A flash of some words rang through her mind.
“May I help you?” A woman scurried up to her.
With a huff, Luna held up her hand. She turned her back to the woman and retrieved her paper and pen. Before she forgot her own brilliance, she went to a table featuring some smaller bolts of fabric, shoved them aside and put the words to paper.
A crash or a kiss
Our bodies connected
I won't see him again
I won't be rejected
After taking her time to reread the words more than once, and ensuring she had nothing more at the moment, she finally turned to the lady. Why did people feel the need to stand and stare at her while she created? Well, she supposed the woman did work there and Luna still needed her experience. Maybe more words would follow.
The woman tried again. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Out of the corner of her eye some intricate black lace called to her. "I'll take three yards of that lace." She pointed to the window.
"Excellent choice." The woman grabbed the bolt. "A beautiful Alencon lace."
Without really knowing how much lace to ask for or what she was going to do with it, Luna watched as the woman measured and cut the fine fabric and wrapped it for her. It seemed fitting that she paid for her purchase with the quote unquote tip she received from her booty call. Of course, some might say the fact he paid her turned her into a whore. She would say he left with a smile on his face, not that she was frowning. Once the woman handed her the package, Luna decided she experienced more than enough.
Caught in a strange purgatory between pissed, used, and euphoric, she defied the old adage about no one walking in LA and returned to the club via her own two feet. Milo, the owner of New Moon, was a cool cat who paid her extra to help with writing ads and such.
Upon entering, the combination of synthesizers, drums and electric guitar vibrated through her.
Not in the mood for music, she winced. Milo was also friends with her big brother, Ciro, and keeping it all in the family, her brother's band played at the club three nights a week.
In the cruel light of day, the club was a huge unimposing box with semi-normal people roaming around fixing things and cleaning in preparation for later that night.
"There she is, the woman we've been waiting for." Ciro spoke into the microphone, his voice taking over the club.
She flipped him the bird, went to the bar and served herself diet soda. Before she dove in to work, she glanced underneath, realizing she never told anyone to order more red wine. The guy last night was probably drunk. He came here wanting sex and got it, then probably drove his German import home thrilled he didn't need to deal with anyone in the morning. She wasn't even a one night stand, she was a one hour stand.
“We have been waiting for you to help us with our song.” Ciro pounded on the bar.
No, not her brother’s songs. It was hard enough to write without having to do it with five men staring at her. Her mind wasn’t there. At last, she straightened up and faced Ciro. “Really? You want me write on the fly?”
“You are the one who keeps promising.” He shook his head. “Someone needs to remember other people have needs as well.”
She put her elbow on the bar and placed her head in her hand. Everyone always wanted something at the most inconvenient time. “Can I work in a few? I’m having some issues.”
"Okay Lunatic. Who do I need to kill?"
"I would tell you if I knew his name." She rolled her eyes at even letting that much out.
Ciro tilted his head and swallowed as if he were trying to prevent himself from vomiting.
Before she became privy to another round of big brother telling her why she needed to be celibate when he was nothing but a man-whore, she continued. "Why is it that a man can have a meaningless round of awesome, orgasmic sex, while a woman feels sort of empty inside once the moment is over?"
He pursed his lips and strummed his fingers on the bar. After a moment, he nodded. "Don't look at me when I tell you this."
With a grunt, she turned away.
"Guys can come no matter what." He cleared his throat. "No matter if the chick is beautiful or not, a bitch or not, even if we don't like her, if we're hard we can come."
If her brother said the word come one more time she might decide to live a chaste life so they never had to have this conversation again. Still, she waited, wanting to hear the rest.
"On the other hand, getting a woman to climax is quite a feat. It doesn't always happen, therefore if a woman manages to get off during such a tryst, there is a bond formed in her mind."
She turned. "Are you saying that women are crazy?"
He shrugged. “I don’t call you lunatic for nothing.”
This is what she got for asking the philosophy major about sex. No doubt Ciro's theory was true for Ciro. Tall, blond and dreamy, her brother had the looks of a rock star coupled with a genius IQ. Too many women found themselves panting after him, while he went on to his next conquest. Her theory was his body could be satisfied, but his mind was always left wanting. "Can you go away now?"
"Only because you're my sister, but promise me that if you see him show up again you'll point him out so I can damage him beyond repair." As if readying for a fight, he pounded his fist into his hand. “I have sworn to protect you.”
"Thank you." Her brother was the only one who was always there. “I feel some words.”
He saluted and walked away.
Again, she reached into her bag. She put the package of black lace on the bar and found her paper.
Once more, the club filled with her brothers tunes. He was determined to bring back the new romantic movement, or what she called 80s music. He even had all the costumes.
For less than an hour
His body in mine
Though I still feel his presence
One moment in time
She smoothed out the paper, running her hands over her writing. With a sigh, she grabbed the paper and headed toward the locker room, or as it would now forever be known, the scene of the crime.
