by R. E. Blake
“Dries my throat out,” I say, which is true. I don’t go into the long version about my dead alcoholic mother. Seems like kind of a buzz kill for party banter.
He looks at me doubtfully. “Not even champagne?”
“Well, maybe just a little.”
His eyes light up and he smirks. “I’ll be right back.”
Melody returns and gives his ass a long glance before looking to me. “I could really get used to Los Angeles. I am so moving here.”
My voice is almost inaudible. “Melody? I think Ash is hitting on me.”
Her eyes widen. “Get out of here.”
“I’m serious. He told me I’m really something.”
She shakes her head. “Wait. So you have Derek wrapped around your little finger, and now the hottest stud in Hollywood is making goo-goo eyes at you, while I’m having to fight for a few hours with Sebastian? Where did I go wrong?”
“What do I do?” I hiss as Ashton holds up a champagne glass from the bar.
“You can’t be asking what I’d do. I think it’s pretty clear where I fall on the hot guy subject.” She grins impishly. “Which you can try. Falling on him, I mean. ‘Oops, I lost my balance. Is that your Corona, or are you just happy to see me?’”
We’re both giggling when Ashton returns with my champagne. He takes my half-drunk soda from my hand and exchanges it for the bubbly, and sets the warming glass on the deck railing. Melody’s gaze could scorch his shirt off, but he doesn’t seem to notice – all his attention is on me.
“Better?” he asks, and clinks his flute against mine. I take a cautious sip. It’s pretty good.
“My limit is one,” I say.
“Fortunately I don’t have that rule,” Melody chimes in with a raised eyebrow. “I’m young Sage’s chaperone. To see that she doesn’t get led astray by any silver-tongued devils.” She winks at Ashton, tilts her head forward, and lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “Satan is everywhere.”
“So you’ve met my agent,” Ashton says, and we laugh again. I find myself warming to him in spite of myself.
Sebastian returns with Casey, and soon the men are discussing show-business stuff, which is interesting for a little while but gets less so as the level of my champagne glass drops. Melody and I go for a bathroom break, and afterwards we stay inside the house, which is decorated in contemporary bachelor chic, admiring the view through the pocket doors.
“I can’t believe Ashton digs you,” Melody says, shaking her head.
“Why? Am I that repulsive?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…”
“You can break it to me. I can handle it.”
“Remember, anything I say is meant with love.”
“Such a liar.”
“It’s just that you’ve got Derek, who is like the most awesome-looking guy in the world, and now Ashton, who’s a close second…” For the first time ever, I think Melody sounds a little envious.
“It would take ten Ashtons to make one Derek,” I say more forcefully than I mean to. “I mean, he’s cool and all, but Derek…well, Derek’s a whole ’nother level.” I eye her. “Besides, you have Sebastian. What’s with the down look?”
“I don’t really have him, though, do I? I mean, not like you and Derek. I’m hoping, but you saw how he was acting yesterday. This isn’t even close to a done deal.”
“I seem to remember a friend of mine telling me that a little naked oil dancing could solve a lot of problems.”
She nods. “Absolutely. But Sebastian’s being a total gentleman. I mean, I like it, but I’d also like to, you know, have crazy monkey sex in his Porsche.”
“Crazy monkey…”
“Just an expression. I watch a lot of Animal Planet. Bonobos are as nasty as a bus full of drunk construction workers.”
“You missed your calling. You’re a poet.”
“I’m serious. They have orgies.”
“They show that on TV?” I ask skeptically.
“Google it.”
“No, thanks.”
Sebastian comes looking for us after a little while, and I have to stifle a yawn as I glance at my watch. We’ve only been here about an hour and a half, but the long day of working the street, topped off by two hours of rehearsals, has gotten to me, and the alcohol’s got my lids fluttering. Melody doesn’t want to go, I can tell, but Sebastian understands, and we make the rounds saying our goodbyes.
