kyle Abromovitz of the Happiness Vector. And Mitch Prentiss of the Mitchell Prentiss Band.”
Despite himself, Shay felt his mouth open a little. Those were some pretty significant names. At least one of them was always peering out from the glossy celeb mags Shay passed on the corner newsstand every week. He was seriously, dangerously impressed. And yet, he resisted. He toyed with the stem of his flute, unwilling to look her in the eye. “I can’t just go to New York. I haven’t got anything to wear there. I can’t show up looking like I do here. Especially in company like that.”
She leaned across the table and placed a hand over his. “Baby,” she said, in a tone of voice that let him know she was condescending to him and enjoying it, “little secret I learned: they have shops in New York. Some pretty good ones, even.” She sat back. “Plus, that’s already arranged. I’ve got a meeting with a stylist all set up for the morning after we get there. He’ll be taking you in hand, shaping your complete look.”
“Oh,” he said, rolling his eyes, “and how much is that going to cost?”
She winked at him. “Little present from me.”
He shook his head emphatically. “I can’t accept a gift like that.”
“Then look at it as an investment. You’re my client. Well, you’re Daddy’s, but I’m on his team. So anything I do for you now, I reap the benefits of later.” She ran her fingers up his arm. “Jesus, will you cheer up? I’ve just gotten you a spread in a national magazine, and all you have to do is get on a plane, instead of lying on your couch all day watching the Cartoon Network.”
“Syfy,” he said, gritting his teeth. “It was Syfy I was watching all day, and you know that, and it was only once.”
She blithely ignored this and looked over her shoulder. “You hungry at all? We could put in our names for a table here. Let me just find our waitress.” When she looked back at him, his face must still have been set in a frown, because she said, “Or we can go someplace else. Your call.”
What he wanted to do most was escape her. Never mind that everything she was doing was taking him further along the road he’d always dreamed of traveling. The way she was doing it was making him feel more and more like a passenger than the man at the wheel. And he hated it. He wanted to get away from her—flee into the night. Find Loni. Explain. Make peace. Make love. But he was paralyzed. He needed something. Some sign from the universe. Some prompt.
“Baby?” Pernita said. “Thoughts? About dinner?”
He couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe. He sensed, somehow, that this moment was crucial. What he did now would drive his future in one direction or another—toward the career he’d always wanted or the girl he couldn’t even be sure of.
His phone vibrated. He almost couldn’t believe it. He’d asked for a sign, and here it was. It had to be. He raised his finger to signal Pernita to wait a moment, then took his phone from his pocket. It was a text from Lockwood. Sorry man Loni already has a guy, moving to Cali with him in a couple wks bummer but still, tour calling.
He read it over a few more times, then put the phone back in his pocket and turned to Pernita.
“Dinner here’s fine,” he said.
CHAPTER 12
Pernita was right, of course. It took barely half the morning for him to pack up whatever of his life in Haver City needed transporting to New York. The rest he left in a pair of battered old suitcases to go on the van to Pittsburgh, where he’d meet the rest of the band to start the tour.
He’d been a little apprehensive about telling the others he was being whisked off to Manhattan for a magazine fashion shoot. He was sensitive about how, as the front man, he tended to overshadow the others in the band, and he often thought he picked up little currents of resentment from them…especially Jimmy. But in fact, they were almost unanimously excited for him—and for themselves.
“You know what this means for us, don’t you?” Lockwood had said. “Your pitiful mug is somehow going to hypnotize gullible women and gay guys across our great nation to go straight to their smartphones and download Grief Bacon. We’ll be millionaires by the end of the month.”
“The spread doesn’t run till November,” he’d said, embarrassed.
“End of the year, then,” Lockwood corrected himself.
Trina hooted and cawed like a whole stadium full of football fans and told him, “Just show that ass, Dayton. Whatever they tell you, show that ass. It’s a superfine ass, and if you’ve got me fucking telling you that, you better fucking believe it’s down.”
Baby had, in his own laconic way, showed tremendous excitement, almost agitation. He’d muttered “Wow” seven or eight times, then said, “Opens some doors for us, you know?” Shay got a little nervous, hearing him go on this way, and told him to calm dow
n, nothing was for sure.
It was, as Shay predicted, only Jimmy who’d felt obliged to spike his congratulations with a little acid. “Way to go, mic-man,” he said. “Just don’t forget while you’re swanning around with the goddamn glitterati that we’re the ones who make you look good.”
His parents, too, proved Pernita right about them, which was maddening even though he’d known she was dead-on when she’d said it.
“But, sweetheart,” his mom had said, “this is the most wonderful news ever. Of course don’t worry about Dad and me. Just get on that plane and go. You know what they say: don’t knock opportunity once.”
He grimaced. “I don’t think that’s quite the way it’s worded, Mom.”
“Or however it goes. You know what I mean. Do you think you’ll make it home for Christmas?”
He hadn’t even thought to ask about that. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, if not, maybe we can do the Skype. Dad got it working last month to see Cheryl’s twins out in Nevada. Cute as all get-out. One of them knocked over Cheryl’s computer and broke the Skype, though. So Dad keeps saying we can’t use it anymore. I keep telling him, it’s just on Cheryl’s end, ours is fine. But you know how he never listens sometimes. Do you do the Skype?”
“I can manage it. And it’s just Skype, Mom.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said the Skype.”
“I know. That’s what you said, too.”
“No, I just said Skype.”
She gave a little exasperated sigh. “Same as me.”
“No, Mom, you said the Skype.”
He realized he was rapidly spiraling into a conversational whirlpool of no return—an easy place to end up with his mom, so he always had to be wary—and strategically withdrew to an earlier point. “I’ll find out about Christmas.”
“We’d love to have you. Also let us know if you’re going to be on the TV anytime.”
