Best Of Everything

by R. E. Blake

  “Nobody’s checking restraining orders, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Well, good luck. You dressed like a hillbilly tonight?”

  “Jeans and a T-shirt. Five Finger Death Punch.”

  “That’ll go over well. I hope the hospital staff’s on the ball.”

  “Thanks for the support.”

  “My pleasure. Text me once it’s over.” Melody pauses. “Am I going to have to fly down to ID the body?”

  “You can cry all over Sebastian. Make the most of it.”

  “Seriously – break a leg.”

  “Thanks.”

  I return to the van. Two friends of Jay’s are our road crew for the night – and the only ones in the van getting paid. I sit down in the sliding side door gap and reach for my water bottle. Any buzz of adrenaline has been worn down by the four hours of waiting since the sound check, and now I just want to get it over with and go home.

  Other than the talent contest, I’ve never done an actual concert. Talk shows are different – it’s a song after the crowd’s been watching for an hour, so you’re just the trained monkey dancing for end-of-show entertainment. This is a new experience for me; and so far, not one I’m warming to. I’m silently praying that the tour isn’t going to be a string of these, because I’ll be hanging from a lamp by week two. I mean, I know it won’t be – we’re playing huge venues – but there’s a part of me that’s worried.

  After an endless wait, the howl of the live music ends to a smattering of applause and whoops, and then our roadies are on their feet to set up our gear. We’re traveling light, the amps small combos, the biggest equipment Simon’s drums, but there are guitars to tune and knobs to twist.

  One of the roadies worked on the road with Jay as his guitar tech on his last tour, and the other is Simon’s roommate, who knows his drum kit cold. Doug goes in with them – until we’re on tour there’s no budget for a keyboard tech, so it’s do-it-yourself time for him, which he’s accepted like he seems to deal with everything else in life.

  He returns to the van after ten minutes and nods to me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “What’s it like?” I ask.

  “Imagine an ultimate fighting ring, but without the humor or smarts,” he says, and I shake my head.

  “Tell me there’s some good news.”

  “We still have seven more beers credited to our tab.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  We troop in, and it’s actually not as bad as I expect. Mostly dudes trying to pick up the females draped along the bar or arguing with each other, killing time. It’s like every keg party I ever went to in high school, only it’s not in the woods somewhere.

  I sit by the side of the stage as the band does its final checks, and then a portly guy in a Hawaiian shirt that’s stretched across his gut to the bursting point mounts the stage and introduces us.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, shut the eff up. This here’s a special treat. We got a band people are gonna be payin’ fifty bucks to see in a week, right here, right now, so put your mitts together for Sage and her band, Streetwise!”

  The lights dim and I take a deep breath, then tromp up the three stairs to the stage and position myself in the center, the microphone still in its stand. Jay strums a chord on his acoustic guitar and the buzz of conversation dims in the room, and then I let loose with the first notes of a song Billie Holiday made famous: “Summertime.”

  I make the first word last a good thirty seconds of tortured vocal – just my voice. Bruce’s bass note seeps in about halfway through as he rolls the volume on his guitar up so it seems to creep like a tide. On the last syllable, Simon crashes down on the snare at the same time Bruce cuts the note, and you can hear a pin drop.

  Jay strums another chord, this time picking each note, and I sing the first words of the verse, and then the band kicks in behind me. Somebody whoops, and when I end the first chorus and Jay noodles on his guitar, I almost can’t hear him. People are screaming like the roof’s falling in, and I feel like Janis onstage at Woodstock, with the stars aligned and magic in the air.

  By the time we finish the song, even the drunks in the crowd realize they’re seeing something special, and the applause is deafening in the small space. I can’t help but smile, my lucky hat pulled down low over my brow, and I wave a hand at the band.

  The rest of the set goes like we rehearsed it. When we play the last notes I can feel the floor shake from the stamping feet, and male voices are yelling and demanding more.

  We do two encores, and by the time we leave the stage, there’s no doubt in my mind we’re ready. I understand Terry’s reasoning in a flash: if we can win over this crowd, which doesn’t know us and couldn’t give two shits who we are, we can do it anywhere. She deliberately stuck us in the toughest place she could find, and when I look up as I make my way to the exit, I’m not surprised to see her standing by the bar, smiling.

  She joins me outside and puts her arm around my shoulder. “That opening? Sweetheart, I’ve been doing this forever and a day, and that made my heart skip a few beats. You keep doing it like that and you’re going to be a household name before you know what happened.”

  I look at her face, normally so serious, and I see the excitement, the vitality, that must have drawn her into this business in the first place. That thrill of being there first, of seeing it before anyone else does, of being on the inside as it happens.

  I pull off my hat and wipe my brow with the back of my hand, then seat it firmly back in place and nod.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  She laughs.

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Chapter 25

  Our week of small shows goes by quickly, and with each one I feel the band is getting more comfortable, developing a natural rhythm and style. We’re still doing the street performances for a few hours every day, and have decided we’ll do them in whatever city we’re in, to keep our edge and bring us down a peg if we’re feeling too big for our britches. There’s nothing like being passed up by fifty people before one thinks you’re good enough for their pocket change to keep it real.

