I knock on the door of room 192, again, and the underwear-clad girl answers - again.
‘Ew, I much preferred the dress,’ she tells me, looking my new outfit up and down.
‘How about a signed t-shirt in exchange for the phone?’ I ask, ignoring her fashion advice.
‘No thanks,’ she says with a cackle. ‘I’d have sooner swapped the phone for the dress, designer wasn’t it? But I’m sure we can work something out, what shoes are they?’
‘Fuck off!’ I reply, before tuning on my heels and walking away.
‘Bitch!’ she calls after me, slamming the door closed yet again. Back to the drawing board, Nicole.
Chapter Four: Get inked or die trying
I can’t help but look at my hideous outfit in the mirror as I go down in the lift. It’s just way too tomboy chic for me to pull off, but I didn’t bring a change of clothes with me because I knew I’d only be stopping over one night and it would only be more for me to carry around/potentially lose. I guess I’m stuck with it.
I’ve never been a big fan of t-shirts, band-branded or otherwise, and the shorts are so short that the pockets poke out of the leg holes. As I try to tuck them back up, I feel something in one of the pockets – it’s a green iPod Nano. I press a button on the front, causing it to spring to life. It opens up on the video camera, and curiosity gets the better of me so I press the play button. Who should pop up on the screen but Dylan King himself, the fan must have filmed him as he chatted to them.
I listen carefully for clues – where the hell was he going?
‘I’m always forgetting things,’ I hear him say. He sounds so bloody drunk, who is still giving this man alcohol? ‘I need to remember my room number, but I’ll forget. I wrote it on my hand.’
‘What if it washes off?’ one of the fans asks him.
‘Ah, well I have that problem sorted,’ he slurs. ‘I’m going to get it tattooed on. I haven’t washed my hands in hours.’
‘Eww,’ the girls all say, totally in sync, before bursting into fits of giggles.
I know he’s drunk, but he wouldn’t really go and get his room number tattooed on his hand, would he? This is Dylan, of course he would.
‘Oi,’ I call out to the fan-girl when I’m back outside again. ‘You left your iPod in the pocket.’
‘Give me that back,’ she insists.
‘I’ll swap you it for the dress.’
I thought this would be a reasonable offer, but she just laughs at me.
‘I could sell this thing and probably buy another three iPods.’
More like five, bitch.
‘Are you local?’ I ask her, noticing her accent.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘If I wanted to get a tattoo, where would I go?’
I hold the iPod out in front of her, but pull it back as she reaches for it.
‘We only have one tattoo parlour, but it’s rough as hell. It’s on West Street.’
I hand her back her iPod and take one last look at my beautiful dress before hopping in one of the empty taxis waiting outside the hotel. Dylan will be getting my bill for today, don’t you worry about it.
‘West Street, please,’ I tell the driver.
He looks at me in the rear view mirror. ‘Pretty young thing like you don’t want to be going down West Street alone.’
‘Thanks, I’ll be fine. West Street,’ I tell him bluntly – a little too bluntly perhaps, because he drives me straight there and he doesn’t speak to me again until he wants paying.
‘Good luck,’ he says as he drives off, leaving me all alone on a street with nothing but garages, a pub and a tattoo parlour. At least I’m in the right place.
I push my way through the door bum first, reluctant to touch the door handle. I’ve never actually been in a tattoo parlour before, but it’s everything I imagined. The walls are covered in pictures of tattoo designs and photos of satisfied customers showing off their freshly-inked body parts. Two men are sitting behind a table, and a third man with a skinhead is hovering by the chair where I imagine his victims sit, doing something with his torture tools – I don’t know what that something is, but I’m fairly sure it isn’t cleaning them.
The three men share a laugh at my presence here.
‘Looks like another lost city slicker,’ one of the guys behind the table says. ‘Must be our lucky day, two city slickers gracing us with their custom.’
