Jonny was dying to ask more about her, like, “Is she single?” or, “do you think I’ve got a chance with her?” But thought that might be a bit weird. So he lamely asked. “What accent does she have?”
“Dutch,” replied the Karma Life guitarist, Kurt. “We’re all from the Netherlands. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Oh.” Jonny replied dumbly, not knowing what more to add.
The rest of the table looked at Jonny like he had lost the plot.
With all their steaks and drinks ordered, Jim Bob took them through the tour rules. He was of diminutive stature that was made up for with a big attitude. Speaking very loudly and with great animation. Voicing his opinion on everyone and everything. It soon became quite irritating to Jonny, who was quickly bored of anyone with too much to say. He zoned out and started thinking about Eliza and what she might be doing back at the hotel. Imagining her walking around the hotel room naked, or perhaps with one of those see through numbers she liked to wear. His massive steak quickly became cold and he pushed it to one side, sipping his Coke noisily through a straw instead.
Jonny yawned. For crying out loud, won’t this guy give it a rest? He looked across at Joe who gave his eyes a roll to indicate he was thinking the same thing.
Finally, Jim Bob finished, paid the bill and left the band members to it.
“We’re going to check out a few bars if you want to join us?” offered the uber-tall Dutch guitarist.
“Yeah sounds good,” replied Simon.
Badger nodding his head in unison.
“I’m beat.” Jonny was hoping to be lucky enough to bump into Eliza back at the hotel. Thinking if he could speak to her alone he might be less tongue tied.
“Me too,” added Joe.
“Come on Joe. We’re in New York for fucks sake!” Simon not aiming the same level of enthusiastic coercion towards Jonny.
“Hmm. I dunno, I’m knackered.” Joe rubbed his eyes and blinked furiously. His eyes looked sore at the best of times but especially so after the long haul flight.
“I’ve got something that will sort your head out.” Dirk reached into the small front pocket of his jeans and handed over a finger nail sized paper parcel.
“What’s this?” Joe inspected the screwed up cigarette paper, squidging it in between his thumb and fore finger.
“Amphetamine. We call it roze champagne - pink champagne. You just swallow it.” Dirk took more from his inside pocket and handed them around.
“OK. Let’s get on it then.” Without further hesitation Joe threw the amphetamine bomb down his throat.
Jonny was pretty sure Joe had not tried speed before. It was all pretty rock and roll.
“Not for me.” Jonny casually held his hand up on the table to reinforce refusal.
Simon smiled sarcastically at Jonny and started shaking his head. Jonny ignored him, promised to see them later back at the hotel and left the restaurant.
The cold air hit him as he stepped out on to the pavement, looking around for a vacant cab. Pulling the collar up on his jacket and crossing his arms, he jigged about to keep the circulation going in his feet.
In no time at all he had hailed a yellow cab down and slid onto the back seat, resting backwards on the headrest. Closing his eyes, he started going through the dozens of chat up lines swirling around in his head. Nothing seemed quite right. He had never felt as helpless and totally consumed by anything other than his guitar. And that didn’t walk away. That was what he was afraid of - he would cock it up and she would just walk away.
By the time the cab pulled up outside the hotel Jonny still had no plan. Deciding he needed a drink to calm his thoughts.
Eliza wasn’t at the hotel bar. Of course. That would have been too easy. He jumped up onto one of the stools and confidently ordered a large Jack Daniels and Coke. Hoping the bar tender wouldn’t ask his age.
Spinning around on the stool, he surveyed the rest of the bar patrons. A few couples; some groups of suited business men; an older guy with what looked like a prostitute. All absorbed in conversation. There was another suit sat on his own further down the bar talking loudly into a cell phone. Cursing every time he lost the signal. Jonny wondering how useful, but ridiculously cumbersome, a cell phone was. You would need to have a rucksack to carry one around. Not likely. He dismissed the idea of them catching on.
Jonny took a few sips of his drink but still didn’t feel relaxed. He felt out of place. The pianist was playing what sounded like lift music.