  We’re only three days from our first coliseum show with Bruno Sears, at Staples Center, and I’m at the record company’s offices every day for hours as the PR effort spins into high gear. I’m doing a dozen interviews a day in preparation for the record release party the night before Staples, and the journalists have all heard advance copies of the album – and to a person, proclaim themselves blown away. The questions are predictable, and I’m getting used to answering them with polished answers. Thankfully nobody seems to much care about the earlier drama with Derek, and there are no probes about our relationship.

  I talk to him every night. His life is equally crazy as his record company prepares to launch his offering a couple of days after mine goes out, obviously hoping to leverage any interest mine creates in the hopes that the same listeners will be drawn to his. The TV show is also publicizing both our releases, secure in the knowledge that if they go big, the second season’s audience size will easily double.

  Derek has sounded frazzled the last couple of nights. His live shows aren’t meeting his expectations, and the clips uploaded to YouTube by fans are okay, but nothing stellar. He is brilliant, as always, but his band seems a bit bland, and we spend most of our time talking about strategies to rough them up some, and not about our relationship. Which sadly consists of phone calls and missing each other, because at the moment, that’s all we have.

  To call the situation frustrating is the understatement of the decade. Literally every one of my waking moments is spent thinking about Derek, to the point of distraction. When I’m meeting with record company people, I’m wondering if he’s doing the same. When Terry and I discuss tour plans for Asia and Europe, all I can think about is how to get Derek onto the tour. When I’m on the street, busking with the band, I can’t help but remember my time with Derek doing the same.

  It
should be the most exciting time of my life, but it’s turning out to be the most depressing, and it brings into focus what’s really important. If you have everything except time with the one you care about, then you have nothing.

  I’m sitting in one of the conference rooms at Saul’s offices, with Ruby and Terry. They have boxes of merchandise samples for me to approve. Ruby holds up a black long-sleeve concert shirt with my image on the front, and the tag line, Best of Everything, beneath it. The entire shirt back is the album cover with my name emblazoned in six-inch-high letters. It’s gorgeous, much better than I could have anticipated, and I say so.

  “Wow. It’s beautiful. Really. They did a great job.”

  “Glad you like it,” Terry says. “It’s going to be paying the bills for the next year. Here’s the regular T-shirt.” She tosses me a shirt and I study the image. The art’s different – an introspective close-up from the latest photo session I like a lot. “We have baby-doll shirts, tank tops, sweats, tour jackets, headbands, hats, bumper stickers…you name it, we’ve slapped your mug on it.”

  “Tour jackets! Tell me we get some.”

  “Of course. The whole crew and the band.”

  “That’s beyond awesome.”

  Terry and Ruby exchange a glance. “How are you doing on putting a tour wardrobe together?” Ruby asks. I told the label I’d handle my own clothes. The look on my face must say it all: I totally spaced and haven’t done anything.

  “I was planning to do it this week, but I’ve been so busy…” My excuse sounds lame even to my ears. The one thing that’s been entrusted to me, and I haven’t taken care of it.

  “Well, today’s your lucky day, because I’ve convinced Ruby to take you shopping,” Terry says.

  “But the interviews…”

  “Will have to be rescheduled. You’re out of time.” Terry pushes back from the table and stands. “Ruby? Do you mind?”

  She smiles. “Getting paid to go shopping? Where do I sign up?”

  We hit a slew of shops in West Hollywood, trendy places that remind me a lot of the Haight. Everything’s so expensive I cringe when I try something on, but Ruby keeps reminding me that this is part of my act, so I shouldn’t be a cheapskate. I hear her words, but my natural frugality is hard to override, and with each purchase it feels more like death by a thousand cuts.

  By the time I’ve got a dozen outfits, we’ve spent enough to buy a small car, but she reassures me that it will pay for itself in days. I’d like to believe she’s right, but it’s not her money. As Terry’s made painfully clear, everything winds up being billed against my royalties, so I’m paying, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now.

  I try not to think about it as we drive back to the apartment. Ruby snaps her fingers as she turns off the main boulevard onto my street and glances over at me.

  “I forgot to tell you. Once you’re on tour, we’ve got another act moving into the apartment, so plan on taking all your stuff with you.”

  I give her a sad smile. “It’s not like I have much. You learn to travel light when you have to carry everything on your back every day.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, that was good practice for being a touring musician. You’ll do a hundred cities before you get any kind of real break, so best to enjoy it.”

  “Actually, we just bought about three times more clothes than I own, so fitting them all in my bag will be the biggest problem.”

  “Just take a couple of outfits and I’ll give your road manager the rest. You’ll want something for the record release party and for your first concert. After that she’ll do the rest.”

  “That’s good.” I study Ruby’s profile as she slows to the curb. “I appreciate you doing this. I’m sorry I suck.”

  She puts the car in park and turns to me. “You’re juggling a million different things right now. Don’t sweat it. I had a good time, and in a couple of years I’ll be telling my friends about being the one to help you pick out clothes for your first tour.”

  “With what they cost, probably for my second and third, too.”