When we get to Ashton, I smile. “Thanks for the champagne. It was nice meeting you.”
“You have no idea. Hey, here, dial your cell on mine so I have your number.” He holds out his phone and I hesitate to take it. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to show up outside your window at midnight or anything. Just to keep in touch. It’s a small town. In case you ever want to grab a pizza or something…or let me grab a ride on your bus.” He can tell I’m unsure, and he offers all this with a disarming grin.
“I don’t know. I have a boyfriend…” I say.
“My intentions are strictly honorable,” he insists. “Maybe not strictly, but mostly. Honest. I’m okay with friendship. Really.”
My eyes narrow as I study his face for any sign of duplicity, but I don’t see any, so I dial my cell, which vibrates in my back pocket. I hand him back the phone. “There. But only pizza or bus rides, right?”
“And champagne.” He sees the look in my eyes and tries another smile. “With the pizza. That’s all.”
“I’m not old enough to drink.”
He chuckles. “I started when I was a sophomore in high school, so I don’t shock easily.”
“That’s good to know.”
My head’s spinning on the way home. Sebastian has dropped the top and the wind feels good in my hair. I’m flattered that Ashton seems so taken with me, but it doesn’t matter – all I can think about is Derek, and I manage to turn what should be a great finish of the evening into something unpleasant with my inner speculations about what kind of offers he must be getting in my absence.
Melody wants to hang out with Sebastian when he drops me off at the apartment, and I tell her to come up with me so I can give her a key. My light buzz turned into a headache on the ride home, and now all I want to do is crawl into bed, banishing the visions of Derek being hit on by female equivalents of Ashton. I know I’m just being insecure, but I can’t help it. What makes it worse is the little tingle of excitement I felt when talking to Ashton. There’s no way I’d act on it, but Derek’s a guy, and Melody’s drilled home that guys are basically horn dogs, especially when they’re young.
And she’d know, even if today she’s a virgin.
I call Derek but he doesn’t pick up, and when I drift off to sleep, my rest isn’t pleasant.
Chapter 23
When I see Melody the next morning, she’s in the kitchen humming to herself. I have no idea what time she got in, and I don’t ask. The less I know about her developing relationship with Sebastian, the better. My life is more than complicated enough without having to be in the middle.
I call a taxi for her as she packs, and check my messages. There’s one late last night from Derek. It’s short, and I can hear music and noise in the background, which is becoming a regular occurrence when I talk to him at night, causing further anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
“Hey. Sorry to call so late. Time kinda got away from me. Hope everything’s cool. Let’s talk tomorrow. I miss you.”
I listen to the message again, but my unease only grows. He sounds like he’s had a few drinks. I know I shouldn’t react the way I do, but every time I hear him like that my mind automatically flits back to him drunk in our studio apartment, his hand broken, with an extra bonus serving of my mom passed out over the years.
He’s not doing anything wrong, and I know intellectually there’s a world of difference between him having a few beers and being out-of-control wasted, but it still makes me uncomfortable – and a little guilty over my borderline flirtation with Ashton. I mean, I gave him my number.
Sure, I protested, but I gave it to him all the same, and I wonder how much more persuasive he would have seemed if I’d had two or three glasses of champagne instead of one.
That’s totally my deal, I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I wish I could talk with Melody about it, but there are limits to her helpfulness, and I already know she’d tell me to just take a chill pill and stop driving myself crazy.
I walk her downstairs, and when the taxi comes I give her a big hug.
“Let me know your tour dates. I am so open to coming with you and keeping you company,” she says.
“That sounds like it would be fun. But there may be some legal crap your mom needs to sign. Lawyers and minors, that kind of thing.”
“I’ve mastered her signature, so send them on to me. I’ll keep a bag packed.”
“Let me know if you decide to come back before I leave.”
She stares at the taxi and then says off-handedly, “I hope I can, but if not, I can always stay at Sebastian’s.”
“You…did you…?”