Something by Neil Diamond or Neil Sedaka. Neil somebody anyway - the sort of music his grandma would listen to. Enough. Time to go to his room, see if the minibar was stocked up and get wasted whilst watching TV.
“Cheers mate.” He gave a thumbs up to the bar tender and entered the foyer to access the lifts. Just at that moment Eliza burst out of the revolving door, arm in arm with a girl. The noise of the street, Eliza laughing and a blast of cold air all belching into the foyer.
Eliza silenced when she spotted Jonny. She undid the toggles on her duffle coat and turned to say something to her companion before shouting across to him. “Hey Crash boy. Where you going?”
“Erm, nowhere.” For the love of God, he wondered, what was wrong with him. He couldn’t answer her normally, let alone confidently.
“So there’s no room party or anything you know of?”
“No, I don’t think so. The rest of the band have gone to some bars with your guys. I don’t think they will be back anytime soon.”
“OK no worries.” She turned to the other girl as if to carry on her conversation, but without saying anything, turned straight back to Jonny. “Do you want to come up to my room with us?”
He didn’t need asking twice. He got in the lift with them and Eliza pushed the button for the 18th floor.
“This is Esme.” Eliza gestured towards her friend. “She is from my home city, Amsterdam, but lives here in New York now.”
“Oh cool. I’m Jonny.” Holding out his hand to Esme who gave him a surprisingly strong handshake in return.
He couldn’t help staring at her striking appearance. Shorter than Eliza, with shoulder length jet black hair cut in spiky layers and gelled upright on top. Reminding him of the punks he would see on Carnaby St back in London. She turned to face the lift doors and he could now see the other side of her head was shaven with a tattoo just about visible through the stubble. There was also a nose stud and several ear piercings that reached from the lobe up to the helix. He wondered where else she was pierced. Quickly dismissing the thought from his mind before any images were conjured up.
Eliza’s knitted bobble hat had now risen up her head. Perched on top, it was threatening to pop off at any time. Cheeks flushed from coming in to the warmth and the green flecks in her grey eyes sparkling in the stark artificial light of the lift. She pulled off the hat and fluffed up her hair whilst looking in the mirrors lining the walls.
“Ping. 18th Floor. Lift going down.”
They alighted the lift and Eliza produced the room key from her duffle coat pocket. Shoving her hat into the pocket in its place.
“Nice digs,” remarked Esme, barging in to the room in front of Eliza and Jonny.
Jonny was surprised but also pleased Eliza had a much bigger room than his. Initially thinking all the rooms would be the same, apart from the penthouse of course. Her’s was more of a suite, with a living area and double doors into a separate bedroom. If they had gone back to his room they would have all ended up sitting on the one bed, which he envisaged might have been a bit awkward.
“Verrry, verrry nice,” called out Esme, who had now gone off exploring the suite. Finding the bathroom, all tiled in grey and white marble with a huge Jacuzzi corner bath as well as a separate double shower. “We could all fit in this bath tub!” she shouted back to them.
Jonny coughed. He’d heard about the Dutch being liberal.
Eliza laughed and summoned Esme back into the living area. She had switched the TV on and was sitting cross l
egged on a shag pile rug in front of the sofa. Duffle coat, jeans and boots discarded near the bedroom door.
“Skin up then,” Esme commanded, throwing a small oblong tin to Eliza.
Deftly caught, Eliza popped off the lid and pulled out a packet of Rizla. Sticking two of the papers together she then started loading it with the rest of the contents of the tin. Tobacco from half a cigarette and some weed.
Jonny thought he could do with some Dutch courage. Sniggering to himself that he had just made a pun.
“What’s funny Crash boy?” Eliza asked, looking up over the joint and licking along the top of the papers.
Giving him the eye whilst her pink moist tongue wet the papers, made him feel slightly uncomfortable. He fidgeted, pretending to look at his hands, whilst slyly checking out his crotch to see if his boner was showing. He took off his jacket and casually held it in front of himself in a vain attempt to hide it.
“Erh. Nothing. Just wondered if you had anything to drink?”
“Sure, help yourself to the minibar.”