  She shakes her head and grins. “Don’t worry, Sage. Your record’s going to be massive, and you’re not going to have any money problems ever again. I’ve heard a lot of acts come and go, and trust me, you’re the real thing. I’m honored to be part of the team that’s going to take you to the top. I mean that sincerely.”

  I swallow hard and nod. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  I choose a bag that has two pairs of new pants and three tops in it and climb out of the car. Once in the apartment I carry my new luxuries into the bedroom and spread them on the bed, and then look at the sad little pile of laundry that represents all my worldly possessions.

  Soon I’m going to be homeless again, a gypsy on an endless road. My core aches for a normal life with Derek. As I lie on the bed and close my eyes, I imagine a small house somewhere in the country, surrounded by trees and grass, and Derek in the sunlight, shirt off, skin glistening with sweat as he chops wood.

  The image is so strange I laugh out loud, and my eyes pop open at the sound. I’ve never lived in the country. The closest I’ve come is the tract house in Clear Lake, which is in a subdivision that should be called White Trash Purgatory, the lawns brown from lack of care, the area about as rural as Santa Monica. Why the rustic image sprang to mind is beyond me, but for whatever reason, the idea is appealing.

  Especially the part about Derek without a shirt.

  I have an overwhelming desire to call him, and I’m reaching for my phone when it rings, startling me so much I drop it on the floor. I scramble for it, but by the time I find it under the bed the call has gone to voice mail.

  I enter my code and listen, expecting it to be Derek. Instead, I hear a different voice.

  “Hi, Sage. It’s Ashton. From the party? Just wanted to touch base and congratulate you on your forthcoming release. Sebastian told me it goes live soon. Here’s to fame and fortune. You deserve it. Call me if you’re bored and want to grab something. I’m on the set till 7:00 every night, but after that, the sky’s the limit.”

  I hang up and stare at the phone like it’s a live snake.

  I knew I shouldn’t have given him my number. I forgot about it, but I remember just fine now.

  It’s sweet of him to wish me luck, but I can tell his interest goes way beyond that of a fan, and his invitation to grab something is about as innocent as Melody’s short shorts. I debate calling him back and thanking him, but decide not to. He’s a famous TV star and a hot commodity; any interest he has in me will be quickly forgotten. A guy like Ashton has his pick of supermodels and starlets. I’m pretty sure he’ll get over it if I don’t take him up on his offer.

  I know Melody would mock me mercilessly if I told her, so I decide to keep that as my little secret. I don’t want to have to justify my every action to anyone. In my heart I know I’m doing the right thing, and I can only hope that Derek behaves the same way. I’m under no illusion that chicks aren’t throwing themselves at him. Hell, they were doing that when he was homeless. Now he’s a frigging pop star, or soon will be.

  No, a gorgeous, young, talented guy like Derek is every girl’s fantasy. Including this one’s.

  I just hope he does as well with temptation as I do, because the thought of him with somebody else kills me, and I don’t think I could ever recover if he cheated on me.

  I roll over onto my stomach and sigh. Why am I making myself miserable again with this BS in my head? One of the most eligible stars in Hollywood is calling to see if I want to hang out, and I’m dating the man of my dreams. Anyone else would be walking on clouds, but I’ve managed to convert it into drama.

  I close my eyes and will myself to sleep. A nap is the perfect solution to my inner dialogue’s relentless pestering, and my last conscious thought is an image of Derek, sans shirt, looking at me as I stand in that country house doorway wearing nothing but a flimsy summer dres
s, the hem rustling against my thighs in the light breeze.

  Chapter 26

  Two evenings later, the intercom buzzer shrieks through the apartment like the scream of a wounded animal. I look at my watch as I zip up my leather pants. I’m running late for my own record release party, being held at the ballroom of a swanky hotel in Beverly Hills.

  I eye myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror mounted to the closet door – my shiny silver sequined top is about as subtle as a disco ball, but other than peasant blouses and T-shirts, it’s all I have.

  I push my bangs out of my eyes and check the hint of mascara that’s my concession to the event, and then I’m running barefoot to the front door, my Chucks in one hand and my little clutch purse in the other. I drop my keys into the purse and race down the hall to the elevator, and then curse when I realize that I have shoes, but I forgot my socks. I debate going back but decide to blow it off – nobody’s going to be checking my feet tonight.

  A limo is double-parked out front, and the driver is standing by the rear door in a full-on chauffeur getup. For a second I think it’s Steve, but it isn’t. The driver watches me approach without comment, my laces dragging from where I pulled my shoes on in the elevator but didn’t have time to tie them. When I reach the car, he pulls the door open and executes a small bow.

  “Good evening. Will it be just you?”

  “Yeah. Sorry I’m late.”

  “We’ll be on our way, then, with your permission.”

  “Uh, sure. Okay.”

  He shuts the door and rounds the rear of the car, then slides behind the wheel. Music is playing in the passenger area, and he twists and looks back.

  “The controls are in that console next to the ice bucket. There’s a wet bar with scotch, vodka, beer, and soda in that compartment. Ice is in that box. The television is operated using the remote on the seat beside you.”

  “Oh. Great. Thanks a lot.”