“No, but my willpower only goes so far. I have a feeling he could convince me to let him have his way with me, with enough romance and candlelight.”
“Or fifteen minutes in his Porsche.”
She shrugs. “Girls just wanna have fun. So shoot me.”
I watch the cab pull away and shake my head. If only my problems were Melody’s. The little mini-vacation from my real world concerns has been nice, but with my first show in only three days and a tour starting practically hours after that, I need to kick it into high gear.
Today the band’s on Hollywood Walk of Fame, near the TCL Chinese Theater. We’re having trouble thinking of decent places to play because now that word’s spreading on social media, fans are seeking us out, which defeats the purpose. But Hollywood Boulevard is a freak show where it’s easy to get lost, so I like our odds of playing for a while without attracting attention.
I only show up for the last hour, after lunch, because my voice is a little too distinctive to pass for an unknown in a crowded area. All it takes is one person to recognize me and the game’s over, whereas the band is unknown – and besides, they’re the ones who need the immersion in street performing. I’ve had more than enough practice.
However, in spite of my efforts to fly under the radar, a girl about my age spots me after twenty minutes, and within no time there are dozens of onlookers. I finish a final song and thank everyone, and take one request before bailing – John Cougar Mellencamp’s “Jack & Diane.” It’s an awesome moment when I’m singing the catchy refrain and the spectators are singing it with me. There’s this connection I can’t describe, an intimacy that’s really personal.
When I’m done, the applause is heartfelt, and I remember again how good it feels to have people enjoy what I do. The tour and the coddling is nice, but it’s this sensation I’ve been missing and want to create when I walk onto stages – that of a small gathering of like-minded, enthusiastic friends.
I thank everyone and then duck around the corner into a coffee shop, where I hide in the bathroom for five minutes before sneaking out the rear and hailing a taxi. Back at the apartment I putter around a bit before I’m drawn back to the diary, which I’ve managed to forget about since Melody put in her appearance.
After a few hours of light reading chronicling my mother’s self-destruction, I call Terry, who left a message earlier. When she gets on the line, she’s all business.
“You asked about road managers. I’ve got one that comes highly recommended. Amber Reed.”
“Have you ever worked with her?”
“No, but she’s been at this for years. We can give her a shot and see how she performs.”
“Some of Sebastian’s friends recommended a guy who just got off a European tour with a name act.”
“I don’t mind talking to him. Get me his number, or do you remember his name?”
Crap. No. Wait. It was Nicholas…Niger…
“It was Nigel something,” I say, frustrated at my forgetfulness.
“Nigel Riggs?”
“That’s it!”
“Well, he’s good, but he may be out of our price range. He’s more of a headliner-level talent. We’re on a budget until you become the next big thing.”
“Oh.” I’ve never given any thought to costs or salaries, and have no idea what a good road manager makes, much less one that works for big names.
“Don’t worry. We’ll try Amber and hopefully she’ll do well. Can you come in and meet her this afternoon?”
I look at my watch. “I have rehearsal tonight at 7:00, but other than that…”
“Let me see if she can make it here at 5:00. Will that work?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks, Terry. Have you got the tour dates finalized yet?”
“I do. I’m afraid you’re not going to have a ton of free time. They’ll be working you like a dog for the first five weeks.”
“And then Derek joins the tour?”
“Correct. Eight shows over ten days.”
We’d discussed more. “So no progress on stretching that?”
“I’m afraid not, Sage. He’s an unknown. Once his record’s released, we’ll have a better chance of shoehorning him in somewhere else along the way.”
Later in the afternoon I meet Amber, who seems competent if a little fake cheery, and give Terry the go-ahead. We review the tour dates, and my hopes of long weekends with Derek fly out the window – I’m scheduled to perform every other day with only a couple of dates with two days off in a row. Terry promises to send me a copy of the itinerary, which I’ll send to Derek – hopefully his schedule will be a little more relaxed and he can get away to see me, even if I’m a moving target.