He sighed with relief at the opportunity of busying himself. “What do you want Eliza?” Jonny had lined up the miniature bottles on the mahogany strip on top of the bar.
“Just ice please.”
“Esme?”
Esme joined him and picked the French Cognac and Jonny the Jameson's whiskey and a miniature can of Coke.
“I’ll get the ice,” grabbing the small silver bucket and tongs off the shelf, Esme left the room in search of an ice machine down one of the hotel corridors.
Jonny was alone at last with his fantasy girl. His mind blank. Not able to think of anything interesting to say and, based on recent encounters with her, he decided to say nothing at all.
He looked over at her. Facing away, smoking the joint she had rolled, she seemed transfixed on the TV. David Letterman was interviewing the Irish born blues musician Van Morrison. Jonny wondered if he should just slip quietly out of the room, he was sure she wouldn’t notice him gone. Before he could act Esme was back with a bucket full of ice. What was it with ice? He made a mental note to ask when the time was right.
Esme finished making the drinks and climbed over the back of the sofa, plonking them on the coffee table. Retrieving her cannabis tin, she made another joint. This one had no tobacco in, just the green pungent smelling weed. She lit it; coughing and spluttering, passed it to Jonny.
Sat on the sofa with his drink, a respectable distance away from her, he took a long drag. Holding the smoke deep in his lungs. Then coughed and spluttered it free just like Esme. “Wow. That’s good shit!” Gasping, he passed the joint back to Esme.
He had smoked cannabis before but only resin. The brown oily lumps Joe used to score from the Wandsworth Road in Clapham. They would smoke it at the Park or on the Common. Dropping hot rocks on their t-shirts, making them jump up and flick them off before burning a hole through to their skin.
This cannabis was nothing like that. This was an instant hit. He felt the blood drain from his face, his hands and feet tingling and his head becoming so heavy he had to lean it back to rest on the sofa. His mouth was dry and lips felt glued together.
Drink. He needed a drink. Peeling his head off the back of the sofa, he focused on the glass of whiskey and coke on the coffee table. Jerking forwards, he thought he had overdone it and was going to fall onto the table, just managing to grab the drink and reverse his torso backwards in time. Taking a large swig from the glass he felt the burn on his dry lips, tongue and down his throat to his chest. He resisted putting the heavy weight of his head back on the sofa again.
Eliza got off the floor and fell onto the sofa in between Esme and Jonny, passing her joint to him.
He re-lit it with his Zippo lighter and took a couple of careful drags. Thankfully the tobacco mix wasn’t as strong.
Eliza started crunching on one of the ice cubes.
The boxer, Joe Frazier, was now being interviewed by Letterman. Whilst Jonny was interested, Esme obviously wasn’t, as she picked up the cable tv remote and started flicking through the channels, stopping on one of the film channels showing Coming to America.
Eliza started giggling at one of the scenes, setting off Esme, who laughed that much she fell off the sofa. Jonny laughed too, not really knowing why, as he was completely lost. One minute he was watching the film and next minute there was an advert for some inane kitchen appliance that seemed to go on forever, then it was back into the film. He couldn’t differentiate between the end of one and the start of the other.
He closed his eyes and drifted off into semi-consciousness. Stirring a few moments, or perhaps hours later, when he heard singing in the room. His eyelids felt weighted down and no matter how much he tried he couldn’t make them move. Concentrating really hard, he managed to open just one. Lifting the eyelid, he could see Esme and Eliza entwined in a slow dance. Eliza singing along to the music. If only he could keep his eyelid open to see what happened next, but …. he drifted off again.
The next morning Jonny awoke. Still in the same position he had gone to sleep in. Sat upright on the sofa. Surprisingly there was no headache or hangover but he was in desperate need of a drink.
Pushing himself off the sofa he headed towards the minibar in search of some juice or Coke. He noticed the door to the bedroom was slightly ajar and couldn’t resist peaking in. As suspected, there were Eliza and Esme naked in bed. Both laid on top of the sheets on their stomachs, with Esme’s arm draped lazily over Eliza's back.
He smiled and sighed, “Oh well.”