I have two choices. I can be sweet little Nicole and possibly get walked all over, or I can put on a badass front and possibly get my head kicked in.
‘I’ll do this one,’ the guy other guy behind the table calls out, but it’s the guy with the skinhead and the tattoo gun who walks over to greet me, tool in hand.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll give her what she wants,’ he says, stroking my cheek with the handle of the tattoo gun.
‘The only thing you’ll give me is hepatitis, get that the fuck away from me,’ I snap – so I’ve decided to go for badass Nicole then.
‘Watch your mouth, little girl,’ he warns me, as the other two men stand up and join him in crowding round me.
‘I just –‘I start speaking, but I don’t know what to say. So much for my badass routine.
‘What’s going on here?’ I hear a gruff female voice call out.
‘This city chick said I was going to give her herpes,’ skinhead replies.
I didn’t say herpes, I said hepatitis – although herpes seems just as likely. I don’t say this out loud.
A gothic-looking girl appears in front of us. She’s dressed head to toe in black leather with various chains attached. She has at least fourteen piercings – that I can see – and she has more skin occupied by ink than she does without a mark on it or a hole in it.
‘I like your look,’ she tells me. ‘Those are some nice shorts, you cut them yourself?’
‘Yes,’ I lie.
‘I like that. Too many folk selling their souls for designer togs these days. Those shoes and that bag look expensive though.’
‘Their fakes,’ I tell her, thinking fast. ‘I wear them sarcastically.’
Goth girl smiles. ‘I like that, you know. I like that. Let her go boys, she’s ok by me. You here for a tattoo?’
‘Actually, I’m just looking for my friend. Dylan King, he was coming here for a tattoo.’
‘404,’ skinhead chimes in. ‘He wanted me to ink over a number on his hand, said he needed to remember it no matter what.’
‘That’s Dylan, where did he go?’
‘He was quite taken with my friend Misty,’ goth girl tells me. ‘They went off together.’
Another girl, Dylan is on top form this evening. If Misty is anything like her friend, she certainly isn’t Dylan’s usual type – then again, as long as they’re female Dylan doesn’t usually discriminate.
‘Do you know where they went?’
‘They shared a taxi to The Williamson Hotel, she’s staying there too. She was hot for his city boy look so they were going to have a drink together,’ goth girl informs me. This doesn’t surprise me at all.
‘You sure you don’t want a tattoo while you’re here?’ skinhead asks. ‘On us.’
I am clearly in with these people because of my nonconformist short-shorts. I take a courteous glance around the room, looking briefly at the designs on the wall.
‘I’ll pass. Thank you, though,’ I say as I hurriedly make my way towards the door. I’m still not convinced I won’t catch something by just standing in the same room as that yucky looking needle.
Chapter Five: I put a spell on you
Another taxi journey and I’m back at the hotel. The crowd of fans have been moved on from outside the hotel now that it’s getting late, so I’m unlikely to ever see my dress again. Dylan will quite literally pay for this.
Dylan and Misty were going to have a drink, so the bar is my first stop. The place is packed with beautiful people – mainly famous faces – because everyone involved in the gig today is staying here tonight.
>
I push my way through the beautiful people, and accuse me of stereotyping if you like, but I’m going to hazard a guess that Misty is as odd looking as her goth gal pal, so I’m looking for someone who looks like they’ve been attacked with felt-tip pens and a stapler.
I’ve scoured the whole room, but all I am seeing are the usual, “beautiful” showbiz types and their entourages.
‘Excuse me,’ I hear a male voice say as someone taps me on the shoulder.
I spin around to see Troy Reeves, and if I didn’t recognise him from his successful solo career or his time on one of those terrible reality TV talent shows, then I would still remember him because I interviewed him earlier today.
‘Hello,’ I squeak, unable to hide my surprise. He’s talking to me.
‘You interviewed me earlier, right?’
‘I did,’ I confess, suddenly worried I might have offended him.