Rehearsal goes well, even better than last time, and I can sense the anticipation in the band. While our first shows are supposed to be low-key dry runs, we all know that the concept of performances that won’t be noticed is a relic of the old days. Jay’s reminded us again and again that we can expect our shows to be uploaded before we’re off stage, and he speaks from experience. No, when we go out, it’s either sink or swim.
We don’t have much longer to find out which it’ll be.
Chapter 24
The club has distressed wood siding made from planks that are intended to look rustic; apparently the prior motif was country bar before the place transitioned to bikers and bad boys.
It’s 11:00 on a Wednesday night, and groups of half-drunk smokers are polluting the air along the side in the designated cancer area. Seven or eight Harleys are clustered near the entrance. The rest of the lot is a mix of lifted four-by-fours and economy cars with creased bumpers and balding tires. It’s not hard to guess which ones are the girls’ rides as I sit with the band in our rental van. Our amps are already onstage as the opening act bludgeons its way through a country-rock set.
Jay checks the time and takes a sip of a Coors light, one from the case that’s our payment for the night. According to Terry, the club maxes out at four hundred people, and if it’s over a quarter full I’d be surprised. The notes of “Sweet Home Alabama” drift to us along with the tobacco smoke and something a little more pungent, and I sigh.
This is so not how I envisioned our first gig. I’ve taken some snaps and sent them to Melody, and she’s dying laughing as she messages me snarky texts asking me to count how many teeth the front row boasts and daring me to open the show by screaming, “Skynyrd!”
“So, you know how to stretch ‘Free Bird’ for forty-five minutes?” I ask Jay, making conversation.
“The short version, huh?” Doug asks.
“Seems like a lively crowd, don’t it? Bloody lovely bunch. Hope me drums don’t get stolen – or vomited on by anyone but me,” Simon quips, and we laugh. Simon’s sense of humor is completely deadpan, delivered with a Manchester accent that’s thick as taffy. I was ambivalent about him when we started rehearsals, but I’ve come to a
ppreciate his cynical wisecracks as we’ve done the street performances. He’s completely fearless and doesn’t care what anyone thinks, an attitude highlighted by his mohawk and the tats running down both arms.
“These are our people, Simon. Have a little respect, would you?” Bruce says, his long, somber bass player’s face cracking into a rare smile.
We’re supposed to play for an hour, starting at midnight, our tour set plus a handful of standards. Any visions of stadiums teeming with thousands of fans has quickly died, and after a fifteen-minute sound check overseen by a hungover man with nineties long hair and a face that looks like it took a direct hit from a shotgun blast, we’re counting the minutes till we go on. My stomach is twisting – not from the prospect of performing, but doing so in an armpit like this.
Yells and a woman’s drunken scream cut through the night by the entrance as a scuffle breaks out, the third of the night. Apparently the mating ritual for the crowd involves taking a swing after knocking back a half bottle of meanstreak, and whoever’s left standing gets the girl.
The women are a mix of biker mamas, hair dressers, clerks, and party girls looking to bridge hump day with a few shots or toots, and maybe a little romance with their sweaty counterparts. I’d rather be staked naked to an anthill than spend two minutes in the place, but a gig’s a gig, and Terry was adamant that this was a rite of passage.
When my phone vibrates, I check the screen and then punch it to life with my thumb. “Yo. Losing big time,” I say.
“Wow. And I had to fly home before all the big fun? I likes me a big man. That one you took a snap of is what, 350?” Melody asks.
“He’s definitely got an appetite. You’d be right at home. Oh. Wait. You don’t eat. Or do anything else, right? Or have you tossed your vows?”
“Nope. Pure as the driven snow. But let’s talk about your prison show. Did you lose a bet?”
“I think my manager hates me.”
“Seriously. Can you even walk in there legally? Isn’t there some kind of molester map of SoCal or something with alarms going off?”