There wasn’t a lot left in the minibar. Empty cans, bottles and chocolate wrappers were strewn around the bar area. He took out a bottle of Orangina. After twisting loose the bottle top, he remembered to shake it. Juice frothing and spurting all down his hand and arm.
“Bollocks!” he cursed and wiped himself with a napkin before sucking up the froth from the top of the bottle.
“Morning Crash boy.”
Swinging around he got an eyeful of Eliza standing at the half open door to the bedroom. Still naked. Tousled hair covering her breasts. One leg slightly raised and crossed over the other, just suggesting at what was between them.
“What happened to you last night? You missed all the fun.”
He knew she was teasing him. She had done it to him again. For just one minute he thought she preferred women, not interested in him. A legitimate excuse to stop fantasising about her. Now she had gone and done it again. Giving him dumbfounded hope. With nothing intelligent or witty to say in response, he had an overwhelming need to leave.
“Ha. Yeah… I’m off. I’ll see myself out. See you later.”
He hurried out of the room. Stopping at the lift and waiting for it to open and swallow him whole.
After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped inside and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
Shiny dark tousled hair. Tick.
Jet black eyelashes, most women would envy, framing his true blue eyes. Tick.
Thick eyebrows perfectly set on a smooth tanned forehead. Tick.
Black stubble on his square jaw and above his slightly pink full lips. Tick.
All set off nicely by Orangina pith around his mouth!
“For fucks sake! You bell-end!”
He frantically tried to scrub off the orange stain with the back of his hand.
“You fucking clown!”
The lift doors shut behind him and he turned around to angrily hit the button of the floor his room was on. Then he remembered. His room was on the same floor as Eliza’s.
Chapter Twelve
The hotel in New York was one of the few the band had the luxury of staying in during the tour. They mainly slept overnight in the tour bus, driving between three and twelve hours each day. Crash were on one bus and Karma Life on another, the crew split between them.
Jonny was finding life on the road with Crash difficult to say the least. He simply couldn’t bear to be in the same vicinity as Simon, and the tour bus w
as especially claustrophobic.
They spent most of their time at the area near the front which had two booths. There they ate, practiced their songs and played cards. Behind that was a small kitchen. On one side a sink, microwave & grill and cupboards with food. On the other a general storage area, with the beer, cigarettes, magazines etc. A folding plastic door separated the sleeping quarters. Eight single bunks, double stacked, each with a cupboard for personal belongings and a curtain to draw across for privacy. A toilet, shower and wash area was shared between eight of them.
At first Jonny found himself arguing the point over everything Simon said, but when he got tired of this he retreated into himself. Listening to his Walkman; flicking through copies of NME, Kerrang and any of the other American music papers and magazines brought onto the bus; practicing his guitar and sleeping. He even started to go running whenever there was time. Buying some cool running sneakers from the first mall they stopped at. Finding it a necessary antidote to the many hours sitting or laying on the bus.
America, to the London based band, looked like it did on TV. The cars and fast food diners in particular. Huge sport stadiums and shopping malls were bigger than they ever imagined. Men wearing baseball caps with any outfit and sporting guns were a novelty.
They loved the sunshine in Florida, it was still wintry back home and New York had been particularly cold this March. An Arctic front blasting down the north east coast. Sometimes the gigs were well attended, but this wasn’t always the case, especially in Florida. Fortunately, the blue skies and warm temperatures lifted their spirits. Jim Bob encouraged them not to be despondent. “This is how it rolls sometimes in the mighty US of A,” he would say, “just think of the 250 million potential fans. You need less than one percent to buy your album to make you famous.”
Their album sales were growing and this was where he reassured them the money was at. Not that they expected to see any of it. Not on the first album anyway.
Before practically every gig they had a short interview with a couple of local radio and tv stations. They had been prepped on what to say by Jim Bob, and Simon mainly did the talking. Questions centred around life back in England and what they all thought of America. Their responses were supposed to be enthusiastic and they were told to be particularly gracious about their fans.
Falling for his ANGEL_A Rock Star Romance Page 7