Troy is your typical pretty boy. He’s tall, skinny and has dark curly hair that he is constantly sweeping out of his eyes. I imagine he’s about the same age as me, maybe a little older – mid twenties I’d guess. He has a huge female fan base, although he’s a little more mainstream than Dylan so his fans are all much younger. Don’t get me wrong, Dylan is a handsome man, but in a Robbie Williams sort of way. He’s got that rough and ready, bad boy look and as far as his figure goes, he couldn’t care less. He’s not skinny, but he isn’t fat and I don’t think he’ll ever care either way. It’s his don’t-give-a-damn attitude that attracts the women and as long as the women are willing (or easily talked round with a signed CD), he won’t be visiting the gym any time soon.
‘Yeah, I remember your pretty face,’ Troy tells me, much to my surprise. ‘Although you were wearing a hot dress earlier – not that I’m not enjoying all the leg you’re flashing now.’
I can tell he’s joking, but with everything that’s happened in the past few hours and the pressure to find Dylan mounting, I temporarily forget to keep my cool in front of a famous person and even though I smile at his teasing, a single tear escapes from my right eye. I quickly wipe it away, but the damage has been done.
‘Oh fuck, I’m sorry. I’ve got four sisters, you’d think I’d know better than to make a joke about a girl’s outfit,’ he says, placing a hand on my shoulder, but still keeping me at arm’s length in case I attack him or worse, cry on his outfit.
‘Don’t apologise,’ I insist. ‘I’m just having a bad day.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Troy actually seems sincere, but I know that he has better things to do than listen to my silly problems about lost musicians and dresses. Against my better judgement, I share my situation with him – instantly regretting it.
‘Dylan was here not that long ago,’ Troy tells me. ‘Me and the boys from Beau were laughing at him because he came in with some witchy looking girl.’
I try not to give too much thought to the fact that Beau are here. They’re one of the hottest boybands around at the moment (and from the same TV talent show as Troy) and I’m in actual love with all five of them.
‘You’ve seen Dylan? Where did he go?’
‘He went with that… girl. Looked like they were heading up to her room, she waved her keycard in his face and he followed her like a puppy – or like he was under a spell.’
‘I don’t suppose you noticed her room number, did you?’ I ask, not that I’m expecting things to be that easy for me.
‘I did actually, she dropped her card and I, gentlemen that I am, picked it up and handed it to her. Room 666.’
I laugh manically and roll my eyes.
‘Troy, don’t fuck with me. She is not staying in room 666.’
‘I’m not – what’s your name again?’
‘Nicole.’
‘Nicole, I swear to you, I am not making this up.’
Does he really expect me to believe that the girl he referred to as a witch and made spell puns about is staying in room 666?
‘Ok then, Troy Reeves. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Fine, let’s go.’
Fine. Hotels can be boring, I get that. You’ve got to make your own fun, and if this is the game he wants to play, we’ll go up to room 666 and see, won’t we?
‘After you,’ I say, gesturing towards the doors as we approach the lift. We both step inside and Troy checks the chart on the wall to see what floor we need to be on.
‘Top floor,’ he says as he pushes the button, but nothing happens. He tries again, and then again, and then I try, just in case he wasn’t pushing it right.
‘Feel better now you’ve pressed it too?’ Troy asks with a laugh. My God, he may be hot but he’s so annoying. Damned if I’ll be the one to back down from his ridiculous room 666 claim, I march over to the reception desk.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the man behind the desk. ‘I’m trying to get to the top floor, but the lift won’t go up there.’
‘That’s because we’ve disabled public access to the top floor via the lift, we’re having some…’ the man behind the desk pauses as he searches for the appropriate word. ‘…issues up there. That floor is currently out of bounds.’
‘What sort of issues?’ I ask, suddenly curious.
The man behind the desk glances around to make sure no one is listening.
‘Ghostly goings on,’ he tells us in a hushed voice.