As she passed the stage, the music stopped.
"Lunatic!" Her brother called into the microphone.
She glanced over her shoulder at him.
"I almost forgot." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. "This came in the mail for you today."
Once she spied the return address, her heart practically stopped. The letter was from one of the literary magazines where she submitted her work. If they liked what she sent, she would send them this next poem. Not wanting anyone around when she read the news, she snatched the envelope out of his hand. "I need to change my clothes then I’ll come work on the song."
Her brother saluted her.
Though she didn't break out into a full on run, she hurried to the locker room and closed the door, tossed her bag aside and tore the letter open.
Dear Ms. Morrow,
Thank you for submitting your work, “Tears on the City of Angels,” to The Literary Focus. While we found your poem interesting, it is not right for our publication at this time. Our publication is geared more toward those with a solid academic background. Please remember that writing is extremely subjective, and we wish you the best of luck in finding a home for your work.
Her mouth went dry, but not her eyes. Their submission guidelines specifically said they would take those without degrees as well.
Just not her.
It was never her.
She tore the letter in half and sat back. Only last night she had one of the most passionate moments she ever experienced.
Not that it mattered.
It was never her.
A sparkle caught the corner of her eye and she reached over and picked up a button, a little white pearlescent button belonging to an expensive male shirt. Inhaling, she looked down at the poem she'd been penning all day.
The male and the female
Are never the same
Our min
ds divide us
I still don't know his name
Right, like this would get published. Her ode to nothing but a fleeting second.
She balled up the paper along with the rejection letter and the button, tossed them over to the garbage and decided to resume her walk. The song, her work, and everything else could wait.
Chapter Four
ARMED WITH ONLY A FEW scant clues to the identity to the object of his desire and his muse, Blake pounded on the door to the New Moon.
In truth, he didn’t expect to find her right now after she worked the evening. While he could continue to show up to the club until he found her again, his instinct told him he needed to come to her better prepared, and he didn’t mean with more than one condom, though it was a definite to-do on his list.
After nearly breaking his knuckles on the door, it finally opened. A large man, dare he say enormous man, filled up the entry. “Deliveries are around back.”
“I don’t have a delivery. I have an inquiry.” He stood up straighter.
The man raised his eyebrows.
With his instinct working overtime, he didn’t think the best course of action was not to tell this person he was looking for one of their waitresses lest he get his face smashed. “I’m desperate. I was here last night and in my haste left my phone. If I can look for it, I would be indebted to you.”
“I’ll look and see if there is anything in the lost and found.” The man huffed. “What kind of phone is it?”
He took out his wallet and held up one of the bills that bought him through the night before. “I would prefer looking for it myself.”
“It’s your money.” The man swiped the offering away and motioned for him to enter.
The magic of the club with the lighting and the people and the energy was gone in the middle of the day. A few people scurried doing their jobs and a band practiced at the stage in the back.
"We keep the lost and found in the employee lounge." His oversized tour guide walked ahead of him.
In need of continuing his investigation, he rushed to the man's side. "So, when I was here last night I was served by a quite beautiful waitress."
The man simply nodded.
"We talked for a bit, and I was wondering if you might know her name." He swore he was almost out of breath trying to keep up. Maybe he needed to work out. On second thought, maybe he just needed his waitress. That was work out enough and the best kind.
Right by the bar, the man stopped and spun around to face him.
Blake decided to go for it. "This waitress, she is gorgeous, red hair, matching lips–"
The ringing of his cell phone interrupted him. Maybe the big galoot didn't notice. "Anyways…"
The man crossed his arms.
Blake's phone chimed off a second time, and it was only then he noticed what a loud obnoxious ring he chose. Something he needed to have someone fix post haste. Rather than own up to the fact he lied, he looked around. "What is that strange noise?"
In a flash, the man grabbed him by the collar and shoved him up against the bar. A shooting pain fired up between his shoulder blades. "Wait!" His cell phone continued to ring.
The man pulled him forward and slammed him back again. "What the hell is going on?"
Blake tried to catch his breath to get a word in when the man yanked him once more.
The music stopped.
"Arnold!" The shouts of several other men echoed around him.
The man, apparently named Arnold, turned.
"Arnold, stop." A blond man dressed in what Blake assumed was supposed to be a cross between a military uniform and a pirate outfit joined them. "What's wrong?" Somehow this person managed to get Arnold to release him.
Blake leaned over the bar. Once he focused, he realized he was staring at a package from one of the fabric stores in the fashion district. Interesting.
"This dude shows up flashing 100 dollar bills asking to come in and look for his phone, then he starts asking all these questions about your sister, and his phone rings." Arnold hit him on the shoulder.
Sister?
Not caring if this was the end of him, Blake grabbed the package and spun around to face the blond man. "She's your sister?"
Now both men glared at him. Out of the corner of his eye, the rest of the band had the same look on their faces.
"This is going to sound insane, but I swear it’s the truth." He used the package as a shield. Clothing and fabric always protected him before. "Yesterday, I met a girl. She served me, we talked, we spent some time together, she’s gorgeous, red hair and…” Before describing the heart shaped lips he kissed and the curves he caressed, he swallowed. “The only clue she gave me is she is named after part of the club.”
The blond elbowed Arnold. "I got this one."
Arnold got in his face. "Watch it. I'll be watching you."
Rather than give this man a comeback and get pounded into the bar again, he opted to salute him.
With a walk not even meant to grace a sidewalk, Arnold left and Blake turned to the brother.
The blond pointed at him. “I’m asking the questions.”
Blake waited, taking the time to study the man’s outfit. He understood the look the man was going for, a ruffled shirt and a military jacket, very 1980s but timeless in its cool factor. However, the whole thing was slightly off and a piece of the ruffled trim dangled down on the man’s shirt and was in need of repair.
“You met my sister last night and, though the two of you obviously talked, never exchanged names?”
“Well, that’s more of a recap, but you are correct.” A part of the gold applique on the jacket was also coming loose at the edge.
“Did you sleep with her?” The man pointed at him, the ruffle waved, the applique curled.
Blake broke out into a sweat at the sight of the fashion failures. “We didn’t actually sleep, though I offered.”
“You are going to be sorry you hurt her.”
For the second time that day someone grabbed him by the collar. He was thankful this wasn’t one of his favorite jackets. “Hold on a second before you rough me up.” Blake grabbed the ruffle and it tore some more.
“What the hell!” The man released him and looked at his wrist.
“Why is it that no one checks their clothing before putting it on?” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small emergency sewing kit he carried with him at all times. A habit carried over from runway shows. “Take off your jacket and then give me your wrist.”
“My jacket?”
“You look ragged, and don’t tell me people can’t tell from the audience cause they can. They may not be able to put their finger on it, but they’ll know you’re not as sharp as you should be and that is not the hallmark of a true performer.” While he waited for this person to comply, he threaded a couple of needles.
At last the man took off his jacket, laid it on the bar stool, and held out his wrist. “What are you, some kind of tailor?”
“You sound like your sister, but she asked me if I was a designer.” Blake wrangled the ruffle and sewed it in place. “Your sister is right, I’m a designer, but I do sew. Do you have an issue with that?” He used the tiny scissors to snip the thread and a couple of extra ones.
“How did you get into that?” The man assessed the button.
“First things first, I need help and that starts with knowing your sister’s name.” He sat on one of the bar stools and began his work on the jacket.
“Luna. Luna Morrow. I’m Ciro.” The man took the seat next to him.
“Luna. The moon, la Luna.” At last he had a name. It fit her and he understood her little riddle. “I always loved clothes. They can transform anyone.” While he wouldn’t change his parents for the world, when he was younger things were difficult. Maybe he used clothing as a way to take on a role to deal with narrow-minded people.
“Why didn’t you just come back to the club to find her again?” Ciro watched him work.
; “I could have done that, and suffered the same fate as yesterday. She’s unlike anyone I ever met, so I thought I should do some research before finding her. She’s special.” Again, Blake used the scissors and held up the jacket.
“Do you really think that?” Ciro took the jacket and ran his fingers over the fixed applique.
“I know it.” He stood. “Now, may I have quick look in your employee locker room?” Not only did he have some buttons of his own missing from last night, but he wanted to see if there were any other clues left behind.
“Come on. Don’t forget your package.” Ciro tossed him the mystery gift from the fabric store and led him through the club.
“Will your sister be here tonight?” Maybe whatever was in the little parcel was meant for him, and he stuck it under his arm.
“Yes, she’ll be working the last shift. She acts tough, but she’s still a girl.” Ciro stopped in front of a small door.
“Why the tough act?” Finally, he would get some insight.
“We all put on costumes to protect ourselves.” Ciro put on the jacket. “Some are just more obvious than others.”
“What are you, some sort of philosopher?” With a nod, Blake opened the door. The tiny space seemed even more confined with a fluorescent light glaring through the room.
“Or a rock star.” Ciro stepped inside and picked up a button off the floor. “I assume this belongs to you?”
“Thank you.” Blake plucked the bauble from his new ally and scanned the space. Its twin was by the garbage can with some balled up paper. He picked up the button and Luna’s name caught his eye on one of the documents. Without wanting to draw too much attention to his actions, he shoved the papers in his pocket. “Well, I should get going. I have some things to do.”
“So, I guess I’ll see you later then?” Ciro bowed to him.
“I don’t want to miss the show.” Now, all Blake needed to do was piece everything together. He patted his pocket and left.
Chapter Five
FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE the club closed, Luna finally decided to recognize the sick sensation she carried around with her since walking away from her one-hour stand last night.
Come Undone: Romance Stories Inspired by the Music of Duran Duran Page 3