‘Define ghostly goings on,’ I insist, unable to hide the disbelieving grin that has spread across my face.
‘This is no laughing matter, miss. Things were happening up there. Channels were being changed, bed clothes being ripped off people in the night – the power eventually just stopped working on the whole floor, we’ve got emergency lighting until someone can come and fix it. No one wants to stay…’ he pauses again, and has yet another glance around to make sure no one is listening. ‘…up there.’
There is a sinister sounding tone to his voice, and as he utters the words “up there” he glances towards the ceiling.
‘Why are you whispering?’ I ask, also in a whisper, still unable to hide my amusement at his “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” campfire shit. ‘Are you worried Derek Acorah might hear about it, pay you a visit and annoy it back to the other side?’
‘Whispering is pointless,’ Troy informs us. ‘I went ghost hunting with Derek Acorah for a TV show, he knows all.’
I can’t tell if Troy is joking, but he does have a reputation for doing any crappy reality show going.
‘Can we leave Derek out of this please?’ the man begs, overwhelmed with emotion.
‘Anyway,’ Troy says, stifling a smile, but alerting me to the fact that he was joking about Derek. ‘I saw a girl earlier with a keycard for that floor, so you must be letting some people up there.’
The man behind the desk shivers.
‘Her,’ he says, terror in his eyes. ‘She wanted a room. I told her we were full last night, but she read my mind about the top floor being closed and asked for a room up there. We are allowed to check people in up there, it’s just no one wants to be up there with the emergency lighting and the spooky goings on.’
I glance at the sign on the wall behind him stating that rooms on the top floor are currently having power issues. I look at Troy, who has also noticed it.
‘Right. So you checked her in up there?’
‘She made me,’ he insists.
‘I’m sure she did. So how do we get up there to see her?’
Still in his hushed voice, the man behind the desk instructs us. ‘Take the lift to the sixth floor. When you get out, enter the stairwell by the door on your right and it’s one floor up. You’re on your own from there.’
Troy and I look at each other and share a giggle, this man is clearly batshit crazy.
‘So that was weird,’ I say to break the silence once we’re in the lift.
‘Tell me about it, these town folk are clearly bored out of their minds and making stuff up – unlike me, who told you she was in room 666,’ he says
smugly.
I don’t know about bored, but now that I think about it this place is pretty creepy. From the outside the Williamson Hotel looks a bit like an old block of flats. It’s tall, run down and definitely spooky looking. Inside things are by no means modern, but it is the only hotel in this equally creepy town and it’s big enough to accommodate everyone from the gig – oh, and obviously because it has a bar no one is complaining.
After getting out of the lift and climbing the stairs to the top floor, I can’t help but feel a little spooked as we leave the art deco lampshades of the previous floors behind us and walk along the dimly lit top floor, with its emergency lighting flickering intermittently. The lights, which run along the floor giving us both creepy looking shadows up our faces, are buzzing loudly, and as we approach room 666 the nearest light to us shuts off, leaving us in the dark.
I struggle to hide the fact I am spooked, but Troy is ever the manly-man and he knocks on the door. We wait in total silence for a few minutes but there is no answer. He looks at me for instructions, but I feel like I’m glued to the spot. We may have been mocking the man behind the desk before, but now that we’re up here I am terrified.
Troy knocks again, only much louder this time. We wait, but still no one opens the door to room 666.
‘Let’s go,’ I beg, hooking my arm around Troy’s. ‘She’s not here.’
‘Yes I am,’ a creepy female voice whispers quietly behind us.
Troy and I both jump out of our skin.
‘Fucking hell,’ Troy yells, and I realise we are holding each other Shaggy and Scooby Doo style.
Standing before us is a gothic-looking girl who makes the first goth we met look like a Barbie doll.
‘Misty?’ I ask, my voice shaking a little.
‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘Oh, thank God it’s you,’ I say with a huge sigh of relief. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’
Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place Page 2
